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intheorangebedroom · 9 months

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Pleased to meet you, a drabble

Summary: Frankie's a handyman.

Pairing: Frankie Morales x Gabrielle Tourneur (OFC)/French fem!Reader.

Set within the PTMY universe but can be read as a one-shot stand-alone.

Rating: explicit 🔞

TW: improper use of zip ties

A/N: Happy ❤️‍🔥Frankie❤️‍🔥 Friday, orange besties 🧡 This is the first, and probably not last, zip ties-inspired drabble, so be warned. Because I have a lot of thoughts. 🥖Anon, thank you again for the encouragement. As for you @dreamymyrrh, you know what you did. I love you. More. I literally wrote this shit in two hours in lieu of my usual two and half months weeks, it's unbeta’d, unchecked, uncalled-for. You’ve been warned twice. Please be kind.

Word count: 1.8k

[series masterlist]

Drabble: The ties that bind is

The first time is sheer happenstance.

A late Friday afternoon, sometime in September. You join him by the toolshed in the garden, where he’s working on a new headboard with simple, elegant slats, supported by two trestles. You want to make sure he’s wearing his dust mask –he’s not.

You step inside the small wooden shed to grab the cumbersome contraption where it lies unused on the workbench, and you notice a small stack of black zip ties, tied together by a wide orange rubber band.

“Hey, what are these for, Frankie?” you ask naively when you step back outside, holding the bundle of ties in your raised hand.

He tilts up his head, eyes lingering on his work, brow pinched in concentration, sweat dampened curls stuck to his forehead, and he has to squint to see what you’re talking about, but when his gaze focuses on what’s in your hand… a slow smirk lifts the corner of his mouth.

That smug smile hasn’t changed, not in sixteen years, not ever, it’s the same enthralling curl of his plush lips, followed by the same question, which is never really a question but rather a promise, an invitation to follow him, a little further every time, you wanna try this?

He lays down his hand plane and goes around the trestles, takes a couple of slow steps toward you, until he can husk in your ear in a voice so low it dives down all the way to your core.

“Want me to show you what it’s for?”

Comprehension dawns on you. The dip between your collarbone deepens as you silently gasp. His smile deepens too.

He’s gentle and careful, that first time, the black plastic tie that binds your hands together hanging loose around your wrists. Repeatedly, he tries to bite down his smug smile. When he lifts you up and props your ass on top of the workbench inside the crammed toolshed, when he prompts your knees open, when he slides your tied hands behind his neck.

It’s fucking useless. And you’re smiling too, with delight, nervousness, anticipation, giggling quietly until he thrusts into you, and you’re not giggling anymore, you give him that sound he lives for.

–

The second time is not exactly premeditated yet.

You’re coming home from Santi’s birthday party, and he’d be lying if he tried to argue he hasn’t been thinking about it all evening, with the sheer black tights you’re wearing, but he still loses it completely.

He wraps one end of the tights around your wrists and the other end to the leg of the bed, and you let him.

You let him.

It’s intoxicating, your complete abandon. Your trust, your faith.

And if you could find the words, you’d tell him. You would explain what it does to you, the way he never takes more than what you’re able to give, the way he always knows how much that is, the way he seeks you out inside your darkness to offer you his love, unwavering, uncompromised, undying.

If you could describe how it feels to be wanted by this man, his raw power barely restrained, his patience and his strength, the kindness in his eyes… you would.

But you can’t put it into words, so you hope he knows, and you find other means to express the certitude that you’d follow him anywhere.

You thread a new language between your two bodies for him to write his own verse. And wherever he leads you, it’s always through blinding pleasure.

In the weeks that follow the party, and what ensues, he becomes obsessed with a thought. An idea invading his system, pervading his mind. He grows restless, which you notice, of course, but don’t immediately question.

Until this one evening, when you come home from the bookstore to find the zip ties waiting for you on the fucking kitchen table.

You freeze, the key still in the lock, and suddenly everything clicks into place: his increasing agitation over the past few weeks, the sideways glances, dark from under the brim of his cap, the intense tick of his jaw. The shadow of a smug smile lingering on his lips.

In your haste to hang your coat on the rack, you miss the hook and it falls in a heap to the floor. It’s a clumsy fumble to untie the shoelaces of your Martens, your fingers numb from the November cold, grey and humid.

A few hasty strides, and you're in the bedroom, where you know you’ll find him waiting.

The eagerness that widens your eyes, widens the dimpled smirk on his pretty face.

“Show me, Frankie,” you ask, handing him the zip ties, “show me what you’ve been thinking.”

Now, the plastic bites into the soft flesh of your wrists, tied separately to the slats of the headboard. The mattress dipping under your knees, you push your forehead from the smooth wood and arch your back until it hurts, seeking the contact of his burning mouth.

His soft chuckle makes you moan, and he rewards the sound with a hard swat on the swell of your ass with the flat of his palm. Then he spits on your folds, and this one’s really just to please you, because you’re soaking wet already, your come dribbling down along the inside of your thighs from your previous high, when he ate you from behind.

Messy broad licks, his tongue diving inside your cunt, curling around your clit, teasing, swirling, his plush lips pursed around your tight ring, sucking in. You came violently all at once, in your chest and your belly and your legs trembled.

They’re still shaking now, and you struggle to keep your balance but you know he’s not done, nor do you want him to be.

He straightens up and you threaten to fall on your side, the ties biting harder into your skin, but he catches you with a large hand gripping your hip.

The black, starless sky peers in through the orange curtains. It’s late November, but the heat is stifling in the bedroom. Beads of sweat are rolling down his spine; locks of your hair are glued to your shoulders and your nape.

Later, he will brush them and braid them. Gently kiss the secret birthmark in your hairline.

But right now, his hand slides down to your folds, spreading his spit over your lips, pushing it inside you with a thick finger, then two, and he’s about to add a third when you moan louder, arms pulling against your restraint. His gaze is drawn to the red indentation on your thin skin and he frowns, shakes his head.

“Want me to cut it off?”

“Fuck no,” you grit back in a beat, and you let out a heavy sigh of relief when you feel the round tip of his cock lining up at your entrance.

He thrusts in so ruthlessly you cry out and nearly hit your head on the headboard. He catches you again, of course he does, a bruising, splayed fingers clutch on the swell of your ass to slide you back on his cock.

You want to turn your head to the side, try to catch a glimpse of him, of his large frame, his broad shoulders, his messed-up hair and his pitch-dark eyes. But your bindings won’t allow you that much amplitude, and all you can do is reach your shoulder to wipe the sweat beading on your temple before your mouth goes slack. He’s drilling in so fast, sliding in and out easy with how wet you are, and your mind is reeling.

His hand moves to your hip again, using the grasp for leverage. This is just a fraction of what he wants to do to you, of what he’s got planned, what he kept playing in his head over and over again when he should have been focusing on work, on driving, on eating… But there’s time. And isn’t that the sweetest thought?

His knees push your knees further apart on the mattress, legs gliding against yours with your mixed sweats. His thrusts deepen, the fat head of his cock bumping into your cervix, and when his thumb comes to rest over your asshole with just the right amount of pressure, you don’t even get the time to warn him.

Your orgasm seizes you like an earthquake, like fucking lightning, blazing through you from your core, overwhelming, meteoric. You’re mewling, it’s unlike anything you’ve ever experienced before, so brutal Frankie feels it too, the strong clutch of your collapsing walls pulling him in, and he bends double over you, hissing his pleasure through clenched teeth.

“Jesus fuck, Gabrielle–”

Chest heaving painfully, you’re about to slip out of consciousness when you feel his breath burning your skin. He straightens up and sits behind you. You whine, struggling to keep your balance on the unstable surface of the mattress.

The sensation of the cool blade sliding against your wrists makes your jolt, and suddenly you're free, your arms weightless, like helium balloons drifting away from your body, but it’s over in a heartbeat. He’s grabbed them, flipping you around like a rag doll.

“Can you take some more, baby?”

Tears have smeared mascara on your cheeks, you can’t seem to catch your breath but you nod, exhaling a feeble “Yeah.”

You weigh nothing between his hands, you’re limp, boneless, and his splayed fingers bruise your skin in their firm hold above your elbows as he positions you over him.

His movements are precise, quick, and deft, trained hands linking your arms behind your back, and the zip tie digs into your flesh when it slides shut around your wrists with its telling slithery sound.

Just like last time with your tights, his eyes are drawn to the odd angle of your shoulders, to the dip over your collarbone and the way it pokes out in the shadows of the night.

“Good girl,” he grunts, lying back between your folded legs, “you’re a good girl, Gabrielle, you know that? You’re my good girl,” he adds, lining himself up.

He shoves himself into you to the hilt, and in this straddling position, the air is punched out of your lungs. Without your arms to keep you balanced, you can’t control anything, certainly not the depth of his thrusts, and he’s ramming into you deeper than he’s ever been.

“Wanna see your pretty face when you come on my cock again,” he says, and you snap, you surrender, limp and boneless. You let him fuck up into you with his feet planted on the mattress and his strong arms shoving you further down onto his cock, your tits bouncing, your eyes rolling to the back of your head.

“Gonna pump you full of my come, baby.”

Limp, boneless, exactly how you want to be.

****

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tiredlostwriter · 1 year

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On getting kidnapped by your childhood monsters and growing up with them

Elwing hated the feanorians. They were the very monsters of her childhood's stories, greedy and traitors to their own kind. And for this reason, as a lot of parents tend to do when they warn their children of the monsters who might be hiding under their beds, she told her sons about the feanorians and their fiery hearts, about their bloody hands and the cruel legends of old of cities covered in ashes.

But sometimes stories stay just that, stories, meant to scare the youngest in the warm summer evenings and letting them know how safe they are hidden his their parent's arms.

The story of the seven sons of Feanor had no such moral, it came with a warning and the acrid taste of smoke.

And so, the day the feanorians layed waste on their city, the monsters on the handwritten pages of their children books took life, and in mere hours, blood was flowing in the streets, red ink for this last chapter of peace in the twin's life.

And when the door of their small house by the sea slammed open, letting in a stranger carrying two identical swords dipped in red, and with eyes so bright they seemed to glow in the dim evening night, they froze.

It was a new kind of fear they learned then, hearing their mother cry out, a sound so shrill it was barely human. She clutched her necklace with wide eyes backing towards the window and, to the sounds of the frantic beatings of their hearts, pulsing so loudly in their ears it felt like drumming, she went through it.

Then, at least, the stranger turned back to them, his burning eyes wide and lost. And still the twins didn't dare to move.

There was little they understood other than the terrifying certitude that their mom was gone, she had left them and the screams outside had abided.

They were utterly alone if not for the looming figure, still standing in the doorframe.

"Kanno", the name came from outside in a harsh scream and made the stranger turn his head, his hair coming unbound by the mouvement and spilling on his armour like black ink.

Elros noticed first the blood trickling from the unbound braid and falling on the flooring in fat sluggish drops. But before he could share the information with his brother, a second stranger entered their home.

And with him came the tears, for they couldn't ignore anymore the certitude that had started to build in them. No elda other than the dreaded eldest son of Feanor stood so tall nor bore unruly red hair and a single left hand.

And they understood also who the first of the stranger was when he leaned against Maedhros Feanorion upon his entry into the room, as themselves leaned against each other in wariness.

They were alone, they were crying, and the bloodied twin swords now hidden in their owner's scabbard seemed like a cruel foresight.

As they gripped each other's hand thighly and fought against the shacking wracking their whole frames, the feared brothers before them lauched into a heated discussion in a language they couldn't comprehend.

Later they were collected by guards and thrown on horses, they tried hard to fight them, scratching and biting, but Feanor's eldest turned toward them and rasped out, cold as ice and as biting :

"It's us or the orcs, elflings, choose wisely", and it wasn't for the fear of orcs that the twins relented, but because they didn't wanted to discover the kind of punishment the twisted minds their mother had described could come up with.

Months passed in ever cold Himring, and to the twin's surprise, no horrible punishment had befallen them yet.

They had their own room and beds, were fed, and never did the lords who first brought them here laid their hands on them. At first they didn't saw much of them, but one day Maglor came into the room they seemingly dedicated to their education, mainly dispensed by Erestor, who although strict was always kind to them, and started the slow process of teaching them the intricacies of his songs. Later, it was a stern Maedhros who joined their daily classes when he took on himself their teaching of politics and laws as it is fit for princes to receive.

And like this, they fell into a routine of gentle teachings and patient words. Soon their shaking stopped around them, and the tears dried, even the too bright eyes of the brothers didn't scared them as much as they once did and slowly became a welcome sight in the dark stone corridors of the fortress.

Long was passed the terror of the first weeks during which they sough every hiding spots of the grim fort and learned in their panic the rythms of the footsteps of every one of its inhabitants, eager as they were to huddle to the relative safety of the space under their beds in the occasions in which they recognised the brisk pace of Maedhros's long strides, or the nearly silent whisper of Maglor's footfall on the wooden floors.

And slowly, after acceptance came affection, for the stories told by their mother were erasing into the colorful blurry of their early youth, and replaced by Maglor's lulling voice when he sang them to sleep or the reassuring presence of Maedhros in a room nearby protecting them from the shadows at night.

It's an insidious thing this affection, it's Elros inadvertently falling asleep on Maedhros' shoulder after a particularly hard sparring lesson, soon after he allowed them to try steel training swords, it's Elrond watching Maglor in wonder as he sings an injured soldier back to health.

And so, the monsters of the stories slowly became the ones protecting them from the much more real horrors of life in this time, and before they knew it, they were the ones conjured first in their mind at the mention of family, much before a distant father they had long forgotten and a mother who left them screaming with the shadow of death looming over them.

And centuries later when someone will ask Elrond about Maedhros and Maglor he won't be able to answer because fathers seems a shallow word meant for a man he didn't knew and caretakers is too small a word for what they were.

They loved them and feared them and hated them at times, and yet they were their children, feanorians themselves after such a long time in their company.

Crafters and politicians, and even when the world denied them this legacy, casting it as shameful and bloodied, never did they forgot and always they claimed it in the quiet ways the eldest sons of Feanor had shaped them by their teachings.

And so Elrond still remembers the healing lessons he took with Himring's gruff healer and the songs of Maglor taught him in the evenings to mend broken spirit as well as wounded flesh.

And so Elros until he at last relinquished the shining numenorean throne, always remembered the rasping of Maedhros' voice and the feeling of his hand on his shoulder guiding him for each political decision he took long after his owner found his death in the fiery chasm he casted himself in.

#silmarillion #tolkien #sons of feanor #noldor #silm fandom #feanorians #maedhros #maglor #elrond #elros tar minyatur #elrond and elros #sad ?#elwing #kidnapfamily #mention of Erestor #i guess

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de-vespertiliones · 1 year

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UtRH!Jason is angry, hurt, scared, and upset and he's coping with that by descending into horribly intentional violence and moral certitude. The events of UtRH are meticulously planned and executed and Jason is completely unremorseful about any of it. Do I think the boy is at his best? No. Do I think Jason's cold-blooded calculation is a coping mechanism? Yes. Do either of those mean he hasn't considered his actions or the moral implications thereof? No, and furthermore the idea that a trauma-driven response can be separated from the "actual" person in their "right mind" is weird as shit to me.

#the mortifying ordeal of never shutting the fuck up #morning vagueposting because I'm still fucking irritated

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taylortruther · 2 months

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Feel free to disregard this if you would like to move on from this conversation but this whole conversation is borne from people being so uncomfortable with nuance and desperately wanting a set of hard and fast rules that they can follow that will define them as a good person. They are searching for moral certitude that doesn’t exist

As your last anon referenced there are so many degrees here

Some people are very certain that the actions in guilty as sin? are cheating because they were texting and know each other and she got off thinking about it and to them this is completely black and white to make her “bad/wrong/horrible”. Ok. So let’s follow that thought down then. Let’s assume they are right and that makes you “bad”. What about getting off thinking about an ex you aren’t in contact with anymore? Are you written off the good people island? How about if you’re not trying to think about them but it happens anyways? What if you don’t know them and it’s a celebrity? What if it’s a tv or movie character? What if it’s a book character? What if it’s porn?

I agree that partners should talk about these things but also we just need to have some nuance here and also not rush to label someone as unredeemable. And Taylor expected this moralization “say that I’m a cheat I guess it must be true.” “Tell me I’m despicable/Say it’s unforgivable”

i can talk about this all day!

personally, i don't think cheating makes someone irredeemable (and a few truthie regulars might recall i think couples can work through cheating sometimes!) - and i think any listener who's been in a similar experience can relate, too. so imo you can call it "cheating," but i don't think that makes her an irredeemable or evil figure. she's just a person who was doing things she knew felt wrong because she couldn't figure out how to get out. how many times have we talked about that being soooo normal in relationships?

i've said it once and i'll say it a hundred times: "clean breaks" in relationships are REALLY rare. more often than not, i'd say there's something fishy or untoward happening. sometimes it's full-blown boinking other people; sometimes it's sending some flirty, questionable dms; sometimes it's emotionally moving on, without telling your partner. often it's something in between those options.

anyway, all that to say: i agreeeeeeeeeeee!

#gas?#guilty as sin?

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tavore · 1 year

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The Saera Targaryen & Aegon II Targaryen Compendium :3c

“Courage consists, however, in agreeing to flee rather than live tranquilly and hypocritically in false refuges. Values, morals, homelands, religions, and these private certitudes that our vanity and our complacency bestow generously on us, have many deceptive sojourns as the world arranges for those who think they are standing straight and at ease, among stable things” —Gilles Deleuze & Félix Guattari, Anti-Oedipus: Capitalism and Schizophrenia (George R.R. Martin, Fire & Blood. 2018; A Clash of Kings. 1998 / House of the Dragon. 2022)

#hotd #f&b #aegon ii targaryen #saera targaryen #alicent hightower #viserys i targaryen #otto hightower #aemond targaryen #jacaerys velaryon #tom tangletongue #tom tanglebeard #*#hotd*#mosaic

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dreaminginthedeepsouth · 8 months

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Only the individual who has come to terms with his self can have a dispassionate attitude toward the world. Once the harmony with the self is upset, he turns into a highly reactive entity. Like an unstable chemical radical he hungers to combine with whatever comes within his reach. He cannot stand apart, whole or self-sufficient, but has to attach himself whole-heartedly to one side or the other. … … The fanatic is perpetually incomplete and insecure. He cannot generate self-assurance out of his individual resources — out of his rejected self — but finds it only in clinging passionately to whatever support he happens to embrace. This passionate attachment is the essence of his blind devotion and religiosity, and he sees in it the source of all virtue and strength. Though his single-minded dedication is a holding on for dear life, he easily sees himself as the supporter and defender of the holy cause to which he clings. … The fanatic is not really a stickler to principle. He embraces a cause not primarily because of its justice and holiness but because of his desperate need for something to hold on to. … … The fanatic cannot be weaned away from his cause by an appeal to his reason or moral sense. He fears compromise and cannot be persuaded to qualify the certitude and righteousness of his holy cause. But he finds no difficulty in swinging from one holy cause to another. He cannot be convinced but only converted. His passionate attachment is more vital than the quality of the cause to which he is attached. [Hoffer, "The True Believer," HarperPerennial edition, pp. 84-86] [alive on all channels]

#Eric Hoffer #The True Believer #quotes #Alive On All Channels

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robntunney · 2 years

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BRITT'S FAVORITE EPISODES: [1/∞] veritas || castle 6x22

I gotta tell you, part of me really admires you. Your moral certitude. The way you fight for what you believe in, even knowing it's gonna destroy you. But the part of me that admires you is not the part that makes tough decisions.

#castle #castle abc #castleedit #kate beckett #tvedit #castle: 6x22 #ultitvepi #cinemapix #filmtv #tvfilm #tvarchive

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raisongardee · 6 months

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"Hors de la cuture populaire, l’éthos infantiliste domine aussi : en politique ou en religion, des jugements dogmatiques à l’emporte-pièce remplacent les complexes nuances de la réflexion morale adulte, et les stigmates d’une enfance éternelle sont imposés à des adultes qui s’abandonnent à la puérilité sans plaisir et à l’indolence sans innocence. D’où le goût nouveau du consommateur pour la vieillesse sans dignité, la tenue sans cérémonie, le sexe sans reproduction, le travail sans discipline, le jeu sans spontanéité, l’achat sans but, la certitude sans doute, la vie sans responsabilité, et le narcissisme dans le grand âge et jusque dans la mort sans une once de sagesse ou d’humilité. A l’époque où nous vivons, la civilisation n’est pas un idéal ou une aspiration, c’est un jeu vidéo."

Benjamin Barber, Comment le capitalisme nous infantilise, trad. Lise et Paul Chemla, Paris, Fayard, 2007

#benjamin barber #infantilisme #capitalisme #decadence #postmoderne

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thecatholicbozo · 2 months

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St. Thomas Aquinas, Pray for Us

"Aristotle became the new God. His writings, inflated by misleading commentaries, were inadequate in themselves, while their excessive naturalism, together with some particularly serious blemishes, threatened to lead Christian thought astray... Even the teaching on God was endangered... God has no definite personality; there is no affirmation of providence, nor even of his freedom in creating. While he is admitted as the final cause, his efficient causality, if not openly denied, is at least made very doubtful.

Similarly, Aristotle makes the soul something above matter; it is "separate"; it comes to the body "from without," as it were "by the door." There is no certitude that it belongs to the individual, that it guarantees him a really spiritual and immortal life, that it makes him really responsible. He leaves it an open question whether morality is a mere whim, or corresponds to a divine order. Everything is vague and ambiguous enough to enable commentators ... to interpret it in a sinister sense.

People began to be known as Aristotelians ... and their Christianity was at a low ebb. Under the aegis of "the Philosopher" and his followers, they disputed the most fundamental & certain of the Catholic dogmas. The creation of the world in time, the divine government & Fatherhood, the individuality & immortality of the soul, free will, and moral responsibility gave place to an eternal world, an abstract God cut off from all communication with his creatures, a unique Intellect for all men, which alone was immortal, a strict determinism, physical & psychological, which rules out all responsible action. That was knowledge. The Christian faith, the basis of civilization & the mother of all learning, could not be openly attacked, but there was always this bias, which was later to call forth St. Thomas's most indignant protests.

There was only one thing to be done: to take over the new doctrines & restate them: to refine the gold. Instead of casting aside the finest of all human philosophies, out of a kind of cowardly prudence, was it not better for Catholics to adapt it to Christian thought, by interpreting, revising, completing it, and thereby to make it their own? That was what St. Thomas set out to do."

-A. G. Sertillanges OP, St. Thomas Aquinas - Scholar, Poet, Mystic, Saint

#thomas aquinas #catholic #catholicism #faith & reason #christian #christianity #saint #saints #dominican saint

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intheorangebedroom · 1 year

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Pleased To Meet You, chapter 13

Summary: Time and reality catch up with Frankie and you, and it’s your last night together in the orange bedroom. Are you two ready to part, even temporarily?

Pairing: Frankie Morales x French fem!Reader.

Rating: Explicit 🔞

TW: cryptic mention of self-harm. Please see the additional note at the end (to avoid spoilers).

A/N: Welcome to the angst fest. This chapter kept me awake for months, yearning for this man, so I really hope you like it, and him. And also, they’re filthy.

My endless love and gratitude to my beta. @meandorla, you are wonderful and an absolute dream✨ Your kind and wise words during the holidays kept me up and going♥️

@heythere-mel provided me with the Spanish translation and with so much kindness, Mel your cheerful mood is everything, you are pure sunshine ☀️ Thank you 😘

@deadmantis Thank you for all the inspo 🧡 Please keep them coming 🙂

Word Count: 5.1k

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Chapter 13: Perfect Day

The room suddenly falls oddly silent, as if in the aftermath of a natural disaster, or a car crash, until the sounds of your combined panting resurface. He’s lying heavy on top of you, his face sunk into the crook of your neck, and you welcome his crushing mass, your forehead pressed on the cool, hard surface of the tiled bathroom floor, your shoulders heaving furiously.

More time passes before he can untangle his arms from underneath your limp body to raise himself on his forearms, his spent cock still sheathed inside you. The bite mark on your flesh is bright red, blood just beneath the surface of the indentation. He can make out all his teeth, count them distinctly. What has he done?

“Shit, fuck, I hurt you,” he husks in alarm, withdrawing from you. You whimper as he moves, and a new wave of panic floods his brain. Supporting the weight of his body on his right arm, his left hand flies to the fresh scar and he starts thumbing it in a frantic rub.

“Leave it,” you whimper feebly, words barely articulated, and they don’t quite reach him over the din of his own breathing.

“Shit, shit, shit!” he grits nervously, wiping your skin faster.

“Frankie, I said leave it,” you say louder.

His thumb stills on your skin. With great difficulty, you brace your hands on the rug and laboriously turn onto your back between his legs. You can’t help it and you gasp at the sight of him, his soft, wet curls contrasting with the gravity of his frowned brow, his dark eyes with his skin of gold, smooth and freckled. You don’t think about your next words before you let them out.

“God, you’re so beautiful.”

In the years to come, in the darkest, empty hours of the night, when you’ve run out of ways in which to hurt yourself, you will think he was never meant for you in the first place. Too soft, too smart, too beautiful. How could you possibly have kept a man like him? Better that he was taken from you before you had a chance to lose him.

“Help me up,” you whisper once you’ve steadied your voice, and he slides a firm hand under your back to sit you up straight. The exhaustion that weighs you down is a pleasant one, and you use the momentum to climb onto his lap and straddle him, circling his broad shoulders with your arms, your chest snugly fitted against his. The crease between his brow has grown deep again. You press your lips to it and tighten your embrace.

“You can’t hurt me, Frankie, not like this,” you coo, tracing random figures on his back with the tips of your fingers, “I meant everything I said.”

Your body’s vibrating under his palms, and when he pulls back a little to better see you, the look on your face reaches deep within him, slowing the wild thumping of his heart. You trace a trail of kisses on his eyelids, down the side of his nose, the edge of his jaw, and when you meet his lips, he opens up for you immediately. You kiss your certitude into him, and he swallows all of it. Slowly, languidly, until he stands up, lifting you easily to carry you back to the bedroom. Which is just as good, you don’t think you’ll be able to walk anytime soon.

He lays you on the sheets, and neither of you break that kiss. And you remain safely tucked in his embrace until, finally, you fall asleep.

There’s a pattern to this, he notes, sitting on the edge of the bed, relishing your even, quiet breathing. You’ll rest if he rails you. You’ll let go if he fucks the doubt out of you.

Should he cover you? The heat hasn’t abated, but there’s a light breeze rustling the orange curtains, and you might be more comfortable if he pulled the white sheet over you, at least up to your waist. But perhaps all he wants is to wrap you in his scent again.

He watches you a while longer before he can tear himself from your sleeping form, fencing off thoughts of the morning to come. He can't let them taint what little time you two have left. But he has to think, however, about after. How to formulate his request for a bond to tie you to him. He could take your number, your address. Ask you to wait. Word it, plain and clear. He’s yours. You’re his.

Is it fair, though, asking you to attach yourself to a man who will most likely one day go to war? You’re younger than him, just a few years, but enough to have him question his rights to ask this much, if he even has any. You’ve a mind cut out for books and learning and academic achievements. What has he got to offer? Piles of paperbacks, a bag of clothes, and a pair of orange curtains. Questions about his past, an empty space where a father should stand.

He’s got himself. That’s all he has. He knows his worth. And he’ll offer you that. You could try, at least for a while, cheat the distance, ignore the passage of time, write and call and fly across the globe into each other’s arms at every occasion. Would it work? He knows the answer to that. It’s in the tranquil, rhythmic rise and fall of your chest, in your emerging confidence, in your serene, sleeping face. It’s in your touch and in your eyes and in your trust. It’s in the peacefulness he’s never known until now. Of course, it would work.

Standing up, eventually, he walks over to the stack of clothes you neatly folded the day before, and slips on his black briefs. Another glance in your direction, and he goes to the kitchen sink, opening the tap to fill up a tall glass of water.

On the countertop near the front door, his cellphone lies face down where he threw it when he came home with you on Friday night. It feels like forever ago, now. In the best possible way.

Unsurprisingly, the phone is dead, and it takes him a few minutes to retrieve the charger, in his bedroom by the bed, and walk back to the other room to plug it in.

He thought himself ready, but reality still kicks him in the gut when the small Nokia screen lights up, ominously glaring with 12 missed calls and 16 unread messages. He runs a weary palm over his face before he can bring himself to look into it, and he lets out a relieved sigh when he realises that most notifications are from his sister.

There’s a weekend’s worth of her daily reminders of “You can still change your mind, there’s no shame in it,” a phrase she’s delivered in person or by text ever since he enrolled. Most messages are practical inquiries about the apartment, and his last days as a civilian. Is he packed? Does he need help? Is there something in particular she needs to know before she meets with his landlord on Monday afternoon?

Frankie tries to focus on the practicalities, feeling a surge of affection for his sister. The thorough care and consideration with which she’s sending him off, despite her disapproval of his choice of path. And now, he’s not so sure if he wouldn’t rather she was still sulking.

He’s just through sending her a fifth message, hunched over the kitchen counter, when you walk up behind him, sliding your arms around his torso and pecking a kiss between his shoulders, the tension he didn’t even register had built in his frame dropping instantly.

You release your embrace and go around him, casually leaning against the Formica countertop, when you realise what he’s doing.

“Oh I’m sorry, I didn’t know you were… sending sms? How do you say it in English?” you ask.

“Texting,” he answers with a soft smile. “It’s fine. It’s Izzy, my sister. About tomorrow,” he adds, a tick in his jaw, a nervous tic of his you’re growing accustomed to.

You’ve put on your panties and you’re wearing his shirt again, the sides of it framing your naked breasts. He considers asking you to keep it. He doesn’t really give a shit if that makes him sound too needy.

“She’s coming to pick you up, right?” He nods and you ask again, “What time are you leaving?”

“6 a.m.,” he replies, his teeth slightly clenched.

You mull over your next words. You’re intuitive, but far too sincere to be considered subtle. Incapable of concealing anything, despite your inclination for secrecy. So you opt for a straightforward question.

“Do you need time alone to get ready? Perhaps you should rest, I should leave you-”

He stands up straight, rising to his impressive full height, silencing the rest of your sentence with his silhouette towering over yours.

“Stay.”

You tilt up your head to look him in the eyes, dark, overshadowed by that damn crease between his brow.

“I will. I am.”

You grasp the countertop so you don’t sway when he smiles so deeply his dimple shows. His arm goes around your waist under his shirt and his hand splays possessively in the small of your back.

“I like your skin,” he says, strengthening his hold.

“I like your lips,” you whisper, and you reach for them, the kiss deepening rapidly, threatening to become something else, something more, until the ringtone of his phone pulls you apart.

He doesn’t let go of you as he reads the message and answers it, and when he’s done, he throws the phone on the counter and returns his full attention to you, pressing his mouth on the fresh scar at the base of your neck. He was so quick to figure what gets you off, but you still feel sore from earlier, in the bathroom, so you resist the pull in your lower belly and ask, “Can I help you with something? Do you need to tidy up the place?”

As you say it, you realise the apartment is already as clean as it gets, but Frankie picks up on your hint and slightly draws away from you, giving you a little space.

“No, not really. Izzy’s coming tomorrow afternoon to pack up the sheets, the towels, and the curtains. The rest isn’t mine.”

Your eyes widen as your eyebrow shoot up to your hairline and you gasp in horror, “Jesus Frankie, you’re telling me your sister is gonna see those sheets?”

His laughter rumbles from the depth of his chest. It’s the first time you hear him laugh so resoundingly, and your heart sinks a little because it retains the breathy quality of his voice.

“Yea, and she’s gonna see you too, tomorrow morning, so she’ll know who’s the culprit.”

You burst into a silly giggle and slap his shoulder in mock reproach. He draws you in again, wanting to feel you laugh with his whole body. He can’t help his next question, he needs to know and it’s better to ask now, with the light mood you two are in.

“When are you going back home?”

You scrunch up your nose to think, not even sure of what day today is anymore.

“End of August? Uni starts in October, so I’ll have a month to work full time and save some money.”

“What will you do with the rest of your summer?” He does his very best to conceal the ache from this one, your remaining time on this continent, that he won’t be spending with you, before the ocean spreads your two bodies further apart, but it’s useless, it seems. You tuck yourself against him before you answer, speaking into his neck.

“More museums, probably. Coney Island. I’ll go back to the Algonquin, take pictures. I want to see the Guggenheim again.”

He nuzzles into your hair, his words muffled, “You been to the MoMa yet?”

“Yes,” you look up at him, “but I prefer the Guggenheim. The building itself, I mean. It’s 80% of the experience, to me. I don’t know, it’s so… sexy?”

You chuckle in self-derision and hide your face in his neck again, and you feel more than hear his breathy laugh.

“Sexy? You wanna elaborate?”

You lean back against the counter, moving away from his heat so you can focus and think over your arguments.

“Ok, yes, sensual might be a better term. The coiling structure? It’s like… an ascent? A building orgasm? I find it somehow soft, yet dramatic. I like the open space that doesn’t feel impersonal, it’s like a womb, I don’t know. I don’t necessarily care for the art in it, actually, I’m more classic in my tastes, but this building does something to me,” you finish, throwing your palms up.

You bask in his luminous smile, the gleam of his soft eyes that have regained their warm, brown shade.

“Yea, ok, I understand.”

At times, he thinks you might be aware of the extent of what you do to him. But mostly he’s convinced that you haven’t got a clue.

“Do you like the MoMa better?” you ask.

“Not anymore, I don’t,” he jokes.

He pushes the half-full glass of water towards you and you drink it up, before asking again, “Who’s your favourite painter? Do you have one?”

“Oh yea, that’s easy, Gerhard Richter,” he answers quickly.

You furrow your brow, “That’s super abstract, no?”

“I guess, maybe, not everything. Who’s yours?” he adds, taking a step closer to you after you’ve put the glass down.

You rest your hand on his forearm as you pause to decide.

“Eugène Carrière, probably.” Frankie shakes his head, indicating he doesn’t know the name. “He was a 19th century French painter… He painted in grey, brownish, kind of sepia tones. I don’t know how to explain it, I’m not an art student,” you shrug, always a lingering apology about your words. Yet, you carry on, “What I love is that, it should be dark, and gloomy, but it’s not. It’s very luminous, lots of golden tones. And what I like best is that, from afar, his paintings look defined, but the closer you get, the blurrier the edges, the brush strokes look so light, almost… I don’t know, not there?”

Frankie swallows the lump in his throat before he can close the distance between you completely. Tilting your face up between his thumb and index, he kisses your parted lips, peeking out his tongue to find yours. He only breaks it to lean into the crook of your neck, breathing you in, and pecking the mark he left there.

“Fuck, baby, I really love your skin,” he whispers against the imprint of his teeth.

You press your body into his, where he stands tall and strong, with all of your strength, and he doesn’t even budge.

“And I really, really love your lips.”

—

The light’s grown dim again in the orange bedroom, a dreaded physicality of the time you got left.

Standing by his nightstand, Frankie’s been staring into the empty box of condoms for the past two minutes, as if this might conjure up an extra one. He could run to the deli on Manhattan Ave, but that would lose him a half hour between your arms. Still, it’s better than not having you one last time.

When you exit the bathroom, his sadness startles you. You see him tossing something back into the creaking drawer, but can’t make out what it is, and it’s only when you level up with him that you understand.

“Hey, it’s fine” he says, more to himself than to you, his voice restrained, “we don’t need to– you’re probably still sore from-”

You silence him with your entire body thrown against his, arms flung around his shoulders.

“Frankie I don’t fucking care, I want you inside me, I want you to fill all my holes,” you plead.

“Take this off,” he rasps, nearly ripping his shirt off your shoulders.

You expect him to be rough again, urgent and brisk in his need; he cradles the back of your head in his hand, instead, kissing you as he lowers you onto the bed. His hands roam restlessly over your body, his palms pressed on your skin, as if trying to cover you entirely and all at once. He breathes you in, your cheek, your temple, your hair, his muscles shuddering under your touch.

“I wanna taste what I do to you, baby,” he murmurs in your ear in a low, husky tone, and you shut your eyes, your arousal pooling down your folds at his command, “I wanna drink you up, I wanna remember your taste.”

He nibbles your earlobe, skates the bridge of his nose along the line of your throat, and when he reaches the slope of your shoulder, Frankie thinks to himself, “one more, just this one more,” and draws in your skin with a strong suck, his cock hardened at the sound of your moan, the expression of your total abandon.

His eyes remain locked on your face, his lips sealed to your skin, this is about recording you, in whole and in parts, the sensation of your reactions, the thrill of your shivers, and he’d suck on your skin harder if only he knew how this will end, that what is to come are too many years imprisoned in his head, rummaging through his memories in search of your forgotten taste.

His mouth slides along your collarbone, and he tastes you there, too, gathering on his tongue the salty flavour of your sweat from the dip of your throat, oblivious to his own grunts, lost in the light touch of your fingers on his back. You writhe underneath him, and it’s like a dance.

Cupping your breasts, he kneads the soft flesh, gentle at first, then with a mind to imprint his touch, so that you too won’t forget. You wrap your legs around his waist and twine your fingers in his curls. You won’t forget, that is your curse.

He sucks in your nipple, pulls on it between his teeth and when you hiss your pleasure, he decides that one last mark is not enough, he’ll leave another one on the swell of your breast.

Then it’s a sharp inhale between your legs, spread by his broad shoulders, his nose pressed to the dampened fabric of your underwear. Your hips arch against his face, and he holds you down with an arm barred across your belly, the other one clutching your thigh, biting your clothed mound with a primitive grunt that makes you quiver and quake.

Words get stuck in your throat when you want to beg him to take, take, take, so you buck your hips again instead.

Frankie shuts his eyes, resting his forehead against your panties, willing his waning control to endure just a little longer. Willing himself to savour when he wants to devour.

The slow drag of the cottony fabric along your legs is a never-ending torture, followed by the soothing graze of his stubble, but he feels you squirm under his hold, and he has no desire to keep you waiting too long. To you, he knows it now, there’s nothing he will ever deny. He licks a broad stripe along your core and, slowly, dips his tongue inside your cunt. You exhale your relief, tugging at his hair with the urgency of despair.

Thorough and gentle all at once, he drives his tongue in and out, deep, unhurried, and meticulous, the curve of his nose rubbing on your swollen clit, and when he feels your legs twitch, he releases his hold, and pauses. Kissing it better, in hopes to make it last, when he knows you won’t be able to give him as much as you want, as much as he needs, and anyway, that’s not how he wants to make you come.

Ruefully, he draws away from you, kneeling between your open legs, and your body goes slack on the bed with his retreat.

No words are spoken. Holding your core against his throbbing cock, a bruising, possessive grip on the dip above your hips, he waits for you to lift up your head, your dazed, unfocused eyes finding his. And on your imperceptible nod, he lines himself up.

He wants to watch, he needs to see, where he splits you open, and the look on your face as he slides inside you bare, inch after inch, your tight skin catching around the heft of him. His eyes flick frantically between the place where you’re joined and your beautiful face, your parted lips, your hooded eyes, the unquenchable want he finds there.

The nightstand lamp casts a golden hue in his dark eyes. You record his loving gaze, it carries all the tenderness you’ve never received. You record the warm tone of his skin, the feeling of his touch, the delight of his scent.

Your hands skate up his forearms in a soundless request. He leans forward, covering you, his fingers splayed on your sides as yours find the V shape of his hair on his damp nape.

His strokes are deep, barely pulling out before he thrusts in even further, grinding his hips against your ass, tracing open-mouth kisses along your jaw, under your ear, down your neck, and you’re sinking in, engulfed, from within and from outside, all around, enveloped in his scent, lost in his warmth, wrapped in his arms.

You want to call him darling, or chéri, you want to say mon amour, but all that passes your lips is Frankie, because it is the sweetest name, because it tastes like honey and floods your inner world, because Frankie is all that there is left inside your brain.

Years from now, you will still cry out his name, your face hidden into your tear-stained pillow, your empty body heaving with pain, with want, with regrets, the faint prayer of Frankie Frankie Frankie flowing out of you.

So it is Frankie, you say, as you take his hand to place it on the soft flesh of your lower belly, your skin glistening with his sweat, “Frankie, can you feel yourself inside me? Can you feel me around you? Can you feel it?”

Frankie watches the tear that rolls down your temple, his chest constricted with a brand-new sort of pain, he presses his hand harder, and his forehead to yours and he whispers, “I feel you, baby, I feel everything, I feel only you.”

A heavy sob shakes your chest, so Frankie hooks his arms under your knees and his hands around your shoulders and crushes you under his weight, buries himself inside you and grinds. Heels shoved into his back, you’re blindingly stretched around him, he knows you’re going to feel him for days, with what he’s making you take, knows that’s what you want, too, and something primal rips in his chest, he wants to tear it open and fit you in there, carry you with him everywhere.

He brushes his lips against yours, his voice hoarse and low when he speaks into your mouth, “I’m gonna come inside you, baby, I’m gonna come inside you.”

Tears flow freely from the corner of your eyes, sliding down to your hairline. You dig your nails in his back, and he hopes you're going to leave a mark, he’s breathing inside your mouth, and it is with his breath that you answer, “Come with me, Frankie.”

He nods his answer and it’s only a few more strokes before he feels your cunt start to flutter, your body pulled taut in his hold, your nails breaking his skin. He buries his face in your neck and lets go, finally lets go of everything, pouring it into your wanting, open body, into your soul, thick ropes of come painting your slick walls, empties himself, fills you up, surrenders to you.

Your breathing comes in short and shaky, but a rush of cold jolts you up when the air hits your sweat-dampened skin as his body leaves yours.

“No!” you cry out, sitting up on your elbow to see Frankie crouching down between your legs again.

Carefully, his fingers part your swollen, aching folds. That primal pang fires through his chest again, at the sight of your cunt leaking his spend. He wraps his plush lips around it and plunges his tongue inside you, gathering his essence and yours. Another sob threatens to break through you and you clasp your hand on your mouth to hold it back.

When he’s sure to have it all, he sits up and braces himself over you on one arm, brushing your damp hair off your face, brushing the tears rolling down your temple with the work-worn, calloused pads of his fingers, wishing he could drink it up. His thumb presses gently on your bottom lip, prompting you to open for him, and when you do, he lets it roll down along his tongue into your wanting mouth. He watches you swallow, watches the bobbing of your lean throat.

Years later, this image will keep invading his thoughts, in foreign brothels, in humid jungles, in scorching deserts. He will think about it in regrets that he didn’t fuck it deeper inside of you instead.

Frankie lowers his face close to yours, “I’m gonna sleep inside you, tonight, baby.”

You nod with what little strength you have left and wrap your arms around his shoulders, your lips seeking his, as he sheaths his still-hard cock inside you. Sliding his arms around your waist, he draws you in and rolls with you on his side. You snuggle your face against his chest, his skin scalding your skin like a fever, and you fall asleep almost instantly.

—

The night brings him no rest. He wakes up as soon as he slides out of you, pulling you in closer, burying his face in your hair until he can’t breathe anymore.

Awake when you stir and you stretch. Awake still, or again, when you moan feebly in your sleep.

When his alarm chimes at 5am, Frankie has barely slept.

You jolt in his arms, mumbling, “Shit, did we oversleep?” and the pronoun nearly brings tears to his tired eyes.

It takes you a moment to register the darkness outside, as you rub off the sleep from your eyes, perched on the edge of the bed. The air has shifted, a cold breeze wafts in the orange bedroom through the curtains and you shiver in the silence.

Frankie slips on his clothes, finally deciding against giving you his shirt. It bears your powdery scent, he’ll take that with him.

Neither of you want to shower the other off your skin. Instead, he packs his books and clothes in his duffle bag, and you offer to prepare some coffee.

You’re fully dressed when he joins you in the kitchen, handing him a mug.

“Mmh,” he smacks his lips, “you make good coffee. Strong. You want some sugar?”

“No, cheers, just milk.”

You run your fingers on his back before walking back to the bedroom, where you start folding the sheets.

You hear him rummaging frantically through the cabinets and drawers, and when he reappears in the doorway, he’s visibly flustered. His low voice comes in tense when he asks, “Do you have a pen?”

You retrieve a fountain pen from your purse and go back with him to the kitchen. He’s ripped a small, rectangular piece of paper, on which he writes down some numbers. He hands it to you, but holds on to it when you grab it.

“Swear you’ll call me,” he pleads, and you know there is not enough love on your lips to ease the crease off his brow. What he needs are your words.

“I swear,” you answer.

When Frankie locks the front door, it’s for the very last time, two years’ worth of memories numbing his fingers. He follows you down the narrow stairwell, the atmosphere devoid of the electric anticipation it carried two days ago.

Down in the street, you are greeted by a swirling wind and bleak morning light. Frankie nods silently in the direction of a parked VW Golf a few cars down, where a bespectacled brunette waves back enthusiastically. You offer a bright smile and a sign with your hand, and Frankie focuses on the prospect of the two of you properly meeting, one day. One day soon.

“We should drop you off. Do you know which way to go?” His voice sounds gruff and bears the weight of his exhaustion.

“No, thank you, you’ll be late. Don’t worry. I know my way. I’m a big girl from a big city,” you add with a wink.

Frankie bows down his head, shaking it left and right, his resolve failing him, so you broaden your smile and cup his face in your hands.

“I will call you tonight. I can’t wait to hear your voice. You’re going to be a pilot, Frankie! You will fly me over the fucking Andes.”

A sad smile barely lifting the corner of his lips, he’s taken aback by the strength emanating from your trustful features, no apparent traces of sadness, no more blurry edges. He didn’t fuck that into you, even he couldn’t. That strength you’re giving him, is all you.

He gives you one last, shy kiss.

You part, eventually.

Taking the direction of Manhattan Ave, you turn around one last time to watch him get inside his sister’s car, the little piece of paper with his number safely tucked in your jean pocket. You should have told him to be safe, you really wanted to, but it sounded ominous, like a farewell.

“I can’t believe you!” Izzy laughs as he takes the passenger seat in her Golf, “until the last fucking moment!”

Frankie fastens his seatbelt, flinching.

“You know you can still change your mind, hermanito? No shame in it,” she taunts him for what has got to be the hundredth time.

“Yea, well, maybe I will,” he mumbles.

Izzy’s hands stills on the ignition, her black eyes searching her brother’s face. Flying is the only thing he has talked about since he was 10 years old.

“Hermanito estas bien? Who’s this girl?” Izzy asks in a quiet voice.

Frankie bends down and retrieves a red cap from the bag between his legs. He combs his fingers through his unruly curls, sets the cap firmly on his head, and your name passes his lips for what is going to be the last time in the next sixteen years.

****

Additional note: it is not spelled out but Reader actually never had unprotected sex and she’s on the pill. Same for Frankie (aside from the pill, it’s a patriarcal world 🙄) who, moreover, just had his physicals. All this to say: please wear condoms.

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

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thatstormygeek · 1 month

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Rules are not real. They do not exist the way the rock or a tree exists; they exist the way that religions exist, created by us, in service of us, and subject to our own revision as we grow wiser. A set of rules is everywhere and at all times a work in progress. Thousands of years of mankind’s best bureaucratic efforts have not altered the inconvenient fact that time is always moving, yet a rule, once made, is static. Laws are constantly being revised in a ceaseless effort to catch up with the nonstop evolution of reality. The moldy, barbaric nature of the laws of the past gives you a clue to the flaw in the belief that rules must always be followed. It is not just bygone rules that can safely be considered crude, outdated, counterproductive, or unjust. We have plenty of existing rules with those qualities as well. Because of this, the most valuable quality in someone charged with enforcing rules is not certitude or fanaticism, but humility. Wisdom, in the moment, lies in the ability to recognize the gaps between the rules and the demands of the world, and to wield the rules as useful tools rather than as deadly weapons.

Recognition of the shortcomings of rules, of the constant need to measure them against the complexities of reality, is one of the basic insights of being an adult. The urge to caricature this insight as chaos, anarchy, or riotous disregard for the common good is more childish than the insight itself. There is quite an enormous space between “No rules,” which would certainly pose some difficulties to the flourishing of human life, and “follow all rules to the letter,” which would imprison all human life in a cage of absurdity and contradiction. We spend our lives being socialized to believe that failure to follow rules is harmful to society. Less remarked upon is the equally important fact that overzealous, unthinking enforcement of the rules is just as harmful to society. Inflexible as rules are, they cannot function effectively without the ability of their enforcers to compare their text to the fluctuating exigencies of the real world. Small-minded determination to use rules as the final word on all human conduct is characteristic of goons, acting with the desperate meanness that comes from the need to have an easy club with which to beat back the imposing intricacy of life. Indeed, people with this personality type often wash up in positions of authority precisely because those positions offer them a comforting cocoon of rules to retreat into to protect themselves from having to think too much. It is much easier to bring down the hammer on anyone bold enough to violate the rules than it is to wrestle with the knotty question of how much the rules deserve to be followed in the first place. The quasi-religious worship of order above all grants its adherents the same blissful freedom from doubt that all religions tout. The price for this is a retreat into blinding stupidity. Does the ongoing murder of tens of thousands of civilians with weapons provided by our own government trump, momentarily, the rule against camping on the grass? The Religion of Rules has a straightforward answer.

It is a supreme irony that the leaders of colleges and universities, the places most eager to lay claim to the glory of deep thinking, are today giving us the most vivid demonstrations of the opposite. While the students align themselves with the mandates of morality, many institutions doggedly fight to be free of the need to ever glance up at the dreadful big picture. Though presidents at Wesleyan and Brown have demonstrated that peaceful, thoughtful engagement with peaceful, thoughtful protests is a productive path, most of their peers have done the opposite. From California to New York City, riot cops have been the blunt response to students who are trying to put the things they learned in their history and philosophy and sociology classes into practice. If any young people were in danger of graduating without being appropriately cynical about how America really works, their schools are making sure that they get a good lesson at the end of the semester.

#us politics #campus protests #hamilton nolan

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infinitesofnought · 1 year

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What is this escape? The word is poorly chosen to please. Courage consists, however, in agreeing to flee rather than live tranquilly and hypocritically in false refuges. Values, morals, homelands, religions, and these private certitudes that our vanity and our complacency bestow generously on us, have as many deceptive sojourns as the world arranges for those who think they are standing straight and at ease, among stable things. They know nothing of this immense flight that transports them, ignorant of themselves, in the monotonous buzzing of their ever quickening steps that lead them impersonally in a great immobile movement. An escape in advance of the escape. [Consider the example of one of those men] who, having had the revelation of the mysterious drift, is no longer able to stand living in the false pretences of residence. First he tries to take this movement as his own. He would like to personally withdraw. He lives on the fringe....[But] perhaps that is what the fall is, that it can no longer be a personal destiny, but the common lot.

– Maurice Blanchot, L'amitié, as quoted in Anti-Oedipus: Capitalism and Schizophrenia

#the direction of escape is toward freedom #bodhicitta #creation is relation is creation #infinites of nought #maurice blanchot #anti-oedipus #gilles deleuze #félix guattari

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astrognossienne · 1 year

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on andrew tate

Sagittarius men are...interesting to say the least. They are also excellent candidates for the cautionary tales that fascinate me so much; more often than not they are disasters of human beings. It is in this spirit that I dive into the chart of Andrew Tate, the "self-help" personality who revels in almost medieval misogyny. Starting out as a kickboxer, Tate had his first dalliance with a public spotlight through the 2016 season of the UK's Big Brother reality show. It lasted six days. Tate was kicked off the show after a video appearing to show Tate beating a woman with a belt, threatening her with violence if she "texts him again." Tate has more recently become famous as an online personality promising to show boys and men how to "escape the matrix" -- shorthand for becoming more wealthy and successful with women. Before being banned from social media platforms for his rather extreme views, he had over 4.5 million Instagram followers, as well as 600,000 subscribers on his "Tate Speech" YouTube account. Videos carrying his hashtag on TikTok have been viewed over 14 billion times. On November 19, Twitter CEO Elon Musk reinstated deleted accounts for the likes of Donald Trump as well as Tate, where he has continued espousing his views...until his views caught up with him in a real way. Let's look at his chart:

Sometimes or a lot of times Sagittarius men are, strangely enough, like earth sign men in the sense that they feel like if they make a lot of money and/or help a woman financially they can treat women any way they want. Not surprised at his sun sign or placements, especially the Pisces placements, yeah sounds about right. Pisces are so emotional and petty when it comes to everything women. Not shocked by this chart at all. No Cancer in his chart, which is why he's such an uncivilized and unconscionable demon; he suffers from traditional devolved Jupiter energy, which can manifest itself in cult leader-like behaviour or “self righteous” prophets.

That Mars in Pisces is why he’s bitchmade and uses basic red pill points to mask his own deficiency; he’s overcompensating for his lack of real masculinity. If you search pictures of him before he shaved his head (because he was prematurely balding) you can see how he was never really a masculine or “alpha” type of man. Sun conjunct Moon is why he’s so stubborn when it comes to other people’s opinions; his ego and emotions are in lockstep so he is simple single minded about his views. He's the type that does not understand why it's so hard for others to get their mind and emotions on the same page, even if a wrong one.

Venus conjunct Pluto in Scorpio with his Venus in the 5° (the erotic degree), which means in time, he will be freed from his physical preoccupation with sex, and he will be more able to enjoy all kinds of human contacts. It also means that he attracts people despite him being dumb as fuck. They may be interested in his dramatic sense or his artistic leanings, or they may be fascinated by his fearless involvement in deep and sometimes dangerous alliances. He arouses deep responses in people, even those he contacts casually. His nature stimulates both positive and negative reactions. Although he's a Sag, he’s extremely Scorpio just based off of that conjunction and placement.

Sun conjunct moon in Sag in the 9th—he really thinks highly of himself. Too highly of himself. Like all fire signs do. Under the influence of certain religious, moral and doctrinal teachings, the assumption of certitude can be made, especially as there can be an underlying pattern of desiring to be authoritative, and to assert or impose personal views as being the only correct ones. Ultimately, taking such a stance proves to be restrictive and self-limiting, closing perceptions and options down to only those which are 'allowable', and thus distorting individual understanding and perspective. Taking moralistic attitudes often corresponds with assuming critical and judgemental positions, which only fuels the separation of people within society rather than connecting them more strongly. His BIG ego and BIG emotions are in sync (Sag is Jupiter ruled, remember)—so that explains his larger than life ego. In spite of his seeming self-assurance, he's not too successful in relating to people except at the social level.

As a Sagittarius with a Mercury in Scorpio—he feels like what he says is deep and profound (when it really isn't). Nonetheless, having Mercury in Scorpio forces him into a more singular determined direction. He has the talent of hypnotizing others into something he wants them to do against their total acceptance. He shows how he feels or what he thinks by facial expressions, mannerisms and an enthusiastic sparkle to his eyes, which is shown through his videos.

His chart is mostly Sag, Scorpio & Pisces—that’s one Jupiter ruled sign, one Jupiter/Neptune ruled sign, and one Mars/Pluto ruled. I can definitely see all three because Pluto makes its mark through his thought process and Jupiter is known for expansion (of his fanbase of misogynists). Also Pisces is the sign of delusions; in case it's delusions of grandeur. With that last part being said, he looks really soft and probably was a sensitive man before he was scorned seeing actual real men get the respect from women he wishes he had without force/disrespect.

His need for control/domination over women stems from not only his Scorpio/Pluto dominance, but also his Lilith in Gemini opposite his Sag sun means that women are dangerous; they scare him and threaten his ego, so he needs to get them under his thumb with his tongue/the weapon of mass communication. As a Pisces dominant, he's a beta male, so the fact that he knows he isn’t the type of man to naturally evoke respect/admiration from women so he went so far to the extreme end of manosphere in order to fake it till he makes it. He thinks being red pill means being an alpha, but he’s so wrong, he looks even more bitchmade then before he started to spout this bullshit. Like men with Cancer Mars, some men with Mars in Pisces don’t have a healthy relationship with aggression/sex/relations with the other sex because they’re naturally prone to be sensitive or “weak” but they hate that because they refuse to be under control from women, or are ashamed of the fact they’re so soft/sensitive so they veer to the extreme end to overcompensate or throw other people off the scent of their sensitivity (a typical Scorpio and Pisces trait).

He has a Scorpio Venus, Pluto and Mercury as well as a Pisces Mars which conjunct his Jupiter (from a wider orb but its to be considered nonetheless); so with all that outward-turning water energy, he’s definitely loud and wrong and he’s quite proud about it. Scorpio likes to investigate and get to the bottom of things, and they also hold grudges harder than everyone likes to say Cancers do, so that's also why he’s not letting his grudge towards women go. Saturn especially adds a restricting influence to what it touches. He might be repressed and instead of taking that and internalizing (if Saturn would be retrograde), he externalizes by asking others to also repress someone (namely women).

His chart is mostly a Minor Triangle, which is one trine and two sextiles. Trine planets are energies that are integrated in his personality and easily expressed, and a sextile is dynamic which requires some sort of effort. Him being a professional fighter both physically (Mars dominance) and verbally as well as always seeking opportunities to spread his message represents that. Until his arrest, it was working well for him because these energies were working together easily and positively, although what he is actually saying is upsetting to people.

If he had more lowkey planets he’d be an obscure guru with a big following but his Sag sun and fire dominance, specifically his Sagittarius stellium (3 or more planets in the same sign) adds this focus of speaking out bluntly to anyone that challenges him, even privately, which is entertaining and lights a fire of rebellion in others.

The motherfucker was on a roll until he played himself late last year by coming for Capricorn environmentalist Greta Thunberg.

She may not have Cancer in her chart either, but despite this, she’s still a human being anyway. At least the only water sign represented, Scorpio, gives her the courage of her convictions and a fierce yet evident humaneness about her as does her earth and air dominance. Uranus dominance means that she is a conduit for change. Saturn dominance, she is very serious about her mission. She cares deeply and is willing to fight fiercely for what she loves (as is evidenced in her Venus and Mars in Scorpio)--her ideals (Aquarius dominance) and she is fixed and focused in her goal (Capriocrn, earth and fixed dominance).

On December 27, 2022, Tate addressed Thunberg in a tweet extolling his carbon-emitting automobiles and asked for her email address to give her more information. The following day, Thunberg (who's also a Capricorn moon and Mercury) replied with the fake email address "[email protected]".

The exchange received substantial attention on Twitter and became one of the most-liked tweets ever. Almost immediately after this exchange, he filmed a video in which pizza boxes were visible that eagle-eyed viewers noted gave away his place of residence. On December 29, 2022, Tate and his brother, Tristan, were arrested in Romania along with two women; all four are charged with human trafficking and forming an organized crime group.

These are the transits for his arrest. His sun squared Uranus in Taurus and Neptune in Pisces on December 29, 2022, which is a somewhat disruptive transit, during which people were subject to sudden upsets or to behaviour that is upsetting to others (Tate's extreme viewpoints and unnecessary trolling of Thunberg). The main point is that he could expect the unexpected that day becasue of his actions. Which he did. He was obviously not clear-headed enough to pull off a convincing deception of his greatness (hence the pizza boxes detailing his location in the video). His moon squared Moon and Neptune in Pisces that day, which meant that there were moments of difficulty and irritation. Old points of view, habits picked up in childhood, prejudices — all misled him under this influence. His relations with women were not very smooth at this time. His emotions were discordant, and he was more inclined to get into disagreements with others (Thunberg), which had the greatest effect in his most personal life and domestic situation (his arrest).

Thunberg, ever the succinct earth and air dominated Capricorn, tweeted:

this is what happens when you don’t recycle your pizza boxes

More of an accurate analysis would be had provided there was a birth time for this individual, of course, but yeah. That's all I got.

#an astrognossienne classic #astrology #mine #andrew tate #in other words greta thunberg is THAT bitch

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