#my main boy shiv)

[snekdood]

Vaush almost seems manipulative in the way he talks about religion, like i feel very strongly that he doesn't actually think religion is *quite* as bad as something like toxic masculinity but he wants his audience to feel that way, so he keeps drawing comparisons between religion and all these other fucked up things like antisemities or whatever, to give the impression to his audience that he genuinely thinks its that serious, and knowing how a lot of ppl can be in his audience, whatever vaush thinks they decide to take as like the best most intellectually and well thought out take ever, no self analyzing, no questions asked, and i feel like hes manipulating that fact to his advantage, he literally said in his debate w oceankeltoi (which i wasnt gonna watch but did eventually bc i heard vaush kinda sucked in it (and he did)) that hes okay with using peer pressure to try to discourage people from being religious. It seems like hes going to try whatever he can socially to like. Shun anyone whos religious or any of their beliefs and is probably even totally okay with ppl bullying religious ppl so long as the social pressure gets people to stop. Which. Uh. I feel like i shouldnt have to say is a pretty fucked up philosophy

#you are already putting too much work to control ppl just existing #social. political. systemic. wherever you're putting this energy to control it will only end badly. #anyways this whole stuff kinda made me look at him in an entirely different light. #i think hes become too convinced hes always right and has got really into his ass. idk if hes changed since that debate tho bc #i stopped watching him for a while even before it #the problem w that debate is that vaush is doing the thing where hes actually debating the beliefs of certain audience members #whereas ocean is actually just trying to debate him specifically w/o changing the audiences mind quite as much #oceans here trying to understand vaush and vaush is just here to try to make ocean look stupid. not actually understand or come to a #mutual understanding or literally anything. idk. but its pretty frustrating how he devolved to JUST doing that in debates. #hes decided religious ppl are evil or whatever and thus refuses to meet ocean on an equal and respectful level. theres so much lack #of respect here. #i also sorta feel like vaushs 'what about those ppl who think their gods are always in the right' thing was bc perhaps one of his audience #members decided to screenshot one of my posts where i said 'ppl need to accept that their gods arent inherently good' but accidently #typed are instead of arent and idk. maybe its a reach to decide thats why he brought that up but yknow. i do sometimes feel like yall #(hi vaushs community whos probably stalking me online bc i used to be in the community and you think im cringe bc i love #my main boy shiv) #well. ig obviously i feel like some of yall stalk me to poke fun at me and prolly posted that in his discord or smthn #idk but. its gotta stop if its happening bc im literally just some guy #I WANT TO MAKE CLEAR THAT I DONT THINK VAUSH IS ABUSIVE BC IDK HIM LIKE THAT AND CANT MAKE THAT CLAIM #just bc someones being manipulative does not make them ABUSIVE which is a whole different and bigger step towards Bad

[fuckyeahdindjarin]

Grays II

Frankie Morales x f!reader

{ Grays - Part I | Grays Masterlist | Main Masterlist }

Rating: E (18+ only)

Summary: Leaning in close, you hiss in his ear, ‘You’re getting laid tonight if it kills me, Morales.’

Warnings: Insecure Frankie in need of self-love comes with his own warning, Reader is a hairstylist and has a related nickname, matchmaking elements, meddlesome mother, lots of teasing, not-quite-friends to lovers dynamics, mentions of hair, gratuitous descriptions of the male body, oral sex (F and M receiving), protected sex, dirty talk.

Word count: 8.5k

Notes: It's here - 4 months later! First of all, thank you so much for the love for Grays Part I. I still can't quite believe the reaction to Frankie and Shiv, you guys sure know how to make a writer feel special 🥰 This one was so much fun to write, and nervous as I am posting this follow-up, I'm telling myself to let go of my insecurities and just enjoy it because that's what it's all about. I hope y'all will have a good time at this wedding with the gang 😘

Francisco Morales likes to think of himself as a reasonably competent man. 

He can pilot a helicopter under intense enemy fire. He can take out a target from miles away in the tightest of spots. 

But he can’t do his fucking hair.

He glares at himself in the mirror. He can’t put his finger on it, it just doesn’t look like how you did it. He’s already washed it out and started over twice, and for a second, he considers driving to your salon. A quick glance at his watch tells him it’s far too late for that now.

Leaning over the sink, he says to his reflection, ‘Focus, pendejo. You can do it.’

He’s a pilot for fuck’s sake. He’s a man of procedure, he can follow steps. He just needs to break it down.

Hair half-dry - check.

Hair mousse applied - check.

Now he just needs to dry his hair all the way and style it - but the how is where it gets hazy. 

Frankie closes his eyes and casts his mind back to your salon. He’s sitting in the chair and you’re standing behind him. He wills himself to recall what you were doing with your hands, but all he remembers is the scrape of your of your fingertips on his scalp, the ghost of your breath on the back of his neck, and then -

Don’t be gentle, Francisco. C’mon, harder, deeper - don’t hold back.

He scrubs a frustrated palm down his face when his cock twitches in his haphazardly ironed dress pants, not for the first time… hell, not even the fourth time since he left your salon on Wednesday afternoon.

‘Goddamnit,’ he bites out, dropping the hairdryer with a clunk and grips the porcelain sink. He needs to calm the fuck down. 

He didn’t ask for - this, whatever this is. You’re you. You’re Shiv. The loudmouth with the wild hair he’s known since fifth grade. The fourth wheel at guys’ drinks when Will can’t make it. A relentless tease on a good day, and downright insufferable when you get enough tequila in you.

And quite possibly, the only person who’s ever driven him to the brink of unconsciousness with just the touch of their bare hands.

Frankie pinches the bridge of his nose. Maybe you’re right. It has been a while since he’s been with a woman. He just needs to get laid at the wedding, get this weird tension out of his system. And then hopefully, he’ll be able to go to sleep without being kept up by you telling him to go harder, deeper -

By the time he gets his head out of his ass, it’s too late for second-guessing. He rakes his fingers through his hair, sets it with hairspray, and quickly rubs the beard oil he bought in town yesterday into his whiskers. He takes a moment to look himself over while he clumsily does up the tie he borrowed from Pope.

This is as good as it’s gonna get.

He’s the designated driver tonight. By some miracle, he’s only five minutes late when he cruises into Pope’s driveway, where all three of the boys are waiting and sipping on beers.

‘Damn Fish, you look good,’ crows Santi as he climbs into the passenger seat, patting him on the shoulder. ‘You should get your hair cut at Shiv’s from now on.’

‘Only if you keep paying for it,’ retorts Frankie while he backs out of the driveway. He pauses as he changes gears, and adds in a grumble. ‘She’s making me use shampoo and conditioner.’

Pope barks in laughter, twisting in his seat to give Benny a knowing grin. ‘Someone had to, you caveman.’

The younger Miller brother ribs good-naturedly, ‘You ready for some action tonight, Fish? I brought some extra rubbers just in case.’

Meeting his eyes in the rearview mirror, Frankie rips into him mercilessly. ‘You know your small ass condoms don’t fit me, Benjamin.’ 

The car erupts with playful jeers, and the corner of his mouth lifts into a crooked smile as he palms the steering wheel.

‘That’s some fighting talk, Fish!’ goads Santi, punching him on the arm.

Will joins in the banter. ‘You better watch out, little bro. Big Dick Morales came out swinging tonight.’

Benny grins. ‘Ok, I see how it is. Let’s make it interesting, Fish. Whoever picks up a one night stand first wins a hundred bucks.’

Frankie shrugs in mock nonchalance and quips, ‘I mean, I can use the cash. Shampoo ain’t cheap.’

Benny chuckles and clasps his shoulder. ‘You’re on, man.’

It’s eight on the dot when you lock up the salon. While you did RSVP for wedding drinks - opting out of the sit-down dinner earlier in the evening - you hadn’t planned on actually going. But it seems like the whole town did, you’ve barely had two customers walk through the door all afternoon. 

So you let Ashton go home early, and after a quick snack, you take your time getting ready. Might as well have a Saturday night out - your first in many months.

The hotel is just a short Uber ride away. When you climb out of the car, you bite your bottom lip at the unfamiliar tension humming under your skin.

Nerves.

You’re nervous.

And worse, you know exactly what you’re nervous about. 

Or more precisely - who.

‘Pull it together, Shiv,’ you mutter under your breath. Steeling yourself, you stride into the hotel.

From his vantage point at the bar, Benny watches in amusement as Frankie glances towards the doors of the reception hall yet again. He doubts the pilot even knows he’s doing it, or at the very least, he doesn’t think that anyone would notice.

Grabbing his beer, Benny sidles up to his friend. ‘Looking for something, Fish?’

Frankie takes a sip of his Coke and feigns nonchalance. ‘Yeah, looking to win that hundred bucks from you.’

‘Dunno ‘bout that. I don’t see you trying very hard.’

‘Biding my time, Miller. Just make sure you have enough cash to -’ 

When Frankie breaks off in the middle of his sentence, Benny doesn’t need to look to wager a guess what caught his attention.

Turning around as you approach, he flings his arms out to give you a hug, eyeing you up and down appreciatively. ‘Babe, look at you all dressed up! Doesn’t she look nice, Fish?’

In lieu of an answer, Frankie stares intently at some invisible spot over your shoulder until Benny elbows him right in his stomach, jerking him out of his trance. ‘Fish?’

Frankie clears his throat and stutters. ‘Um. I - I don’t know.’

You arch an eyebrow at him. ‘You don’t know if I look nice?’

Benny has to stopper his mouth with beer so he doesn’t laugh out loud at the panic on Frankie’s face as he fumbles for a response. ‘I mean. Um, nice… pants?’

‘It’s a jumpsuit, Morales. Try to keep up,’ you reply and take two steps towards him, which has him backpedalling so fast that he upsets the table behind him, sending half-empty glasses spilling wine all over the white tablecloth.

‘What the fuck are you doing?’ he growls at you like a cornered stray.

Your eyes roll to the back of your head as you pull him upright by his tie. ‘Is he ok, Ben? He’s even jumpier than usual.’

‘Well, it’s a funny night for him. Watching his ex get married and all.’

‘I swear to God, Benjamin Miller, if you don’t shut the fuck up -’ 

‘Pipe down, Morales, we’re just messing with you,’ you shush him, tugging on his slightly skewed shirt collar to set it straight. ‘Can’t believe you own a tie.’

‘Borrowed it from Pope,’ he grunts without making eye contact.

Smoothing the lapels of his slightly crumpled suit jacket, you probe, ‘You’ve been using shampoo and conditioner like I asked?’

Frankie huffs a dry laugh. ‘I don’t remember you asking.’

‘Someone’s mouthy tonight,’ you tease. ‘And the beard oil?’

He concedes with a sigh. ‘Yes, Shiv.’

‘You look good, Francisco,’ you grin and reach up to push his curls back from his eyes.

He looks away as he admits, ‘Took three fucking tries.’

At least he holds still when you make small adjustments to his hair, shoulders stiff with hands stuffed deep into his pockets. You catch yourself missing the way he leaned into your touch in your salon, and you have to forcefully push that thought away as you push your fingers through the roots to boost the volume. His curls feel softer already than you remember them, with a noticeably healthier sheen. 

After a final rustle to loosen up his fringe, you wink at him. ‘Mark my words, the bride will rue the day she dumped your ass when she sees you.’

A voice from behind you interrupts. ‘It’s a bit too late for that now, isn’t it?’

Trading a look with Frankie, who gives you a sarcastic thumbs up, you put on a smile and turn on your heels. ‘Mrs. Morales, it’s been too long!’

‘I see you haven’t dyed my son’s hair like I requested,’ she says by way of a greeting, drawing you into an embrace.

Frankie’s taunt is so quiet that you nearly miss it. ‘Told you she’d come after you.’

Without skipping a beat, you elbow him in the ribs, ignoring his pained oomph from behind you. ‘You look wonderful tonight, ma’am.’ 

‘You can’t sweet talk your way out of my question, young lady.’

You cross your arms with a sigh. ‘I didn’t dye it because he looks good with the grays.’ 

‘Well, I don’t think so.’

‘In my professional opinion, he does,’ you retort pointedly.

‘If he looks so good, why is he still single?’

Frankie throws his hands up in exasperation. ‘Gee, thanks a lot ma.’

You turn to Benny, who has been silently watching you two spar. ‘What do you think, Miller?’

He dithers, eyes darting around in desperation until he spots Santi and his older brother coming back from the bar. ‘Look! Here are the guys, let’s ask them!’

‘Ask us what?’ asks Santi, giving you a kiss on the cheek and a glass of bubbly.

‘Do you think my son looks good with the grays?’

Your eyebrow twitches when Mrs. Morales carelessly ruffles his hair to emphasise her point. To your surprise, Frankie bats her away with an irritated ma!, before hastily rearranging it.

‘Your honest opinion, if you please,’ you add.

The boys hum and haw, sipping their beers and shooting uncertain looks between you and Mrs. Morales, clearly uncomfortable being caught in the middle. Upping the heat, you narrow your eyes at them, and Will folds first. 

‘Yeah, I mean - he looks good,’ he mumbles, avoiding the Morales matriarch's glare.

‘Pope?’ you prompt.

‘Cabrón rocking those grays,’ he nods supportively.

‘Ben?’

‘Uh huh,’ he replies vaguely, but at your menacing glare, clarifies, ‘Yes, I meant - yes, ma’am.’

Mrs. Morales scoffs. ‘They’re men, what do they know! I don’t see him catching any girls’ attention.’

Ah, that’s the easy part. You look around, scanning the crowds - and bingo, you see a brunette staring openly from across the dance floor. You hold up a finger for dramatic effect. ‘Excuse me for one second.’

Frankie looks ready for the earth to swallow him whole by the time you return with the said woman in tow. Pointing straight at him, you ask, ‘Lucy, this is Frankie. Do you think he’s hot with the grays?’

To her credit, she’s a good sport, and plays along with a cheeky wink. ‘Yeah, he is. You wanna dance, handsome?’

‘Yes, he absolutely does!’ you answer quickly before he can get a word in.

‘What the fuck, Shiv?’ Frankie seethes through clenched teeth, literally digging his heels in, but to his despair, his shoes skid uselessly on the tiled surface as you push him towards the dancefloor with this complete stranger. 

Leaning in close, you hiss in his ear, ‘You’re getting laid tonight if it kills me, Morales.’

‘Have fun, Fish!’ calls out Pope impishly, which earns him an emphatic middle finger. 

You beam at Mrs. Morales smugly. ‘And that’s how it’s done.’

‘You better keep it up, young lady,’ she says over her shoulder as she turns to leave.

You raise your drink. ‘Don’t you worry, Mrs M. I promise you - he’ll be leaving with his future wife tonight!’

Santi is minding his own business, sipping on his beer as he stakes out the ladies, when a hand shoots out from nowhere and snatches the bottle from him.

‘What the fuck, man?!’ he bristles indignantly.

Frankie polishes off the drink in one mouthful, before slamming it onto the table and demanding, ‘Where’s Shiv? I’m done. I’m not fucking dancing with anyone else.’

Pope jerks his thumb to the other side of the room. ‘She’s arguing with your mother.’

Frankie flops into a chair, the dress shoes that he never wears are pinching his feet and he fights the urge to kick them off. He folds his arms across his chest petulantly, one palm over his mouth as his eyes wander across the hall to you, where you’re gesturing madly at his ma, embroiled in an impassioned discussion, probably still about his damn hair.

You’re all dressed up tonight, which is new to him - he’s only ever seen you in jeans when you go out drinking with them, and he’s certainly never seen so much of you. The ‘jumpsuit’ (he learns something new every day) is black and cut low both front and back, and fuck, all he sees is soft skin and the dip of your curves and red lipstick -

Pope must have nipped to the bar while he wasn’t looking, and a fresh bottle of beer appears under his nose. Glancing up at his best friend, Frankie mutters, ‘Thanks.’

‘You can’t marry her, Fish.’

He chokes violently at the casual non-sequitur, spraying beer everywhere. ‘What the fuck, Pope.’

Santi beams. ‘You got that look on your face, man. I’ve seen that look before.’

‘I don’t have a look on my face.’

He chuckles, mostly to himself. 'Damn, I really should've seen this coming.'

‘What are you even on about -’ Looking up, Frankie spots you making your way over and panics. ‘Shut the fuck up, pendejo.’

‘Why aren’t you dancing, my little debutante?’ you ask when you come within earshot.

Santi chortles and takes his leave, clapping him on the shoulder. ‘Good luck, Fish.’

You sink into the empty seat next to him and he deliberately twists his body away from you, drinking deeply from his bottle to drown out Santi’s words ringing in his ears. 

‘So, I heard you have a bet going on with Benny. I want splitsies if you win.’

Frankie rolls his eyes, staring resolutely anywhere but at the swell of your cleavage. ‘No.’

‘40/60.’

‘Fuck off, Shiv.’

‘30/70?’ you counter-offer.

He sighs. ‘You’re impossible.’

Ignoring him, you jump up with a happy squeak when someone Frankie vaguely recognises as a girl who used to be in your class approaches with a shy smile. You pull her close by the crook of her arm and ask, ‘Morales, you remember Sadie?’

He tries not to scowl too openly as he too gets on his feet. ‘Sure, hi Sadie.’

Herding them towards the dancefloor, you grin, ‘Go dance, get reacquainted.’

As he passes by you, Frankie grits his teeth and curls his fingers into the meat of his palms to crush the urge to reach out and touch you. 

But it’s easier to fall into your well-rehearsed roles, to toe the line that has been drawn in the sand since you were teenagers. And easier is certainly the safer option when it comes to you.

So he throws you a deliberate glare over his shoulder, with a deadpanned, ‘I hate you.’

You blow him a kiss and grin wider.

Frankie can’t hold back a relieved sigh when the interminably long song finally ends, and the woman he’s dancing with - he won’t even pretend he remembers her name - tucks his phone back into the pocket of his jacket after tapping in her number. ‘Call me, gorgeous.’

He stopped counting after the eighth woman you shepherded his way. This is it. He’s not above hiding in the toilets if that’s what it takes to make this stop.

Except he’s not quick enough. He spots you out of the corner of his eye, marching straight towards him with a fresh glass of water and a look of purpose on your face.

He doesn’t exactly know what came over him. He could probably blame it on the one and a half beers that he downed, or being pushed to the end of his tether. Whatever it is, there’s something he has to say to you, and it can’t wait.

You push the glass into his grasp. ‘Here, hydrate.’

‘Shiv -’

You’ve already swivelled around, your focus somewhere else. ‘Where is she? She was literally just behind me -’

‘Shiv -’

‘Mind you, she’s a sweet girl, but clearly not the brightest tool in the -’

His patience snaps, and he barks, ‘Shiv!’

You spin around, brow furrowed in confusion, and snarl back, ‘What?’

Frankie pauses, and you blink as his warm eyes hold yours. On an exhale, he says, ‘You look nice tonight.’

You’re vaguely aware that your jaw has gone slack, but only because his eyes follow the movement, dropping to your mouth. He considers you for a moment, head tipping just slightly to the side as he watches you. Then, satisfied that he has your attention, he brings the glass of water to his lips, throwing his head back as he drinks. 

Your breath catches in your throat when his Adam’s apple bobs with his swallow, before he leisurely swipes his lips with the back of his hand.

Except in your mind, it’s not water that he’s wiping from his mouth.

In a perfectly mirrored imitation of what transpired between you earlier in the evening, he takes two measured steps forward, prompting you to back up against the table behind you. The tinkle of glasses falling over hardly registers in the back of your mind. 

The fabric of his suit is cool on your skin, brushing your bare arm as he looms over you, so broad and warm. Though his front barely makes contact, your peripheral vision gives and all you can see is him.

‘What are you doing?’ you croak the same words back at him, hating the way your voice shakes.

Frankie smiles - really smiles at you, with no colour of the usual irony or sarcasm. Warmth settles into the creases in the corners of his eyes as he holds up the empty glass. ‘Just putting my glass away,’ he says coolly, an edge of cockiness at your tragically obvious reaction to him.

You feel your cheeks heat up as he does just that - the back of his hand bumping into your forearm as he moves, the breadth of him pinning you against the table. He doesn’t pull away, clearly basking in the way the tables have well and truly turned -

‘Hi! You must be Frankie, I’m Jan.’

Frankie squeezes his eyes shut in irritation at the voice behind him, nostrils flaring as he collects himself. A resigned smile tugs at his lips, and he tips forward, his words grazing your ear. ‘Catch you later, Shiv.’

You only let your knees buckle when he’s safely out of sight.

You’ve barely stepped back into the reception hall from a much needed bathroom break to clear your head when someone grabs you by the arm, tugging you onto the dancefloor.

‘Benny!’ You reprimand, stumbling over your feet. ‘I’m busy.’

‘Relax, Shiv. Frankie can survive on his own for a second.’

‘You’re just jealous that he’s hogging all the ladies’ attention.’

He scoffs, palms on your waist as he sways to the music. ‘He has an unfair advantage, ok? How do I compete with the bride’s ex?’

Clasping your hands around Benny’s neck, you catch Frankie’s eye over his shoulder. You wink at him casually, having somewhat recovered your bravado - it’s easier to pretend from a distance anyway. He rolls his eyes at you over Jan’s head, but he doesn’t look away, watching you with a hint of something you can’t quite make out.

Glancing up at Benny, you ask a tad bashfully, ‘I know we give Frankie a hard time about all this, but is he - ok?’

‘Why don’t you ask him yourself?’

You hesitate. ‘Well, we’re not exactly that kind of friends.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You know, the kind who sit around having heart-to-hearts and painting their nails.’

He raises an eyebrow. ‘What kind of friends are you, then?’ 

‘I don’t know, he probably doesn’t even count me as one,’ you admit. ‘He barely tolerates me on a good day.’

Benny shoots you a cryptic look, but before you can quiz him on it, he changes the subject abruptly. ‘Can I swing by the salon tomorrow morning? I have a promotional shoot at half past eleven.’

‘As long as you bring donuts and coffee.’

He twirls you around. ‘Deal.’

Frankie slinks out of the hotel, somehow managing to dodge both you and his mother on his way out, which he takes as a win.

It’s cold outside. He inhales deeply and feels it burn down his throat. Stuffing his hands into his pockets, he watches his breath mist in front of his face, savouring the quiet.

‘Hey.’

His shoulders stiffen. He knows he should’ve been the bigger man. Should’ve sought her out first, to congratulate her.

Should’ve, could’ve, would’ve.

When he turns around eventually, she smiles brightly at him, her engagement ring catching the lights.

Closing the space between them, he presses a kiss to her cheek. ‘Congratulations. You look beautiful.’

‘Thank you,’ she replies. ‘I’m glad you came. Your mum too - it was a long way to travel.’

His gaze falls to his shoes. ‘Yeah, well. You know she loves you.’

‘How are you?’ she presses on, always one for polite conversation. ‘Are you seeing anyone?’

Frankie shrugs but doesn’t answer.

‘Just because it didn’t work between us doesn’t mean I want you to be happy.’

He nods slowly. ‘I appreciate that.’

She points behind her. ‘Well, I should go back inside.’

‘Of course. I’m happy for you,’ he says. And he means it.

The hotel doors swing open, and Frankie looks up at the sharp clack of heels on the concrete. You pause at the sight of them by the curb.

‘Are you leaving, Shiv?’ the bride laments as you walk over to give her a hug.

‘I am, I’m afraid, gotta open up shop early tomorrow,’ you pull back. ‘Come by the salon any time, my treat.’

Once the bride is out of earshot, you turn to Frankie, hands on hips. ‘Alright, no more shirking, Morales. Get your ass back in there, your mother is on my case again.’

He folds his arms across his chest. ‘Oh no, I’m not going back in there without you.’

You sigh dramatically. ‘Am I the only one in this town who’s not scared of your mother?’

‘You should be,’ he snorts, then nods towards the parking lot. ‘C’mon, I’ll give you a lift.’

Taken aback by his offer, you hesitate. ‘Um - I thought you were the designated driver for the guys tonight.’

He brushes off your concerns with an easy shrug. ‘I’ll come back to get them after I drop you off.’ 

Typical Frankie - he walks off without even glancing back to see if you’re coming with him.

You smile to yourself and follow.

You must be drunker than you realised, because you’re staring. Again. For what must be the fifth time in the ten-minute drive.

It’s a lot of staring, even for you.

His jacket lies abandoned in the backseat, his tie jostled loose and the top two buttons of his shirt unfastened, sleeves bunched up to his elbows. You watch from the corner of your eye as his left hand grips the top of the steering wheel steady, fingers flexing every now and then on straight stretches of road.

As if you’re not already discreetly squeezing your thighs together, he’s also rubbing his right palm idly on his leg, the innocent rustle of fabric against skin getting you far too hot and bothered under the metaphorical collar. 

And then - your eyes trail higher - settling on the heavy bulge at the top of his spread thighs.

Fuck. You’re definitely drunk.

You mull silently to yourself that you actually prefer him in his beat-up jeans and threadbare t-shirts before catching yourself. You weren’t aware you had any preferences when it comes to Frankie Morales. And you have no business doing so.

Clearing your throat, you break the tense silence. Well, tense for you, anyway. He seems completely oblivious to your inner strife.

‘I’m sorry you didn’t win the bet.’

His lips quirk, but he keeps his eyes on the road.

‘I had another five girls lined up for you, you know.’

He scoffs. ‘No, thank you.’

You reach over to punch him on the arm playfully. ‘C’mon, you know you enjoyed the attention, Morales.’

‘You don’t know me very well, do you?’ he peers at you.

You make a face of disbelief. ‘If you hated it that much, why did you go along with it?’

Cruising into your street, his truck rolls to a smooth stop outside your salon. Frankie kills the ignition, then turns towards you. His answer is simple, and hits you right between the ribs. 

‘Because you wanted me to.’

You force a chuckle in a weak attempt to lighten the mood. ‘Since when did you care about what I wanted?’

He smooths his palm over the steering wheel and holds your gaze. ‘Sometime when I wasn’t looking.’

It would be simpler to pretend you didn’t understand what he means. To brush off this pull between you as a champagne-induced episode that you could sleep off. If you did, you could still show up at Tuesday nights drinks next week as if nothing has changed, and carry on.

It would be simpler. So you ask -

‘Do you want to come in for a nightcap?’

Frankie follows two steps behind you as you grapple with the keys on the doorstep. Once inside, the salon is quiet, and you strategically turn on the lights by the backwash, the semi-darkness making it more homey than it would have been if fully lit up. 

‘I would invite you upstairs -’ you pause and add hastily, ‘I don’t mean upstairs like, upstairs in that way - it’s just that my apartment is tiny, and the backwash is the closest thing I have to a couch. Are you okay with beer?’

‘Beer’s good, thanks,’ he answers. ‘Need a hand?’

You shake your head vehemently. ‘Oh god, please no - it’s a disaster upstairs. I’ll be right back.’

The rickety stairs creak loudly under your heels, and once you let yourself into your studio, you fall back heavily on the door, taking a second to catch your breath.

You invited him inside. 

He said yes.

You leap into action, shoving all your dirty laundry into the already full hamper. You try not to think too hard about why you’re cleaning up, you just hope you’re not making too much of a ruckus while you’re at it - because you have a boy waiting for you downstairs. 

Francisco Morales, of all people.

Despite having been in each other’s lives since high school, you’re pretty sure you’ve never been alone with him. Not even once. There’s always a buffer with Pope on his side, Benny on yours, and Will in the middle. And while some find Frankie hard to read, you’ve always known exactly how to act around him. You have an unwritten playbook - you bait him with cheap jokes, more often than not joining forces with Benny to gang up on him. He rolls his eyes and snaps at you to shut up. It’s the longest running show in town.

But this? Alone, after his ex’s wedding, in your salon? You’re going off-script and off-piste. Dangerous enough on a good day; outright stupid after a night of drinking.

Frankie is quick to help when you reappear, armed with beer and a bag of ice, using the backwash sink as a makeshift cooler. Your shoes clatter onto the floor as you settle in the chair next to his. Hugging your knees, you hold out your bottle, which he clinks with his.

‘Did you have fun tonight?’ you ask, rather mundanely.

‘As much fun as one is expected to have at an ex’s wedding,’ he answers with a sardonic smile. Taking a sip of beer, he adds, ‘Gotta admit, you winding up my ma pretty much made up for it.’

‘That never gets old,’ you smirk. ‘Although, I promised your mother you’d leave with your future wife tonight - so that’s a bust.’

You startle when Frankie chokes on his beer, his eyes visibly watering as he thumps a fist on his chest. When you ask if he’s ok, he won’t meet your gaze, downing more of his beer.

Not thinking anything of it, you move on. ‘You know, she sent a bunch of customers my way when I first opened up the salon.’

His voice is still a bit tight from his coughing fit. ‘And I’m sure she’ll deny it till the day she dies.’

‘I can’t figure her out,’ you admit. ‘I can’t decide if she hates me or not.’

‘She doesn’t hate you. She just doesn’t understand you.’

You hum, unconvinced.

He nudges your knee with his. ‘She was really proud of you when you opened the salon, you know.’

You toss him a sidelong glance. ‘You talk to your mum about me?’

He’s ambiguous in his answer. ‘She asks after you sometimes.’

‘And how would you have anything to say to her? We’re not exactly bosom buddies.’

Frankie concedes with a wry smile, ‘Benny talks.’

‘Ha!’ you laugh, echoing his words from a few days ago back at him. ‘Benjamin fucking Miller.’

He goes quiet for a second, looking around your salon as if taking stock. ‘It’s pretty amazing that you’ve built all this.’

The unexpected compliment catches you blindsided. You reply diplomatically, ‘Ashton helps me loads.’

Frankie’s eyes widen in feigned surprise. ‘Are you going humble on me now? What have you done to Shiv?’

‘Shut up,’ you grumble good-naturedly, adding, ‘Ben tells me you’re doing really well yourself.’

‘Yeah. I got promoted at work last month, and I’m saving up for a house,’ he replies, a hint of pride in his voice. ‘Things are looking up.’

‘You’re actually acknowledging your achievements?’ you gasp in mock outrage. ‘What have you done to Francisco Morales?’

With a shrug, he leans forward to put his empty beer bottle in the sink, but he doesn’t sit back. Instead, he sways even closer, one palm landing on the leather of your seat next to your knee, eyes darting to your lips. His voice is deep as he rasps, ‘Can I kiss you?’

It would be so easy to say yes, but when have you ever made things easy for yourself? 

Instead, you blurt out, ‘Why?’

Frankie looks amused, like he expected this from you. Slowly, not wanting to spook you, he gently plucks the beer that you’ve barely drunk from your grasp.

‘Because all fucking night, while you were throwing woman after woman at me, I just wanted to have a drink with you.’

He leans in close. 

You stop breathing.

‘Because since Wednesday, every time I wash my hair, I get hard thinking of you touching me.’

Closer still.

Your lungs ache.

‘And because when you told me to go harder, deeper - I nearly lost my fucking mind.’

He’s hovering over you now, and you can almost taste the bitter sweetness of the beer on his breath. He smirks at you, but there’s only warmth and mischief in it when he teases, ‘Speechless for once?’

‘Shut up, Morales,’ you breathe and grab him by the collar of his shirt.

And then you’re kissing him. You’re kissing Frankie, and he’s kissing you back.

It’s messy, and disorientating, and you clumsily fumble over each other until he’s sitting up in one of the chairs, with your thighs on either side of his narrow hips as you straddle him. He’s licking up into your mouth, sucking on your bottom lip, his hands gripping your sides almost painfully hard.

‘Is this really happening?’ you garble into his lips, ripping off his tie and undoing his shirt buttons as fast as your shaking fingers allow you to.

‘If you want it,’ he mumbles back, loath to pull back from you even for a second to shuck off his shirt. ‘If you want me.’

He kisses you wet and insistent, but he doesn’t push you, waiting for you to make up your mind. Reaching behind you, you tug on the tie that holds your jumpsuit together with a decisive pull, letting the fabric ripple down your bare front and pool around your waist.

Frankie bites his bottom lip so hard it goes white. ‘Fuck,’ he cusses, his grip on your hips twitching as he stares at your tits. ‘Can I, please -?’

‘Touch me, Francisco.’

Your poor second-hand Ikea bed that Benny helped set up when you moved in was not made for this.

This being the way Frankie effortlessly tosses you onto the mattress, his arms flexing with an easy strength that goes straight to your head, as you stare giddily up at him.

His hair - your handiwork - has been well and truly undone, errant strands falling over his eyes as he watches you, his broad frame looming over the foot of the bed. He pulls at his belt, which falls open with a careless clink, and he makes quick work of his now crumpled trousers, kicking them off impatiently.

Your head is swimming, yet somehow, you muster the strength to shuffle towards the edge of the bed, rearranging yourself to sit on your haunches, knees folded neatly beneath you. Boldly, you reach out to slide his dark boxers down his hips, and they fall around his knees and onto the floor. His cock springs free, half-hard and heavy, and Frankie swallows thickly as you tilt your face towards him.

‘I want to suck your cock.’

His eyes close as if he’s in pain, nostrils flaring at your words. Taking advantage of his distraction, you wrap one careful hand around his length, and he jerks violently at the first velvety slide of your palm against him. 

‘Fuck, Shiv -’ he chokes, eyes flying open at the contact, pupils completely blown. He protests weakly, ‘No, stop, need to get you off first -’

You shoot him a lopsided smile, pumping him slowly, your pulse racing at the way you feel him swell in your grasp. ‘Can we not argue this one time?’

You lean forward and, holding his gaze, flatten your tongue and lick your way up the underside of his cock. His breath stutters, one big hand moving to cradle the back of your head, his eyes wide and almost frantic as you press open-mouthed kisses on his sensitive flesh.

With an insolent grin, you tease, ‘You’re a big boy, aren’t you, Morales?’

He whimpers, and you know you have him.

His size is obvious by sight, but you really feel it in the pressure bearing down on the hinge of your jaw as you sink down on his cock, fighting to squeeze the girth of him into your mouth. The guttural groan from Frankie makes your pussy clench, and he tastes like he looks - clean, and all man. 

There’s no way you can take all of him, but you’ll be damned if you don’t try. He’s hot under your touch, muscles pulled taut with tension that you can feel thrumming under his skin as you take your time with him. Focusing on your breathing and relaxing your throat, you bob patiently up and down on him, slicking up his length with your spit, working him slightly deeper with every stroke - until you’re so full of him that you gag, hard.

Frankie is slack-jawed when you release him with an obscenely wet pop, spit trailing from your lips to the swollen tip of his cock, eyes wild as swipes his thumb across your puffy bottom lip. 

‘You’re beautiful,’ he declares, almost solemnly.

Slinking down his front, one hand securely around the base of his cock, you take him between your lips again, moaning at the salty taste of his precum, which makes him quake above you. As you swallow his length and pump your fist in tandem, your spit wetting your fingers, you peer up at him through your lashes - nothing could’ve prepared you for the utter wreckage that you find on his face. 

His lips are pulled back, baring his tidy teeth into a snarl as he very clearly struggles to hold himself back from fucking your mouth. You feel every bump and vein in his cock with each descent, the wet squelches filling in the gaps of his low grunts and moans. His grip in your hair stings as he starts panting in earnest above you, and somehow he gets even harder on your tongue, making it harder to breathe - 

‘Stop, stop,’ he wheezes suddenly, pulling back in a hasty retreat that has you whining at the sudden loss of him. ‘C’mere.’

He practically hauls you up against him, kissing you deeply, delving into your mouth to taste the bitterness of himself on your tongue. The world tilts on its axis when he tips you back onto the bed, and holding himself above you, he peels the jumpsuit off, leaving you in just your panties.

‘Gonna eat you out, baby,’ he drawls by your ear, trailing one palm up your body, which stops at your tits and squeezes. ‘Get you good and ready to take my big cock. How does that sound?’

‘Fuck, yes, Frankie, please,’ you beg.

There’s no shyness when he pushes your legs up and apart, and instead of taking your panties off, he hooks a finger under the thin fabric and pulls it to the side, his eyes darkening as he stares down at you.

‘So pretty,’ he praises you lowly. Holding your breath as he sinks onto his front, you breathe heavily in anticipation as his shoulders slot neatly underneath your legs. ‘Look at how wet you are for me. All this from sucking my cock?’

You nod frantically. ‘Frankie -’

Straight to the point as always, he ducks his dark head and drags the broad of his tongue over your clit - and you’re gone.

Admittedly, you have not had the best experiences with your exes. There was always too much gratuitous moaning and too little finesse, and afterwards, they always act like they deserve a medal for failing to get you off. But even if your past lovers had been more adequate in the field, you’re sure it still wouldn’t have prepared you for this. 

Frankie goes about it with a quiet focus that veers on reverential, the intensity in his dark eyes watching you makes your knees weak. He’s obviously picking up signs and reactions from you and adjusting his game plan accordingly, the pilot in him clearly in the driver’s seat. 

Not that he’s silent - far from it, you feel the reverberation in your core with every satisfied  hum deep in his chest, and the occasional, muttered fuck, so wet, want more in between licks and groans. But there’s nothing performative or showy about it, just a forthright competency that has you hurtling towards a toe-curling orgasm.

‘Frankie,’ you whine when you feel it about to hit. ‘Frankie Frankie Frankie -’

‘Eyes on me,’ he slurs against your sopping folds, and you listen - for once - watching him watch you fall apart on his tongue, thrashing in his hold as he grips you harder to keep you in place while he laps you up, until the burn of his patchy beard on your inner thighs makes you arch away from him from overstimulation.

Your pussy is still fluttering when he sinks two thick fingers into you, and he hisses at the way it clenches around him as he fucks you, leaving his digits slicked and slippery.

‘So tight, baby,’ he declares through gritted teeth, working you open for him. ‘Gonna feel so fucking good on my cock.’

You point towards the nightstand. ‘First drawer,’ you pant.

Needing no further prompting, Frankie yanks your panties off and flings the soaked scrap of fabric over his shoulder, then lunges at the cupboard where the condoms are. You scrape your nails over his thighs as he kneels over you, his usually steady hands visibly trembling as he tears into the wrapper and rolls the rubber over his heavy cock. He watches you with hooded eyes and settles between your legs, kissing you desperately as the swollen tip of him nudges at your entrance.

‘Ready?’ he asks, nose skimming yours sweetly.

You wind your arms around his neck, holding him close. ‘Fuck me, Frankie.’

The first push is a tight squeeze, and you can’t help the wince at the slight pinch as he sinks into you slowly. With a grunt of effort, he buries face into the slope of your neck and breathes, ‘Fuuuuck. You ok?’

‘Give me a second,’ you gasp, feeling your walls throb tightly around his length. ‘You’re so big, Frankie.’

He tangles his tongue with yours lazily in a deep kiss, before brushing his way down your throat and sucking on one nipple, making you cry out. He murmurs against your skin, ‘I know, but you’re doing so well for me, baby.’

Shifting your hips, Frankie groans when you slide him in deeper, the friction making you quiver beneath him. ‘Move, Frankie, please.’

He starts carefully, his strokes measured and deliberate, making sure you feel every inch of him as he draws back then sinks back in, exhaling shakily. ‘You feel so fucking good.’

‘Harder,’ you demand when you feel your pussy relax around him. ‘Fuck me harder.’

‘Shit,’ he growls and snaps his hips, drawing a squeal from you as he hits somewhere deep inside. You wrap your legs around his waist, bracing yourself as he drives into you again and again and again, the bedframe hitting the wall with each thrust.

‘So good, Frankie,’ you plead in between hard pants. ‘Keep going. Don’t stop -’

Looking up at him, you admire the way his hair falls over his eyes, swaying with his movement. Absent-mindedly, your fingers wander into his curls and his reaction is instant - he cries out, arching into your touch, his hips faltering as he seems to lose his rhythm. ‘Oh fuck, baby, been thinking about those hands all fucking week, just wanted to feel you touch me again -’

As wrecked as you are on his cock, you smile at his confession and slide your hands languidly in his locks, dragging your nails on his scalp, your chest swelling with pride when you watch his face - dazed and completely wrecked - fucking you so hard that you’re sure the bed is about to break.

When he finds his voice again, it’s your real name that slips past his lips. ‘Gonna cum so hard, oh fuck - I’m gonna -’

Frankie’s thrusting frantically into you, eyes screwed shut until his hips stutter and then - after one perfect moment of stillness suspended in time - shudder after shudder thunder through his body, your name a broken record as he spills into the condom, his scratchy baritone moaning into your neck as the frenzied energy bleeds out of him.

His weight pins you to the bed as he catches his breath, and you play with his curls gently, basking in the rumbling purr in his chest as you run the strands between your fingers. Eventually, gathering himself, he rolls off you to let you breathe, tying the condom neatly and tossing it into the trash can.

For a second, Frankie lies on his side, watching you quietly. You watch him back, casting your gaze over the curls stuck to his sweaty forehead and his broad outline backlit by your nightstand light. Before self-consciousness can settle into the small distance between you, he cracks a smile and quips, ‘You did say I’d get laid even if it killed you.’

You laugh, which makes him grin. One strong arm reaches out to tuck you into his side, securely beneath the duvet. You hum at the tickle of his beard on the back of your neck and the steady rise and fall of his chest behind you.

Right on the cusp of sleep, you sass, ‘Guess you’ll have to split the winnings with me after all.’

Any other day, you would’ve woken up if you heard someone on the stairwell. Hell, you’d hear if they were knocking on the salon door downstairs.

When you’re rudely shaken awake by frantic knocking on the studio door, you realise it’s because your hearing has been impaired by the side of a very warm body smooshed into your ear.

‘Shiv! Open up! I need to leave in fifteen minutes for my photoshoot!’

‘Shit,’ you croak, throat dry, limbs flailing as you try to sit up. ‘I forgot about Benny.’

‘Fuck him’, grouses Frankie, pulling you back into his arms, eyes still closed.

‘I can’t, I promised to help him with his hair. Fuck, do we need to hide you, or -’

‘The door’s thin, Shiv, I can hear him. And we put two and two together when you guys disappeared last night. We're pretty, but we ain't dumb!’

Frankie lets you go with a grumbled Benjamin fucking Miller under his breath, but he visibly perks up when you stumble out of bed naked.

You half-jokingly shield your boobs from his view. ‘Are you perving on me, Morales?’

He smirks, leaning back into the pillows with his hands folded behind his head while he eyes you appreciatively. It’s not fair how his triceps flex deliciously with the movement. ‘Why bother covering up? I’ve seen everything already.’

Trying - and failing - to shoot him a stern scowl, you pull on a robe and yank the door open, nearly careening backwards at the sight of Benny’s grinning face right in the doorway. 

‘Since when did you bang paying customers?’ he demands in lieu of a good morning.

You roll your eyes and usher him downstairs. ‘He’s not a paying customer. He’s on Pope’s tab.’

Benny flops into his usual chair, making it squeak, one eyebrow up as he does the air quotes. ‘Well, I guess we now know what kind of friends you guys are.’

‘Shut up, Miller,’ you gripe, but your mouth twists into a grin, giving you away as you set up.

‘Damn, that good, huh?’ he laughs. ‘I mean, Fish does have a rep, but I've never had insider confirmation.’

You point your styling scissors at him menacingly. ‘Shut up, or I won’t be held responsible if my hands slip by accident.’

Benny feeds you a sugar donut while you work quickly, trimming the ends before styling it, going for a tousled bed head look. You hear the water pipes run upstairs and the carpeted floors creak when Frankie gets up. Trying to play it cool, you only briefly glance up, catching a glimpse of him in the mirror as he makes his way down the stairs in his rumpled shirt and trousers, zipping up the fly when he reaches the bottom.

‘Morning, stud,’ sing-songs Benny, which earns him a slap on the head. ‘Ow! What the fuck, Shiv!’

Frankie loiters behind you for a second, scratching the back of his neck, before pulling you to one side. Not that it affords you much privacy anyway, with Benny wriggling his eyebrows impertinently at the two of you in the mirror.

‘I - uh -,’ he starts haltingly, one hand rubbing at the silver patch in his beard sheepishly. ‘I had a really good time last night.’

‘Yeah, me too,’ you smile.

His voice dipping lower, he asks, ‘Can I take you out to dinner sometime?’

Benny, being the shithead that he is, interjects loudly. ‘Hey lovebirds, I’m kind of on the clock here, if you don’t mind -’

‘She’ll get to you when she gets to you, Benjamin,’ snaps Frankie, one hand on his hip and the other pointing a stern finger at him.

Something about him being so assertive sends heat running up and down your spine. Stepping into his space - beaming when he doesn’t back away - you smooth a palm over the front of his shirt, unintentionally catching the rabbiting of his heart underneath.

‘I don’t know,’ you shrug nonchalantly. ‘Do you intend to come back as a cash-paying customer?’

His eyes flash with want, one hand closing around your hip and he leans down to let his heated words brush by your ear. ‘Not if I can keep paying in other ways.’

Reaching up, you run a hand through his curls, preening at the way he closes his eyes at your touch. ‘Alright then, take me to dinner, Francisco.’

Peering around you, Frankie barks, ‘Miller, I’m cashing in on our bet.’

‘Fuck’s sake. I was hoping you’d forgotten about that,’ he gripes, digging into his wallet reluctantly.

Swiping the bill from Benny, Frankie winks at you before pressing a lingering kiss to the corner of your mouth - chaste, but charged with meaning. ‘Looks like you paid for your own dinner, Shiv.’

With a roll of your eyes, you shake your head and playfully push him towards the door. ‘Get outta here before I change my mind!’

‘Yeah right - as if you would now that you know what you’ll be missing.’

You’re not sure which makes your jaw drop - his cocksure declaration or the roguish confidence with which he walks out the door. In either case, Benny howls with laughter as you struggle to stay on your feet, your kneecaps having been rendered completely useless.

Just as Frankie climbs into his truck, Ashton whistles to a stop outside the salon on his wheels. Jaw dropping at the sight of the disheveled pilot nodding at him through the windscreen, he abandons his bike right on the curb and dashes into the salon, the door banging against the wall as he rushes in.

‘Excuse me - what the fuck did I just miss?’ he demands frantically.

You roll your eyes. ‘Calm down, Ashton, it’s not what it looks like -’

‘It’s exactly what it looks like,’ interrupts Benny as he starts singing. ‘Shiv and Frankie sitting in a tree, F-U-C-K-I-’

He breaks off with a yelp when you stuff a donut into his mouth to shut him up, sugar flying everywhere as Ashton picks you up and spins you around, squealing like a banshee the entire time.

‘You guys are the fucking worst,’ you laugh, out of breath by the time Ashton lets you go.

Glancing outside, where Frankie is still parked watching the whole embarrassing episode, he gives you one last wink and an amused grin before he pulls away from the curb.

In an almost exact repeat of the scene from a few days ago, Ashton joins you at the window, and the two of you watch, shoulder to shoulder, as Frankie smoothly steers his truck out of your street.

‘He even drives sexy,’ sighs Ashton dreamily. Nudging you in the side, he adds slyly, ‘You’re in so much trouble, Shiv.’

You grin. You know you are - and luckily, it’s not a spot of bother that you’ll be in a hurry getting out of anytime soon.

Notes: I'm so excited to have finally completed this little two-shot. The two of them have been hanging out in my head all these months, it feels amazing to finally yeet this part into the world! Thank you so much for reading, I hope you had as much fun as I did with these two 🥰 Reblogs and comments are always greatly appreciated ❤️

Now that I've got you here, if you want more of Shiv, I wrote some silly little drabbles of her hair appointments with our handsome Pedro boys for a recent milestone celebration. There are also some fun thoughts that came out of an impromptu Grays sleepover we had last week 🤍

I'm sure we'll see more of Shiv and Frankie somewhere down the line. For now, thank you again, I love you all so much ❤️

#fuckyeahgrays2 #frankie morales fanfiction #frankie morales x you #frankie morales x f!reader #frankie morales x fem!reader #frankie morales x female reader #frankie morales smut #frankie morales twoshot #frankie catfish morales fanfic #triple frontier fanfiction #francisco morales #frankie friday

[mystiffox]

— bad sanses [crescents] redesign

heyy! thought i'd make a lil debut/intro to my canon utmv (named blue's verse bc i am So Original) starting from night and the gang :]

if anyone has any questions about my verse, you're more than welcomed to ask!! i'd be happy to talk about these skellies bc they occupy most of my brain rn

Killer goes by Shiv while Horror goes by Axe based on their main weapons. Dust goes by Lav, short for Lavender. Nightmare still uses the same name, but the boys always call him Night :]

clothing notes (and extras):

Shiv is the one with the most fashion sense, but even he's been lazy and decided to just walk around wearing a funny t-shirt and shorts sometimes. Definitely the one who gets everyone clothes during supply runs (yes he's fashion besties with plum). Likes clothes with many pockets for storage, too! Whether that's got snacks or daggers in them, you'll just have to dig around yourself /lh

Axe wears lumberjack/farmer-esque clothing to hint at his connection to Farmtale! Farmtale is protected by Nightmare (in secret) as it harbors the last of Horrortale's survivors— the AU was too corrupted to sustain itself— while also being the Crescents' main food supply. The patched jeans and sleeveless vest are actually gifts from the Farm brothers. Them and Axe (+ Axe's brother, Oak) are very close, subsequently making Farmtale a second home to the Crescents.

Lav prefers oversized clothing and probably likes to use weighted blankets to ground himself. Shiv dresses him up most, and Lav just tells him to get dark/neutral clothes with purple accents for him. It feels nice to be taken care of. Usually wears a beanie/cap when he’s at home and is without his hood (has the shortest tail out of the trio, hides it well).

Night prefers fancy-casual because he knows how it feels to wear clothes that didn't fit/weren't comfy for him (still has his old crown, somewhere..). Definitely wears a nightrobe at home too. Technically the necklace is a vial of his own negativity(?) extracted by Sci. I wanted to make it so that everyone else has that on certain charms/pendants infused with that same negativity to act as a hidden tracker for Night to pinpoint where his boys are (and his own necklace could act as an emergency booster if Night gets too weak)

[older ref version]

#mystfox art #blue's verse #utmv #undertale au #undertale multiverse #utmv au #they're found family btw #dadmare #my beloved #and his three strays slash kids #something new #killertale #killer sans #horrortale #horror sans #dusttale #dust sans #dreamtale #nightmare sans #dreamtale nightmare #bad sans gang #bad sanses #murder time trio #ut au #utmv fanart #utmv headcanons #undertale headcanons

[fanaticsnail]

I watched the Storyteller version of Sapsorrow and knew it sounded familiar! I read "The Magic Fish" by Trung Le Nguyen. It's a graphic novel about a young Vietnamese boy struggling to come out to his friends and parents, particularly because they're immigrants and he feels they might not understand. His mother and him bond over fairy tales and there are three main tales in the novel that are used thematically, the first is Tattercoats (i.e; Sapsorrow), the second is a Vietnamese story Tâm Cám, and the third is the little mermaid. The Tattercoats story is a little different than the Sapsorrow Storyteller version or your version, but the art is beautiful I seriously recommend the book from the art alone (and if not the art, the Vietnamese fairy tale is kind of like Cinderella at the beginning but so interesting and full of plot twists).

I have to thank you for introducing me to Storyteller though, I'm gonna have fun looking at all their other retellings.

Oh my goodness, I know The Magic Fish! I haven't read that one in years!! Thank you for reminding me it exists, sweet snail. I adore it.

Of the Storyteller Series (1988), I have littered some of the plot points in several others.

Remember Me: (Shanks x Bride!Reader), I had "the true bride" in mind. Particularly her apprehension at having her hair touched. In the story in that case, it was a promise to not let another person kiss their cheek - in mine it was a sweep of the hair.

Drawing inspiration from things that impact your heart is so much fun. Makes it all the more real, in my humble opinion.

There are only nine episodes: (All are linked to YouTube for ease)

The Soldier and Death

Fearnot

The Luck Child

A Story Short

Hans My Hedgehog

The Three Ravens

Sapsorrow

The Heartless Giant

The True Bride

I would honestly love to write an OP fic for each of these.

Soldier and Death - Zoro He traps death, now unable to die. He has lived his life to the fullest, but death is the only thing that truly fears him. Reader is the reaper, ordered by Death to not claim him. Fearnot - Luffy He's just a sunshine boy who has never been frightened a day in his life. He wants to experience fear. Just once. The Luck Child - Buggy He is a failing forward king, as the usual. Circumstances demand his death, he continues to thrive. A Story Short - Usopp He has to perform a series of storytelling adventures and present them towards the court for a hundred days. On the hundredth day, he has come up with nothing. What will he do? Hans My Hedgehog - Corazon He will only reveal himself to his wife at night, cursed as a monster within the hours of daylight. She wants to break him of this curse, but has no knowledge to help him. The Three Ravens - Sanji Just imagine Sanji desperately crying out for his love to grace him with the sound of her voice, begging her to say something to aid in her defence - bound to the stake and threatened with death if she does not speak. Ahhhhh. Screaming. Sapsorrow - The one I'm actively working on with Mihawk The Heartless Giant - Doflamingo Speaks for itself, truly. He just is. I could also do this for Sir Crocodile, if I wasn't too busy shipping him with @empressofmankind's Shivs. The True Bride - Already partially did for Shanks. I would love to visit this trope again for him though. Have him be the one with amnesia trope.

Honestly, I would love to do this as a massive moot fairytale collaborative au.

@since-im-already-here - what say you, sis? You reckon I've got the characters and the prompts down for each series?

@gingernut1314, do you know this jim henson series? You want to take a crack at one of them?

@writingmysanity - go on. I know you want to do the Corazon. You so, so want to do the Corazon.

@sordidmusings 👀 c'mon now. Romance, pining. Angst. All that good stuff, dear.

@feral-artistry, you've even already drawn some puppets. You know you want to....

#one piece #opla #opla fic #one piece live action #x reader #buggy #mihawk #shanks #usopp #zoro #sanji #luffy #doflamingo #corazon #the storyteller #the storyteller au #fic prompt

[topbanana-art]

Finally making an OC info post- by no means is this all of them, just ones that are most active and/or live in my head rent free.

First up- Rhys (DnD 5e - Rime of the Frostmaiden)

20 years Old, Half Orc, Half Elf (sweet baby angel) , He/Him

Fighter- Echo Knight

Absolute Ray of Sunshine; Rhys is from Icewind Dale; more specifically the Nomadic Reghed Tribe of the Elk.

He's unfamiliar with the outside world and even includes settlements in his own country

He's a Himbo basically a big dog.

This campaign lead him to leaving his tribe for the first time after an unfortunate accident which turned him into a small 'painted child' and searching for his missing sister. (both these are sorted now!)

*Rhys found an old oil painting of this child, blacked out and next thing he knew he was that small elf child. Her skin and clothing having the texture of painted canvas, and bleeds paint.

For a good chunk of the campaign he was just a totally normal elf- whose shadow didn't match with the body

---

Dhalas (DnD 5e Annalor)

36 Years Old, They/Him, Triton

Drunken Master Monk

Chill surfer dude vibes

Part of a travelling circus, They're a balancing act

Extremely laid back, Dhalas talks like they fight- dancing around, seemingly without rhyme or reason and occasionally clumsy.

---

Foxglove (BG3)

138 Years old (tweaked her age a lil), She/They, Drow

Arcane Trickster Rogue

Guild Artisan Background- Locksmith & Apprentice Finesmith

Chill and sassy, that Tav who talks their way out of shit.

Skews Towards Chaotic Good

Presents Androgynous most of the time

Must lockpick everything- she's not actually super interested what's inside, she just wants to see the workmanship of the locks and trashtalk how bad they are.

Yeah she's smooching the vampire. (and Halsin)

Naturally cares for others, even at the cost of her own wellbeing.

Has a Phobia of anything touching/going near her eyes- so the start of the game is A Time for Fox.

---

Arslan Dhoro (FFXIV)

21 Years Old (as of ARR), He/Them

Xaela AuRa

Dragoon - White Mage Main (All healer classes tbh)

Stoic, Resting Angry Face Himbo

He struggles to show emotion but he's just pretty shy and cautious about opening up to others.

From the Azim Steppe, he left in his early teens with his father after the death of his mother, to explore the world beyond the Steppe.

His Father Died in his late teens, attacked in Coerthas thinking he and Arslan were Dravanians.

He's extremely soft and protective for the Scions/his friends

---

Shiv (DnD 5e Saltmarsh- campaign completed)

Awful, terrible lesbian

68 years old, She/Her, Halfling

Celestial Warlock - Unicorn Patron w/ a Baby Phoenix familiar, Toby

A piece of shit. Is an absolute asshole and wont let you know she cares.

Lowkey magical girl

Ex-smuggler, who's patron is literally 'I can fix her', 'she can be a better person'. Part of the 'Beyond Skeletons' Pirate crew, she's the medic of the crew.

---

Pymmyr Tathnel (DnD 5e)

Pym

85 Years Old, He/They, Drow

Gloomstalker Ranger

Emotional Support Blink Dog, Princess Liquorice

This boy is scared all the time

Doesn't talk much, but speaks in a soft voice

Has disordered 'Sleeping' and Eating :)

His plague mask has tinted lenses to help ease the strain with how bright the surface is

I wont tell too much about them as a lot of their info is spoilers to other players. But this sad Drow just rocks up in my head on the regular.

---

Erebus (Anima Beyond Fantasy)

AKA- My first TTRPG character! circa 2011-2 I think???

Real name Sho Yoshimitsu

22 Years Old, He/Him

Duk'Zarist Nephilim

Assassin

Textbook 'strong silent and intimidating hot man'

But basically a big soft boy if you break past the mile thick ice

Tragic backstory™ , used to using his body for the job

He really enjoys cooking!

Also hopelessly in love with a small soft summoner, Caelum (the one hugging him), They're RedxBlue gays

---

I think I'll leave it there for now!

I may add more later, I hope it was interesting?? and I'm still pretty shy with yelling this much about my characters haha.

Thanks for reading if you made it this far! 💜

#gees ocs #oc info #oc art #my ocs #bg3 tav #ffxiv warrior of light #dnd character #sketchbook #my characters #art

[theguyfromthesequel]

Oh wow, parallels defining a character’s attitude towards other people and the relationship between characters! Isn’t media literacy fun?

For real though, the main argument of “Greg will be CEO”-folks was that since the show began with Greg vomiting all over a mascot at a theme park and he then experienced success when he joined the company, the natural progression of the plot must see him on top of things. And I’m going to put this bluntly: their mistake was believing in the American dream. Just like the Shiv=girlboss people, they thought that, yes, capitalism is a dirty game, but it’s one where everyone lands right where they belong. And I’m not saying Greg deserved to be CEO, but that interpretation of him speaks to a fatal flaw in the way some people have followed this entire show. There is no just cause, no king emerging from the shit, it’s a mudfight ad-eternity.

Greg was never the little guy climbing the corporate ladder and securing his place, he was always a toy convincing himself he could be one of the real boys. Nobody in the family cared about him, Tom was the only one who even noticed him, but not because he was interested in building him up-are you crazy? Tom didn’t have much power in the family so he took the guy they gave him and made him his amusement. He had fun in watching Greg stumble around in a world that he clearly didn’t belong him. But Greg thought he had a chance, and the more power and respect he got, the more of a corporate asshole he became, hiring “mini-gregs”, playing power games, SUING HIS FUCKING GRANDPA. I think that’s part of Ewan’s initial concern for him, he saw Logan in him in a way, he knew you can’t get up the ladder without becoming a horrible human being. He knew Greg would either be eaten by the sharks or become a shark, and once he saw the shark in him he immediately lost all hope in him and cut him off. But Greg was in too deep. LOOK AT THE LITTLE SMUG ASSHOLE SMILE as Kendall phones the Democrat party office during the election episode. He really thought he could finally get his way and establish his place.

And that’s because he thought he was part of the company. But here’s the truth: Greg was never a part of the company, he was always the company’s property. No matter how much shallow respect he got or how many subordinates he could count, he was Waystar’s, and especially Tom’s property, a relation perfectly capsulated in his FINAL SCENE. What the “Greg=CEO” people and everyone who watched this show rooting for their favourite flavour of venture capitalist to win, did wrong, was assuming that Greg’s story was a tale about working yourself up from dishwasher to millionaire, from weird mascot costume guy to CEO.

My brother in christ,

He never left the suit

#hbo succession #roy family #greg succession #succession greg #tomgreg #succession season four #succession #media literacy #waystar royco

[victimsofyaoipoll]

Round 1

Propaganda under the cut

Shiv Roy

She's honestly kind of a canonical victim of yaoi almost. She and her husband Tom have a loveless marriage but never end up getting divorced. Tom has a weird psychosexual obsession with Shiv's cousin Greg and at one point literally compares them all to the time Emperor Nero pushed his wife down the stairs and then castrated and married a slave boy named Sporus (Tom is unwell). Anyway the show just ended and long story short Tom is now CEO of Shiv's family's evil company and she is reduced to being his pregnant wife (which is the result of her voting not to authorize either of her brothers as CEO in order to save them from themselves) and Tom made another weird comment about literally owning Greg. And now people who ship Tom and Greg are like "omg it's canon we won" but I don't. Think that they did. Sorry I'm rambling it was just a really good finale idek if this counts but

I will be honest I'm not really tuned into the tomgreg fandom, but tons of people wanted tom to leave shiv and get with greg and tons of people thought shiv was the devil incarnate and refused to see any nuance in her character and I don't think those two things are a coincidence. 

She gets a lot of hate from fans, largely just for being a woman who reacts in a non pretty way to abuse and for doing the exact same shitty stuff her brothers do. But also a large part of the hate she gets comes from the people who ship her husband with her cousin. To the point where people claim she's abusing her husband who views her as an accessory, a baby factory, and a ticket to money. Don't get me wrong, their relationship is incredibly toxic and unhealthy, but it is so on both of their parts. But Shiv's the only one who gets criticized for it

Kyoko Kirigiri

The anime series Danganronpa 3's ending somewhat implied she and Makoto are a couple but the fandom likes to ship Makoto with Byakuya much more. The same anime series also saw a lot of hatred against her character and well, it was already there because people also complain about how she acted in the original Danganronpa Trigger Happy Havoc game as well, unfairly in my opinion. She's really cool and really smart and just isn't the quickest to trust people, which makes sense considering she's in fucking death games. Her deduction skills and strategy played a big part in saving the people who did make it out BOTH times she was in killing games and in one of those cases she was even willing to potentially sacrifice herself for it. I'll stop now but she is my most mistreated fave

arguably the most important character in the game but gets tossed aside a lot because of the two male leads byakuya and the main guy (dont even remember his name ngl) and she is so pretty and cool and smart and i love her so yeah <3

#round 1 #poll #shiv roy #succession #kyoko kirigiri #danganronpa

[trevorite]

{~𝙸𝚗𝚛𝚘𝚍𝚞𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗~}

❀︎Names❀︎ Trevor, Trev, Vince ❀︎Pronouns❀︎ He/him or They/Them 🖈VP🖈 🗦Mainly a Cyberpunk blog =O🗧 🎕Most of my post are about Kerry, Saul, or me and my friends Ocs!!🎕 🟈My OC tags🟈 #Val Bright #OC: Scar Shiv #OC: Porcelain Scav #OC: Q.T. 🙮Friends OC tags (Wip)🙬 #OC: Daron Jadin 🖈I LOVEE when people interact with me so feel free to start up a chat!🖈 🗙Do not interact if you have negative stuff to say about my main V. I rather not deal with you making comments about him.🗙

⚧My Baby Boy Vince.⚣ ❀︎Tiktok❀︎ Mullet..Wearing..Asshole

❀︎Insta❀︎ BabyBoyVince

#cyberpunk 2077 #vp #introduction #intro post #vince #trevorite #hello world!!! :D #male v #transgender #trans pride

[fuck-you-upmusicbracket]

St Bernard (Lincoln)

I said "Make me love myself, so that I might love you"/Don't make me a liar, 'cause I swear to God/When I said it, I thought it was true/Saint Calvin told me not to worry about you/But he's got his own things to deal with/There's really just one thing that we have in common:/Neither of us will be missed

"The beat drop before the last chorus gives me SHIVERS. also it is a blorbo song it makes me think about shiv roy and how she wants to be loved like a dog just for the purpose of receiving affection without any ulterior motive,,,, she wants someone to CARE"

Once Upon A Time (Bare: A Pop Opera)

Standing scared outside a cold church/Soul search, seeking some lost answer/From a God who loves me/Can I turn to You in my need?/Would You take me back or watch me bleed?/Are You there?/There at all?/And as I fall from the person that I tried to be/Could You really love someone like me?

"Some context for this song (and major spoilers for Bare: A Pop Opera). This song is sung by one of the main characters Jason. His relationship with his roommate Peter has just been outed and simultaneously he’s discovered that he accidentally got Ivy, a girl he slept with, pregnant. All of the mentioned characters are high school students at a Catholic Boarding School. Jason has a public image as like the Golden Boy, he’s teachers’ favorite, valedictorian, top jock, most popular boy, etc., mostly cuz his abusive conservative father has put lots of pressure on him to be this way. He feels the crushing weight of everyone’s expectations for him and so suffice to say, being outed as gay and the father of a teenage pregnancy is very emotionally bad for him. So basically his friends turn their backs on him after all of these reveals, for obvious reasons, so Jason is left distraught and with no one left, he addresses God. In this song he’s essentially asking God if God can really love him because, as far as Jason’s concerned, he’s fucked up and fallen so hard from the ideal of a person he’s supposed to be, that comphet upper middle class white-picket-fence “American Dream” archetype. It’s just. Such a sad song. Very obviously someone at the end of their rope desperately seeking comfort/reassurance from someone. Immediately after this song, Jason goes looking for that reassurance from the school priest, obviously doesn’t receive it cuz the priest is a homophobic cunt of a man, and so as a result overdoses on substance abuse"

St Bernard submitted by @lesbiankarolinanovotney

#fuck you up bracket #tournament #polls #lincoln #bare: a pop opera

[roman-roy-apologist]

okay but like genuinely, what makes succession worth watching because from all i see it's just rich people fucking

noooo it’s actually really fucking good and i’ll explain why

Themes. The main theme of the show is the cycle of abuse. The way abuse, grief, and trauma is portrayed is the most realistic depictions i’ve ever seen. The siblings all react to their trauma in different ways causing them to want to “win” the game that their father has created, the game of Succession. Who will live up to what their father wants them to be? What are they willing to sacrifice for that?

The siblings. There are 3 4 siblings (from oldest to youngest (probably): connor, kendall, roman, shiv. I’m gonna do subsections explaining these characters because they deserve it

Connor Roy. Connor Roy was interested in politics from a very young age. Connor is the oldest, he is the most ignored, looked over and dismissed. He has a different mother than the other 3 siblings. He’ll do anything to get his father’s attention going so far as to run for president so that his dad will notice him.

Kendall Roy. Oh god. Kendall is an addict with an unstable personality, but (at the start of the show at least) he is their dad’s favourite. In the first episode he set to inherit the company ie: “win”. His dad then goes back on his promise, blaming his drug problem (he was currently sober, stable and was in rehab for 2 years prior). This starts him on a multiple season long breakdown culminating in a situation where someone ends up dead because of Kendall and his father uses it as blackmail against him. This causes him to spiral even further completely devoting himself to his father.

Roman Roy. Hey hey motherfuckers. He’s my favourite, definitely the most relatable. He’s arguably the most dependant on their father. He blames his trauma solely on himself, idolize his dad and has serious intimacy issues. He is (as far as we know) the only child who ever faced physical abuse from their dad and he downplays his abuse constantly. He hides his trauma with a typical asshole facade, and uses sex jokes as a deflection from the fact that he can’t have sex with anyone.

Shiv (Siobhan) Roy. Can pinky dance? She’s a very controversial character but let’s be honest it’s mostly the sexism and i love her so much. For a large part of season 2 and 3 she was set to inherit the company, so close to “winning” and she would do anything to please her dad (sensing a theme here?). It’s implied she was the golden child, more babied than the rest, a large part due to her gender and her ideas are often ignored. Now, onto her failmarraige with Tom Wambsgans. She is in a toxic relationship with her husband (?) and co-worker Tom. She is clearly abusive, two-faced and uncaring in their relationship a lot of the time (not to say that Tom isn’t but i’m not gonna get into that rn). She cheats on him, reveals this on their wedding day, and they still get married. Tom clearly has no self-respect for himself, especially in the earlier seasons and directs this diminished sense of self worth in his marriage into his new assistant Greg Hirsch, a distant cousin of the Roy family. Tom and Greg end up having a weird ass psychosexual relationship (it’s never explicitly gay just super implied and boy does this show love implying things) while his and Shiv’s marriage is falling apart.

THIS SHOW IS SO GOOD PLEASE WATCH IT I PROMISE YOW WONT REGRET IT

#succession #connor roy #kendall roy #roman roy #shiv roy #logan roy #succession hbo #hbo succession #soap swag #asks

[reidoxreader]

Succession for the ask thingy if you want :-)

My rating (1-10): 9.5

My favourite character: Although I love Roman a lot it has to be Kendall, he’s my number one boy and the one I relate to the most

My least favourite character: Probably Greg of the main cast

The character I think I'd be friends with: Gerri

The character I think I won't hit off with: Logan would terrify me in person

My favourite episode/scene: Episode Connor’s Wedding. Scene probably Kendall doing L to the OG

Whose clothing style I like best: Shiv

Times I watched it (and if I would again): Three times so far. I would watch again but probably not for a while

#succession #ask game

[whitegownsandflowercrowns]

Gerri in 4x06

I was just thinking about Gerri’s firing in 4x06, just remembering her tearing up and saying “I’m good at my job” and how Roman just fired her, not for any good reason, but because he is slowly breaking and needing to project that pain onto someone, and how she is powerless to stop it.

And then I realized.

How many times has Gerri done (or at least signed off on) this exact thing? We know she had significant knowledge of what was going on in Cruises, and like every other member of the Old Guard, did absolutely nothing about it. Despite being a woman herself. But the difference between her and those women was (probably) in her mind that she was protected. She was in Logan, Karl, Frank, Lester and whoever else in the Wolf Pack’s good graces. I can imagine a younger Gerri as the subject of Amy Dunne’s “cool girl” monologue. I think about Shiv claiming she didn’t know that the Wolf Pack were joking about rape and her brothers responding that of course she knew, they all knew, and I think Gerri probably had a similar response: keep your head down, you’re the cool girl, and you don’t know that they actually did the things they’re joking about anyways.

How many times did she fire or silence young women who, teary-eyed, said “I’m good at my job”? How many times were these women paid off and let go not because they had done anything wrong, but because a pathetic man projected all of his unhappiness and selfishness onto them? How did Gerri separate herself from those women in her mind? Because she wasn’t like them. She was protected. She was safe.

So when Roman impulsively fires her, she realizes what it’s like to be on the other end of that. That no matter how much she ingratiates herself to the boys club, no matter how close she and Roman are, she’s still a woman. To these men, she will always just be a woman. No matter how rich, no matter how white, no matter how straight or cis or abled or any other privilege you can think of, she is still a woman.

I think that because of J. Smith-Cameron’s excellent performance and Gerri’s general likability, we forget that she’s just as bad as the rest of the main cast. We forget just how much of this stuff she has been deeply involved in. But she was. And she’s not getting a happy ending any more than the rest of them are.

#succession #succession 4x06 #gerri kellman #waystar royco #this revelation came to me while listening to mermaids by florence + the machine and it just confirms that florence is all-powerful #like seriously guys gerri is just as much of a terrible person as the rest of them and we need to accept that #and all of the guys as much as i love some of them are at least slightly misogynistic and they will never consider a woman equal to them #no matter how smart she is

[fuckyeahdindjarin]

Grays

Frankie Morales x f!reader

{ Grays Masterlist | Main Masterlist | Grays Part II }

Rating: M

Summary: Frankie wants you to cover up his grays. You want to knock some sense into his salt-and-pepper head.

Warnings: Insecure Frankie in need of self-love comes with his own warning, Reader is a hairstylist and has a related nickname, no physical descriptions other than that Reader has hair that can be dyed, not-quite-friends to *respectfully looking* dynamics, mentions of hair, gratuitous descriptions of the male body, sexual innuendos, lots of teasing and banter.

Word count: 4.8k

Notes: The origin story is here if you missed it. This is dedicated to my Frankie soul sister LJ @prolix-yuy who encouraged me to write this many months ago ❤️ As always, I’m an anxious mess writing for a new-to-me Pedro boy, so please be gentle with me (cos it's my birthday week) 🥺

I have a part 2 (with smut) in mind. I love where this leaves off, but who am I kidding. I probably won’t be able to help myself 😂

The bell on the door chimes with a sweet tinkle, cutting through the low, insistent purr of the hair clipper buzzing in your grasp. You don’t look up as you spy broad shoulders and a battered Standard Heating Oil cap crossing the threshold out of the corner of your eye.

‘Are you lost, Morales?’ you drawl indifferently, focused on the task at hand. ‘I have an appointment with Pope today, not you.’

‘He booked it under his name. Thought you’d take it as a prank if I called in myself.’

You look up to meet his gaze reflected in the mirror sitting in front of Greg, your current customer. ‘I wonder why he’d think that.’

Frankie shrugs, leaning against the reception counter with his arms crossed. ‘Beats me.’

You snort. ‘Really? You’ve insisted loudly and repeatedly for as long as I’ve known you that you don’t see the point of going to a hairstylist when you can have Pope cut your hair with kitchen scissors in his bathtub.’

‘C’mon, Shiv.’

‘Oh, he knows my name,’ you gasp sarcastically. You turn to Greg, who’s clearly amused by this exchange, and loop him in. ‘He usually just grunts at me.’

At this point, Ashton - your apprentice and all-round salon maverick - makes an appearance. Clearly having caught the tail-end of your conversation with Frankie, he glances between the two of you with an arched eyebrow. ‘Are we back to chasing customers away, boss?’

‘Sit his ass down but he doesn’t get a free drink,’ you instruct. ‘I’ll get to him when I get to him.’

Ashton goes ahead and ignores your orders point blank, per usual. After hanging up Frankie’s jacket and settling him at the station furthest away from you in the far corner of the salon, you see him sneakily give him a coffee. He can never resist the handsome ones.

You take your sweet time with Greg, cleaning up his sideburns, even though you’re basically done with him - just to tick off your waiting customer.

Not that it works, and you know it won’t. He just sits there, his wide frame filling up the chair, still as a rock. The dog-eared, months-old magazines strategically placed on the table for idle reading lie untouched. That’s Francisco Morales for you.

You’ve been orbiting each other since sixth grade, as all kids in your close-knit neighbourhood do. In fact, most of your customers went to your school. 

You don’t even remember how it started - probably at a sleepover - you discovered one day that you’re handy with box hair dye. By freshman year, you were colouring your fellow classmates’ hair in the girls’ toilets after school, earning enough pocket money to keep your cabinet at home fully-stocked with new hair products on rotation.

Your ever-changing hair colour got you into trouble with the headmaster more times than you can count, who nicknamed you Shape Shifter. Your friends abbreviated it to Shifter, then over the years, whittled it down to Shiv, and it stuck.

After being gifted a set of styling scissors for Christmas one year, you started hanging out at the neighbourhood salon, hustling for an apprenticeship. You practised what you observed on your fellow students, giving out haircuts on the bleachers on non-game days for a couple of dollars (the fee waived if something went disastrously wrong).

That’s how you first met Benny - his then cheerleader girlfriend took him in for a haircut when it got too long for her liking. When you eventually opened your own salon years later, he was your first paying customer, having come home after being honourably discharged from the army.

During the early days, when you struggled to fill your appointments and he couldn’t win a fight to save his life, you made a pact. You would do his hair at a heavy discount for his posters and promotions, and in return, he would let you use his photos for the salon’s marketing.

And it worked. Well, not that you had anything to do with him turning his fortunes around on the MMA circuit, but he had everything to do with getting customers through your door. It only got busier when Santi joined the ranks a couple of years later, and even though Will only shows up when his hair gets really unruly, they both sit in front of your camera with no complaint in return for mate’s rates.

Having these guys on your salon’s social media keeps both the gents and the ladies booking up your appointments.

Frankie Morales, though, is a different animal.

When you finally appear over his left shoulder, his coffee is all gone and he meets your eyes in the mirror nonchalantly. He’s leaning his whole weight on his right elbow on the armest, his left arm outstretched and blunt nails tapping on the table, the only hint of impatience he’s giving away.

He’s good at that - he’s the laid-back one out of the boys, the one who hangs back and observes with arms crossed, but quick to crack a grin and throw in a wicked barb when the occasion calls for it. Nothing ever seems to faze him, and probably nothing does - you hear that makes a good pilot, and from what Pope lets on, he’s a damn good one.

It also makes for highly effective bait for the ladies. He’s a popular fixture on the local bar scene - let’s face it, all of the boys are. You’ve seen him in action more than once when Benny or Pope invites you along on a night out, more often than not without Will since he had a baby girl with his high school sweetheart last year. Frankie’s brooding, quiet, beer-sipping act often works better than Benny’s over-the-top flirting or Pope’s Casanova bit.

But that’s neither here nor there.

Hands on your hips, you goad him, ‘Alright Morales, how do I know you’ll pay up, you cheap bastard?’

‘Pope says to put it on his tab.’

‘Music to my ears.’ You tap him on the shoulder. ‘Sit up and off with the cap.’

With a grumble, Frankie lifts the cap up by the beak, ducking his head as he does so. He tosses it onto the table offhandedly and shifts in his seat, but you’re not fooled by his unconvincing air of indifference. From the way he plasters his palms to the top of his denim-clad thighs, as if to stop them from fidgeting, you know he’s feeling vulnerable. 

You can’t say you’ve ever seen Frankie without his headgear - now that you think about it, he’s been wearing it since high school. Heck, he might have gone through several incarnations of that blasted hat in the years in between. You’ve caught glimpses when he lifts it up to fix his hair, but otherwise, all you see is what peeks out from underneath, the longer wisps that coil around his ears and the curls at the back. 

As it turns out, there’s really nothing to hide - sure, the cut is blunt and his hair lacks shine, but both can be easily fixed. You step into his space and comb through his locks, starting at the base of his skull and working your way up the sides. 

The contact startles him - he practically jumps out of his skin, and you don’t miss the way the veins on the back of his hands pop and he digs his nails into his legs.

'Easy, boy,' you soothe with a teasing undertone, earning yourself a glower from the pilot. As much as you enjoy needling him, you do want your customers to be comfortable. So you let slip a deliberate but genuinely appreciative hum as the dark tendrils, subtly tinged with grays, part softly at your prying fingertips. ‘Wow, your curls are really thick.'

He looks up, an unsure frown on his brow. ‘Oh. Is that bad?’

‘No, Morales, it’s definitely a compliment,’ you tell him encouragingly - your bark has always been worse than your bite. ‘What do you use to wash your hair? It’s a bit dry.’

He shrugs. ‘Shampoo.’ At your insistent stare, he snaps, ‘What?’

‘Don’t lie to me, Morales,’ you warn him in a stern voice.

He huffs and gives in. ‘Fine. It’s a 2-in-1 body wash. I get it at the gas station, happy?’

You shoot him a smug grin as he rolls his eyes. ‘Well, you’re using proper shampoo from now on, and conditioner.’ He opens his mouth, a complaint on the tip of his tongue, when you hold a finger up at him. ‘Don’t argue with me, mister. I’ll throw in a couple of bottles on the house to get you started.’

‘Fine,’ he concedes. Unfailingly polite even when grumpy, he adds, ‘Thanks, Shiv.’

Your trusty swivelling stool screeches in protest when you drag it over on its wheels, before you take a seat and address the elephant in the room. ‘So - I’m guessing you’re here because of the wedding.’

You get a grunt in response. Scratching a particularly scrappy patch of his beard that has turned prematurely silver, he says, ‘My ma says I should cover up my old man grays for it.’

You snort, shaking your head. ‘Ha! And you tell your mother I say - hell no, ma’am! I will do no such thing.’

Frankie blinks at your unexpectedly adamant response. ‘What?’

‘I said, hell no,’ you repeat. Turning his head to the side with two fingers on his stubbled cheek, you comb his locks upwards to study the way the grays blend in softly with the umber, matching the ashen flecks in his beard. He doesn't start as badly at your touch this time, but there’s a telltale tick in his jaw, and you can almost hear the tension that thrums just below his skin where a late summer tan still lingers.

‘See how your grays are mainly coming out on the underside?’ you point out. ‘I like the way they just peek through the brown, it gives more depth to your curls. Natural highlights, if you will.’

He looks unconvinced and swipes at a smattering of silver with dismissive fingers. ‘Dunno. Thought the grays make me look old.’

You chuckle. ‘You’re no spring chicken anymore, Morales, and I mean it in a good way. Grays are natural - they will look even better when you start using actual shampoo and conditioner. Trust me, the salt and pepper works on you. I’m not dyeing your grays, and that’s that.’

For the first time today, Frankie turns his head and looks directly into your eyes. ‘My mother’s coming back to town for the wedding, you know. And she remembers where you live.’

You laugh. ‘Go ahead and send her my way, you know I’m not scared of her.’

He scoffs at your big talk. ‘You should be.’

Your relationship with the Morales matriarch is complicated, to say the least. She was always hard on you when you were a kid, thinking you were too wild and undisciplined. Now that you’re grown, you’re still torn between your admiration for her as a single mother who raised a good man, and the woman who never tires of dishing out criticism, warranted or not.

You give him a reassuring pat on the back, solid and warm under your touch. ‘Leave your mother to me, Morales. The grays stay, and I’ll make sure you steal the show at the party.’

‘Your funeral,’ he quips.

‘You just worry about getting yourself to the wedding,’ you retort, cracking your knuckles. ‘Now, are you ready for some pampering?’

Frankie rolls his eyes, but you see the corner of his mouth tick up in a vaguely upward direction - and you take it as a win.

‘Relax, Morales.’

‘I am relaxed,’ he insists through gritted teeth.

‘You’re about as relaxed as a cow on the butcher’s block. Unclench.’

For someone as economical with words as he is, his body certainly says a lot. Every single part of him seems hellbent on making his discomfort known. He breathes a frustrated exhale through his nose, brow deeply furrowed, his glare burning holes into the ceiling.

The leather seat of the backwash barely contains his tall build, his t-shirt stretched to the seams across his chest as he leans back into the basin. He’s bouncing his left leg irritably, the tight denim straining against his lap.

You try - valiantly - not to gape too obviously at the conspicuous bulge nestled snugly between his thighs under his belt buckle. But you can’t avert your eyes from something of that size. It’s against the laws of physics. Or something.

Even from where you’re standing, at the top of the basin peering down the slope of his body, its heft is clearly testing the structural integrity of the zipper of his jeans. Imagine the view from the other side -

Clearing your throat, you bodily press down on Frankie’s shoulders which are coiled up like the hood of an angry python, forcing them to loosen up. He jerks as if he’s a copper wire and you’re electricity. You tease, ‘So sensitive. You act like you’ve never felt a woman’s touch before, Morales.’

‘You know that’s not true,’ he growls at you, the prominent vein in his neck starting to pulse in frustration.

‘No, you’re right - I do know,’ you smirk, dragging out your syllables.

Your tone has him frowning at you, upside down. ‘What do you mean by that?’

‘I mean - I know,’ you repeat with a conspiratorial wink.

He narrows his eyes at you. ‘What do you know, Shiv?’

You wriggle his eyebrows at him suggestively, enjoying yourself far too much. ‘I own a salon, Morales. I hear things from the ladies about town.’

One large palm reaches up to shield his face in embarrassment, a pained groan escaping between the gaps of his fingers. ‘For fuck’s sake - kill me now.’

You laugh, wrestling his hand from his face to with an impish grin. ‘Don’t worry, I’ve only heard good things so far - Frankie big boy Morales.’

He blushes so hard that his ears and neck go a livid red, and for a minute, you’re actually worried that he’d pass out from not enough blood reaching his heart. Not keen on the prospect of having to explain to the emergency services that you teased the poor man into an aneurysm, you turn on the water and cut short your little chinwag with a good-natured chuckle. 

His hands are still tightly clamped around the armrest when you carefully run the shower head along his hairline and behind his ears, soaking his curls. His biceps flex from the tight grip and the lean muscles strain against the sleeves of his t-shirt. 

At least he closes his eyes when you start with the shampoo. The velvety lather froths as you patiently wash his hair, which clings to his wet curls like vanilla frosting. The deep crease between his brows eases with each gentle swipe into his locks, and the invisible force pulling his lips downwards slackens. By the time you rinse out the bubbles, you don’t miss the way the tension in his body unwittingly goes with it down the drain.

When your nails slide slickly into his hair with the conditioner, his stubborn body finally, slowly unfurls. His head tips back of its own accord, baring the column of his strong neck as he leans inadvertently into your touch. Colour returns to his knuckles when he releases his death grip on the backwash. 

You smile to yourself, scraping your fingertips along his scalp in a firm massage, watching his chest rise and fall as he teeters on the brink of consciousness.

As your thumbs trace a confident path down the back of his skull, they appear to find a particularly sensitive spot near the base of his neck, and it's as if a switch is flipped. You witness the exact moment he breaks - his back arches off the leather seat, his obstinate lips part with a strangled half-sigh catching in his throat as he yields his full weight into the palm of your hands.

If you're not careful, you could get used to this.

‘Still with me, Morales?’ you tease quietly.

He garbles incoherently, and you grin.

Frankie practically molds into the chair like warm wax when you shepherd him back to the styling station. You’re so chuffed with yourself that you don’t even feel the need to gloat at the way his eyes are glazed over and how his head lolls into the soft pressure when you run a fluffy towel through his hair. The man recoiling at the mere brush of your fingers a distant memory.

You run an assessing eye over him, brushing out his locks to gauge your game plan. ‘I like this length on you, so I’ll just trim the split ends and tidy up your sideburns. You’ll benefit from some layering too - it’s a bit heavy on top right now.’

From the way he blinks owlishly at you, you know he doesn’t catch a single word. He shrugs and says matter-of-factly. ‘You can’t do worse than Pope.’

The salon is quiet this afternoon, as it tends to be on Wednesdays. You let him enjoy the peace for a little bit and tap your foot to Ashton’s playlist as your styling scissors move over his curls in metallic snips.

‘Tip your head forward for me,’ you instruct, sliding around the back of his head on your wheels as you probe, ‘So - how are you feeling about the wedding?’

The fabric of his t-shirt bunches over his shoulders as they quirk noncommittally.

‘It’s just a few days away.’

He makes an indifferent noise. But you’re not so easily dissuaded from conversation, and he knows it.

‘Can’t be easy - watching your ex get married.’

Frankie pins you with a long-suffering stare in the mirror. ‘We broke up a year ago.’

Getting onto your feet, you ruffle your fingers through the crown of his curls. ‘Yeah, but you dated for years. She sure moved on quick.’

He huffs a sardonic laugh. ‘Thanks, Shiv.’

Swapping out the styling scissors for blending shears, you argue, ‘What? It’s a legitimate observation. I’m just making conversation here.’

‘Or we could just sit here quietly.’

Ha. As if you ever listen to him. You press on, ‘Why did she invite you anyway?’

Frankie’s sigh sounds a lot like surrender as he humours you. ‘It’s a damned if she does, damned if she doesn’t kind of situation, I guess. The whole town’s invited.’

‘You sure she isn’t trying to flaunt it in your face or something?’

‘Flaunting implies I still care. I don’t.’

You give him a juvenile nudge nudge, wink wink. ‘Well, on the bright side, you’ll definitely get laid, being the heartbroken ex and all. Chicks love that shit.’

He dispatches a side-long stare in your direction. ‘I’m not heartbroken, and that’s not why I’m going. And you know none of this is any of your business, right?’

‘You’re no fun,’ you pout.

He quips, ‘As a professional hairstylist, you really should be better at making polite conversation.’

You snort. ‘Do you really think it’s a good idea to call me rude when I have scissors in my hands?’

Frankie watches you work in the comfortable lull that’s settled between you, gliding the blades along strands of his curls pulled taut, before running a fine-toothed comb through to brush out the loose tufts. Soft coils land on the floor around his chair as you work your way methodically through his layers.

‘Are you going to the wedding?’ he asks eventually.

You shrug. ‘Maybe, depends on my schedule. I gotta say, I’m kind of curious to see how tacky it will be.’

At his eyebrow sternly cocked, you argue, ‘I know she’s your ex and all, but she’s always been a bit tacky. I mean, that remodel of your house was just tragic.’

Frankie frowns. ‘How do you know all this? You’ve never been to my house.’

You wink. ‘Benny tells me everything when I do his hair.’

He pinches the bridge of his nose. ‘Of course. Benjamin fucking Miller.’

You give him a pat on the shoulder. ‘Don’t worry, I’m on your side, if it helps.’

‘I don’t need you on my side.’

You flash him an insufferable grin. ‘Too bad, Francisco. I am and there’s nothing you can do about it.’

The hairdryer drowns out any further conversation, and Frankie quietly studies you as you cord your fingers through his hair, ruffling it as it dries.

It’s still a bit damp when you switch off the hairdryer and reach up to pull a couple of jars from the shelf above. ‘On the day of the wedding, I want you to wash your hair just before you style it. You have a hairdryer at home, right?’

He throws you a pointed look. ‘I’m not a heathen.’

You grin. ‘Down boy, just checking. Now, you’ll dry your hair until it’s still a bit wet, like so.’ Presenting the styling mousse to him, you say, ‘Then go on and grab some product - you only need a dollop.’

He dips his index finger into the pot, scooping up a generous blob. Your attention is unexpectedly piqued at the sight of his hands. 

Have they always been so big?

Realising he’s staring at you in wait, you shake yourself out of it. ‘Ok, rub the mousse onto your fingertips and run them all over your hair, combing from root to end.’

Frankie does as he’s told, face set to a serious scowl as he impeccably goes over each section of his locks, staring into the mirror to make sure he gets every strand. For the first time, you see the pilot in him up close, and you wonder if he’s this thorough about other things, like -

Laundry, your mind interrupts as it careens on the brink of the metaphorical gutter. Get your shit together, Shiv.

‘Good,’ you smile when he’s done, hoping he doesn't see the strain in it. ‘Now, I want you to rake your fingers through the roots when you dry your hair all the way.’ In demonstration, your nails burrow into the base of his thick hair, then you wriggle your fingers upwards towards the ends. ‘It will give you lots of volume and really show off this cut.’

Passing him the hairdryer, you watch him critically in the mirror. He imitates your movements, a bit clumsily and far too cautiously. Leaning down to his ear so he can hear you over the whir, you instruct him, ‘Don’t be gentle, Francisco. C’mon, harder, deeper - don’t hold back.’

He chokes and pins you with a wide-eyed stare in the mirror that glances right off your oblivious self. Along with your words, nothing about this exchange would register in your head in any other way until much, much later tonight, when you replay the conversation in your head in that limbo between sleep and wakefulness. 

It may or may not have you squealing into your pillow in latent embarrassment - and something else.

But for now, you’re happy with the way his hair has set, and you gesture for him to switch off the hairdryer. Turning his chair towards you and away from the mirror, you scan your eyes over him and make small adjustments - tucking a couple of strands behind his ear here, a couple of final snips there. 

As a final touch, you bury your fingers into his locks, dragging your fingertips through the roots to impart a final tousle so that the curls are loose and soft. You preen at the way he sways into your contact, all shyness gone, his hooded eyes half-closed - before he seems to catch himself and sits up with a self-conscious ahem.

Grabbing a small bottle from the shelf, you say, ‘Last thing - your beard is a bit dry as well. This oil will keep it nice and moisturised, just two or three drops after you wash up in the morning will do.’

Tipping his face up by the crook of your finger and opening up his neck to you, you smooth the ointment along both sides of his jaw, rubbing circles into his neatly trimmed whiskers and all the way up his sideburns. Sliding downwards, your hands seek out the closely shaved stubble tucked beneath his chin. Then, by sheer momentum, your palms continue down his throat in a slow, sticky descent, until the pads of your thumbs slot into the hollow between his collarbones, your fingers resting at the base of his neck where you feel his pulse rabbiting underneath. 

The air thickens and shifts between you. When he swallows, you feel the ripple of the moment against your fingertips. 

His eyes are on you, and suddenly he’s too close, his skin too hot under your hands. To your horror, something akin to shyness rears its head and you almost stumble backwards to put a safe distance between you.

Scrubbing the oily residue from your hands on a towel, you break the moment with a wink and a steadier smile than you actually feel. ‘You look good, Morales. Ready to take a look?’

‘As if you would take no for an answer,’ he mumbles under his breath. Fondness might be too strong of a word - but you don't think you're imagining the faint trace of amusement in his voice.

With a dramatic ta-da, you spin his chair around with a flourish.

Frankie Morales is obviously not a vain man - he most likely owns five pairs of jeans that he’s worn on rotation for the past fifteen years, his t-shirts are washed ragged, and his trusty leather boots have seen better days. He probably doesn’t use a mirror other than for purely utilitarian purposes, like checking if there’s something stuck in his teeth from his last meal.

But right now, by the way he’s holding his breath as he meets his own eyes in the reflection, you can tell that he’s really looking at himself for the first time in a long while. 

You pretend to busy yourself with tidying up the styling station as you discreetly sneak glances at him, feeling strangely bashful for intruding in this moment. When he remembers to breathe again, he tilts his head left then to the right, and back again, even swivelling his chair from side to side so he can peer round the back.

You’ve parted his waves to the side, the lighter cut allowing his curls to carry their natural shape. The healthy sheen, courtesy of the mousse, tempers his grays to a softer, burnt silver that catches the light fetchingly as he moves. Reaching up, Frankie pushes back a stray curl that falls over his eyes, and his back straightens in a quiet show of confidence.

Running a salon is hard work and often thankless. But on days like this? You know you’re meant to do this.

A dramatic gasp draws both of your attention. Ashton is clutching at his chest, backed up against the neighbouring styling station, gaping at Frankie. ‘Mister - you look good enough to devour. Look at that salt and pepper, I’m living for the grays. Doing the Lord’s work, Shiv!’

You laugh as Frankie flushes, scratching an invisible itch on his forehead. You brush the loose hairs off his shoulders with a towel and give him a nudge. ‘See? I’m not the only one who thinks you look good with the grays. You better stock up on the condoms, Morales, the ladies will be all over you at the party.’

He shakes his head self-deprecatingly as he stands up, rubbing his palms on his jeans, uncomfortable with the scrutiny. ‘I doubt it, but - thanks. I appreciate this, Shiv.’

He shrugs on his well-loved burnt yellow jacket, the one with the sleeves perpetually folded up above his wrists and grabs his cap. You hold out a paper bag with the free shampoo and conditioner you promised him, throwing in a jar of hair mousse for good measure. ‘You’re welcome, and you better not put your hat on again this afternoon after all that hard work.’

His fingers brush yours when he takes the bag from you, then, as if it’s the logical next thing to do, he leans down to press a chaste kiss to your right cheek, his stubble coarse against your skin - and you know without looking it’s the gray patch in his beard that brushes against your jaw as he draws back. You fumble, feeling heat prickle the back of your neck and blooming in your rib cage. 

He flashes you the most self-assured smile you’ve seen on him this afternoon, which has you biting your bottom lip. ‘I won’t. Maybe see you at the wedding, Shiv.’

It takes you five full seconds to regain motor functions. By the time you unstick your tongue from the roof of your mouth, Frankie’s already out of the door with a spring in his step.

In companionable silence, you and Ashton watch the pilot strut - because that’s what he’s doing, he’s strutting with a confidence that becomes him - across the road through the glass front of the salon.

‘What a dish,’ Ashton sighs dreamily, flopping into a chair as if his limbs have given out. ‘I hope he comes back soon.’

You smile. A girl could always hope.

Notes: It's the first time I'm using a nickname for a Reader, but I have a real soft spot for Shiv, and I think she deserves one. I'm not sure where the fandom stands on this, does it disqualify the fic as a reader insert? If anyone has an issue with this, please let me know! For me, Shiv has no physical descriptions so to me she's still a reader insert.

I don't know if anyone expected this kind of dynamics between these two, but it's been so much fun to write with a bit of antagonism in the mix. I hope you enjoyed this, reblogs and comments are so, so appreciated as always. Thank you for reading ❤️

#frankie morales fanfiction #frankie morales x reader #frankie morales x you #frankie morales x fem!reader #frankie morales x f!reader #frankie morales #frankie catfish morales #francisco morales #triple frontier fanfic #frankie friday #queue

[bamboobrat]

succession s4 e2 recap: hitman santa claus and an audition tape from hell

time for this weeks recap, you guys! i'm going into gerri withdrawal, so this feels a bit like pulling teeth, but lets get into this trauma dump of an episode, shall we?

logan is apparently still in his feelings about last episode, but like any man of a certain age, he doesn't want to talk about it.

what he wants to do: take away the kids' helicopter privileges and scrutinize a poor man writing an email.

the kids on the other hand are planning the future of their brand new, 10 billion dollar media empire.

good thing they are really in touch with the people. as we all know, the american public is notoriously famous for being interested in foreign affairs.

it's also connor's rehearsal dinner and he voices his concern his sibs won't make it in the most boomer way possible.

shiv's "taking calls and looking upset" plot line continues.

we will get you that emmy, snookie.

tom's hogged all the good divorce lawyers in new york, similarly to what logan once did to caroline. a truly specific example of generational trauma or something.

logan is at ATN, just chillin' like a villain on the floor.

tom reacts to the news as any employee would, knowing their boss is in the office:

me running back from a one hour lunch after reading on slack that the boss is coming in.

tbh i'd take shiv calling me a lil bitch boy any day.

my close captions did this, and i can't figure out if it's a mistake or tom fucking with greg craig.

also, something tells me greg's sex tape does not have late night tv potential.

and now, for the main star of the show:

kerry's audition tape.

turns out she wants to be a host at ATN. i think roman and kendall speaks for all of us when they say:

never seen kendall so happy.

clearly, logan is the biggest anti-nepotism advocate out there, so he doesn't really want to have a say in what happens to kerry.

calling cyd and tom geniuses, though... seems fishy. perhaps it is not professionalism that is driving him, after all. i guess we will never know.

shiv continues to rack up the largest phone bill ever by talking to sandi (or is it sandy? i care to little to look it up) about potentially asking mattson for more money.

upside: more money. downside: he might just walk away from the table and they'll be stuck with a 10 billion dollar bill and a legacy media company where they focus on the very narrow topics of globan and extremely local.

personally, i don't even fully understand how the stock marked works, and even i can tell that this is a bad idea. but self-destructive people are going to self-destruct i guess.

speaking of:

WHY WOULD HE SAY THAT!!!!!!

logan does a murdoch type speech on the top of printing paper and rips an ATN employee to shreds.

if you ever went to j-school, you know this is the most horrifying scenario.

numbers? i'm a journalist, i can't do math.

logan also quotes a bit of daft punk:

and is completely calm and collected the entire speech, as we have come to expect of logan.

i truly believe logan and brian cox have morphed into one person during the four seasons of succession. i can't tell you why, but i also think this scene is proof.

also, logan is getting a BUNCH of screen time these first few episodes. could they pull the rug out from under us all and kill him off by episode 5? one can only hope.

the kiddos aren't allowed to take the company helicopter to connor and willa's rehearsal dinner and kendall is calm, cool and collected.

it's certainly a long way away from him running after that town car during the first attempt at overthrowing logan in season one. how far he's come. i'd like some of whatever it is he is taking.

stewy and sandi show up to convince the sibs to renegotiate the price with mattson.

i love stewy. i really do. but the show runners don't know how to use him properly anymore, i think. please, for the love of god, give the man some lavender. give him something more to do!

willa does what any young lesbian woman would do: ditch her own rehearsal dinner to have drinks with twenty of her closest friends.

it's not like the bride is needed at that sort of event, anyway.

roman shares my coping mechanism when dealing with any sort of emotional turmoil:

and so does connor, apparently:

there's nothing chocolate and a good rendition of 'don't stop me now' can't fix.

the show runners _really_ want you to know mattson is swedish with the bilar and the julmust and being aggressive whilst also saying you're not being aggressive.

it's the scandi way.

i feel represented.

the threat doesn't work on kendall, though. on the contrary, he's got kid brain and will do anything he is told not to do, so he goes back to back shiv on renegotiating the price. once again, roman is teamed up on, even though i stg he is the only one of the sibs making any sense lately.

this is connor's best attempt at being folksy:

hoegaarden haters unite. i knew there was a reason i liked connor.

positive note: he finally gets his way and they go to karaoke. negative note: he contacts logan and it all ends in a confrontation that makes me want to set myself on fire:

screaming, crying, throwing up.

we get another logan monologue of sorts, with certain interjections from the kids. potentially the first honest encounter this show has ever seen? i'm sick of brian cox face by now, so i couldn't be fucked to screengrab.

just have him die already. he's only there because he acknowledges that the kids have "got juice" and yet he calls them "not serious people".... i guess he is right, but i don't have to like it, okay!!!

roman comes crawling back and asks logan this:

logan responds that he needs him and it's the only thing i think roman has ever wanted to hear and i'm going to go scream into a pillow now.

i guess this marks the end of the siblings teaming up (for now). rip.

i feel drained.

bonus:

gerri is still out in the cold in all the ways and is absolutely NOWHERE in this episode. i'm glad she too had the chance to smirk at kerry's audition tape, but it was with hugo.... cancels itself out.

that being said, i've seen the trailer for next week's episode, and i am ready to be hurt again.

cheers!

#succession #succession hbo #succession spoilers #succession recap #logan roy #brian cox #kerry castellabate #zoe winters #kendall roy #jeremy strong #sarah snook #shiv roy #greg hirsch #nick braun #nicholas braun #tom wambsgans #matthew macfadyen #roman roy #kieran culkin #cyd peach #jeannie berlin #stewy hosseini #arian moayed #willa ferreyra #justine lupe #connor roy #alan ruck #alexander skarsgaard #lukas mattson #j. smith-cameron

[dmagedgoods]

Enderal for the fandom ask? (Because I'm sure someone else will ask for WOTR and IWTV)

Enderal

((No Interview with the Vampire yet 😁, but that's such a great choice, aaa, one of my favorite games in the history of ever. <333))

Favorite Male Character Jespar Dal'Varek, my beloved boy. Mercenary (and noble who really doesn't like that fact) and the character with the second-best romance I ever played in my life. I'm definitely drawn to hedonists with a melancholic side. He's much ... softer than Daeran though, if you're wondering, with a similar bitterness underneath but still ... gentle. I should also mention the Father. But how to talk about them at all without spoilers ... Leader of a secret cult who believes that the mind should defeat the body. Highly intelligent, highly mysterious and related to my favorite quest. I could write a whole essay about them, but I realize every word I mention about their personality takes away from the pleasure of discovering them yourself, so I'll stay silent for now. 😁 (Also, they are neither a male character nor a female character but agender.)

Favorite Female Character Natara Dal'Veram. Do I have a weakness for conceited, intelligent women in power? You bet. She's the Truchessa of The Holy Order. Sounds important? Is important! She fights the protagonist on every turn. Once more I can't go too much into detail without giving away plot twists, only that she's devoted and hard working and loathes the main character because they step into a high position without doing much for it (or so she believes).

Least Favorite Character The High Ones and what they stand for. I rarely ever hate the antagonist(s) of a story, this time I did. Also Grandmaster Tealor Arantheal for being a fool and slightly Yuslan Sha'Rim for making a certain decision. (I love-hate him though.)

Favorite Ship The Prophet (player character) and Jespar. The romance is so good. So good. You asked me once if there is an existing character Eneas would fall for. He was my Prophet and fell very hard for Jespar despite him being different from those he's usually interested in. I have to add that I played a very young Eneas to fit the story. Very angry, very lost. He changes over the decades. On the other hand, he will change in the Enderal universe too while growing older, and in similar ways ... Ah, so much to think about always.

Favorite Friendship Very weird answer I would love to explain should you ever play the game: The Prophet (player character) - or well, mine at least - and the Father.

Favorite Quote "The world would be a much better place if everyone could just acknowledge that the only reason we're here is that we want to be happy." (Jespar) "All those “heroes” and self-declared messiahs are no better than everyone else. In the end, we are all selfish, because we always act in accordance to what we think we have to be like." (Jespar) "… I've always considered responsibility and being happy to be contradictory. But actually, that's wrong, it's the exact opposite. In order to be truly content, we need... connection. To a person, to a cause, to anything. If you never find that, you'll never find yourself." (Jespar) "I led them into the light. I alone." (Tealor) Ah dammit, I could transcribe the whole game actually.

Worst Character Death (if any) SPOILERS: All of them. So many dead, so much despair, it hurts to even think of it. How to even pick, they'll follow me forever, this game goes so deep. Rynéus, I will never recover. Calia, she deserved the world and he couldn't save her. Lishari, why did it need to come to this, it broke my heart and his as well.

Saddest Moment It's a very sad game in general. Bittersweet. Heavy on the shoulders. SPOILERS: Rynéus' death after this flicker of hope. He would have adopted him. The ending and the last decision and to see it in all its cruelty.

Favorite Location Ark! I fell in love with the city and its people. Also Whisperwood. The atmosphere is beyond amazing and always makes me shiver.

Bonus, because Enderal needs its songs: I picked Eneas without knowing how well he'd fit into the role of the Prophet. German for those who like to hear the Original.

#enderal #y'all go and play it! #it's for free! #can you believe it #it's a mod #😭 #a skyrim mod #so much better than skyrim could ever dream to be #enderal spoilers #dmagedramblings

[my-boy-squiggle-roy]

hello my fucked-up lovelies. here’s my pre-watch masterpost of osmosis knowledge so you have the most entertaining comprehension of my Live Cyrus Reaction 🫡

what the fuck is a succession

so like there’s The Roy’s and they’re Business People (the children by force probably) and their dad is the Main Bitch of the company who is inevitably gonna go six feet under (in light of… recent events HSHDJDJ) and so the siblings are fighting for their goddamn lives to be his Successor. I Think. and the whole family dynamic is super fucked and manipulative and their father is abusive as hell and the siblings know deep down that all they have is each other in the face of this asshole who has pinned their lives against one another for the sake of his own. probably. idk i’ve treaded into speculation so back on track. business family. there’s gonna be a successor. that’s all i really know plot-wise

Characters

these are the bitches i know exist by name. if there’s a main character on here i didn’t list, it’s because i do not know them as part of The Crew yet. here’s what i know about them.

Kendall Roy

not beating the bojack horseman allegations (almost killed himself in a pool and has substance abuse issues i think)

his boy squiggle cooked up some sick beats

i think he might be the oldest of the siblings?

he’s just Ken (i think he goes by Ken mostly and not Kendall)

seems exhausted as hell and on his last thread

Shiv Roy

uh hi for the love of god hello twirls hair around finger

probably gaslights gatekeeps girlbosses

like i don’t really keep up with taylor swift but i feel like there’s a lot of edits of her to The Man

married to some guy

i feel like i vaguely remember hearing that her sex life sucked with some guy

very clean cut no bullshit type of person and like she probably has to try twice as hard as her brothers for recognition but idk maybe logan believes in equality and hates them just as much

Roman Roy

sent a dick pic to his dad during a business meeting

am i imagining him being called a pathetic little worm for subconscious personal reasons or did that happen

says the most out of pocket shit in the whole show i think

is regularly called derogatory gay terms (of course by myself but also the actual characters i think)

has hella sexual trauma

was physically abused by logan

girl. the inferiority complex in this mf.

just a complete little shit

Logan Roy

primary source of trauma

just your typical like. old white man capitalistic bitch but there’s no charisma or anything he’s just There

well. he was there.

Tom

apparently he is that Some Guy that shiv married i genuinely only knew him as some weird abusive homosexual counterpart to greg until a few days ago

that’s literally all i’ve got

oh he also works at The Business

Greg

i literally have no clue what this man’s deal is but i’m so intrigued by his expressions he looks like an italian greyhound

he’s really fucking tall so scenes with him and other people in it have to be shot a certain way which is so fucking funny

he comes as an accessory with tom idk

can say with a decent amount of confidence that i don’t think he’s a super bright character intelligence-wise

also works at The Business

Connor (Roy?)

cousin to the siblings

he’s like overlooked a shit ton by logan bc he’s not like. a Real Roy i don’t fucking know

apparently got married recently. good for him. (unless a certain event uh interrupted the completion of that marriage)

i don’t think i know anything else whatsoever

Gerri

i’ve been told she exists

alright! now you’ve obtained my succession headspace and are set to laugh at my naïveté. go forth 🫡