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#regardless it brings me much joy

crabussy · 1 year

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hey. don’t cry. crush four cloves of garlic into a pot with a dollop of olive oil and stir until golden then add one can of crushed tomatoes a bit of balsamic vinegar half a tablespoon of brown sugar and stir for a few minutes adding a handful of fresh spinach until wilted and mix in half a cup of grated parmesan cheese and pasta of your choice ok?

#ITS MY FAVOURITE PASTA RECIPE #tastes so so good and delicious and hearty and warm #doesn’t require many ingredients or effort and is so yummy #I have sensory issues and digestive disorders and this recipe brings me so much joy #barely anything to remember!!! rich while still easy on the stomach!!!!#listen to my gibberish boy #you can add any amount of sugar and vinegar and cheese it works regardless #I UPPED THE GARLIC BECAUSE OF FEEDBACK BTW #AND PUT THE CHEESE AT THE END TO AVOID IT STICKING TO THE POT

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whateverisbeautiful · 3 months

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Tomorrow is the 20 day mark in the TOWL countdown! And I’m excited to keep counting down and celebrating Richonne with my top 20 favorite moments from their epic journey. 🥳

I also just felt compelled to address something before we head into the 20-day countdown to towl. Because as we get closer to Richonne’s long-awaited return, there are crevices of the twd fandom trying to get louder with the hateful & ignorant messages.

Just addressing this once. Then the hate is blocked out & there’s only basking in Richonne goodness going forward. 😊

#richonne #twd towl #but that blatant irl racism from utterly ignorant sides of the fandom is getting called out every time as it should cuz it’s unacceptable #richonne thrives regardless #now back to reveling in richonne 🤗#these upcoming top 20 Richonne scenes bring me so much joy 🥰

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charrfie · 2 months

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I need to make more bad art. Terribly. Considering the exhaustion I've been dealing with these past few weeks, I've concerned myself so much with making sure the miniscule amounts of time I do have to draw are spent drawing something good, something presentable. Be it presentable to you all here or simply just friends and family. I haven't allowed myself to post any of this bc I feel it's unfair to myself; whenever I am creating out of obligation and production rather than joy I feel my work becomes very soulless. I hope to make some truly bad and unpresentable art soon that I will finally allow myself to share. I'm going to try very hard!

#thank you all for your patience regardless #and support as well! a lot of people have shown support for my older works lately and it brings me so much joy #thank you all. im happy you like my art #this time ive been takint off is important for my relationship with my art and i hope to find my drive again #laika originals #late night thought dump

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onehandshort · 6 months

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I play dozens of games of solitaire on any given day and after literally 3000+ games over the last 4 years I've managed to break all 3 records I had. Usually I might improve 1 category but I was totally zoned and then boom.

Previous time record was 1 minute 3 seconds

Previous move record was 93

I don't pay any attention to the scores honestly.

Monkey brain loves a good pattern game

#sam talks #this will mean nothing to pretty much any person that sees it but i will post it regardless as it brings me joy

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im-no-jedi · 11 months

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Full Name: Roq-5 (original name unknown)

Nickname(s): Rocky, The Rock, Titan, Guardian

Age: early 30s mentally; reborn six years prior to the Red War

Height: 6′5″

Body type: Extremely well-built, lots of muscles all over, looks like a robot wrestler

Skin tone/Ethnicity/Species: Exo, black skin with blue and silver accents. Originally human with Polynesian heritage, tan skin

Eye color: Bright blue; glows

Hair color/style: N/A

Distinguishing features: Large black chin, prominent cheeks, upper part of the head is all blue with two white stripes painted on the sides of the head, large black metal strip running from the forehead to the back of the head, mouth glows blue when speaking, has scars all over his body that he refuses to have healed

Dress/Clothing preference: Crucible chestplate with feathers all along the neck, large arm plates in the shapes of diamonds that exude electricity when touched, black and white leg armor with Dead Orbit decals, a strip of fabric with the Fallen symbol painted on it attached to his belt

Mannerisms: Speaks at a level 10 all. the. time.

Physical talents/Skills: Is extremely strong; considered one of the best weightlifters in the entire galaxy

Face claim: Dwayne Johnson (when he was a human)

Voice claim: Aaron Hedrick, specifically the voice of Balthus from FE3H

Normal tone: Loud, deep, bolstering voice

Language & accent: English and some Eliksni

Occupation: Titan Guardian of the Last City

Current home/planet: The Last City, Earth

Situation: Protecting Earth and saving the galaxy alongside the rest of his fireteam

Motivation: To be as awesome as possible all the time

Biggest strength(s): His muscles and overall supportive attitude

Biggest issue(s): Extremely vain and ignorant

Strongest trait: Supportive

Personality: Loud, vain, cheeky, tough, fearless

Habits: Showing off and showboating. He’s completely full of himself, and he also doesn’t know his own strength sometimes and accidentally breaks stuffs or hurts someone

Ambition/Short and Long Term Goals: To be known as the greatest Crucible champion of all-time

Greatest fear(s)/Phobias: Being alone

Biggest secret(s): He cares a lot about Isaac. Losing him affected Rocky more than he thought it would, and he was overjoyed when Isaac came back again

Social skills: Has no problem talking to people at all, but he often insults people unintentionally

Optimist or Pessimist: Varies depending on the situation, but usually an optimist

Introvert/Extrovert/Ambivert: Extrovert

Alignment: Chaotic Good

Original home/planet: California

Important history: He is a well-established champion of the Crucible. When Matt first came to the Last City, Rocky took pity on him and chose to protect him from the other guardians who kept bullying him; he’s been dedicated to protecting Matt ever since then. He assisted Matt in defeating Oryx and temporarily restoring peace to the galaxy. He was granted status as an honorary Iron Wolf after assisting Lord Saladin in defeating SIVA. He was once captured by a group of Eliksni and eventually freed by one of them that he’d befriended; Rocky brought the Eliksni and her children to live with him in the Last City and adopted them as his own. In his original life, he was a man who wanted to provide for his mother and younger brother, but always seemed to fail at whatever he tried to do for them. When he heard about the Exo program, he thought it was the perfect opportunity to get stronger, however he didn’t know about the mind wiping aspect and forgot about his family after becoming an Exo. Braytech ended up using him for financial gain after seeing how strong he’d become and had him compete in tournaments to try and earn them more money. He eventually finds out about his family and goes to look for them, only to find that they’d been killed at some point after he’d left; this is why he got multiple memory wipes so that he wouldn’t have to remember them anymore.

Family: Three adopted young Eliksni children named Rofki (Kiki), Hipkip (Kip), and Ahdahpuf (Poofy)

Best Friend: Matt, and don’t you dare try to imply that the two of them have a romantic relationship, they’re just bros ok?!

Significant Other/Love interest: Silfhki, a female Eliksni (former) Captain; basically his wife

Friends, Enemies, Acquaintances, and Colleagues: Part of Fireteam Misfit. Has a rocky (hehe) relationship with Isaac. Thinks of Hannah like a sister. Marvel is his Crucible buddy. Acts very much like a big bro/dad to Ace and Lunaa. Loves to tease Uldren and do pranks with him. Respects the Speaker and the Vanguard and idolizes Shaxx and Saint-14. Is super good buddies with Fon (@tobestik’s OC) and likes to get in trouble with her. Is beloved by all the Eliksni from the House of Light (Mithrax is his bro fr). Has MANY rivals in the Crucible. Hates all the major enemies in the story, but mainly the Vex because he finds them insulting to all robot people

Phys. Health/Mental Health: Extremely good physical health, has minor PTSD from losing Isaac

Education: He knows how to fight well, and that’s about it; he also knows some Eliksni history

Religion: He respects the Traveler but doesn’t worship it or anything

Romantic/sexual preference: Pan, preferring females

Interests/Hobbies: The Crucible is his LIFE

Favorite phrases: “Oh worm?”, “No homo”, and a plethora of Vine quotes LOL

Favorite color(s): Blue and black

Favorite food/drink: Any kind of meat

Favorite music: Rock (duh)

Favorite quote/saying: “When in doubt, punch it!”

Weapon(s) of choice: The Riskrunner; he likes using weapons that utilize electric currency

Role model: Saint-14

Important personal item/Prized possession: His Titan mark, which was given to him by Shaxx after his first win at the Crucible

Creator trait(s): The ability to dance, naturally good with kids, PTSD due to loss, constantly quoting memes

Inspiration for creation: I wanted to create a buddy for Matt, and I absolutely LOVE a good nerd/jock dynamic. Also, I just really wanted to create an OC based off Dwayne Johnson cause I love him hehe. And fun fact about his voice, I originally had Dwayne also be his voice claim, but my siblings decided to create a voice for him whenever we roleplayed that I later discovered was nearly identical to Balthus from FE3H; it still makes me laugh ROFL

Featured in: Anything related to my main Destiny AU staring Fireteam Misfit

#OC: Rocky #my OCs #OC intros #MY CHAOTIC HIMBO THAT I LOVE #I'm sad that I don't have more art of him #but robots are hard to draw ok??#I still haven't found a good design for his face that I'm happy with LOL #but yeah he brings me much joy and I love him regardless 😊

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fours1ren · 1 year

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not to get sappy on main, but being on this blog again and having my friends around is bringing back so many memories. my time in the rpc has been an absolute shitshow. seriously, there's been a lot of ups and downs. but you know what? i've met so many amazing people i'm honored to call a friend and i wouldn't trade that for anything else in the world 🥺

#OOC.#TBD.#i won't lie i've thought about quitting and tried quitting multiple times #and even though writing doesn't bring me the same joy it used to when i was younger #i think i've always stayed around because of the friendships i've made here #because it always brings me so much joy to see everyone get passionate over series they love #and go on for hours talking about their favorite characters #i love you all so much and i'm rooting for you over here in my little corner #regardless of where you guys go !!

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incoherentbabblings · 8 months

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Excuse the upcoming ffxvi spam but the cutscenes are like 26 hours long so I've only just around to watching them and I'm still reeling from the actual for real in a final fantasy game sex scene that's starts metaphorical then goes hoho you thought and then no it's just Clive and Jill actually fucking so THAT

#u r not immune to 3d cgi characters beauty nor the literal fire and ice characters #but oh my god #...they fucked #...good for them #also 'i'll come back to you' and 'you are my greatest treasure' and the forehead bump and brooding boy gentle girl #and the loyalty regardless of what monsters they have been or will be the 'I never thought a smile could bring me so much joy'#anyway #and the 'my lady' and thE HAND KISSING whodfhobvcxzadfsgdf

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undercoverpena · 3 months

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1. butterscotch orange

frankie morales x f!reader | chapter one of do me yourself

summary: a meet-cute in a hardware store? impossible, out of the question. except, that's exactly what happens. a need for screws leads you to a broad-shouldered, brown-eyed man who you're sure is about to change your day, never mind your life.

wordcount: 3.3k chapter warnings: [see masterlist for series warnings] meet cute, flirting. fluff. flirting in person and over <redacted>. frankie being a single!dad to a son. coffee date. an: it is finally here! this little thing has rotted me from the inside out and nothing brings me more joy than a romcom. so here we go. buckle in. all hail @secretelephanttattoo for the wondrous idea and support (seriously thank you, i know you know ily, but i don't think I've been this happy writing something in so long). a thank you to @thetriumphantpanda who i forced to read this when we had our sleepover, ily.

key: frankie is in bold, you are in italics [winks]

IF I CAN DO IT, ANYONE CAN DO IT. ALL YOU NEED—

It rings, echoes through your skull.

Has been doing so the whole ride over—your groan doing nothing to dilute it, even as you kill the engine of your car and are welcomed with silence.

There’s an element of regret you feel thrumming in you since discovering that perky voice, her high-pitched excitement becoming the bane of your existence. Forever replaying in your head. Regardless of whether it is actually playing. It remains on a loop in your mind—all light and sweet—grating on you from the amount you’ve had to watch it, just to get to this stage.

Realistically, you know you shouldn’t hate the voice, because it has been helpful—in that effortlessly playful way that’s kind of begun to fuck you off.

But then, you’re not even sure if any voice would fare much better. Because you just don’t feel like it’s just that easy—so possible, all simple and quick to do.

Because DIY apparently isn't that trouble-free for you. The bandaids on your palm, fingers, and forearm are proof of it.

Yet, somehow you’re outside of a hardware store.

One that Google promises will have all you need and more. Not that you know what that is.

The only thing you do know is that it at least gives you another reason to focus on something other than the mountain of boxes that never end. The ones not unpacked. In the home that’s now only slowly beginning to feel more like yours, and not the people you purchased it from.

Eyes flicking over the front of the store, the clutter of things all left outside—in judging various shades of buckets and plastic garden chairs—before your eyes land on the door to Harold’s Hardware.

There’s no breeze, but the door moves ever so slightly. Sitting, slightly ajar, as though once—a long time ago—it fit in the frame perfectly, but now remained warped and unwilling to even try. Then there’s the glass, all smeared and sitting inside (what you assume) would have been a bright-white frame that’s slightly yellowed and has been adorned in scuffs, swinging in its layered overuse.

But, at least it’s visited, you think. Shoving open the door, a bell sounds in some distant corner, ringing, it almost muffled by the voice from the video continuing to play in the space between your ears—a to-do list, a handful of items required, listing themselves on a never-ending loop, the billionth play through since you’d woken up.

It’s so much bigger inside than you banked on. Jaw-ticking to the side, eyes marvelling at the floor-to-ceiling display and the array of things all living and existing under hanging signs that appear worn and peeling.

With each second, more and more of the charm comes to you.

That there’s a radio, crackling away, a song from decades gone by playing with difficulty, as an array of scents swirl, fighting themselves for your attention. But, two stand out, fresh-cut wood and lemon disinfectant. The latter you assume kills dirt but doesn’t make the floor tiles gleam in the way they once did. Scuff marks adorning well-walked paths. But the former, you gravitate more to, wish for it to fill your nose and remain with you long after your visit.

Adjusting the strap of your bag, you glance about again, almost fidgeting your feet in your shoes, before it dawns on you. Slams into you as you flick your gaze from sign to sign—

You haven’t got a clue about where to start.

Listing the things from memory—suddenly distant and difficult to find amongst the dooming overwhelm—as your feet begin moving of their own accord. Choosing an aisle, selecting it—all eeny-meeny-miny-mo.

Because better that, than standing aimless, lost. Watched on some flickering CCTV in the back where you assume the person who works here is.

Dragging your eyes, scanning them up and down, taking in the varying types of paint brushes, different thicknesses, different intentions. Moving from single purchase to grouped, to multi-packs, and landing finally on rollers before you’re turning, heading down an entirely different aisle.

The next isn’t any less overwhelming.

If anything, it’s more, because it’s at least more of what you needed.

Screws, bolts, fixings.

Your brain assessing, attempting to assemble whether a bolt is what you need, a screw or—

“You need a hand?”

It throws you off, the voice.

Cuts through your processing, through the low replays of the video (the ones only in your head) and the cracking radio which has moved into an advert for migraines.

It’s low, a slight gravel that he rids with a clear of his throat as you look over your shoulder, eyes sweeping over the owner of the voice, eventually turning to face him.

And fuck.

He’s broad, dressed in a deep green t-shirt under a tan apron—name badge scratched over, only leaving the lingering marks of a “here to help” and the fading logo you’d seen outside.

You don’t mean to gawk, but yet you do all the same.

Practically swallowing, attempting to whir your brain into gear as you take in the rest of him. The thick loose curls atop his head, the strong nose and the round-brown eyes. His moustache, the wiry facial hair across his chin he slowly begins to scrape at, as he remains waiting for a response.

“Screws.”

“You… you need screws?”

Nodding, you will your brain to work, to function. But, he’s just so—

Lifting his chin, he runs his thumb up and down the underside of his chin, waiting, waiting, until he smiles. “Do you know the kind?”

Think. Think. Fucking think.

And then you do. Somehow able to unspool some thoughts, find sentences. Beginning to explain, in barely-there pauses and animated hand gestures about your move, and your new lease of life, and this video you found and how you felt inspired by it to the point it had led you to order wood cut to size and tools from the internet, but screws, screws and this and that are all that you’d forgotten.

And, he listens. Sliding a hand over the sleeve of his sun-scorched tee as he does. Just nodding on occasion. Thin lines appear along his forehead at certain parts of the story, but nonetheless listening.

“Show me.”

“Show… you?”

Then he smiles. Soft, it slides up in a slow, almost cautious way, but then it’s at his eyes, touching, brushing itself there and sending sparks up into the darker brown flecks.

Licking his lips, he gestures, “The video.”

You do.

A quick shuffle in your pocket, a slide to unlock your phone and then your fingers are brushing his. They’re warm, his. That you can tell.

Heat radiating from them, slowly blanketing yours as his hand and yours cradle the phone like a newborn in an announcement photo.

From there, your chest tightens, more so when you meet his eyes, finding them watching you as intently as you wish to look at him, and it makes your heart stammer, skip—a full chaos of beats following before he’s holding your phone independently.

That’s when a new crisis calls. A new thought is all set to erode your mind.

Because your phone looks tiny in his hand.

The plastic case is almost dwarfed by him as he tips his chin, watching the video, occasionally tapping at the screen to skip ahead before he nods to himself, you all but busy trying not to choke on your own drool.

“I know what you need.”

“You do?”

A foolish question, all escaping without thought or rationale.

He just smiles, in a way that seems to settle your incoming anxiousness.

“I do.”

And he does.

A tilt of his head, his back turned to you, a brief thought crossing your brain at the sight but you quickly rid, and you’re following. Listening as he explains, as he points out things with his long, thick finger, as you nod, as though nothing lives in the space between both of your ears.

It isn’t until you’re back in your car that it hits you. Do you suddenly wish as your engine ignites and your car roars to life, that you had asked for his number—or better yet, his name.

It’s been days, and you’re still wondering if some part of you’d concocted him, made him up—thrown up an illusion of a man and exaggerated how good he looked.

The more you thought about him, the more insane it got. Even hearing yourself explain it to a friend made you question if you'd been dreaming. That maybe you’d let days mould him, shaping perfection in your consciousness.

It has more weight when you walk past the older man at the till, all white hair in a slick-back style and who tips his head and looks more what you’d expect from the decor of the place.

But a part, one fighting, scrapping for a moment to exist, still believes. Hopes.

Forcing your legs to wander down aisles you don’t need, pausing at each corner, desiring to be proven wrong. Hovering, hoping—half-wondering if it was essential that to make him appear, you had to look lost and hopeless—or whether that had just been a coincidence that first time.

With each up and down, you almost give up. Hope almost gone, erasing itself with each step, all but fading.

But there, in the centre of the paint aisle, speckled in dried flecks, it clinging in varying shades—a kaleidoscope dream on his jeans and worn t-shirt—is him. The man you haven't stopped thinking about.

"It's you."

"It's me," you grin, heat flooding your cheeks, growing up into your neck.

Arm lifting, hand brushing the back of his curls not housed in a cap, as he matches your grin. "New project?"

"Something like that."

His gaze doesn't waver, doesn't lessen, not as his grin slopes into a shy smile, before he wipes his hand on his jeans, offering it out. "Realised... I never... I'm Frankie, by the way."

You hand him your name, dropping an octave as you do—all unmeaning, entirely accidental—fingers sliding past his as you shake his hand.

“I don’t… you’ve not got your apron on.”

Glancing down, you find him grinning when he looks up, “Not my day today. Here on personal business.”

“Oh is…” squinting at the paint can in his hand, “Butterscotch Orange on a hit list or something?”

His lips slide into his cheek, a tooth-filled smirk. “Should be, it’s a right bitc—pain in the ass to sell.”

Rolling your lips, you trace your tongue across your teeth as you grin. “It’s no…” eyes squinting. “Mt Rainier Grey.”

His brow arches. “That your shade of choice?”

“I like it—don’t hate the orange though. So, maybe it’s not the paint, but the seller.”

Something twinkles in his eye, lips still cocked to one side, smirk still ever-present.

And it’s a challenge to drag your eyes to look at the floor, you shift your weight. Trying, and failing, to think of an excuse, to leave before it gets weird—before you become too much and ruin this nondescript thing. But, his throat clearing stops you. It forces your chin up. Barely just able to catch it, the whisper, how it’s almost said to the can in his hand than to you.

“You… doing anything right now?”

Shaking your head slowly, you bite your cheek as you grin. “Just talking to a man holding a paint can.”

Tapping his fingers along the top, lips rolling, “You fancy getting a coffee? With me?”

You have to bite your smile, out of fear you’ll show how practically beaming you are. Mouth opening, but he adds an addition of I don’t usually do this that makes your lips curl into a smirk.

“What? Invite random customers for coffee or accost them with paint you can’t sell?”

Biting his upper lip, he shakes his head, tucking a curl behind his ear as your eyes glance over at them. How they glisten under the yellow-fluorescent light.

Letting your heart dance like leaves in the wind. “I’d love to get coffee with you, Frankie.”

It’s nice, the coffee place.

Not a far walk, a few doors down. The charm of it coaxes you in with sounds of crunching beans and strong scents of varying levels of caffeine sliding over and relaxing your shoulders from your ears.

Because suddenly you’re nervous.

A slight shake to your bones, a twitch of your fingers.

“Let me get this.”

Smiling, you find him watching you, not caring to drag his eyes away when you catch him.

“Because you never do this or because you’re hoping to persuade me to buy your unsellable paint?”

Smirking, he traces his eyes over you, “Both.”

The corner of his mouth slides back into his cheek, a dimple appearing, deepening—one you want to brush over with your thumb the longer he keeps looking at you the way he does.

All dark eyes, beedy, but sparkling.

'Who's next?' breaks the spell. Shatters the magic. It forces you both to blink, to focus on the task at hand. Both orders said, whirring and crunching sounding as you admire the place, glaze over the menu until he’s nudging you.

With your order in hand and tucked away in the corner—the large window letting in light and warmth from the sun on your back—you try not to moan at the taste of your drink once it hits your tongue.

Because it’s good. Brilliant, practically everything.

To the point you have to bite back a thank you, one that you feel would be never-ending, a constant swirl of words landing on the circular table between the two of you. Nothing napkins and good conversation could soak up.

Because good coffee is always great, but knowing where to find it in an unknown place is something else.

Distantly, you hear him say your name, chin dipped, eyes focused, realising—in a flood of embarrassment—he’s been talking to you.

“Sorry?”

“I said, I’ve not seen you in the store before…”

Swallowing, you take a steadying breath.

“You don’t have to…”

But, you do all the same. You pour open small bits of truth, words falling, tumbling half-strung together as your history rolls out in a timeline in front of you both. How you’d bought a new place, that it’s a bit run down, seen better days—a determination to prove friends wrong by doing it yourself.

Foolish, you comment with a shake of your head, I know fuck all about decorating.

And he listens—to the fact you’re alone, not even a pet; he listens even as you talk about your work, all boring, not entirely interesting. The two of you simply lost in one another, surrounded by coffee mug swirls and the sounds of sizzling food, coffee shop noises and mumbling daytime talk as you ask him about work, about his love for orange shades.

And your eyes glance down at his phone, how it’s turned over—his all undivided attention given to you—yet your eyes linger on the phone case. The one with a drawing, likely in pencil, a man in a hat on a hill, a child next to him and a sun with a smile on its face.

“I… I have a kid. Luca—shared custody,” he says, nodding, tongue peeking out between his teeth, hands leaving the table and wiping back on his jeans in slow slides up and down. “He… he made it me.”

It’s the grin that makes your heart swell.

Makes your hand cup your mug a little tighter so you don’t offer it out to him to hold, a thing which feels so natural, no thought required. Except you don’t know his last name—barely know a thing about him.

Yet, your body practically leans forward as you mirror the smile—all soft, as another piece of a missing puzzle sliding into place.

“Does he like drawing?”

Laughing, his palm slides along his jaw. “Loves it.”

“How old?”

“Five—does that… does that bother you?”

“That you’re a dad?” He nods, and you lick your lips, you make sure to hold his gaze. “Not in the slightest.”

You smile, watching him mirror you this time. It rushes out, kissing across every bit of his face—a shyness soon fluttering over him before he clears his throat.

“So, you freelance? You like being your own boss?”

“Not especially, but it does mean I can work at night.”

Nodding, he slides his hand around the white porcelain, hand practically dwarfing the mug. It makes you want to ask him to hold things, to see if IKEA pencils or children’s eating utensils look more ridiculous than your iPhone and a regular coffee mug.

“Prefer the night?”

“I prefer the quiet of it... to think. It’s why… why I began trying to do something in the day, needed to still be busy.”

“Sitting still not an option, Rainier Gray?”

Shrugging, you smile. “Says you Butterscotch and your three tins of unsellable paint in the bed of your truck.”

“You got me there.”

“I just… like to be busy, and with the new house, no partner—commitments, I thought why not try a bit of DIY.”

Nodding, he lifts his mug, and takes a sip—eyes remaining fixed on you as he does, as though it buys him time, lets him think up an opinion, an assessment. It makes your skin warm, but for all the uncomfortable reasons, the panicking ones—parts of you beginning to catastrophise that you’ve said the wrong thing.

“Open up your Instagram.”

You stare, blinking.

“Trust me.”

And you do. With another fumble, another slide of your phone screen open, and you follow his instructions as you type in the spelling he gives you. When you click the page, it’s hard not to grin, to not have your face explode into a smile so large it cuts into your cheeks.

“I don’t like to sit still either,” Frankie adds, as though the thousand photos and videos, the tutorials and follower count don’t say that on their own.

You’ve fallen down a hole—willingly.

It cracked open the moment you’d sat on your couch, drink in hand, blanket half over your body.

The moment you’d begun your scroll, you discovered you couldn’t stop. Starting with the latest and moving back, until you realise you’d rather see the story in the way it happened.

Choosing a moment, almost nine months ago, before you work your way forward to the present.

You were cautious, more careful than needed, to not like anything too late—to not give away how deep into his page you’d gone. Even if you were in awe, a little proud—your cheeks a little warm and lips turned up into your cheek—as you saw in real-time his confidence grow. The way he’d look at the camera, began experimenting with angles, all in all being smoother, more happy.

You suppose that’s why you type a comment under one picture:

Is that butterscotch orange in the flesh? 🟠

Stalking me are you?

Getting some tips from Mr DIY himself.

I know you went back some months, Rainy.

How do you know that?

Because as soon as you commented that’s what I did. You looked nice at the beach.

Now who’s the stalker, Butterscotch.

Me. Clearly. I’m being very upfront about it.

Out of interest, do you tutor at all? Gives hands on help to beginner DIYers?

You genuinely asking or flirting?

Big-headed much?

I can help you with something if you need it.

I think I do.

Then I’m yours. Don’t worry, I promise to only snoop in your drawers when left alone.

Think we should get food first, show you what I’m thinking—make sure you’re up to the task.

You asking me on a date?

No. But if you keep showing off tools topless I’ll be tempted to ask you.

Knew you’d gone back further than a month.

FRANKIE’S INSTAGRAM 🌝

NEXT CHAPTER

an: you do not understand how giddy i am about this series. the chapters have flown out of me. i hope you enjoy it half as much as i'm enjoying writing it. see you soon xx

#frankie morales x reader #francisco morales x reader #frankie morales x f!reader #frankie morales x you #frankie morales #triple frontier x reader #francisco morales fanfiction #triple frontier fanfiction #pedro pascal characters #francisco catfish morales x reader #catfish morales x reader #pedrostories

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bad-and-drawn-that-way · 2 months

Note

This has probably been requested before, but I had this idea and wanted to share.

My personal headcanon is that Vox keeps his room super cold to help with all the electronics (I took an animation class and that room was always freezing!). So, reader naturally has a blanket hoard that they bury in like a dragon buries itself in treasure.

Not sure if this was something you wanted to write about, but wanted to share regardless!

BRO YOU HAVE NO IDEA HOW MUCH THIS IDEA BRINGS ME JOY! YES! I saw a request the other day about the idea of Vox having his aquarium connected to his bedroom and I haven't been able to get it out of my head. Also, it drives me insane we only have the name for one of his sharks. In a high stroke of genius, I've decided the other shark is named Spark. Vark and Spark. This is my canon now, amazon be damned.

Cool Temperatures [Vox x Reader Headcanons NSFW Mentioned]

(NSFW writing under the cut. Minors stay away <3)

Vox was never one to get too cold. In fact, if anything, the infernal blazes of Hell proved to be a nuisance when it came to day-to-day life for the overlord. To combat this, Vox's room had every state-of-the-art cooling system known to every ring of Hell. A solid 27% of the electricity bill for the tower was consumed by the air conditioners and the aquarium from the meeting room that connected to his room above.

You need every blanket and hoodie in the Pride Ring to stay warm in his room. It was large, it was dark, and it was fucking cold. When you went into his room for the first time, it had been on your third date. You'd both gotten a little tipsy and were eagerly pulling each other's clothes off when the large double doors (dude is bougie as fuck) slid open when you were nearly knocked over with what felt like the fucking tundra.

Of course, Vox teased you with a shit-eating grin as he watched you shiver. You'd tried to complain about the ridiculous temperature as you attempted to pull your shirt back on, but Vox's hands were on your wrists in an instant. The way your body reacted to the cold was one of his new favorite things. He relished in the way goosebumps decorated your skin and he wasted no time in showing you just how much he appreciated how the cold affected your tits.

It didn't take as much convincing as he expected when he asked you to move in with him. Only after a few months of dating, he was already determined to spend the rest of eternity with you. He expected you to protest due to how many times you woke up in the middle of the night freezing cold because Vox kicked all the covers off in his sleep. He expected you to hesitate because of how much you hated getting out of bed due to the cold. But instead, you said yes immediately.

"Yeah, waking up in the morning sucks," you admit as he questions your willingness. "But on the mornings you haven't left early for work, it's worth it because you're there."

Vox was so unbelievably whipped from that day on. He went to the development team and had them make you a giant heated bean bag that you used obsessively. He'd lost track of the number of times he'd come home late after a long day at work, only to find you wrapped up in a dozen blankets and in your favorite hoodie, all cozied up on the shark patterned heat.

Sometimes you have to kick his ass for stealing your hoodies. He didn't need them! You needed them! You were going to turn into a popsicle, meanwhile a refrigerator might as well have given birth to your silly boyfriend. He just liked making you try to take it off of him. And he liked that it smelled like you.

#vox x reader #hazbin hotel x reader #hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel vox

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