#bennie ily

[microwavesludgeart]

a peek into my archives.........

[graveyardpoker]

I like Benny a normal amount...

[raptureshots]

pretend i said something REALLY funny here okay <3

[w98pops]

a redraw of my 2021 bencade piece (my unofficial magnum opus)

original under the cut

[intheorangebedroom]

Can we just pretend that this is Frankie whispering I love you to you?

I hope you are feeling better. I miss harrassing you with asks 🧡

@deadmantis my LOVE, I always feel good when you’re in my notifs. This one has kept me awake and drove me crazy, but anything for you. They’re so stubborn, and when they don't want to cooperate... Anyway. I'm not entirely satisfied, but I don't want to keep you waiting any longer. I did my very best for you, I always do, I love you so, so much 🧡 Happy Frankie Friday to you 🧡

Summary: Three words. It's not that complicated.

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

Rating: explicit but no filth, just my gothic heart 🔞

Word count: 1.5k

[series masterlist]

Drabble: To Bring You My Love

He enjoys driving home to you nearly as much as he loves staying home with you. 

Tonight’s no different, and when Mick Fleetwood’s voice comes up on the truck’s stereo, Francisco Morales smiles to himself in the bright city night. 

He kept his promise. He fixed it. Fixed everything. Or close enough, anyway. 

Friday evenings are spent at the bar again, the same dim yellow lights, the same moist, yeasty cheap beer smell. The same table.

And Tom’s chair, loudly empty. 

Most likely thanks to Will, if he had to guess, and probably on your account more than his. But even Ironhead’s unwavering loyalty can only abide that many faults before his hard, cold rationalism takes over and prompts him to take action. 

If Tom’s absence is a consequence Frankie hadn’t anticipated, it’s one he doesn’t regret. He’s heard the man has moved down to Florida, but he doesn’t really care. The further away from you, the better. 

Pope doesn’t seem entirely dissatisfied with this new order of things, either. 

As for Benny, well Benny just follows suit, like he always does. 

The air is still a bit chill between him and Frankie, but they’re getting there, step by step. Frankie’s resentment receding along with his friend’s heartbreak, one drink at a time. 

It’s been only two years, and overall, there’s a refreshing, easy balance to their group. 

And yet, however meaningful, Tom’s departure is not the most important change.

On Friday nights, like tonight, he’s driving back to you. Whether he’ll find you already sleeping or parking your small Ford after an evening out, you’re here. For real. For good. 

He’s nearly home when his phone lights up on the empty passenger seat. His gaze rapidly flickers between the road and the screen, that glares in celadon green in the cabin’s relative darkness. It’s weather alert, forecasting heavy rainfall tomorrow, he’ll have to fight the urge to drive you to the bookstore himself. Maybe he can get away with picking you up at the end of your day? Maybe you’ll let him. You can be stubborn.

He should change that impersonal default lock screen. Put a picture of you, like Santi suggested. Santi, who proudly exhibits Yovanna’s gorgeous smile and luminous beauty to just about anyone who might look at his phone’s screen. 

Well, Frankie tried. Turns out he can’t. Not that he doesn’t have any pictures of you in his camera roll. At this point, he has hundreds. And you’re dressed in most of them. 

But putting you on display simply feels inappropriate. For years, you’d been his secret. A ghost, a memory. A feeling akin to a curse. He had kept your name silent, protecting the possibility of your existence and the reality of what had happened in the orange bedroom. 

Distracted, he re-emerges from his recurring thoughts to find himself at the front door. He considers retracing his steps to check if he locked the tuck before getting into the house, but he can’t bring himself to care. He needs to see you. The living-room’s dark but the bedroom lights are on; he takes off his jacket and gets rid of his boots before walking briskly down the carpeted corridor. 

He finds you sitting in bed, the warm glow from the bedside table casting soft orange hues on your soft face. You’re leaning over a thick book, wearing your favourite t-shirt of his, a shapeless grey cotton tee with red letters that spell “Buenos Aires” across the chest. A gift from Izzy, when he was still in the military. 

He pauses briefly on the threshold; a broad smile dimples his cheeks. 

Your eyes are still lowered on the page when you greet him in a light, happy tone. 

“Hey, gorgeous!”

“Hey, querida.”

Your head shoots up at the unusual term of endearment. He steps quickly into the room and turns his back to you to hide his embarrassment, wincing as he undoes his watch and places it on the dresser across from the bed. 

“How was the evening? How’re the guys?” you ask, and he can feel your eyes boring into his back. 

“Good. All good. Will asked me to tell you Sunday works for him. Apparently you’re supposed to know what that means,” he adds, pulling his plaid shirt above his head. 

“Oh, neat!” you exclaim, lying your book face down on the table, wiggling your feet excitedly under the sheet. “The Guggenheim has an exhibition about early 19th century Parisian painters,” you explain. 

He smiles to himself again, and proceeds to take off his belt. The heavy buckle produces a metallic thud when it hits the wooden top of the dresser.

Behind his back, your voice comes in suddenly very thin. 

“You don’t mind, do you? I never asked.”

He turns, frowning, “Mind what?”

“Me. Being friends with Will. You’re not… jealous or anything, right?”

He’s about to laugh it off, a quip on the tip of his tongue, but something stops him. Something striking, unsettling in its past familiarity and its recent scarcity. It’s in the earnestness of your tone, the sudden solemnity of your gaze.

“What if I am?” he asks instead, pivoting to face you. “What would you do? Would you stop hanging with him?”

“If you asked me, yes, I would.”

“Jesus, Gabrielle, no,” he sighs, and the sting in his chest is equal part anger and regret. The consistent stab that tears at him whenever you unwillingly reveal what you put yourself through.

He crosses the bedroom in two strides to come sit by your side on the edge of the bed.

“I’d never even consider asking you something like that, baby. Why would I–”

He trails off at your hardening face. 

You’ve straightened up in his t-shirt, and his eyes dart to your legs; with two fingers, he pinches the white sheet covering them to pull it down, revealing your underwear, and a purple mark in the shape of a pear that his mouth drew on your inner thigh this morning. 

He looks at it when he says, “You’re a free woman. And I know you’re mine.”

The contradiction settles like placid water in the amber light between your two bodies, inexplicably logical, perfectly natural. 

And the words come up in his chest, from his gut, an ancient rising tide. 

“I love you, Gabrielle.”

They ring out around you in the quiet bedroom, incongruous, not unpleasant. Warm, intimate, orange.

He loves you. Of course, he does. You know he does, you’ve always known. You’ve always loved him too. 

You’ve loved him young and carefree when it was easy and it was just the two of you. You’ve loved him to safety through countless godless nights. You’ve loved him back to you, you’ve loved him sinful and hurt, you’ve loved him without shame.

Yet, your breathing stops, your eyes widen. You remain silent. 

He lets out a disheartened chuckle, before the crease in his brow deepens and his whiskered jaw gives that telling tick that you dread. You follow his dark gaze, it’s strained on the mark on your thigh, and he swallows thickly, licking his lips and you can’t feel your legs.

“Please,” he murmurs, so low, nearly silent, and it’s right there, bright and burning against your ribcage, but it won’t come out, your mouth is too dry and your lips won’t open. 

He doesn’t lift up his eyes, instead his hand goes to your hip. He gives it a little squeeze, and you register the sensation, it travels up your body in slow ripples.

He pulls you in, sits you in his lap in a straddle, his hands roaming over your sides under his t-shirt. You let him seek the contact of your skin, how many times have the two of you sat like that? On the bed, on the floor, on the couch. In the truck or under a tent...

His denim feels too rough under your soft flesh. You recoil from the heat of his palms when he cups your face, but he catches you, firm and strong and he will never let go. 

His eyes are alight with unshed tears, or perhaps it is yours, because your vision blurs when they finally meet.  

“I need to hear you say it back. Please.”

In that tiled bathroom with the yellow light, all those years ago, you had nearly said it. To tame the wild look in his dark eyes when he had realised and briefly got scared. So early but not too soon, and the words had felt far too small in comparison to the feeling itself. You had chosen to soothe him with your touch. 

You’d been the hopeful one, then, trustful and fearless.  

Today, he is guiding you. With a light pressure of his thumb on your lower lip, the sharp edge of his nose brushing along your temple, his hand at the base of your neck grounding you, so you won’t go missing again. 

“It’s ok, baby,” he says, and you feel his words more than you hear them with the white noise filling your brain, “I know you do. Just say it. I got you.”

You close your eyes, inhale his scent. You take his hand.

“Je t’aime.”

****

[olibensstuff]

i like your shoelaces

Leav me alone

[m1d-45]

— To Bennett.

I see that you've been trying a lot to hide your emotions lately, as your explorations like always...don't go as planned. I know it's frustrating, I can see that you're trying your best to not give up, I admire your determination.

But, don't forget that bottling up your feelings is not the best way out for everything. It's okay to feel sad, to feel depressed. It's one of the things that makes you human.

I can't physically be by your side by now, I can't help you with your bad luck...But you can cry all you want. I'll make sure to watch over you in my own ways.

I have a gift for you, I hope you like it.

The letter has with it a handmade silver bracelet with little red jewels on it's intricate design, it looks resistant and not so easy to take off the moment you put on your wrist. A perfect fit for an adventure like him, there is also a little chibi drawing of the woman who wrote the letter, she's smiling.

bennett picks his way through the whispering woods carefully, making sure he doesn’t trip on anything. his expedition went horrible, if you could even call it that, and the last thing he needs is any dirt on his wounds. he’s already wrapped them—somebody as unlucky as him always keeps bandages on hand—but knowing his luck, they’d probably get dirty anyway.

his arms ache and his legs are sore, but he continues to trudge on, kicking aside a rock to fry and silently vent off some of his anger. unfortunately, he slips on some mud just beneath it, the scrapes on his hands stinging as he catches himself on a tree.

his eyes blur, the light from nearby lampgrass twisting and warping, but he wipes away his tears. now isn’t the time, not when it’s getting so late and he’s still not back at the city. the last thing he needs is to worry his dads…

except when he looks up, there’s still a bright spot in his vision. he worries, for a brief moment, that he’s somehow injured himself horribly, but when he lifts a hand to bat at it on instinct, he hits something.

the small star falls apart as he watches, dropping a letter, folded in thirds. when he opens it, a silver bracelet waits inside, shimmering stones inlaid on its surface. it’s hard to see with the dim lighting, so he looks around before sitting besides some lamp grass, slipping the bracelet on his wrist as he reads.

oh. you’ve… seen him.

he’s a bit embarrassed as he thinks over all the times frustration has caught up to him—at his luck, at the situations he finds himself in, at himself—and bleeds out through his eyes, all the times he’s forced himself onward because that was what all the good adventurers did, and maybe if he was like them some of his luck would dissipate. at the very least, maybe stop affecting those around him.

but you…

he clutched the letter tightly, eyes locked on the little sketch on the bottom of who he could only assume was you, giving him an encouraging smile.

maybe you couldn’t be with him. not yet. but he would always have you at his side.

[honey-crypt]

Ngl I kinda wanna draw your farmer benny. Can I? and if so got any references I can use?

OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG YES YES YOU CAN AAAAAAAA here’s his portrait! as well as a body type reference, a reference for their cane, and some clothing references 🩷🩷 also when we’re on the subject, anyone who wants to draw my farmer can absolutely do so as long as they show me their work so i can cry happy tears about it :3

[moonlitkilljoy]

Could you do the nine stripe flag, with the lavender stripe please? (For the npmd flags^^)

here you go!!! hope it's satisfactory <3

pride flags colorpicked from "The Summoning" from Nerdy Prudes Must Die [Gilbert Baker 9 Stripe Flag]

feel free to use with credit! list of flags pictured in other posts located below the cut

[part 1] [part 2] [part 3]

[flags in part 1: progress pride, philly pride, Gilbert Baker, lesbian, mlm, trans, nonbinary, intersex] [flags in part 2: bi, pan, agender, genderfluid, demigirl, demiboy] [flags in part 3: aro, ace, demiromantic, demisexual, aroace, aroallo]

[rosieaurora]

a tiny benny sketch bc i’ve missed him

[fenesst]

REMEMBER!

BE 👏 THAT 👏 BITCH!

Happy wear it purple day <3

[fire-feather-flies]

the tennis rivals (they love eachother)

[suugarbabe]

A love letter from me 👀 okay thanks byeeeee *exits stage left like, super fast* 🏃‍♀️💨

The way I already have this liked should probably be embarrassing 🫢🤧

But it’s not 😮‍💨 because I’m a slut for that man. A SLUT YOUR HONOR

[raptureshots]

another. weird long Rant abt Frank Fontaine.. :-)

(NOTE: this is all just. pure speculation and from the perspective of. If Frank Fontaine was real. all fun and games here!!! i just like talking abt my fav characters okayy!!!!)

Frank spending so much just. time in Rapture definitely had some sort of effect on him and his outlook on his life. Frank at his core is a conman who lies and steals and assumes other identities, chances are hes always had to be ready to leave everything behind at any given moment.

I don't think he's ever stayed stationary for that long. he most likely never had the chance to, yknow? because of that he also probably was never able to build up a lot of meaningful relationships. he's never had a support system, no friends (besides Reggie, shout out), no family, all because he'll never know how long he'll be able to stick around.

Never holding a solid identity probably never did wonders for Frank either. He'd always have to change and adapt Topside, become a whole new person. but in Rapture he had time to actually explore himself. learn about his own likes and dislikes. actually gain some sense of self instead of what the situation called him to be. He had a chance to be normal, to actually live a simple life.

Being Atlas as well probably changed him lots too. Being a Revolutionary is tough, but also having to constantly keep up the front he put up as well? Yes, Frank is experienced and talented in what he does, but Atlas had SO MANY PEOPLE looking up to him and his ideals. Chances are, part of him fell to deep into the Con at some points. Causing himself unnecessary stress. Just so it wouldn't all fall apart.

Which. also makes me think about his Boss Form. It's called his "Atlas Form". Atlas. Form. Atlas the voice of the people. Frank Fontaine IS Atlas. Which I mean, yeah obviously but. there's sometimes so just. harrowing about him like that, being labeled as "Atlas" . its just so weird to think about, to me at least.

Frank Fontaine is just. such a convoluted character when you think about it deeply. anyways I'll shut up now (^_^)/

[yuugen-benni]

I love you , everytime you write about Ayatsuji, I would say in my head "OH MY GEEE THEY DID IT AGAIN" and excitedly read it even though I am in the middle of poem recital

Oh god, thank you so muuuuuuuuuuuuuuch, I am usually embarrassed every time I write to him....Even though he's my favorite character;

And by the way, I saw your request and I love it!!! I'm kinda busy these days, but I think I'll finish this week at least

Tysm <3

[messilymoonlit]

[Image ID: a screenshot of an ask from tumblr user bacap07 reading "shuffle your favorite playlist and post the first five songs that come u. then copy/paste this ask to your favorite mutuals :+)" /end ID]

[Image ID: a screenshot of an ask from tumblr user end-of--the-line reading "shuffle your favorite playlist and post the first five songs that come up. then copy/paste this ask to your favorite mutuals :)". /.End ID]

TYSM TO @bacap07and @end-of--the-line FOR THE LOVELY ASKS <3 here you go >:]

Retrograde - Bad Cop, Bad Cop

Custer - Slipknot

Sprint (from "Ouran Highschool Host Club") - CyYu [cover]

Abigail's Lullaby - Metalocalypse: Dethklok

RANT - Bo Burnham

definitely A Collection Of Songs