#but godddd that scene is just so awful and sad

[autumnrory]

thinking about how like, if ASP had written season 7 with the final four words she used in the revival, that would've been a bummer no matter what, not because you can't make it work getting pregnant that young, obviously the whole premise of the show is someone who did make it work even younger than that, but with a reboot, it COULD HAVE been a truly lovely moment to end on rory telling her mom she's pregnant instead of the shock and horror (lol i saw a gifset the other day and lauren really overplayed the shock, it's so dramatic sdkjfksj like rory is 32, even if her situation isn't ideal, it's not as huge as it might've been at 22) like....just thinking how it could've been a different story, sure, with the typical drama and struggles we see in gilmore girls, but an ending where the pregnancy is good news would've been so much better, to see that bonding moment, to see lorelai find out she's going to be a grandmother and the two of them basking in the joy.....ugh it makes me so sad that they did that to rory honestbhly

[seiwas]

omg im scared my tags are gonna get cut out

were he not born to be a hero he must surely be born for this. <- I LOOOOVE THISS my GODD are u KIDDDDINGME i looooove that so much monty :(( how it ties back in to the start!!

and the way!! he uses what he learned on izuku. and izuku really DID burst into a million tears 🥺 poor guy probs needs it THE MOST WAAAH i loooove this lil interaction i am MUSH

and when he realises its different from touching you??? OHHHH. BOYYYYYY.

i love this monty thank u for writing this

STEADY BEGINNINGS ┊ TODOROKI SHOUTO

tags: GN reader, developing relationship (eventual friends to lovers), touch starved shouto, physical affection (hand holding + long hugs), good god the yearning, obliviousness, jealousy, fluff + angst, pro hero shouto, reader works at hero agency

wc: 3.8K

series masterlist: 2/5

Shouto was born to be a hero.

It is a sentiment shared by reporters and fans alike. Todoroki Shouto, the pride of Endeavor, the saving grace of his family name. True, his development had been entirely up to chance—no matter the intent or cruel desperation behind his father’s actions, he had to rely on the probability that the next offspring would win the genetic lottery—but low and behold, he did, and to many people that alone was a sign of destiny at work.

Ultimately, he chose to continue the path of being a hero himself, but no higher being put him there. His father did. At the time of his birth Shouto had not been a son, not even a baby. He was a project. A small, shapeless, squirmy thing. Malleable, like any young mind. It’s a miracle he retained any will and individuality.

Sometimes when alone with his thoughts, Shouto would hypothesise on the whys and the hows. The conclusion he always comes to is this: any sort of reality in which Shouto succumbs to his father’s ideals and manipulation would have to be a world in which his mother does not exist.

While his existence was planned, and wanted, he was to be a hero and as such, wasn’t cut from love—that came after. He loved his mother. So much so that when she hurt, he hurt. When she cried, he cried. She taught him what it meant to be gentle, to have hope, to aspire to be his own person. Years spent amongst the country's finest heroes and Shouto still regarded his mother as the bravest woman he knew, strong because she refused to be hardened by her circumstances; soft so that she can’t be broken again.

You are like his mother in that regard. Those same echoes of reassurance that softness isn’t weakness, and it isn’t earned. You’ve been touching him more as of late, as if determined to prove it. Static between brushed fingertips, words expressed by simply pressing your knees together, the weight of your hand on his bicep to garner his attention. The build up is subtle and cumulative and yet each instance strikes him with the magnitude of a thermodynamic explosion.

Nobody bats an eyelid to this shift in physicality, which makes it all the more difficult to determine whether he is reading into things or not. It could be that he’s noticing those small instances only because it’s you, and you are all he can think about lately.

You’ve given him permission to reciprocate. He merely has to ask for more if he wants it. What Shouto hadn’t accounted for is the unbearability of being vulnerable enough to ask. An innocent “can you hug me?” becomes so much more daunting to voice with all that longing crowded up behind it. He can’t help worrying you’ll see right through to the bottom of his desires.

A hand comes into view. Bakugo’s ash-smudged finger and thumb pinch and snap together in front of his face. “Come back to Earth, dumbass. Your thousand yard stare is scarin’ my new assistant”.

Shouto blinks out of his stupor and the blurred vignette surrounding his vision recedes. He glances at the skittish man sitting outside Bakugo’s office currently sending worried glances over his shoulder. “I think he’s more scared that you’re back,” Shouto intones dryly. “Isn’t he the fourth one this year?”

“Not my fault they’re all wimps,” Bakugo huffs. A slap reverberates around the office as he throws down a manila folder onto his desk and drops heavily into his chair. He regards Shouto with suspicion overtop his computer monitor. “Whatever you were just thinkin’ about—stop”.

“You don’t know what I’m thinking about”.

“I know you always manage to make Olympic level leaps in logic,” Bakugo rolls his eyes and tears open the folder. He slides out what Shouto assumes is a debrief and flips it between his fingers. Shouto keeps quiet. He reclines into the couch cushions and returns to reading the incident report on his lap, counting down from ten in the privacy of his mind. Anytime now.

Three, two, one.

“So what is it?” Bakugo asks, trying too hard to sound flippant but landing squarely on irritation. “Spit it out before you give yourself an aneurysm”.

Shouto opens his mouth and closes it again. A wave of hot embarrassment washes over him. He knows Bakugo will do him the kindness of being blunt and honest but it doesn’t make it any less humiliating to admit.

In their younger years Shouto saw something of a kindred spirit in Bakugo. He too did not like touch and aggressively voiced his distaste for it whenever he got the chance—which was often, because divine intervention sought fit to give him the most tactile, handsy friend group possible.

As they got older though, Shouto began to realise that the protests and threats were hollow. Despite being vehemently against affection, Bakugo would allow it anyway, and sometimes even seek it out. The aggression was bravado. Bakugo liked having his friends draped around his shoulders. He liked when Mina kissed his cheek, or Kaminari played with his hair, or Kirishima gathered him into a too-tight hug, or Sero tangled their ankles together on the couch.

Only, for him to comfortably accept it, Bakugo needed to act as though he were doing them a favour by allowing them into his space. And Bakugo’s friends played along without complaint.

From what he’s observed you are also an affectionate person. You are liberal with your warmth and adapt seamlessly to the boundaries of those around you. But you were also visibly uncomfortable whenever people took that affinity for intimacy as an open invitation, and recoiled if they encroached on your own.

Shouto has imagined reaching out only for your body to flinch away from him more times than he can count. It’s a battle staged in his head, ingrown fears. The possibility alone was enough to keep him from reciprocating, set in a state of fawn-like inertia.

“There’s somebody I want to get closer to. A friend,” he begins. Bakugo makes an inquisitive noise, props his cheek against his fist and narrows his eyes as he listens. Shouto retells the story in part, deciding to omit your name, and by the tail-end of it Bakugo’s forehead is deeply creased in dissatisfaction.

“You make all your own problems, Halfie. Y’know that?” he mutters, rubbing at the bridge of his nose and sinking back into his chair. “Fine, you don’t want to make this person uncomfortable, or whatever. If you need a hug so damn badly, why not ask Deku? Not like he’d say no”.

Knowing Bakugo would make his dilemma sound ridiculous is one thing, actually hearing it is another. “How do you know it isn’t about Midoriya,” Shouto returns petulantly.

“It ain’t Izuku or anyone else from your nerd squad,” Bakugo says, dropping his hand to drum on the desk. “I would’ve heard about it”.

“Why?”

“Because you don’t touch people. And that’s fuckin’ fine, yeah? But if you had, I know for a fact any one of them would’ve burst into tears and told everyone in a five mile radius”.

“Oh,” it leaves him a little off-kilter to hear. Shouto leans forward to rest his elbows on his knees, setting the report on the dark wood coffee table. The corner of the page is curled, and the spine is creased, and the ink annotation has smudged under his thumb. He details these things as he deliberates, the excuses cloying in his throat and thick like he might cry too.

Bakugo was right—if he craved close contact so badly, why couldn’t he go to Midoriya? He knows he would likely be met with enthusiasm.

“You don't have to tell me who. I don’t care. But you’re overthinking it,” Bakugo grunts at his lack of response, in a way that very much suggests that he cares. “Go ask. If they say ‘no’ it’s tough shit, but the world isn’t gonna end. From what you’ve told me they wouldn’t say ‘no’ anyway. Dumbass”.

Shouto nods and gives up the pretense of reading the paperwork. He feels coltish as he stands and brushes down his front, straightening the creases.

“You’re right”.

“I know”.

“Thank you, Bakugo,” he says. A small smile unfurls across his anxiety-bitten mouth. “You’re a good friend”.

“Shut up,” Bakugo grumbles. It’s a testament to his concern that he hadn’t cursed Shouto there and then. “Now get out of my office. What are you doing here in the first place? You got your own!”

“Yours gets all the sunlight. And it’s always quiet because nobody comes in here,” Shouto ignores the baleful slit of an eye Bakugo turns on him. “I’m going to take my lunch now”.

“Do what you want,” Bakugo dismisses haughtily, and Shouto smiles while thinking, not for the first time, that he’s very lucky to have friends like these.

The fidgety assistant bows as he exits and turns into the sun-drenched hallway. Warmth drapes around Shouto’s shoulders, lingering at his nape while he descends the dark stairwell where the light doesn’t reach. His boots thud against the linoleum, and he counts each footfall to keep his face neutral as his legs carry him toward your department.

Somewhere between one and one hundred and thirteen, a fraction of Shouto’s courage starts to dwindle. He grits his teeth. A hundred steps can’t be enough to dissuade him after decades of denying himself any kind of indulgence.

The further he goes into the support wing the more elaborate the layout becomes. You’re in research and development, assigned a workshop close to the quirk analysts. Heads turn as Shouto rolls through. Heroes didn’t often make personal visits to this area. If he thinks hard enough he could count a grand number of two past visits and neither of them were for you.

His stride falters when he catches sight of your nameplate. It is fixed to the wall outside your door, polished and gleaming proudly. Shouto traces the characters of your name engraved into steel before raising his hand to knock.

Your voice rings out from inside, “Come in!”

A pitched beeping sound comes from overhead. The workshop doors begin to open in a theatrical fashion, receding like curtains to reveal your space. The floor is mapped out with tape. Clear boundaries drawn between the work benches, the fume cupboards, the vault and your personal office, in an attempt at organised chaos. He might have been more interested in poking around for the first time if he had not felt on the edge of intrusion.

You’re tucked behind your curved desk surrounded by numerous monitors that dwarf your frame. Shouto furtively takes in your cute, rumpled appearance. The upper half of your coveralls have been undone to reveal an undervest, sleeves tied tight around and accentuating your waist.

“Take a seat, I’ll be with you in…” the dull tapping of practiced keystrokes comes to a stop as you notice him in the doorway. The professional veneer disappears. “Shouto?” you say, mostly to yourself. Your gaze slides beyond his shoulder, looking for whoever might be accompanying him. “Is everything okay?”

There’s a worried twist in your mouth that he wants to smudge away. A look in your eyes—a combination of warmth and weight that tugged at his being. Shouto rolls his shoulders, shaking off the tension, and moving deeper into your office. The doors close automatically behind him. “I’m okay,” he assures, taking the seat across from you.

Your expression gentles, and he likes how your gaze follows him. “I was wondering if you wanted to have lunch with me,” he continues. “But if you’re working I can head back”.

“Lunch?” you repeated. Your eyes darted to the corner of the monitor closest to you and promptly widened. “Oh, shit. When did that happen?”

An upswing of fondness catches him like a blow to the chest. His mouth quirks into a smirk. “How long have you been here?”

“Too long. I got lumped with a new project a few days ago and it’s almost done,” the monitors shut off one by one as you sheepishly press each button. Then you gave him a soft, apologetic look, “I’m sorry I’ve been so busy. Must’ve missed me if you came all the way down here”.

Dread shriked through him. The low whirring from the equipment scattered around your workspace is suddenly inordinately loud. Was he that obvious?

You, however, fail to notice Shouto’s anxiety and grab him around the wrist as you pivot the desk. “C’mon. Let’s go before the good stuff is gone,” you tell him.

Shouto had absolutely no clue what the ‘good stuff’ entailed—maybe he should’ve bothered to ask. Atleast it would take his mind off your hand. It’s wrapped around his sleeve, right where the fabric ends, loose enough for him to unshackle from if he wants. When he doesn’t protest the contact you stroke your thumb in an arc over the heel of his hand and squeeze.

Shouto falls into step, too caught up to realise you’ve taken him to the cafeteria. He expects you’ll drop his wrist in the presence of your colleagues, yet you adjust your grip and glance back at him with an encouraging tilt of your head.

“I’m starving. I think I’ll get a rice bowl. Smells pretty good today, don’t you think?”

Shouto hummed his agreement. He felt out of his depth, and he didn’t trust his voice. The spark of giddiness was doing embarrassing things to his throat. The line is mercifully short and before long he has a warm bowl of food held against his front.

“Did you want to sit in here? I can take us to one of the senior staff lounges instead if you want,” you cast a nervous look across the sparse crowd. “I mean, support engineers aren’t really gossiping types but…”

A petty part of him hoped the whispers would escalate. To have your name linked with his, to be known as a person that you cared about—he found that deeply satisfying, for reasons he couldn’t yet put his finger on.

Then again, being alone with you far eclipsed the appeal of flaunting your friendship. “The senior staff lounge sounds best,” he answers after a minute of feigned consideration. You nod, regretfully having dropped his hand, and motion for him to follow once more.

The lounge is a modest room with a kitchenette, a breakfast nook and a few bean bag chairs. It smells faintly like peeled oranges. There are post it notes and blueprints haphazardly stuck to the pinboard, covering an out of date calendar filled out in illegible scrawl. This is no shop awning. There is no rainfall to lend to the ambiance. But you are together in an enclosed space, and that is enough to make his heart beat in anticipation.

You scoot into the breakfast nook. He sits on the same side of the table and tries to subtly spread his knees enough to nudge your thigh. You side-glance in surprise but choose not to mention it. Instead you smile through your first mouthful and ask, “How've things been since I last saw you?”

Achy, like he’s used an atrophied muscle. Lonely, and frustrating beyond words. But he doesn’t say any of that. He digs crescents into his thigh through his pant leg and says, “Boring”.

“Figured that might be the case. I saw the livestream of you fighting Haywire,” you bump your shoulder against his. “The Commission probably dumped a whole load of paperwork on you, huh?”

Shouto wrinkles his nose. He hoped you hadn’t caught that fight. The pursuit of Haywire—an eco terrorist with an electrical quirk—managed to cause an unprecedented amount of damage to the city infrastructure.

“You handled it as best you could. The power grid can be fixed. What’s important is people are alive because of you,” a warm weight covers the fingers restlessly whittling at his pant leg. You pet his hand, “I’m glad you weren’t hurt”.

Guided solely by his impulses, the instant you start to draw back he envelops the top of your hand and sandwiches it between his own. He goes hot and cold all over in quick succession. Boundaries, he reminds himself. But you’re not pulling away. You’re studying him with a knowing gleam in your eye.

Shouto clears his throat. Heat pricks across his skin, concentrated in his cheekbones. “Sorry,” he says. You can ask, a memory echoes. “Is this okay?”

“You don’t have to apologise. I told you it’s fine,” you reply firmly. “I’m happy to remind you if you need to hear it”.

“No, I…” his brow furrows. “I’ve been thinking”.

“That’s not good”.

Shouto snorts and shakes his head, his amusement petering out into a shallow breath. “I want to ask. I’ve wanted to ask like you said I could,” he explains vaguely. “I’m not very good at it, I think”.

You make a soft, understanding sound that immediately sets him at ease. “I guess, after denying yourself something for so long it can be scary to let yourself have it again,” you murmur, a faraway look in your eyes. After a pensive moment the sheen fades and your laughter lines deepen, “I’ll do what I did before, then. If you look like you need a hug I’ll ask you instead”.

“In what way do I ‘look like’ I need a hug?”

“You get this—I don’t know how to explain it,” you gesture vaguely at him. “This blankness about you, but not your normal resting face, I mean you don’t seem all there. I don’t like it. I like it best when you’re happy”.

“Ah,” comes his eloquent response. Shouto drops his gaze to where your hands knot together. Every quark in his body is urging him to get closer, and remain close. “Bakugo thinks I should try to hug Midoriya, too,” he adds, oddly flustered.

“Huh. You talked to Bakugo about—? That’s a surprise. A nice surprise, I mean! Well, Midoriya does give great hugs. It would be good for you to…”

Shouto’s thoughts grow louder and he frowns down at his rice. You’re saying something about physical touch and wellness and friends. Dopamine and serotonin. It barely registers. Two truths are pinging around his skull.

You have hugged Midoriya. Of course you have. You’re friends.

You think he’s great at it.

Why is that so unsettling? Teenagers think like this. Single minded and overly emotional.

He feels the shifting of your knuckles under his palm. “Hey. You’ll need one of these back if you’re going to eat,” you say.

“Right,” he lifts his left hand and picks up his chopsticks to take a pinch of rice from his bowl. He chews until the clamouring in his mind has settled, and you patiently accept his stoic silence without explanation. Shouto hasn’t been this awkward since highschool, and even then he was too wrapped up in his familial problems to be aware of it.

“What’s the project you’ve been working on?” he eventually asks.

You take the change of topic in your stride, leaning closer and lowering your voice to an excited whisper, “I’m not supposed to tell you but—it’s for Deku’s new costume”.

“Midoriya is getting a new costume?” Shouto replies. You playfully shush him and he pouts a little.

“Don’t sulk. He doesn’t know yet either,” you poke a chopstick at the corner of his jutted mouth. “It’s my job to prepare a design portfolio and talk through everything next week. You’ll get a new one too, when you break the top five”.

“If,” he amends.

“You don’t think you’ll move up?”

“Reaching the top was never really a priority for me,” Shouto’s attention splinters, half of his focus on the conversation and the other on the sensation of your skin. He considers overturning his hand to entwine your fingers. “I just want to be the best hero I can be”.

You hum, and as if plucking the desire right from his mind, absentmindedly slip into the gaps between his fingers. Shouto steadies his breathing and takes another mouthful.

The rest of the hour passes, syrupy and slow like molasses. By the final minute Shouto’s palm is sticky and reluctant to part from yours. You usher him out from the breakfast nook first, stacking the empty bowls before directing him back toward the emptied cafeteria.

You slide the bowls along the counter for the kitchen staff to take. Then you wipe your hands down your front as you pivot to face him, thrusting out both arms as he stands frozen.

“Can I hug you?”

Shouto touches his face and you laugh.

“This is because I want one,” you clarify with a warm grin, beckoning him closer.

Shouto inhales steps into the embrace, his arms instinctively wrapping around your back. There are less layers this time—the heat of your body is overwhelming, alongside the gentle rise of goosebumps across your bare shoulders. Your breath fell gently on his collarbone, his head lowering to curl into you. He thinks, were he not born to be a hero, he must surely be born for this.

“Thank you,” you mumble, squeezing his waste a final time as you retreat. “I’ll talk to you later, yeah?”

Shouto nods. Your presence moves away like the sun being blocked out and he watches you go, departing words caught in his teeth, an incessant buzz in his fingertips. The walk back to his office is a gauzy yellow haze. Every physiological response in his body told him that he was in a free fall, despite his feet being firmly on the ground.

“Shouto!”

Shouto halts mid-step at the familiar voice. He turns to look at Izuku, at the tentative beginnings of his smile. “Izuku,” he says.

“We missed you at lunch—are you feeling alright?” Izuku asks, slightly bemused. “You look kinda… floaty,” his eyes are dark, softened in the afternoon light as they sweep over Shouto’s figure and his face.

"Izuku," Shouto said before he could convince himself otherwise, “Do you want a hug?”

The innocent question appeared to crash into Izuku with the levity of a bullet train in motion. Tears sprang to his eyes, brighter now. Shouto tenses as he is swept into a solid hug. Izuku smells like fresh air, sweat and sweet-salty broth. He holds Shouto as though trying to keep his seams from bursting; thick arms are secure around his shoulders, and a rough palm rubs broad strokes down his back, smoothing the tension until Shouto is relaxed.

You were right. Izuku does give great hugs. Shouto came away doughy, and fuller, and with the stark realisation that while touching Izuku soothed the ache, it still felt completely different to touching you.

Later, as he leaned his head against the desk surface, he sluggishly contemplated the implications of that.

[forcebook]

i know i’m the world’s most suspicious person to talk about forcebook but MY GOD this episode of peaceful property filled me with awe and made me love force and book even more

so much of their characters was about physicality, communicating through dances and glances and playfulness (this last one being one of forcebook’s strongest points alskskks) and they did it all so well!

you could effortlessly tell book’s character was better at dancing than force’s and GODDDD BOOK KASIDET HOW FAR YOU’VE COME!!! THE ACTOR YOU’VE BECOME!!!! the sweetness he poured into vicha’s character, the silent but deep feelings running under the surface. his love was quieter but devastatingly powerful and losing phoom broke him beyond repairing

all with little dialogue and the world’s saddest face brought to you by an ever growing actor like book!!!

and force just took my breath away with the sad scenes. he’s become so good at showing vulnerability on screen and you could see all of phoom’s suffering and heartbreak. he was just a kid and his mother’s rage was far too strong for him to face but GOD phoom loved vicha, he loves him, always will!!!!!

phoom and vicha’s connection is so strong that vicha won’t leave this earth. they don’t really want to separate even though death already did it. it’s heartbreaking, it’s moving, it’s so very HUMAN

all portrayed beautifully by force and book!!!!! their chemistry is, as always, UNMATCHED!!!! and the actor who played older force too. what a performance!!! writing through my tears!!!! this was excellent tv!!!!

[delusionalbitchinthehouse]

So, I saw the French production of Les Misérables at the Théâtre du Châtelet and oh my fucking godddd.

I loved it so much, I was pretty close to the stage so I had a great view (I was on a folding seat tho so my ass was KILLING me but it was worth it lmao)

The set was so rich and cleverly arranged, very detailed and dynamic, i really thought it was impressive (I had only seen in live the staged concert before that so it was a big jump in terms of staging), and the costumes were gorgeous, I would kill to get a more thorough look at them.

The actors were fantastic, Fantine got tears out of me almost immediately, Valjean seemed so gentle and lovely, Cosette and Marius were the cutest, Javert was so driven and intimidating, Enjolras was OOZING righteous fury and determination it was crazy, Gavroche was so funny and playful, Grantaire was more optimistic than he usually is but you get to see him gradually lose hope and that's heartbreaking, The Thénardiers were more sinister than usual though still pretty funny in an awful way if you know what I mean, and Eponine's feelings were so raw I loved it.

As a bilingual french girl, being able to compare the lyrics in the two languages was sooo interesting, and I do sometimes have issues with french songs but those were genuinely soo good, so yeah, loved it.

Extensive yapping below the cut, be warned :

Gavroche's death was AWFUL, he dragged himself all the way back while still trying to sing before collapsing, you could hear people gasping and sobbing

Some actors were entering from the back of the theater, and since I was at the end of the row they were literally right next to me, during the finale an actor was singing almost in my ear while waving his flag lmao, it was so cool

The Amis de L'ABC's death was as painful as ever, shout out to the guy playing Enjolras who had to stay hanging from one leg for at least a good minute, i wouldn't have wanted to be in his place lmao

Valjean actually lifting the cart was super cool btw, that's my favorite senior citizen with ungodly strenght right there

The prostitues being more solidary with Fantine than the factory women and trying to protect her from Javert was a nice touch i think

The audience couldn't help snorting when Eponine sang the french version of "little he knows little he sees" because she was saying something like "y comprend rien" in a tone that clearly read something like "is he fucking stupid wtf", even though it's actually pretty sad

When Valjean and Javert were fighting right after Fantine's death, the nuns were trying to stop them (and more specifically Javert because mf had a whole-ass rifle, man was NOT playing) from killing each other, so when Valjean knocked the gun out of Javert's hands one of the nun grabbed it, panicked, looked around and hid it under a patient's mattress lmao.

Marius deadass nearly knocked himself uncouncious against the wall of Valjean's property while climbing it, it was weirdly endearing to see and sooo in character

During Empty Chairs At Empty Tables (Seul Devant Ces Tables Vides), instead of the students coming back in the background to bring candles, their shadows were projected behind Marius and somehow it made me cry even harder (also it fitted the whole "phantom shadows on the floor" bit super well)

Javert's suicide had me clutching my pearls because I actually thought for a second he'd fall for real

During the wedding scene, Thénardier tried to make the orchestra play again because he interupted them, called "maestro", but it was a woman so she corrected him and the whole audience clapped for her for a good minute, you could see Thénardier's actor trying not to smile it was pretty cute

Grantaire was so playful and touchy with all the Amis it was adorable, he kept fucking around just for their amusement and urgh I love him so much you know ? Also he took such good care of Gav and crumbled when he died :(

Gavroche was soooo insolent, it took two people to drag him away from Javert when he was roasting him on the barricade (also right after Stars Gavroche said that Javert thought he was "le p'tit Jésus" lmaoo)

Enjolras tried to hug Grantaire after Gav's death but R flinched away </3

Also one of the students (idk which one it was, I think it might've been Courf or Joly but i'm not sure) noticed Eponine dying in Marius' arms and ran to get bandages but he was too late :(

When Enjolras asks all the women and fathers to leave, the scene where everyone was saying goodbye was heartbreaking, you didn't even needed to hear them talk, I really liked that they took the time to show that

I swear Enjolras had so much energy, man was RUNNING around to get his point across (My mom elbowed me so hard when he started singing, she knows what's up)

Cosette actually recognized Eponine, and for a second they just stared at each other like "oh, shit, I know you"

I know the students also being guests for the wedding is because they needed people to fill the roles but I like to think there's a symbolic behind it and they were there in spirit because I am in Denial tm

Also Grantaire doing everything and anything to catch Enjolras' attention during Red And Black !!!! Joking around, patting or downright grabbing his arm, bumping shoulders, constantly calling his name....my boys !!! I love them so much <3

[staliasjeronica]

Riverdale S5 Ep16 Thoughts *Spoilers*

Thoughts under cut to keep tag clean!

- Archie feeling guilty about his platoon :(

- “Considering you always screw things up…” GO OFF QUEEN!

- Oh thank you for stopping the random musical number but still fuck you Penelope. ‘A young man of few words’ the writers coming after themselves wow

- Jughead 🥺🥺 but what was the point of that scene with Alice (though I’m glad to see her) like—they could’ve just waited for Betty to be available…

- Jughead apologizing to Principal Weatherbee for his apology tour

- Hermosa and Reggie ew but also Veronica’s reaction is priceless. "What KIND of thing?"But it’s sad yet telling that she had more reaction to Reggie x Hermosa than Barcheating. Fuck these writers smh

- I mean Penelope should be in jail but we’re gonna skirt over that huh… but anyways lets upstage her for the millionth time

- THE ANIMOSITY IN VERONICA’S VOICE ASDFGHJKL;

- God poor Archie…

- “I don’t think it’s a war you can win.” “Maybe not, but it’s a war worth fighting.” YES ARCHIE GO TAKE DOWN GENERAL TAYLOR!

- Hiram being dumb enough to not change his locks after his previous co-worker (?) goes to work with his daughter/rival

- OMG CHERONICA?! FUCK. bugdead really helping everyone actually get screen time together we love to see it! fuck bhva <3

- Jughead wearing purple, Jeronica’s color muah

- Jabitha in Pop’s <3

- Betty sabotaging Jughead in whatever way possible without even truly meaning to r.i.p.

- I hate this ministry cult church bs plot but Cheryl’s outfit is *chef’s kiss*

- Archie being Archie and doing the good thing by asking him to step down, hoping/believing that he would be as good as him and step down :(

- … He’s still a solider who WENT TO WAR? Saw awful shit? The army is not some elite group you freak

- Better opening wounds than to let some asshole gets away with murdering many men and therefore CREATING those open wounds...

- Jughead don’t use her novels… don’t do it… I know you will and that you’ll end up not going through with it but PLEASE

- God seeing the boy in the hallway all messed up is amazing cinematography, but feels kind of out of place for Riverdale. They can only write and shoot well when it’s a character and plot focused episode instead of an insane all over the place episode

- LMAO VERONICA SAID FUCK YOU HIRAM AS SHE SHOULD HAVE! Not Hiram calling Veronica petty…??? He’s the petty child, aka a little bitch as Josie puts it.

- Of COURSE Nana Rose was a beekeeper…

- That coptercab thing sounds like an awful idea asdfghjkl;

- Veronica finally getting rid of Chad from her life as she should!

- Jughead drinking alcohol :( He was clean for a week my poor baby, but it’s so hard to kick… hopefully the writers actually allow him to grow and get better

- I know bh don’t have sex or anythning but this music is so… suggestive?? Why make it sound like they’re gonna get together again stop babying the Bughead’s after all they’ve done to everyone and this show??? Let them whine and cry

- The guilt Eric must feel for doing that FUCK “let me bring this home for you, it would be my honor” stop this is so 🥺😭

- Penelope decides to stop them after they’ve done two “miracles”??? okay… lol

- WHOREMONGER AND ESCAPED CONVICT if you want her gone just send her back?? QUEEN OF TTHE BEES BROOOO her making her mother flinch damnnnn

- ERIC GOING WITH ARCHIE AWW what a G though

- VERONICA IN PINK MUAH! “If you’re gonna bee a big boy, you gotta party like a big boy.”

- “You’ve impressed me, Chad.” ew over an awful idea fajsdlfahsf okay

- “probably not, Jughead, but-“ the way they’re speaking is so awkward

- Why does Jughead have to apologize for the voicemail when he said nothing wrong?? Sure it was a bit much and toxic but he was RIGHT why can’t people call out Betty?

- “I’m in recovery”Jughead says, drinking alcohol...

- Betty’s not gonna apologize for cheating huh… oh yeah lets also bring up the fact that you stole Yale from Jughead.

- Betty’s more comfortable with serial killers than being a normal person… yeah we know Betty

- Betty choosing a serial killer over Jughead BUGDEAD!

- Jughead she’s never taken accountability, she’s not going to stop

- Jughead admitting it wasn’t his novel. Good for him, even though he’s gonna lose his career :(

- BETTY JUST LEAVING LMAO OKAY—

- “my boysenberry is blowing up!” asdfghjkl; Veronica sabotaging Chad MUAH WE STAN! YOU’LL NEVER BE AN ALPHA, CHAD, YOU’RE A BORN BETA.

- So now everyone knows that Chad crashed the helicopter and nothing’s gonna happen bc of it huh

- JABITHA GOT A POP’S HANDHOLD OH MY GODDDD

- “Why are you so nice to me?” Jughead never being able to tell when anyone (aka Tabitha and Veronica) is into him what a babie

- It’s so telling that Betty sees Jughead drinking and says absolutely nothing and only talks about what’s going on with her, but Tabitha immediately makes sure that he’s going to continue going to AA and get better. Jabitha eating Bughead up (which isn’t hard to do considering Bughead was never anything good)

- THEY TOOK GENERAL TAYLOR DOWN!! And Eric isn’t in trouble 🥺🥺

- Tabitha going to help Betty muah we love one of the best girls in Riverdale!

- Not Cheryl thinking she’s a witch… like sure I’ve thought of this for a CAOS/Riverdale crossover but—

- “I’ve got this bad feeling about what happens next.” me after every episode of Riverdale bc of thee dumb ass plots

- When the two miners are Archie and Eric and we get Betty digging him out despite how dangerous it is!

- “If Archie dies, you die.” We stan Veronica Lodge <3

[sweetangelanon]

Oz comes off to me as either having a skunk furb

A snowball

OR CHURCH MOUSE

THE VOTING STARTS NOW

OSWALD NEEDS A FURBY STAT!!! HE NEEDS ONE RIGHT NEEOOWWW!!!!! he HE NEEDS HIS LITTLE BUUDDDYY

[oncefutureemrys]

Title 1: When The Clock Strikes Twelve.

Title 2: All Eyes On Us.

Bc I'm awful and couldn't choose which to send you

ooooo I LOVE YOUR TITLESS hehe i already have some ideas... oh godddd

Hopefully you like themmmmmm!

When The Clock Strikes Twelve

They say that when the clock strikes twelve on hunting day, those who are left outside are instantly killed.

They say that those that are left outside are picked since birth — that the tiny marks they are born with signify that the Gods picked them for a reason: to be their ultimate sacrifice.

When the mothers and fathers cry and beg to not take their children away, they say that this is how it must be, that this is the way to return the favor to the Gods.

When the children attempt to rebel against the system, attempt to gain back the life they think they deserve, they say that these individuals should feel lucky that they will be sacrificed, that they should wear their marks with honor.

When the people question the motive, they repeat the same phrase that they had always had: that those who were born with the marks were to ultimately give their life over to the Gods. 

They say it over and over again until the mothers and fathers stop crying, until the children who were lucky to be marked accept their fate. They repeat it over and over until the people stop questioning it, believing in their words.

But Merlin’s never believed that.

Even when he’s been taught that this was what the Gods wanted from him, even when he was taught that he would never live past his eighteenth birthday, even when he was told to never dream because he would never get experience any of them.

Merlin had never believed.

They say that when the clock strikes twelve on hunting day, those who are left outside are instantly killed.

But Merlin’s not about to let that happen.

-OR-

A world where those who are born with soul markings are incorrectly thought to be markings signifying a sacrifice to the Gods. Merlin, “lucky” to have such a marking, is told that he must stand outside at midnight on hunting day as a way to appease the Gods.

And it’s during that same day that he decides to finally make a break for it.

At first I got Cinderella vibes from it... and then... this is what happened haha. so uhhhhh this is a thing I guess. 

All Eyes On Us

Arthur could not believe that he had gotten the role.

He had been wanting to be an actor since his first play in primary school and had never quit since then. There had been many people who had stood in his way ever since, but he had pushed through and it seemed to have finally paid off as he was standing right outside the door to his destiny, having just been given a role that would boost his career.

Sure, he had given up so many of his other dreams, his other wants for this moment and while Arthur’s heart sunk a little at all he had lost, he knew that it was for the best. This was his first dream, this was what he truly wanted. And at the end of the day, he was happy to be in the position he was now.

Arthur takes a deep breath before nodding to himself, straightening his shoulders and knocking in the door. They allow him access and he opens the door, about to start a new journey, a journey that Arthur is so lucky and fortunate to be on.

And then he stops as soon as he enters, fixated on a familiar face. His eyes widen and his breathing stops and his mouth is wide open and his heart constricts. He’s suddenly remembering memories from five years ago — memories of giggles of joy, of inside jokes and stolen looks, of midnight meet-ups and fake flirting. Memories of light kisses, and secret handholding, and wide, happy grins. Memories of cuddles on the couch, of waking up early just to watch the rise and fall of his chest, watching his dark curls fall down his face. He’s reminded of angry fights and slamming doors and heartfelt apologies and tearful goodbyes and loud silences that neither of them knew how to fill.

He’s reminded of all of this as he stands idiotically in the middle of the room, looking at the same man he had first ever loved. The man he was still in hopelessly in love with.

-OR-

Merlin and Arthur were in a committed relationship until Arthur decided to leave it, believing it would distract him from his goals of becoming an actor.

Now, five years later, they’re both the lead stars in a romantic movie, and suddenly all of those old feelings Arthur had pushed away come hurtling back into his life.

Unfortunately for him, he now has to pretend he’s madly in love with Merlin on screen while also simultaneously pretending he’s not completely and stupidly in love with Merlin off screen. To make matters worse, Merlin’s in a committed relationship and doesn’t seem to be interested in Arthur in the slightest. Coupled with the fact that the fans are shipping them crazily, inching their way closer to the truth of their past, and Arthur’s life has just gotten a whole lot crazier than ever before.

I’ve actually had that fic in mind for some time now so when I saw the title I immediately thought of that idea and so now here it is.

Anyway, hope you liked the present! See, I’m not evil and send you sad scenes to cry to. This is just me letting you fall into a false sense of security before I rip it away from you by sending you all of the sad scenes from the show.

Anyway, if you want more ideas, send me a fake fic title and a ship and I’ll see what I can do!

[lightwoodsmagic]

I didn’t know you liked Shadowhunters!!!

Hiya love!

I love this ask because my url is lightwoods (Alec) magic (for Magnus) and not many people make the connection! Also they’re still my header 🥰

I would d i e for Alec Lightwood and Magnus Bane, individually and as a couple. I could talk for literal HOURS about how wonderfully their relationship was represented and shown and how healthy their communication was and their growth both as individuals and as a couple and just. I could talk for HOURS, anon.

Matt and Harry were also brilliant together, onscreen and off, and I could gush about their chemistry and friendship forever.

I will not, though. I will spare you all having to deal with that.

I also will not talk about the books except to say they’re awful in comparison to the show and yes I read them before the show and also yes CC is the literal worst.

I WILL MAKE YOU LOOK AT MALEC GIFS THO because you’ve sent me into a spiral, fuck.

LOOK AT THEM. LAUGHING AND KISSING JUST 😪 this whole scene was so beautiful.

The desperation?! The overwhelming relief when he realises Magnus isn’t dead? Fuck me UP.

CONTROL YOUR FOND, Lightwood. Jesus.

Also Alec freaking out over his mum and Magnus finally getting along was a mood.

Baby gay closeted Alec overwhlemed by beautiful glittery man.

That scene. Always. Fucks me up. It is SO beautifully devastating and raw and just. It’s my FAVOURITE Malec scene, which is massive considering its SO sad and heartbreaking, but wow. The nuzzle because he thinks they’re okay right before Magnus shatters everything? Oof.

Although THIS SCENE?! Fucked me up DAYS. So fucking heart wrenching. Magnus didn’t have anything left and Alec hated making the decision but thought he was saving Magnus’ life and couldn’t tell him?! GOD.

GODDDD STOP IT 😪

...um excuse me sirs this is...a training room? Other people do stuff here?

And of COURSE my all time favourite boy saying ‘fuck you’ to the bullshit laws and rules and stopping his arranged marriage to kiss the love of his life.

Wow I’m not okay.

Anyway, I miss Malec.

[booasaur]

I watch New Amsterdam with my grandma sometimes and godddd Lauren and Leyla!!! 😍 My grandma was as unsurprised as I was lol. I haven’t seen the whole show and idk if I will (medical dramas/hospitals give me massive anxiety) but I love them and am definitely more invested now haha.

Yesss, I love that we all called it. Although it makes me laugh when I’m posting gifsets of their kiss now and my xkit quick tags still have “but subtext”. To think I only stopped using that for them starting last ep. But it did made the build better, that they took so much time developing the relationship first.

Aw, you don’t need to force yourself, there is a lot of pain and sadness, even if this is one of the more uplifting medical shows. For what it’s worth, my friend who also gets anxious at certain scenes and just, death, binged the whole show, but watched the medical bits at x2 speed. Not that you have to, of course, just mentioning that. There’s a lot of characterization in between them, if you wanna skip around.

And isn’t the feeling of investment building up over time fun! I have like, 17 asks left to answer about just last night and that’s so much for a ship that technically just started, but it’s that buildup, right, people getting weeks to check it out before it even went canon. As much as I love the convenience of binge shows, I can’t help but imagine what the experience would be like if series like The Wilds and TBH and Atypical were airing weekly.

[shirks-all-responsibilities]

Oh my GOD the INTENSITY of this in-progress fic, everything has such fateful WEIGHT, I liiiiiiive for it in fic, I was as completely absorbed and sucked into their world as they are with each other, everything dropping away while reading and in parts I couldn't be bothered to tend to anything IRL because I HAD TO KNOW WHAT HAPPENED NEXT AT ALL COSTS AND NOTHING ELSE MATTERED cuz the tropes and the whole angsty-soulmates-fatefully-finding-one-another-to-roughly-and-obsessively-fuck-the-sadness-and-pain-out-of-each-other-but-ope-it's-become-so-much-more GIVES ME LIFE, whew!! This is what fic is forrrr! It's JUST what I was looking for to distract myself from certain recent events. And that masterlist summary you wrote? Masterful, who wouldn't be instantly obsessed with this fic reading that?

Reading this I was constantly in awe of a line, a phrase, of a WORD, of the way meanings and feelings and reflections are seemingly found around every corner of the page.

And like all great smut, you write with such interiority about how things FEEL physically and emotionally to be the recipient of our BIG BOY Frankie and allllll that entails for reader and her past traumas and ways of dealing with pain. These two FUCK my godddd!! But there is really something special here that I can't explain.

And this line???? THIS LINE?????? "He needs to fuck you deep and full, find you in that place within yourself and wreck you there. He needs to make sure you’re alright. Make sure you’re real. Make sure you’re his." HE NEEDS TO FIND YOU IN THAT PLACE WITHIN YOURSELF AND WRECK YOU THERE? *stares at wall for 40 minutes in contemplation*

The Frankie worship in this is just *chef's kiss." I mean: "You watch him walk back toward you, his naked body glistening with sweat, highlighted in shadows in the warm lighting. You think about how beautiful it is, about your extensive, intimate knowledge of it. How it feels under your touch, every single part of him. How this knowledge is now constituent of the woman you have become. You know the callousness of his palms that catches at your clothes. You know the silkiness of his curls around your fingers, the smoothness of his chest against your breasts, the taste of his mouth and the bobbing of his pebbled throat between your lips. The thicker skin of his shoulders, tanned and freckled. The coarseness of the darker hairs under his navel, and how they feel rubbing at your clit. You know the weight of his cock in your hand, on your tongue, inside your walls." YAAAASSS GIRL GIMME A SOLILOQUY.

And in so many places I was just in awe of the sentiment of the idea being expressed, like this: "Your mind keeps wandering to the previous Friday, when you sat nestled into Frankie’s side as he drove aimlessly. To the smooth fabric of his jacket under your cheek, to the heat of his chest, to his solid breadth. You stop it. The memory is always a thought away. But it shouldn’t be summoned at random. You can’t risk its erosion. There won’t be another one." WHAT A WAY of treating a memory!! Of giving a memory such precious and irreplacable importance that the sheer thought of it might corrode it. Obsessed with this.

I love her inexperience, those lines about how "no one seems to notice" that's she's different after having done something so supposedly unlike her when really she has had a life of having no sense of self or what she really wants.

And then there was the way you wrote reader's pain. That scene with Adrian when she wakes up from the hospital is one of the most quietly but viscerally upsetting scenes I have read, it made me SO uncomfortable and upset for her that I was practically crawling out of my skin, the way she is so vulnerable and the sinister way he completely and contemptuously disregards her needs and comfort and humanity, the REAL fear and anxiety she feels and how unsafe she feels was PALPABLE. And the way the beeping of the heart monitor/equipment is woven into the scene was ABSOLUTELY MASTERFUL, I was just STUNNED, to have it culminate at the end of the scene with the beeping underscoring the sheer horrifying panic she feels that she may lost Frankie forever? INCREDIBLY DELICIOUS ANGST AND SCENE BUILDING. And that line about her feeling like a "butterfly pinned in a glass case" was just…

I feel like I haven't even scratched the surface of all the great things about this fic, about how you characterized the reader, about Frankie's dark edges and softness all within him, about all the details…there's SO much in this fic that I think most of us are intimidated to even try to respond. Loved this one.

And I'm just looking at the masterlist seeing there there is only ONE more chapter and then only an epilogue like 👀👀👀👀. SOOOO beyond excited to read what you have in store for the last two installments of this story!!!

Tonight you belong to me, chapter 5

Summary: He comes to you every Friday, in a shady motel on the outskirts of town. Time flies, in room number 2. How much longer do you have, just for the two of you?

Pairing: Frankie Morales x fem!Reader (OFC)

Rating: Explicit 🔞 see series masterlist for extensive tw.

A/N: Happy Frankie Friday, Orange bedroom besties 🧡 It's been a hot minute, I sincerely apologise. Thank you to everyone who stuck around, I hope it was worth it, and thank you to everyone who just passed by 🧡 @frannyzooey my love, thank you for your help on the Americanisms, invaluable as always 🧡

Word count: 13.8k

[prev] * [series masterlist] * [next]

Chapter 5: Time in a bottle

It’s late when you pull into the parking lot. Dusk cloaks the motel in its fuzzy veil, the surroundings fading in diffuse shadows. The single-story building stands out in the twilight, akin to an old ship. Wooden poles for masts, hanging lamps swaying gently in the briny breeze, their lights blurry in the muggy air. Tacky and warm, it wafts in through your car’s open windows, dampening the exposed skin of your forearms and the back of your neck. 

On the passenger seat, your iPhone’s screen glows in the semi-darkness with an incoming call. 

Adrian.  

“What now?” you sigh, through clenched teeth. 

Your eyes dart up to Frankie’s truck parked in front of you. The word FORD stretched in chrome letters on the tailgate, shining bright in your headlights. 

The familiar pull awakens between your constricted lungs. A pounding, greedy little tug compelling you to get out of your car and cover the distance to the room as quickly as your step will carry you. But you want to calm your nerves first. Slow down your heart rate, deepen your breathing. 

That discussion you had with your father, earlier this afternoon, still clings to your frame. The humiliation conveyed by his carefully chosen words like tar, black and viscous. You can almost smell its foul stench. And you don’t want to bring any of it inside. 

It’s only the third time Frankie gets here before you, if you count that very first Friday back in September. And the second, since you came back from Colorado earlier this month. The pressure in your rib cage eases at the memory of that sweet evening. 

All day long, you had rushed through your counting routine. Through the long, icy corridors of your glass prison. Rushed on the 589 northbound. Rushed to strangle the uncertainty of his presence there. 

It was a few minutes past 7pm when you parked next to his truck, his early presence cranking up your anxiousness. You got out of your car with an anguished scowl, and you all but ran toward the porch, toward the brass number 2, shoes scuffing the gravel. 

The door swung open the very second you stepped under the overhang. A flash of dimple, and his arms wrapped around your waist. He scooped you up from the floor, swift and easy, carrying you inside. Hungry kisses, teeth scraping at your jaw, down the line of your neck. A throaty husk of Happy New Year, Lee Abbott, as he tugged your clothes off your body that thrummed with his scent and his voice and his arms and his taste. 

With the density of him. 

He lifted you again, your short, giggly yelp bouncing across the room as he hauled you over his shoulder with an easy force. His steps long and balanced, as if your weight was inconsequential to his strength. 

In the dim bathroom, he put you down directly into the tub. There, he unbuckled his belt and slid down his jeans, looking at you with a mischievous grin you’d never seen before and that fitted his gorgeous face a little too well. 

“Told you I’d fuck you in this shower.” 

Thirty seconds later, you were standing together under an aggressive stream of scalding water, his broad back shielding you from the high pressure, steam blurring the tiles and the mirror. You pressed your face into his neck, hands splayed over his chest, feeling it heave with his low, rumbling chuckle. 

“ That’s the best I could do. This place is trash,” he scoffed, lips grazing your ear. 

“ It’s perfect,” you laughed. 

Another notification lights up your screen, yanking you back into the stifling cab of the sedan, to the nagging cramp poking your rib cage, to your hindered breathing. 

It glowers at you, bold black letters over a steel gray rectangle. 

MESSAGES 

Adrian

Your eyes flicker back to the red truck, your face crunching into a grimace. 

“Shit,” you grit, grabbing the phone and quickly pressing the home button before you can change your mind.  

The lock screen fades as the message app pops open. You squint against the brightness of the glowing white screen. 

I made it, babe. I fucking made it. You’re talking to the new senior partner of Balmer & Steigt.  Fuck yeah. I finally get what I fucking deserve.  

The gray ellipses start blinking underneath the bubble. You frown, bracing yourself. 

I couldn’t have made it without you. This is your victory as much as mine.

You scoff, but the dread-inducing ellipses keep bouncing happily. Fantastic. There’s more coming.

I got you something. Something fancy for my fancy girl.

“Oh, hell no.”  

Leaning down, you pick up the roomy I ❤ NY tote bag Ava got you as a Christmas present and dump your phone into it, before stuffing the bag under your seat. 

If only you could take a full breath. If only your chest would expend. It’s not that bad, really. A few months back, you would have been physically unable to keep going with your day after that conversation with your father. Let alone drive. You’d have suffocated, chocked up on your panic, until you’d been left with no choice other than to gulp down a pill, or two, or three, topped off with a swig of gin. The bitter taste of surrendering. 

Is that what it means, to give oneself some grace? You’re doing good, you’re doing better, you’re doing your best.

Closing your eyes, you exhale through pursed lips and ease down your shoulders. 

He had you called into his office by his secretary, as you were about to leave, bag in hand, counting steps. 

But you were expecting it. In all honesty, you’re surprised it’s taken him this long. Four weeks since you came back from Beaver Creek. Four weeks of defying his strict, outdated, misogynistic dress-code. 

The very first morning, you stepped out of the mirror-lined elevator on the 15th floor wearing high-waisted, wide-legged slacks and a loose button-up, the sleeves folded high on your forearms. And flat derbies.  

Nervousness, sitting heavy and queasy in the pit of your stomach, beating loud against your eardrums. Prickling under your armpits, raising the hair on your nape. 

Kaytee’s eyes widened as she caught sight of you walking by her office, before she remembered to police her expression. The shock on her face turned into something else, something worse. Lurking in the lift-up corner of her lips, in the smugness coloring her cheeks. Something sardonic. Condescension. 

“ You can’t spend your life trying to be someone else. ” Ava’s words through the receiver the previous night were a dizzying swirl inside your head, as you walked down the glass corridors, coworkers and subordinates watching you with a similar shocked expression, that blurred their features into one subdued, frightened face. 

But who the fuck am I, Ava? you wanted to ask, the only sound on the line that of your short breathing. How did you know who you were? Always. From the very beginning of your life. How did you know how to be so unapologetic about it? 

Had it been your gift to her? Does self-confidence require love? Or guidance? Is it innate? 

All you know, at this point in your life, is that wearing clothes that you chose for yourself seems like a sound first measure. One that you can actually undertake. 

And with that in mind, you stepped into your father’s office, your heart pulsating in your throat, to take a seat across from him, his clear desk standing like a wide canyon between you.

Now, your steps are nearly silent on the shifting gravel, as you walk across the parking lot, fingers brushing along the cool metal of the truck as you pass it by. That pull toward Frankie propelling you forward, inescapable, irresistible despite the nasty sensation oozing down along your legs like thick-flowing tar, weighing your gait. 

On the porch, you pause. On Friday evenings, this is when you shed your old skin. Healing wounds, scar tissues. When you set your eyes on the canopy as it swallows the sun, pink-orange dusk fading to dark. Grainy photographs, forgotten vacations. This is when your spine straightens, when you take in the horizon and let it deepen your breathing. When you ready yourself for the life you’ve chosen, between the brown carpet and the yellow curtains and his arms. 

But it’s already night. The darkness has erased the horizon and your old skin won’t shed. 

The door opens, a draft ruffling your hair.  

The first thing you see is the crease between his brow. The tick of his whiskered jaw, and then, his dark brown eyes, appraising the tension that winds up your body, appraising your silence. His grunt, like an echo, distant. 

“You sat in that car forever. I was about to come out and get you.”

The concern in his voice rattles something deep inside your belly. You’re not bringing any of it inside that room of yours, you think, as he pushes away from the door to let you in, as you cross the threshold, but it’s stuck to you. Your father’s voice. The tremendous power it still holds over you. His disappointment. Your failures, plural. All the wrong choices. 

His hat is set on the desk. His suede jacket is draped over the back of the angular wooden chair. Your gaze lingers on it, you can almost feel the comforting softness of the fabric under the pads of your fingers.

He stands a few feet away from you, giving you space. Dark mahogany searching your features, your posture. His hands propped on his hips, like that other night in the parking lot, after he’d seen the fresh scar in your hairline. 

You face away from him. The smell of the room is familiar, in a comforting way. Musty. Dust and the faintest perfume of industrial laundry detergent coming from the starched sheets. He’s pulled the bedspread off the bed. It’s folded neatly on the floor underneath the window. It rises tears along your throat, the idea of him prepping himself, prepping the place, alone in this room where you’ve waited for him countless times and hours. Guilt scrambles your brain, over what, you’re not entirely certain. Keeping him waiting? You failures, plural. All the wrong choices. 

“Lee.”

His voice seeps in through the blackness coating your skin, like warm and persistent little droplets of sweet amber.

You turn to face him, at last. An awkward upper-body twist, feet rooted to the brown carpet, teeth clenched around the lump in your throat. He’s wearing that gray threadbare t-shirt you love, the one with a v-neck, and your eyes find the dip at the base of his throat, the fireworks of freckles between his collarbone. Tears well up, too strong to hold back, and you shut your eyes to the muffled sound of his booted steps on the matted carpet.  

You’re drifting, enveloped in his warmth, his scent, leather and musk. The contact of his skin as he curls a large hand around your nape, tucking your face into the curve of his strong neck. 

His arm wraps around your waist, drawing you closer, flush to his chest, and he presses his chin to your temple. You let go, surrender, honey dripping thick and golden along your loosening limbs. 

His pulse beats solid and steady against your cheek. You breathe him in, a hindered inhale at first, and when your shoulders begin to drop, a deeper one. A single tear escapes. It rolls down the round of your cheek into his skin. Your palms skim up to the plane of his back, soaking in his heat, and he presses you in harder, his forearm aligning with your spine, fingers spreading at the base of your skull. 

Time stretches. He holds you. You lean in. 

Later, after he’s helped you climb into the cab of his truck, you keep your eyes on him as he rounds the red hood.

Sitting behind the wheel, he puts the key in the ignition and, looking at you, tilts his head to the left. 

“C’mere,” he says, and you scoot next to him, biting down a relieved sigh as you slide over the seat bench. 

He leans over your lap, grabbing the middle seat belt, and buckles you in, then himself. You settle in, with your head against his shoulder, and your hand on his thigh, soft cotton, worn denim. Under your touch, his firm muscles ripple as he drives you into the night, into oblivion. The steady motion lulling you to sleep.

Alongside the deserted road, trees and bushes roll out in the headlights as the truck swallows miles and miles of asphalt. 

“I’m sorry,” you mumble after a while, fighting drowsiness.

“Don’t be. You wanna talk about it?” he adds after a pause.

“No.” 

You shake your head, your voice so low you’re not certain he’s heard your answer.

“Doesn’t have to be now,” he says. “Whenever you’re ready.”

Your head bobs with his bunching muscles as he releases the wheel to bend his arm at the elbow, fingers threading through your hair. Without lifting his eyes off the road, he leans in, and pecks a pointed kiss on the crown of your head. 

Your eyes close. The image of the bedspread neatly folded underneath the window flashes through your mind. You can’t seem to get used to his tender gestures, to his attentions. You hope they will never stop. You hope you will never get used to them. 

The emotion washes over you, a soft wave, and you float with it. In the cab of his truck, in his scent and his hold, you feel free of all doubts. Fear and pain cannot find you here. It’s unlike anything you’ve ever experienced so far, a strange feeling, potent and all encompassing, albeit one that doesn’t need to be dulled or tamed. 

The words come out of your mouth as a surprise. 

“I think I don't want it to define me anymore. My family, I mean. Where I come from.”  

This is a new state of mind. Or perhaps it’s been there for a while, a mere shadow on the wall, something you couldn’t clearly discern. Suddenly simple to comprehend and articulate.

“Yea. I get it,” he says.

And you know he does. 

You open your eyes, and take in a deep breath, fill your lungs with that distinct old leather scent that clings about him, and the smell of vintage Bakelite from the dashboard, so specific to his truck.  

“Music?” you ask.

“Sure, good idea. You like Jefferson Airplane?”

You nod, brushing your cheek against the cottony fabric of his t-shirt, leaving a little bit of you there, for him to find later.

“Yes. I like them.”

“Jefferson Airplane it is, then,” he answers. 

Gently, he bends forward, mindful not to nudge you too much, and turns on the stereo. His thick fingers push the tape that’s already there into the slot, and your lips curl with an explicit thought, unlike any you used to have before meeting him. Crude, but welcome pictures that now constantly crowd your brain. 

He keeps the volume low, and with the round rumbling of his quiet humming, your mind slowly drifts off again. 

You’re about to fall asleep when a thought surfaces, skirting the edges of your consciousness. 

“Frankie?” you quietly call. 

“Mmh?”

“Are you… Were you in the military?”

The humming stops, his silence abrupt, and his shoulder tenses under your cheek. Pushing away from it, you risk a sleepy glance at his face, plunged in the semi-darkness. It’s not dark enough that you don’t recognize the cocking of his jaw. 

“Frankie?” you ask again. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean–”

“I’m a pilot,” he cuts in, pausing to inhale deeply. “I was in the Army for nearly twenty years. I got a discharge a couple years back.” 

You remain silent. His eyes flicker quickly between you and the road, and you give his thigh a strong squeeze with your left hand, before resting your cheek against his shoulder, eluding his searching gaze.

Volunteers is crackling through the speakers, but you don’t hear the music. Fully awake now, your mind is reeling with those scattered, minute parts of him you picked up Friday after Friday to stash them away in your subconscious. His puzzle of shadows. All the things that now make perfect sense, and the ones you’re dying to unravel. 

His quiet assertiveness. His hands, quick and sure. His silences. His commanding tone. That long, sideways scar etched on his left flank. 

His early rage, and his anger too. The flight forward, dimming his eyes, where deep rich mahogany now glimmers. 

The zip ties. Your eyes grow wide, a gasping sound catching in your throat. You’re not ready to address how much you appreciate this particular skill of his, considering where he picked it up.  

Your imagination produces a clear vision of him in a US Air Force uniform, the fabric stretched over his broad shoulders, and you bite your lip, your entire body covering in chills. 

Frankie has yet to say another word. Something raises your consciousness, something in the scowl sharpening his features as he scanned your face for a reaction. 

Images flash through your head. The 8 × 10 picture displayed in your father’s office in its platinum frame, for every visitor to admire. Smooth faced and confident, his sleeves rolled up high on his lean forearms, your father’s shaking hands with Reagan in front of a colorful assemblage of containers, in the industrial quarter of the Tampa Bay Harbor, during the 1984 campaign. His coldly handsome face split by a smile, larger and more genuine than any of those he ever addressed you, let alone Ava. 

Recollections of those dragging hours you spent in church as a child, beads of sweat dripping along your spine as you sat in the sweltering heat on a hard wooden bench, rigid and still like a marble statue for fear of being reprimanded. 

The hateful, vehement speeches your father would burst into at random, your mother pinching your arm for you to listen, this is important. The uneasy feeling sitting in the pit of your stomach, like bile, like nausea. Wrong. This is wrong. A feeling, not an idea yet. It grew with you, expending, to become impossible to see past by the time you started high.

The list of names in your father’s neat handwriting, scrawled on a crisp piece of paper, that he handed you before driving the entire family to the polls for your very first election. The sheer terror, primitive in its hold over you, prickling on your nape as you systematically disregarded his instructions, choosing the names followed by the three letters DEM. 

The rare political meetings you secretly attended in college, the pamphlets in loud colors and bold letters, that you read hidden from your roommate’s prying eyes, as if they were satanic verses. Reproductive rights! Demilitarization Now! No to privatized prisons! End gun violence! 

Petitions you signed with a shaking hand, because what if your parents found out? What if they heard of it? A dread so profoundly anchored at the very core of your psyche that you have never told Ava any of it, even when she would chastise your lack of interest in politics, your lack of involvement, lest she’d reveal your treason to them in the heat of an argument.

Could this be when you started finding yourself? In your diverging convictions? Could it be enough? Could it count? 

“Do you want to talk about it?” you ask tentatively.

He huffs a short, bitter laugh, shaking his head. 

“You’re a hell of a fast learner, aren’t you?”

“I have a very good teacher,” you shrug, trying to ignore the sharpness in his tone. 

Curiosity overthrowing your ingrained fear to displease, you ask, “What kind of aircraft do you fly? Planes? Helicopters?”

He simply nods, and your cheeks heat again at the notion, your heart racing. 

“I’m very impressed,” you whisper. “I can barely parallel park.”

“I’m sure you got plenty of other skills,” he answers, softer. 

“No. I really don’t.”

—

Frankie walks briskly across the parking lot, carrying a take-away bag and a six-pack of beer. His head hung low to shield his face from the thin, mid-February drizzle. His denim shirt sticks to his back with humidity, and sweat from the drive. It’s pulled uncomfortably taut across his shoulders. 

He steps onto the porch, hands too full to open the door or even knock on it, so he gives it three light kicks. A tiny screw pops out from the curved top of the brass number two. The whole thing swivels upside down, swinging like a pendulum.

“Jesus christ, this fucking place,” he scoffs.

The door flies open, and you’re here, with that bright, earnest smile and your wide, luminous eyes. You’ve tied your hair up in a casual do, but you’re still fully dressed. He likes those slacks on you, snug on your curves, wide on your legs. It fits you so much better than the tight pencil skirts you used to wear when he first met you. Those made you look like an 80s porn producer fever dream. But these trousers transform your gait, your entire demeanor, into something more relaxed. More confident. He could watch you strut around the room for hours. If only there was more time.  

He catches a glimpse of the mesh fabric of your bra, peeking out from the cleavage of your open shirt, and he mentally curses the corporate fucks who get to work all week around you.

“Hey, Frankie.”

The sharp, familiar pang rips through his chest at the sound of your voice, light and cheery. That ache he waits for seven excruciatingly long days to experience again.

“Hey, baby.”

As you let him in, he feels the tip of your fingers brushing his thigh, as if you need to make sure he’s here in the flesh. The miracle of you wanting him, still. 

“What’s in the bag?” you ask, dragging the chipped chair away from the desk, so he can set down his bounty. 

His eyes fall on your graceful nape as you crane your neck to see what’s inside the bag, too well-behaved to touch it without having been invited to do so. 

“Didn’t have time to eat. I took something for you too, I hope you don’t mind. Did you eat? Are you hungry?”

“I don’t usually eat before I come here,” you admit. “I drive in straight from work,” you add, heat visibly creeping up your neck and ears.

He takes off his hat, ruffling a hand through his hair to conceal a smug smile. 

“And you’re not starving, by the time I’m finished with you?”

“Quite the contrary, actually. I feel pretty full when you leave.”

Your lips stretch into a wide grin you’re ineffectively trying to hold back. 

“That so?” he chuckles, propping his hands on his hips. For countenance. 

Pride glimmers in your eyes, as it does every time you make him laugh. He knows it’s mirrored in his eyes. Your levity is his reward. 

Everything about you is unbearably endearing. He’s not sure if he’s hungry for food anymore, or if he’s not going to go straight down on you. You’ve already prepared the bed, that ugly bedspread neatly folded under the window. He could lay you prone on your stomach, lower your trousers to your knees, perk up your pretty ass and eat your sweet cunt from behind.

His hunger for you sizzles along his spine, sparkling in his loins, imperious and distracting. The sensation is delicious, and for once, he takes the time to revel in it. He’s so used to barging in here and just taking. He doesn’t savor, not really, not until after he’s had you at least once. 

He’s not proud of his unbridled hunger, the consequence of seven days’ worth of pent-up frustration, chasing your perfume on his clothes and the ghost feeling of your cool, smooth skin under his palms. That ever-growing obsession for your scent, for your eyes, and that crippling craving for the sounds you produce when he moves inside you. That high he gets when he makes you feel good. Every time he gives you what you want. 

And there’s the absolute black-out on all communications between you throughout the week that drives him out of his mind. He knows that’s the tacit deal the two of you struck at the very beginning. No phone number, no address, no marks. Hell, he didn’t even know your name until you gave it to him at Christmas. Only, he’s left in the dark for seven consecutive fucking days, with no means to check up on you, and no way to make sure you’re safe. 

He understands the necessity for secrecy. But the more time passes, the less it makes sense. 

So come Friday night, he needs to crush you under his weight. Needs to feel your flesh gushing through his splayed fingers and hear you mewl his name, eyes rolling to the back of your head, your body tensing up in his hold before it shatters around his cock. 

He needs to fuck you deep and full, find you in that place within yourself and wreck you there. He needs to make sure you’re alright. Make sure you’re real. Make sure you’re his. 

And his control might be tenuous, but he sure loves the way you lean into it. 

You’re still smiling when he takes a step closer behind you. Lowering his face into the curve of your neck, he inhales you there, that spot behind your ear, where your subtle scent becomes heady. He feels your chest rising with your own deep breathing, and he pictures your eyes fluttering shut. His hand skims the curve of your hip, sliding up to the swell of your breast over the smooth fabric of your shirt, gripping you roughly as he takes your earlobe between his lips and sucks on it. His hips move against your ass of their own volition, his cock half-hard, fucking twitching.

“Frankie,” you whine.

“Yea?”

He licks a broad stride up your neck, collecting the tangy taste of your skin, mixed with the chemical one of your perfume. 

“What’s in the bag?”

“What bag, baby? Oh, right.”

It’s a beat before he can detach himself from you. His cock is beating hard and angry against the confining fabric of his jeans. With a light brush of his knuckles along your side, he reminds himself there’s also pleasure in the anticipation. The word sits in the back of his throat, like a knife ready to bleed him dry. Concupiscence. 

Ripping the paper bag open in the middle, he smooths both sides neatly over the desk, and points at the three rolls wrapped in tin foil.

“Took three burritos, and some fried beans. There’s one beef, one pork, and one vegetarian, in case you don't eat meat.”

You look at him with a twinkle in your eyes, your grin getting wider than he’s ever seen it. He braces a hand flat on the desk. 

“Oh, I eat meat, I thought you’d know that.”

The words have barely left your mouth that you burst into a fit of giggles, covering your face with both hands.

“Christ, woman!” he laughs. “Alright, sit down. Let’s get proper food into that mouth of yours, for once.”

Together, you unfold the bedspread and arrange it over the foot of the bed. The thing is already stained, and you mutually agree there’s no need to make a mess of the white sheet just yet. 

Letting you pick between the two richer ones, he takes the vegetarian burrito, and you start eating together, two open cans of beer at your feet. 

His bites are ravenous, while you nibble gingerly at your food, holding the burrito with two hands, the foil crackling between your fingers. After a few bites, however, you start eating in bigger chunks. 

“This is delicious,” you moan with your mouth full. 

Is he getting jealous of a fucking burrito now? Is that where he’s at?

“What, you never had a burrito in your life?”

You wince, and he immediately regrets the teasing skepticism of his tone. 

Setting the food down, you dab a paper towel to the corner of your mouth, catching a fleck of sauce. There’s grace in all your movements, even the tiniest ones.  

“My mother monitored everything I ate. God forbid I put on any weight,” you explain, a hint of bitterness in your voice. 

He lowers his hands, eyes trained on your averted gaze. 

“I know what you’re thinking,” you tell him, looking up at him.

There’s that quiet resignation painted all over your face. 

“Try me.”

“You’re thinking I’m a grown woman, old enough to make her own decisions.”

He shakes his head. “Was actually thinking your mother sounds like the exact opposite of mine.”

Your mouth curves into a sad attempt at a smile.

“I don't judge you, Lee. We all do what we can with what we got dealt with.”

A slight frown knits your brow, as you seem to consider his words. 

He has spent a lot of time, lately, reflecting over his own choices, and the many places where they’ve led him, for better or for worse. 

Afghanistan, Iraq, Syria. Libya and the most dangerous places in sub-Saharan Africa. Nearly everywhere in South America. Twice over.

Over the fucking Andes, and to Tom’s funeral. 

Choices that also made him Lua’s father. 

Crossroads that have taken him all the way to that shithole bar, last year at the end of August. Conscious decisions that brought him here, into this room. Into your arms. Into your life.

A chain reaction he wouldn’t alter, he knows it now, even if he was given the chance for a do-over. 

He used to consider things as definite. Choices as absolute and irrevocable. It took him becoming a father, and meeting you, to understand his mother’s words. Paso a paso, she’d say, watching him with a tender, knowing smile as he rushed toward his life. Paso a Paso, Francisco. 

You eat in silence for a while, and he keeps watching you. That sharp pain solidly entrenched inside his chest, blooming through his heart, he has to make a conscious effort to breathe around it. 

He bought you the food you’re eating right now. Drove to his favorite place, stood in line and placed his order with you in mind. And you’re enjoying it. In fact, you’re demonstrating an impressive appetite, hungrier, messier with every bite. Sauce dripping down your chin. Pink flashes of tongue licking it from between your fingers. 

He could get used to that. Providing for you. Taking care of you. In more than just one way. Sharing the mundane routine of a daily life together. 

But this is not real. Whatever is happening between the four walls of this shitty motel is not ground for life-altering choices. 

“Do you want to share the pork one?” you ask, crinkling the tinfoil wrapper into a compact ball. 

“I’m good, baby,” he answers with a soft smile. “You can have it. Just make sure you’re still hungry for more meat when you’re done.”

—

Adrian has gifted you a new purse from another French luxury brand. It’s a square-shaped thing cut from some grayish reptile skin, with a matching tag and a decorative lock hanging from its handle. It looks insanely expensive and ridiculously vulgar, its tackiness almost cruelly ironic. Like a rich people’s inside joke.  

Somehow, you’re vaguely aware this model is exclusive and can’t be bought online or even in stores, however high-end. It has to be ordered, and there’s a waiting list. Useless knowledge you probably gathered from one of your mother’s magazines. A family of four could most likely live comfortably for a whole year for the price of this thing. 

Incidentally, there’s a new perfume clinging to Adrian’s clothes when he comes home late at night. The first time you caught a whiff of the heady fragrance, intense vanilla and white musk, it reminded you of the stunning blonde with feline hazel eyes. 

The gift immediately felt less like an expression of gratitude for your support than like a reward for your silent compliance. But it’s of little to no importance. The bag sits idly at the bottom of your walk-in dressing. Unused, containing what’s left of the love and respect you once harbored for the man. 

Every so often, you think about it, as you cruise along the 589. It makes you smile. A wide, Cheshire cat grin, one that bares your front teeth, and you wonder if it’s cruel of you to smile about the end of something that used to mean so much. Something that meant nearly everything. You wonder if you’ve ever been cruel before. Intentionally, that is. 

Then, you conclude you don’t care. This particular kind of cruelty feels far too good. Too righteous. You could get used to it. 

And you keep cruising along the 589 northbound. 

—

“Mark Twain or Lewis Carroll?”

“Oh god, Frankie, I don’t know…” you moan, too distracted to think straight. 

Teeth ghosting a bite over your neck, he wraps a kiss around your skin, sucking on it. Not sharply enough to bruise, but enough for you to clench hard around him.

In the past few weeks, he’s become playful. It’s new to you. Was it always a part of him, constituent but buried underneath the scars and the years, or was it born from your touch? 

He’s become talkative, too. Talkative, and curious. But then again, perhaps he always was. Only, not with you. 

Thus, there are new rituals between you. Secrets exchanged behind the shielding partition of the yellow curtains. Murmurs shared underneath the droning of the ceiling fan, in the golden lighting from the quaint bedside lamps.

Some of his questions can pose a challenge. You’re not always certain about the proper answer. The right one. You were raised to say what was expected of you. Taught to speak to please, not to speak your mind. To wait for your cue, and hold your thoughts in between.

Frequently, you hesitate, afraid to trip on your words. 

But he doesn’t easily relent. He’s playful and curious. But above all, he’s patient and persistent.

“I don’t know,” you repeat.

“You know. Come on.”

“Okay, um… Lewis Carroll. I love– I love Alice.”

“Oh yea? You do? You like following big white rabbits to strange places, huh?”

His chest shakes with his raspy chuckle, and you laugh, until he pulls you in closer, sheathing himself deeper inside you, and your laughter plummets into a throaty groan.

Seamlessly, these new ceremonials have replaced the old ones, the ones that were carried out under wary gazes, in appraising silence.  

Now, you don’t always count your steps on Fridays, but you leave work earlier, and when you arrive at the motel, you try to engage Raul in conversation. His discomfort is obvious, bordering on annoyance, as you disrupt his concentration while he’s busy drawing charcoal landscapes of jagged mountains. But these past two weeks, he seems to have loosened up a bit. Either you’re wearing him off, or he’s trying to get rid of you faster. 

On the porch, in front of room number 2, you watch the sun slowly sink into the canopy of trees in an explosion of tangerine pink. Every week, the sunset creates a different palette of orange, but your emotion continues to be whole and unaltered. 

Before stepping in, you flick the upside-down brass number. It smiles in greeting, swinging on its one remaining screw.

You wish the place carried Frankie’s scent. It never does, of course. As you fold the comforter and prop it under the windowsill, the only smells wafting around are that of laundry detergent, dust, and the faintest hint of mold. 

There’s nothing tangible for you to hold on to in his absence, and this is by far the most difficult. It creates a vacuum, a fertile soil for foul, festering thoughts. Doubt, dread, agitation. During those seven days apart, there is no text or voicemail on your phone you can turn to for reassurance. No photo booth pictures stashed inside your wallet. No clothes of his to drape over your body and keep you warm and safe. Keep you sane. 

Every so often, when you cannot find sleep, you convoke the memory of his gray t-shirt, the one with the v-neck and the pilled fabric. The sensation of the slightly rugged cotton under the pads of your fingers. The immediate comfort gently lulls you to sleep. 

There is one thing, one thing only: the receipt from the burrito place, that you retrieved from the wastebasket after he’d left, that one time he brought you food. It’s tucked between two pages of your Moleskine planner. You’re not sure whether it’s cute or downright pathetic.  

You had thought the want, the yearning, would ease with time. It only kept spreading to every corner of your existence, every aspect of your life. Instead of only missing his touch, you now miss his voice, too. His choice of words, the cadence of his speech, the pace of his gait. His crinkled-eyes, dimpled smile. The way he rolls up his sleeves, leaves the top buttons of his shirt open, and the way he undresses. His three-finger hold on his glass. His long reflecting pauses before he speaks. The freedom and safety you experience with him.

You just became better at handling the longing. Recently, you have become very good at handling numerous things. Quietly but steadfastly defying your father’s injunctions to comply with his dress code. Adrian’s glaring eyes of blue, their silent judgement. Ava living a life of her own, far away from you. 

Reading helps. You hadn’t read in years, and you hadn’t realized how much you’d missed it. Now, you carry a book with you everywhere in your I ❤ NY tote. In these last moments before he walks into the room, you lie on your side across the motel bed, your head propped on your hand, and you read.

And when Frankie arrives, everything makes sense again, everything is justified. 

The wooden door creaks open, the brass number swiveling frantically, and his relief upon seeing you lights up the dim room. Hushed greetings, his large hands curling at your waist, pulling you into him, a husk of Hey, baby, his lips barely leaving yours while he tugs at your clothes, undressing you already. 

There’s rarely any other form of preamble beyond an occasional variation of Fuck, I really missed you, Lee , his teeth trailing down the line of your throat, sinking in just shy of a bite. Out of breath, out of time. 

The wait is over. 

Does he still come here to escape? Does he come here for you? His urgency hasn’t abated. But his intent feels different.

Stop me, skin on skin, chest to chest, the weight of his body covering yours, calloused hands hooked on your shoulders for purchase, pounding into you loud and ruthless. 

Stop me, crouched over you like a devouring beast, his face buried into the crook of your neck, shallow breaths and gripping hands, grinding deep inside your heat. 

Stop me, and what you hear is, I trust you. 

Deep grunts thrumming out of his throat, tumbling from his plush lips into your skin, a searing branding, an invisible mark. 

His plea. Lee.

He comes right after you do, pulling out just in time to spurt hot and thick over your arching body, or inside your wanting mouth. 

Later, when his spend has dried on your skin, when he’s kissed the soreness better, when your breathing has slowed, he brings you a glass of water, and waits until you’ve drank it all to bury his face between your legs, or fuck your throat if you begged him to. 

And on some Fridays, he goes by the desk to sit on the rectangular chair. He positions it sideways from the framed mirror. Says the reflection distracts you. It’s true. 

You could spend hours watching him. Watching him move, watching him sleep. Watch the care he puts in the way he handles his clothes and his truck and your pliant body. Watch him button up his jeans or tie his belt around your wrists. Watch his curls catch the light as he combs his fingers through them, the working of his throat, the pulsating throb of his heartbeat in his strong neck. The dip in his collarbone. The darker scar on his side. The muscles of his shoulders and his back, rippling under his freckled skin. Watch, and map those freckles with your lips. 

You could spend the rest of your life with him.

“C’mere,” he beckons, with a little tilt of his head, and a light pat on his thigh.

You get up from wherever he left you lying, the bed, the rough carpeting, the bathroom tiles, and walk over to him on wobbly legs. There, he draws you into his lap in a face-away straddle, his hands on your waist guiding you, firm and gentle, as he makes room for himself inside of you. The tip of your toes barely reach the carpet once you’re seated, and you have to rely entirely on him for balance. You like that. 

He braces his strong arms around you, and you keep your fingers curled around them, reclining against him, against his warmth. You like the sticky sensation of your combined sweats gluing your loose bodies. Your back molds to his chest like it was shaped for this very purpose. 

Your head tips back onto his firm shoulder, and he props his chin in the curve of your neck. The slight swaying of your hips is languid and slow, barely perceivable, in the same way the earth’s revolution around the sun is imperceptible to its inhabitants. 

Time lingers, in long lazy stretches, infinite moments in the amber lighting of the room, in the friendly shadows. In the heart of the night, and the folds of your existence. The low husk of his voice like honey in your ears, his words vibrating from his chest to your back, to your core. 

You can hear the smile in his tone. If you close your eyes, you can see it.

He asks about your taste in books, music or movies, food and entertainment, and tells you about his. Silly games of Would you rather? and Never have I ever. 

Scrunching up your nose under your pinched brow, brain cells scrambling back together inside your hazy brain, you try to produce coherent answers as his lush lips trace intricate patterns along your skin, your throat, your shoulders, nimble fingertips rolling your nipples into hardened peaks. A scrape of his teeth, followed by the wet glide of his tongue, soothing over your flushed skin.

Sometimes, you feel so full it’s overwhelming. The sensation, the emotion strangles the air out of you. Your cunt flutters around the thick, stiff girth of him, and he lets out a gravelly groan, cock throbbing inside your snug walls. Your slick pools down onto the coarse curls at his base. It’s like a virtuous circle. Everything feels right with him. 

After a while, when you’ve melted inside, when amber twirls in your bloodstream and your thoughts have turned to swirling molasses, his hand slides down along your stomach. His calloused fingers parting your folds, he starts rubbing at your clit, telling you that it’s time to come for me, baby. 

And when you do, he comes with you, shoving you down and deep onto his pulsating length, fingers digging into the soft flesh of your hips. His mouth pressed to that sensitive spot over your pulse point, his feverish grunts sizzling against your damp skin. 

When he comes inside you, when you come together, you are made brand-new. Anything’s possible. There’s nothing you can’t do. 

The elating sensation is your favorite daydream, sitting at your desk, over dinner, stuck in traffic, or in the blue hours before dawn. It sustains you throughout the week. The promise of it tingles in tense anticipation, from the crown of your head to the tip of your toes, when you watch him walk over to the desk and fold his tall, massive figure into the ugly chair. 

Week after week, question after question, you come into focus between his arms. It’s terrifying, and exhilarating. You keep getting better at it.

It’s a bittersweet ache, tender and addictive, to learn about his existence outside this room of yours. The borderless confines of his life. Of him. The details he chooses to confide in you, about his childhood, his past, and his present, in the dead of the night, his body wrapped around yours, chasing the contact of your skin. Chasing your touch, your softness, your understanding, when he used to grunt away from it. Like a threat, with bared teeth, and a shake of his head. A forbidding. A not yet. 

It makes sense to you now. There’s an absolute about him. An all or nothing. You’re not sure when it happened. The tipping point. Perhaps in the bathroom, on that sunny morning after Christmas, when he crowded you against the sink with a wolfish look turning his gorgeous face dark and threatening. You think it was meant to scare you. One last attempt. Your last chance to recoil and escape. 

You didn’t. You kept blooming, unfurling into your own limbs under the dark depth of his gaze, reflected in the black-edged mirror. You pressed back into him, the solid, steadying bulk of his body, of his broad chest. You pushed back and sunk deeper into his world. 

Today, he had to scoop you up from the floor where you were lying, boneless, in the wet mess he drew out of you. 

When he stormed into the room, you could still hear the engine of the truck revving. A scowl shadowed his face. Fidgety, tightly wound up, he began undressing you without a word. Unceremonious in his need, an echo of those early days, when he was imprisoned in his past, when his strength was unrestrained, when violence was his sole language. 

Fingers digging into the tense muscles of his shoulders, carding through his hair, you sought eye contact, softly cooing, I’m here, Frankie, I’m here, until your voice got through him. Until he heard you, slowing down, drawing you close. His forehead smearing sweat over your temple, his ragged breathing fanning the shell of your ear. His fist clutching the fabric of your shirt in a ball, with a push-pull motion, torn and primal, I need it, Lee. Please, I need you.

You relented, gave into it, lose and pliant as he bent you over the desk with a press of his palm, flat between your shoulder blades, as he pulled your panties to the side and lined himself up, as he thrust into you in one ruthless shove, down to his base. The clasp of his watch biting into your flesh. He was still fully clothed. 

Pulling on your wrists with an iron grip, he drilled into you at a brutal pace, skin catching at your entrance along his length, and you bit your lips through it, nearly drawing blood, until, at the very center of you, the pain turned into something blindingly pleasurable, bright and searing. A shockwave, erupting from your core, fast spreading along your limbs, lighting up every nerve-ending. 

Tensing under his constraining hold, bucking against his grip, you cried out his name, your back achingly stiff. Slick gushing out of you fast and hot, as your legs trembled uncontrollably, and through the din of it all, his rumbling growl, a guttural string of Fuck, before you slumped onto the desk and he fucked his own release into you. 

When he let go of you, he had to lay you on the carpet, where he collapsed next to you, chest heaving with exertion. Time blurred, you might have spent the whole night lying there, staring blankly at the popcorn ceiling, but he got up to undress.

He’s cradling you on his lap now, gently rocking into you. The slow and steady rhythm of his heartbeat aligned with yours, you’re bathed in his warmth, enveloped by his musky scent. You play along, searching your brain for answers. To his questions, and yours.  

There’s no evidence of his earlier outburst, saved for his thumbs drawing circles on your wrists where his fingers left a bruising indent. And of course, the wet spot on the carpet. 

Nuzzling your jawline, he trails a path of messy, lazy kisses down the column of your neck, capturing the tender skin between his plush lips, his tongue peeking through them.

“I should read it again. Alice. Read it so long ago. When I was a kid.”

Humming distractedly in agreement, your head lolls back on his shoulder. 

“Did I hurt you, earlier?”

Your eyelids fly open. His voice is barely a murmur, no more than warm breath grazing your ear, and you feel him throb inside you. 

“I don’t want to hurt you. I never want to hurt you.”

The vulnerability in his words shoots through your heart like a bullet. You free your arms to twine your fingers with his. 

“What happened today, Frankie?” 

His chest stiffens underneath you. 

“Nothing. Nothing happened. It’s more… It’s the date.”

The overhead fan hums over the room, louder than your breathing, louder than his. 

“A year ago, I agreed to a mission. With my former teammates. It was… It was bullshit. From the start. Nothing went as planned.”

He pauses and you wait, still and silent. 

“One of us got killed.”

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, squeezing his hands with all of your strength.

A chilling, bone-deep dread settles over your body in the sweltering heat, so cold he can probably feel it. You don’t want him to. 

“You said you resigned a couple of years ago?” 

“I did. I worked for the private sector, on occasions. It’s over now.”

“Do you miss it?”

“Fuck no,” he snarls. “But some of my friends did. I– I had to go.” He clears his throat. “I chose to go.”

“Do you miss him?”

He doesn’t answer for a while. Lifting his hand in yours, you give his knuckles a long, open-mouthed kiss. His forehead rests heavy against the back of your head, his eyelashes a fluttering caress on your nape. 

“For a long time, I felt responsible for his death.”

His words are dense with defeat. With sadness, and fatality. They sink heavily into you, into your bloodstream. You don’t need a mirror to know what his face looks like at this very moment. Your body will remember it, even if you live long enough to forget your own name. The pitch-blackness of his beautiful eyes, the stern crease splitting his brow, imploring for your touch. The tightness in his jaw. The downward curve of his plush lips.

That first night at the motel comes back rushing like a flood, like a wildfire. His roughness, the urgency saturating his actions, the anger in his grief. His bleeding wounds, invisible, evident, glaring. He reached for you through his despair, clutching your body, clinging to the idea of you. 

Are you real?  

I don’t know. 

A dry sob wells up in your throat, but you swallow it down. 

“What do you think now?”

“I think it doesn’t matter who’s responsible for his death. His girls are still orphaned.”

Between your lungs, the wild creature curls up into a ball. Its tears fill up your heart. There isn’t any pill or alcohol strong enough to numb this pain of yours. But it doesn’t matter. You want to feel what he feels.

You turn around. You kiss him.

—

“What about this one?”

He should be leaving soon. But your body’s soft and relaxed, curled into his side on the rumpled bed. Pleasantly cool in the muggy atmosphere of the motel room, in the dawn’s indigo hues. Your thin fingers hover gracefully over his skin, tracing the outlines of his scars, and it’s like you’re reshaping his entire body, all of his wounds, and his whole life, with the gentle touch of your fingertips.

“Frankie, what’s this one?”

He should be leaving soon. The sun’s about to come up. 

“Did you save it for last because it’s the largest?” he deflects with a smirk.

Folding an arm over his chest, you prop your chin over it, frowning exaggeratedly with your jaw shifting to the side. He laughs so hard that your head bobbles with his shaking belly.

“That supposed to be an impression of me?”

“You recognized yourself,” you smile, sitting up next to him.

He should be leaving soon. And you know it. You’re giving him the space he needs to get up and get out. He fucking hates it.

“Stay here,” he says, curling his fingers around your arm as you’re about to get down from the bed.

The look you give him awakens the pain in his chest. You peer through the curtains, into the blue morning sky, and your gaze returns to him with a silent question. 

“Come on. Please. Just a little longer.”

It’s not lost on him that he should be the one getting up. Not pleading.

The mattress creaks in protest as you move over it on your knees, sitting in a straddle across his hips. 

“Yea, that’s better,” he smiles, smoothing his palms over your thighs. His left hand slides up to palm your breast, and he notices he hasn’t taken off his watch, tonight. It’s the second time this month.

“What’s this one?” you ask again, entirely undistracted, measuring up your hand to the length of the darker patch of skin. 

“Okay,” he sighs, “I crashed a chopper near– wait, I can’t actually tell you that.”

“Jesus, Frankie,” you gasp, spreading both hands over the old wound, as if to stop a ghost bleeding. Your eyes have grown so wide, they eat up half your face.

“It’s okay, baby, it’s old. Wasn’t a big deal.”

It had been a big deal, at the time. There had been talks of awarding him a Silver Star for that mission.

“Did it hurt?”

“Mostly my pride. It wasn’t that bad, don’t worry. Nothing compared to what my sister threatened to do to me if I didn't leave the Army.” 

“I can’t say I blame her. I would have probably done the same.”

“Ok, my turn. What’s this one?”

His left thumb skims along the thin line on your inner thigh, and he feels you tensing under his touch.  

“It’s nothing,” you snap, taking your hands off his skin as if you just got burnt. 

He presses his thumb into your soft flesh. The pain in his chest accentuates, radiating down to his stomach. 

“You’re cheating,” he says, as softly as he can. 

You face away from him, gaze flickering up to the window again, and you start moving away, but he holds you firmly in place with both hands on your waist. 

“Lee. Tell me what it is.”

Seconds turn into minutes, the only sound in the room that of the ceiling fan’s motor, and the pain grows stronger, pulsating from his neck to his gut. Your eyes remain trained on the window, lost somewhere beyond the curtains. 

“I had several more like this,” you start. Your tone is detached, your voice distant. “Smaller ones. On the back of my arms. When I was 17, my mother took me to a dermatologist. He removed them with laser treatment.” 

You pause, and look down at him. 

“She got me fixed, so I could find a good husband.”

His fingers dig into your flesh. It’s a full minute before he remembers to breathe, through his nose, because he can’t unclench his jaw. The chest pain turns into blinding, white-hot rage. His truck is parked outside and in his mind, the sequence of actions is crystal clear. Get you dressed. Get you in the cab. Drive away with you as far as the road goes, and never come back here. 

“It burnt like hel—“

“You’re perfect, you know that?” he cuts in. 

“I’m really not, Frankie,” you calmly answer. “What I am is a coward.”

He sits up with a cinch, cupping your face so you can’t recoil from him. Somehow, this would be easier if you looked upset. If you were crying. Showing any kind of emotion, really. But you’re far beyond that. 

“I can’t let you say that. Not when you risk everything to come here every week.”

“Alright, so I’m a selfish coward,” you say with a joyless little smile. 

“No. You’re perfect. You’re my perfect girl. Say it.”

It’s there. Your unbending will, your steel-hard determination. In your defiant gaze and your pinched lips. In the distance you're trying to put between your body and his. 

“Okay, fine. Don’t say it. I’ll keep repeating it until you believe me. I can be fucking persistent, you know?” he adds, falling back onto the pillows.

“I know you can,“ you say, lifting a leg off the bed.

“You’re not going anywhere,” he nearly growls, a bruising grip on your thigh, “I’m not done with you.”

His clipped tone appears to be more effective on you. You sit back down, let your shoulders relax, and the palm of your hands find his skin again. Distant gaze, cold touch.

“What’s this one?” he asks, the blunt fingernail of his thumb grazing the grid-shaped scar on your left knee, his tone barely a question, and to his surprise, you come alive with a spark in your eyes. 

“Oh! This one’s a good scar. I like it.”

You adjust your position over him, slotting your folds over his resting cock, and a coiling heat stirs in his loin.

“I had a bicycle when I was a kid. The most beautiful bicycle in the entire world. Red, the exact same shade as your truck. With a round cushion protection on the frame, I don’t know how you call that, and the letters MBK painted in white over it, you know the kind?”

He nods, and you continue talking. 

“I would spend hours riding it. I would disappear for entire afternoons. It was heaven. And maybe you’re not going to believe me, but I was pretty reckless on that thing.”

“Oh, I believe you.”

You’re smiling again. 

“Well, one day, I was too reckless. I hit the brakes too abruptly and I skidded over gravel. I flew ten feet away from the bike and I tore my knee open. I got home covered in blood, my parents were furious.”

A vengeful smile curves your lips, one he’s never seen on your face.

“They confiscated the bike. My mother said it wasn’t ladylike, and my father said– I can’t remember his exact words, probably 'you can’t damage my property,’ or something along those lines. They never let me on a bike again after that.”

“How’s that a happy story?” he frowns.

“I didn’t say it was a happy story. I said it’s a good scar. I got to keep this one. It reminds me of what I’m capable of. Even when I want to forget.” 

The sun is rising. A new day colors the sky in vivid bronze. The light filters into the room through the yellow curtains, dust particles suspended in the air, suspended like Frankie’s life when he can’t be with you. 

He should leave, but instead, he’s going to fuck you one more time. Pump you full of his come. Brand you with his essence, mark you as his in the only way he can before he has to let you go back to face those people who put murder on his mind.

His hands skim along your thighs to the swell of your ass, roughly kneading the round of your cheeks. His grip settles on your hips, and he bucks up into you, ever so lightly, his length hardening between your lips. He sees it on your face, on your profile bathed in the first ray of sunlight. The moment when you register his intention. The shift in your body, the echo to his desire. So powerful, so immediate, it’s almost like black magic. Your mouth parts open, your back arches. You press down on him. 

“That serves him well, your father,” he says, sliding you slowly over his cock.

“How’s that?” you ask, voice laced with lust. 

“Look what you’re riding now.”

—

The pillow is damp underneath your back, sweat exuding from your every pore. The last days of March have been unforgiving. You find yourself longing for a room with a proper air conditioning system, instead of the motel’s weak, outdated fan that only swishes hot air. 

Frankie’s searing touch doesn’t help. Stroking the back of your arm in a repetitive up-and-down motion, he’s laying across the bed, his head resting heavy on your lap, his long hair curling in every direction in this sweltering atmosphere. 

Instead of shying away from the discomfort, you embrace it. With your fingers twined in his locks, you lean into his touch, focusing on his high forehead, and the crease in his brow. On his long eyelashes, the curve of his lips as he speaks, the working of his throat. 

Ignoring the dark blue rectangle of night sky, gradually lightening up behind the musty curtains.

Dawn used to be a deliverance. From your thoughts that the night painted black. From the wait, when Adrian wouldn’t come back. From a forced rest that never really came, another disappointment, another let down, another part of your life requiring the artificial help of chemicals. 

Now, you resent it. Dawn is when Frankie leaves you behind to go back to his family. Dawn is when he’s the happiest, with his child, without you, in a realm over which you have no grasp. 

A rational part of you acknowledges that it’s easier if he leaves before the sun rises. It prevents you from yearning for things you’re afraid to want. Things you cannot have. A life with him in broad daylight. A life without shame. 

Recently, he’s become increasingly reluctant to let go of you. Dawn finds him wrapped around your body. Last week, he stayed past daybreak, and fucked you in the sunlight. 

The brighter tone of his skin, the lighter shade of his curls, the depth of his mahogany irises hit by a sunbeam, everything was like a knife through your chest.

“Lee?”

The caressing timber of his husky voice brings you back to the soft amber light from the dusty lampshades, to the humming fan, and the blue rectangle. 

“I’m sorry. What were you saying?”

“I asked if you like it. Your job.” 

“God no, I hate it! Sales productivity statistics and accounting manager, can you picture me?”

He huffs his breathless chuckle, the one that sends tremors rippling through your chest. 

“Not really, no.”

“I’m terrible at it, and it’s a problem, but no one says anything because daddy runs the company. I don’t understand why he insists on maintaining me in this position. It’s like a power play. He needs me to be miserable.”

Frankie’s hand pauses, fingers digging into your flesh, and he cranes his neck to peer at your face. You give him a reassuring smile. A genuine one. 

“Is that what you studied at university? Accounting and statistics?”

You wipe your sweaty brow with the back of your hand, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

“Yes. But university was a golden parenthesis. I minored in Russian literature. Not a skill that easily translates to the employment market, but Richard was thoroughly pissed,” you say, wiggling your eyebrows. 

“My little punk.”

His smile is brighter than the midday sun. Your index finger darts to the dimple in his right cheek. 

“I really like this,” you whisper, your voice dropping, thick with heat and arousal. With affection. “And these,” you add, scraping your fingernail over the bare patches on each side of his jaw. 

“Mmh. I’ve noticed,” he says with a smug expression. 

“Oh, you have?” You try to laugh off your embarrassment, but what comes out is a quivering sound, betraying the want that hinders your throat. 

He grabs your hand and brings it to his mouth, closing his plush lips around your index finger, wrapping his tongue around it. Your belly quakes. You clench around nothing. 

He releases your hand, and you hope he’ll get up and move over you, but instead, he reaches for your arm again, resuming his rhythmic strokes. 

“So what would you do, if you didn’t do this?” he asks. 

You sigh, glancing up, and you catch a glimpse of your reflection in the mirror above the desk. 

“I’ve no idea, really. I never allowed myself to consider the possibility.” And before he can prod any further, you add, “What about you? What would you have liked to do, if you hadn’t become a pilot?”

The diversion doesn’t fool him, you know it. You’re acutely aware of his gaze, scrutinizing your face. You picture the familiar, pensive frown. His hand leaves your arm as he suddenly gets up, air hitting your damp skin where his head was lying. 

A few strides, and he steps into the bathroom, disappearing behind the partition wall. The tap runs for a moment, and there’s the distinct sound of wrung out fabric before he comes out, holding the hand towel. 

You watch him walk back toward you, his naked body glistening with sweat, highlighted in shadows in the warm lighting. You think about how beautiful it is, about your extensive, intimate knowledge of it. How it feels under your touch, every single part of him. How this knowledge is now constituent of the woman you have become. 

You know the callousness of his palms that catches at your clothes. You know the silkiness of his curls around your fingers, the smoothness of his chest against your breasts, the taste of his mouth and the bobbing of his pebbled throat between your lips. The thicker skin of his shoulders, tanned and freckled. The coarseness of the darker hairs under his navel, and how they feel rubbing at your clit. You know the weight of his cock in your hand, on your tongue, inside your walls. 

And if you know all this, then, isn’t he yours? 

He circles the bed over to your side, by the window, and sits next to you. 

Delicately, his fingers circle your wrist. He lifts your arm, and brings your hand to his lips, nuzzling the relaxed curl of your fingers open, to press a kiss inside your palm. His eyes briefly flicker shut as he inhales the transparent skin of your inner wrist. 

Lowering your arm, he starts running the towel along it and you jolt at the contact of the cold, wet fabric, letting out a short whimpering sound.

The sensation is sudden, seizing like an electrical shock, but the relief is immediate. The coolness radiates on the surface of your feverish skin, soothing your thoughts. Eyes fluttering shut, you relax into it. 

“Maybe an architect,” he starts, the towel gliding up to your shoulder, “or a carpenter. Build stuff, for a change. Instead of destroying them.”

Goosebumps break out along your arms, on your nape, as he skims the towel over the plane of your chest in slow, meticulous movements. As he rounds your breasts with reverent care, one, then the other, your nipples tightening in peaked buds, the low rumble of his voice filling your mind, his words boring into your heart.

The towel brushes up, tracing your collarbone, left, then right. Higher along the column of your throat, curling to the side of your neck. A droplet of water rolls down between your breasts, running along your stomach to end its course into your navel. You sigh.

“I could… run a small business, building houses or crafting furniture. In a small town, somewhere up north. Somewhere with seasons,” he says. 

The towel wipes over your trembling belly, over your mound, down your inner thigh. He’s slow, precise, thorough. Careful and gentle with your limp limbs. You’re sinking into the mattress, and floating over it all at once. 

You lift a heavy eyelid, your dazed gaze landing on his gorgeous face. He’s solemn, focused on his task. 

He readjusts his position on the mattress, so lightly the bed barely moves, and twists his torso to reach down your leg. 

“You could be my accountant.”

Your eyes shoot open. He’s facing away from you, wiping the towel under the arch of your foot.

“The last thing you want is to have me as your bookkeeper,” you whisper, your heart beating in your throat. 

He turns around, looking straight at you. Soft sad eyes, cold hard stare. 

“That’s all I want for the rest of my life, Lee. Be with you night and day.”

—

Everything seems to hinge on you now. 

His balance, his happiness, his redemption.

You filled a void, a hollowness inside his chest, he carries you with him wherever he goes. A pale shade of yellow and celadon green. 

He tries to convince himself it’s harmless. That he’s not doing anything wrong. That it’s easier this way. Easier than the drugs, easier than placing that burden on his daughter’s shoulders. He tells himself the peace you bring him makes him a better man, and a better father. Makes him worthy again. There might even be some truth to it. 

He’s not so sure if he deserves the second chance. If he deserves the parts of you that you confide in him. Your past, your regrets, your secret victories. Your hindered aspirations and the shores of your inner island, within his reach. The touch of your cool skin. The strength of your embrace. The veneration in your eyes. Your trust, your faith. Your time. 

But he wants to believe it. It’s more of a fundamental need, really. 

And as long as he’s with you, the illusion holds. When you’re sitting next to him in the truck, singing along to the tunes playing on the old crackling stereo as he drives to nowhere, when his body’s wrapped around yours in the dark, when he murmurs against your temple everything and anything that runs through his mind, when you’re coming undone between his hold, with his name on your lips. He believes he can be as good for you as you are for him. 

But it’s a thin fabric. One that tears the very minute he steps outside the room, leaving your sleepy form tucked under the starchy sheet. 

Day after day, until the next week, he’s left on his own to fence off the thoughts that plague him. 

The voice inside him, relentless, somber, asking how much longer this can last. How long before the consequences on your life are irreversible? How long until that man who’s not your husband finds out, and takes action? What repercussions would you face, then? 

He knows what he’d be capable of if he ever met him. He doesn’t like to think about it. 

You won’t open up about your life with him, no matter how much he prods and pry. He knows your strength. And he chose to trust it.

Seven months, and one week. He sat down with the cardboard calendar hanging above Lupe’s desk at work, and counted. His mind crowded, overflowing with what ifs. 

What if he took you out of this shitty motel, for once? Not just to drive into the night, but on a proper date. Dinner. A movie. Fucking lunch. A weekend somewhere. An entire vacation. 

What if he took you out of your life? 

Lupe started dating this Marcus guy back in December. Now she’s staying at his place every other night. The man is decent, one of the best paramedics he’s worked with, honest, reliable and steadfast. The kind of man Lupe deserves, and that he doesn’t mind around Lua. 

He should move out of the house. Lupe hasn’t said anything yet, but it’s just one more grace she gives him that he hasn’t earned. Every time they see each other, Will hints at it, the allusions becoming increasingly less subtle. 

The truth is, he sees no point in moving forward with his life if it’s not with you. If it’s not to take care of you, and provide for you. Watch you thrive, keep you safe.  

A couple of weeks back, when he’d first thought about it, he’d deemed the idea crazy, painfully aware of all the frustrations a couple’s daily life entails. 

Now, it’s the only choice that makes any sense to him. 

—

The airport terminal is bustling with flocks of tourists. Noisy families with children too young to travel, transient businessmen and women, groups of youths of dubious soberness flying out after spring break. 

Ava stands out in the crowd, her tall frame topped with a short bob of bright purple hair, and you spot her immediately. Standing on your tiptoes, you wave at her until she sees you and starts running in your direction.

She all but leaps into your open arms, and you both grab at each other, leaning into the embrace, laughing. You inhale her scent, searching for that baby smell in the crook of her neck.

“Oh my god, pup, your hair!” you exclaim. “You look terrific!”

“Yeah? You like it?” she asks with a broad smile, running her fingers through her locks. 

“I love it! It’s perfect for you!”

In turn, she takes you in, looking you up and down, and lets out a low whistling sound.

“You look good, too. You look better than good. You look gorgeous!”

“Oh shush,” you gesture bashfully, but you can’t hold back your own smile.

The two of you walk to the parking lot to retrieve your car, immersed in bubbly conversation, oblivious to the moving crowds around you.

Driving out of the airport, you glance at the sign indicating the 589 northbound and smile at your precious secret, before making a left turn south.

“Where are you taking me?” she asks, “I’m hungry! Feed me! Feedmefeedmefeedme!” she chants, before breaking into a high-pitched giggle.

“Alright, alright! Hold tight, I’m taking you somewhere special. Do you like burritos?”

“Who doesn’t like burritos? Wait, what? Burritos? Do you even eat burritos? Who are you and what have you done with my sister?”

You had to type the address from the crumpled receipt into your GPS. Until today, you’ve never allowed yourself to go there. Not on your own.

It’s a small cantina with tiled walls and concrete floors, colorful trinkets arranged in pyramidal displays behind the counter, chalkboard menus and an endless list of drinks. Star-shaped lanterns are hanging from the ceiling, and the staff is busy but jovial.

Lunchtime on a Saturday, the place is packed with couples and kids, and your pulse accelerates. You hadn’t considered the possibility of running into Frankie and his family. 

You place your orders, and after a short wait, you secure a spot in the back of the restaurant. Sitting on high metal stools behind a round table, you catch up on the past three months as if you hadn’t texted every other day, speaking with your mouths full, sauce dripping down your fingers.

The life she’s built for herself in New York treats Ava better than anything you could have hoped for, anything you could have helped her achieve, had she stayed here. A job in a cutting-edge art gallery, where her vibrant personality and her flair for networking are not only recognized but valued, a bustling social life, more thrilling projects than you can keep track of, all of it balanced by Polly’s grounding presence by her side. 

Your choices and sacrifices, justified.

Ava puts down the crumbling remnants of her vegetarian burrito to wipe her mouth, and takes a sip of her margarita.

“You sure you don’t want to drink anything?”

“I’m drinking something,” you answer, pointing at your iced tea.

“Whatever you say, girl,” she shrugs.

“It’s too bad you’re not staying with me. It’s idiotic, you’re only here for a couple of days and you have to sleep over at Jules’.”

“Listen, even if your douchebag of a fiancé had agreed to have me, which I know he didn’t, I don’t want to see his ass face.”

“Alright,” you concede, “valid.”

She nearly chokes on her margarita. Setting her glass down, she gives you a pointed stare, emphatically scrutinizing your face.

“Okay, seriously, what’s going on with you? How are you? I mean, that’s obviously the wrong question, you’re fucking thriving. What happened? What’s happening? New medication? Are you finally leaving him?”

“I’m not taking any medication,” you answer with unexpected satisfaction. “But no, I’m not leaving him.”

You catch yourself before you can add another word. 

“Are you still seeing that other guy?”

You nod, dipping your head, heat creeping up your neck. Why are you like this?

“I take it he likes burritos, am I right?

“You are correct in your assumption, detective,” you quip with a grin.

There’s a pause as Ava seems to consider her next question. It’s always so easy for you to forget that she’s a grownup now. That she knows you at least as well as you know her. That she has the capacity to outsmart you. The notion flares pride in your chest.

“Is he married? Is that why you haven’t run off together in the sunset yet?”

“I’m not sure if he’s married or not.”

“What does he do in life?”

“I don’t know.”

Ava throws up her hands. 

“Girl! What do you know?” she exclaims with only half-feigned exasperation.

I know what’s important. He’s a father. He’s a friend and a brother. A pilot and a veteran. He's thoughtful and observant. He’s organized and practical. And a reluctant sentimental. He learned to swim in the Pacific Ocean. He’s capable of cold-blooded violence, but it will break him. He’s capable of infinite tenderness. And it will save him. 

You pull a face, communicating how little you care about what you don’t know. Your sister shifts on the hard stool. She frowns, and when she speaks next, her voice is low, her tone conspiratorial.  

“Adrian doesn’t suspect anything?”

“Of course, he does. Or he did. His attention is elsewhere, for now. Seems serious.”

“Again?”

“Again,” you nod. 

Ava squirms on her stool again, probably trying to restrain her temper. 

Your mind wanders, jumping back through time at light-speed, to when you first met Adrian. To the way he used to hold your hand when you started dating, squeezing your fingers with his. Letting you choose the wine, opening doors for you. To the affection in his smile, and how fast he started calling you babe . The glimmer warming his cold blue eyes when he introduced you to his family. The way he leaves the bathroom mirror splattered in toothpaste every time he brushes his teeth. The way he lets his alarm ring off forever after he’s gotten up even if you’re still in bed, even on weekends. 

The ease with which he admitted to all his flings, whenever you confronted him, but never confessed to the one with his coworker, the ambitious young lawyer. 

Would you admit to having an affair? Would you use that ugly word that make you crawl out of your skin? Would you deny it? Could you answer No, I’m not seeing anyone? Could you bear the betrayal of denying Frankie’s existence? The truth of what you share, but can’t define?

“Your fiancé is a bag of dicks,” Ava finally says, shaking her head. 

“His obliviousness suits me for now,” you remind her.  

“I don’t understand why you don’t leave him,” she snaps back, forsaking her reserve. “He got his big promotion, he got what he wanted! And Richard loves him, it’s not like he’s going to fire him just because you two broke up, right? You don’t really love him anymore, do you?” she adds on second thoughts.  

The words spill out of you unchecked, once more. Just like in the truck with Frankie, back in January. Months, years for the idea to mature below the surface of your conscious thoughts, the reflective process unbeknown to you. 

“I’m scared, Ava. I’m scared shitless. I want to leave. I’ve been wanting to leave for so long. Adrian, the company, that fucking ugly apartment.” 

“Well then fucking do it, Lee!”

“If I leave, I have nothing. No job, nowhere to go.” 

And if you could give up a relatively comfortable life, would you be able to renounce the refuge of your sadness? Of your life between the folds? 

“You have money,” Ava counters. “You have shares. Sell them. Richard can’t stop you. Get a lawyer, if you have to. One that’s not on Adrian’s payroll. And then you can fuck your man Friday every day of the week, how’s that?”

You think about the folded bedspread under the windowsill. About the wet hand towel brushing up your skin. The trucker hat on the desk, and his fingers splayed on the steering wheel. The pleading arch of his brow. 

You think about that space between Frankie’s chin and collarbone, that contains your safety, your desires, and all of your hopes.

“I don’t… I don’t know if I should leave a man for another one,” you whisper. 

Ava’s eyes widen. She sits up straight, a smirk tugging the corner of her lips. 

“I don’t know either, but it looks like this one fucked some sense into you. The irony.” 

She’s withholding something, you realize. It’s in her uncharacteristic pauses, her sideways glances. Surprisingly, human interactions were simpler when pills kept you numbed and oblivious. Being attuned to everyone’s minute expressions is a daily trial. 

“Why don’t you move to New York with us?” she eventually asks. “We can take you in until you find a job there, for as long as you need.”

There’s that we again. People talking about you in your absence, judging your choices, plotting your future. 

“I don’t know how to do anything, Ava. I have zero skills.” 

“First off, that’s not true,” she retorts, relentless with her well-rehearsed arguments. “And then, Polly can help you find something. Lee, if you can leave this company, there’s literally nothing you can’t do.”

Suddenly, you feel exhausted. Weary and old. A bone-deep lassitude. And at the heart of it, the realization that this is a liminal sequence in your life. 

“Is that why you flew here for the weekend? To ask me to come away with you?”

“Are you mad?” she asks with a face. A little girl’s expression, afraid of being scolded. Your little girl. 

“No, I’m not mad, pup. I can’t be mad. You came back for me.”

“Of course, I came back for you. I was never going to leave you behind, silly.”

****

[badmoon--rising]

Shape Shifted

Isaac :( god. I can’t do it.

What neighborhood is this where Jackson lives right across from Isaac

Eat shit old man 🖕 the one good thing Jackson does

Dream About Changing ;__; ALLISOOOONN YOU ARE SO YOUNGG AND WVERYRJING IS SO FUCKED UP AROUNF YOU

Scoootttt :((( he’s so fucking scared UGH I hate it I just want him to be happy

GOD. ARGENT DATE NIGHT. TORTURING A MAN. Love how the guy they torture is one of the directors lmao

Derek :) ❤️ you look so ominous in the shadows tonight

Lmao how many times has Scott tried to kill Stiles

THE WAY COACH GOES eeeeegghhhh I’m just gonna walk away

Ughh. Love at first “there’s another werewolf in the room”

Ohhhhh Lydiaaa

Stiles being like “ok what do you need how can I help I’m gonna make a plan I gotchu bro” and books it across the field

GOD THIS SEQUENCE IS SO FUNNYYYYY [sniiiIIFFffff] SCOTT I ADORE YOU

Eat shit Matt, that’s what you get for being boring as fuck

DANNYYYYYYYYY 💕💕💕💕💕💕 “oh... it’s nice :)” I LOVE THIS SCENE

But that scene is only followed up by the inherent romance in tackling each other on the lacrosse field and meeting each other’s glowing werewolf eyes and trusting the other with your protection 🥺

The way Isaac looks back to Scott as he’s being taken away by the police..... stop it

Scott cant stop thinking about him SHUT UP

Danny in the bg like “y’all talk about werewolves way too damn loud”

YES! YES! YES! YES! THE PAPER BALL SCENE IS SO FUCKING FUNNY ITS SO SILENT I LOVE IT, AND THEN THEY CUT DIRECTLY TO ANOTHER SILENT MOMENT THIS IS COMEDY

Nice magazine idiot

God. Gerard is so terrifying

“Perfect grades” yeah sure. Okay. Stiles, you’re gonna get the most intense ADHD burnout of your life

This episode is really funny

God Jackson shut up I hate you

UGHHH SCOTT RUNNING TO SEE ISAAC AS HES BEING DRIVEN AWAY BY THE COPS AND THEY JUST HAVE THIS FUCKING LOOK ITS CALLED LOVE ITS CALLED LOVE

SHEKDKDNDKGKKF HI DEREK

Chris is trying to defy his father so hard it makes me so sad. He doesn’t want to kill kids

Nice godfather reference

GOD I hate Colton’s delivery on “documenting history......... MY history” I cant stand his acting

LMAOOOOOO DEREK BEING LIKE I SAW YOU SMELLING GUYS. IM GOING TO STARE AT YOU NOW. He’s so funny I love him

“Did it look that bad?” “..........[little hug] yea.”

YESSSS THE CLAW MARK TRACING THING THAT THEY DO EVERY SEASON 💕💕

Hi Derek you are so fast

:) Allison calling Stiles on the phone :) I want them to be friends

Omg I’m making a comic about the talk Scott has with Derek, the “I want him out, he’s my responsibility too” scene so stay tuned for that

God Jackson I hate you. The bitch has a whole master bedroom. Fuck you

Damn. Allison really shot a man in the leg and had no emotional reaction to it at all. She’s so fucked up.

Gotta agree with Stiles on this one. Scott being like “lock me in the freezer that was used to torture and abuse someone” is an awful plan. Never liked that writing choice it just sucks on all levels and I don’t like seeing Scott in there.....

Isaaaaacccc :(

STOOOPPP THIS SCENE IS SO FUNNY

First of all..... how did Derek get in Stiles’s jeep?? like, he has his own car, he doesn’t need Stiles to drive him?? AND in the scene when Stiles is calling Scott, nobody is there with him in the car shdjsjfkdkf Derek sprinting to Stiles before he gets to the station and he’s just like “I need a ride I don’t have my car” like he fucking forgot it or something

[look] [look] [look] [look] “........I’m taking my hand off....”

Holy shit is that the first time we see Derek laugh??

Stiles being like “practice flirting with her on me, go ahead” is so much this scene is hilarious

STILES IS SO OFFENDED WHEN DEREK IS LIKE I’m thinking about punching you in the face LIKE.... DUDE WHAT DID YOU EXPECT?????

Its. So weird seeing Derek talk like a normal person. What happened to you.

Scott ughhhhh I hate that they put him in the freezer :(

Godddd Stiles seeing a man in the hallway and then he just gets manhandled immediately. It really is no wonder why he has trust issues

Uh oh. Lizard squad

OBSESSED WITH ISAAC’S FUCKED UP WEREWOLF FACE HE LOOKS SO COOL

Awwww isaaaaccc

I Just Now realized that Derek roars at Isaac to save Stiles’s life. Girl... fuck off. I need to keep track of exactly how many times these two save each other’s lives

Okay.... while I still hate Scott being in the freezer....... the poetic cinema of him destroying the thing that brought Isaac so much trauma.... is good. I just wish it happened differently

STOOOOPPP “come on. COME ON” IM IN PAINNNN ALLISOOOONNN I LOVE YOU

Oh my god. “Uh he did it.”

Lmao fuck you Jackson. Also he has the tiniest ears of all time

[syncogon]

sad only 480p version this time, and delayed. oh well, temptation too strong, and clips on the weibo looked promising, so let’s go

mjy sighhh i guess he’s just dumb not malicious but man

“the truth isn’t important” glasses shing. oh wow that hair swish tho that was like unnecessarily well animated hahaha

iiiii just want jhx to tell off yy!! i think that’d be great, what a faceslap! also wtf is this thing? iron supplements?? a spray? icy-hot? 铁打损伤喷雾?? god i spent like five minutes trying to mouse-trace those characters and i still don’t know if this is supposed to be significant or if it’s just significant that jhx caught yy doing shady shit 

anyway given music / context it seems jhx is annoyed at what yy is doing? so yay friggin finally. “our classes aren’t at nanhua” nice 

“xu-da” vs “xu-ge” hmm. anyway jhx don’t fall for the lies. jhx is like sx, annoying and chuuni but probably isn’t as obnoxiously awful as he first appears... probably.... maybe. 

goddd sucks that the full version of this op is kinda weird, because i LOVE this op so much like holy crap. jiyi bei yingfu huanxing.... 

man now im like stressed about the yf at the airport scene. trailer showed an airport. what’s gonna happennn

this exchange about dd feels so weird like it sounds like ctg is trying to explain they’re not in any pre-relationship or smth but maggie is like “i don’t mind” in a way that makes it sound like she wouldn’t mind if they’re together? what??? but whatever

ok i really enjoy this cr/yf dynamic. like i feel like it’s a bit ooc and yf as portrayed here is maybe too far on the acquiescence but also it’s really funny and sparks joy for me so i’ll buy it. i’m happy to see like established relationship stuff i think bc i generally don’t in the stuff i watch. speaking of which i’m super glad that they didn’t make the awful dumb move of trying to insert like Another wack love triangle drama dynamic thing in this like the fans want yecong and tianmai!!

wowwww it’s so nice how supportive cr is being tho like i love to see it!

handholding!! soft!! nice inversion of the earlier part where cr is bandaging his fingers. but like -

WHY DOES SHE HAVE MARKS/CALLUSES ON HER THUMB AND NOT HER PINKY??? like ok i have not played ukelele but i sure have my own share of stringed instrument finger calluses and you don’t?? press on the string with your thumb???

still, they’re trying, it’s a cute detail, i appreciate it. i liked that one wwgk review i watched yesterday that pointed out s1 was like a coming of age story disguised as a music story, whereas s2 is like a real music story.... 

wait this is incredibly cute wtf. oh my god. 

YF SIGHED/FACEPALMED AT THAT? COME ON!! WTF THAT’S SO RUDE? THAT WAS ACTUALLY LIKE PRETTY GOOD?? AND SHE DID THIS JUST FOR YOU? like maybe not performance ready but bro she’s learned for two days!! also holy shit the strumming animation is really good for smth like this im impressed! that reminds me of the like actually legit violin animation they showed in the trailer yo im so ready 

like i totally understand the frustration (damn, maggie’s face... 3 free performances? really?) but also i feel SO BAD FOR CR HERE this is so awkward oh my godddd at least ctg like tries to apologize to her (and cr’s reaction to this whole thing is also v solid, good for her) but still like damn 

aww ahh man im glad maggie still like! supports encourages cr here! that’s also char dev being able to like get past her own complicated emotions at least for this sort of gesture 

awwww i also like seeing maggie’s coping, the happiness philosophy i always thought that was super interesting. she’s a great char! and i think running is good

animators animate a girl running normally challenge

oh nice you have to walk a bit after sprinting, good

the train track scenes are so pretty wahhh 

does... does the track just end there? what

the ~significance~ of maggie now sharing this piece of her that used to be a yf thing, with ctg 

also excellent bgm - oh omg it’s og soul link remix!!! 

“i don’t want you to go” 

MY GOD HE’S FINALLY MAKING A REAL MOVE. and one based in real friendship. GOD FUCKING FINALLY CTG AAAAAA she’s cryyying man this exchange is also pretty cute ngl 

i can’t believe they figured this out a full 4 episodes before the finale 

this is so pretty here wahhhhhh i wanna ss the whole thing in 1080p 

awhhhhhh

they never released pink twilight shanghai!! i want this ver!!! 

aww yayyy open still cheering her on - YF BE NICE TO YOUR GF COME ON

haha this is like reverse of cr tutoring him - WAIT YEAH YF YOU WERE A SHITTY ASS STUDENT COMPARED TO HER BE EXTRA NICE 

also remixed dream i dig it! sounds like new lyrics? 

julliard hahahaha

dong dong goddess

HAHAHA did dd just steal ctg’s fries

ctg: expressing some deep thoughts

me: just watching dd

“forever confident, forever happy” 

wait sooooooo are they a thing now or what did that count as a confession

“and qing’er is finally here” WHAT’S THE TEAAAAA WE STILL DON’T REALLY KNOW

“im a guitarist this is fine” YOU GO DD I LOVE YOU 

BEACH EPISODE BEACH EPISODE BEACH EPISODE 

omg oyzq. you’d think they were trying to extort a confession from him. what the hell is this instrument he said what is a xiao 箫. A WOODEN FLUTE? YOOO THAT’S COOL my god PLEASE let us get some kickass trad/modern fusion music im so ready 

“i trust ouyang” ahhh double char surnames are cool

HAHAHAHAHHAAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAAHAHAHAHA WHAT THE FUCK

“because i’m about to have surgery on my knee” REALLY? REALLY? IS THIS REALLY HOW YOU’RE GOING TO JUSTIFY ALL THIS? FOLKS I AM LOSING MY SHIT I HAVEN’T LAUGHED OUT LOUD LIKE THIS IN SO LONG

ok this is interesting tho he’s not a dick for the hell of it it’s out of desperation or smth. but like half a year, oh no, what a horror. (i’m fresh out of hb feels ok you shaddap // tho i can also imagine the knife, like in lotus bloom, where they didn’t think szp’s injury was permanent). tho i do also like the “then we’ll be seniors we won’t have time to perform” but also that’s just a reminder that all of these ppl are like frigging 16 year olds and i still cannot take this seriously

i like “i didn’t expect, that i couldn’t give you the confidence to win”. god im so glad this confrontation is happening. man this feels like a wrap up already are they really spending all 3 last episodes on the competition? what’s the story gonna be? 

feel like he’d be less ugly with hairstyle that looked more consistently like this. anyway sucks that both of them are so ugly otherwise there’s some nice sun/moon (+stars?) imagery you can get going here

GROUP CHAT GROUP CHAT GROUP CHAT 

pretty! i wanna save this hq

it’s this bgm!!! godd i just want this track so bad

an empty beach?? in china near shanghai??? 

anyway ahhh it’s the iconic beach shot! i like how the promo ver cuts out dd lmfao

wow nine episodes in and cookie finally gets a character moment??? cookieeeeeeee i missed you

ok i can’t ship them he calls her shifu but also THIS IS SUCH A CUTE FRIENDSHIP calling every day 10 minutes?? wow!! i love dongdong and i love cookie. also this hits different in covid times “no one says that we can’t be friends because of distance” 

oh i guess they are pushing this as a ship. meh.

wahhhhh. need this hq then i have more propic material. 

HE HAS COVID 

ah lang is VIBING oh to be the ah lang of my own life. parasurfing. walking into poles. 

wow this is so modern! the red bag thing! wow i do love this show flexing the modern-ness 

this is the mercedes benz arena im SURE of it ahhhh holy crap this crowd. oh to be in a crowd without mask

IT’S THIS DUDE AGAIN like the trailer spoiled this but if i found out this right here right now i would’ve lost my shit my god hahhaah

im like torn about how i feel about cr’s dress like idk if it fits her well even if it’s pretty

:<

oh im scared i hope this doesn’t become embarrassing 

:0

OMG THEY INCLUDED PENCIL SKETCH OF THAT S1 SCENE. HAHAHA. char growth yayyyyy

ok anyway im happy!! spent like an hour watching this or something lmao but good times!! much better than last ep HAHA yayyy im so glad we’re finally at the comp and lots of these little things have been tied up now im ready for new song drops!!!

[steeltwigz]

ill try to write a review down here but tbh i cant rlly even remmeber that much anyway like its not only Bad storywise but also Bad pacing-wise i was nappingggggg unfortunately i watched it w my sibling who thinks that this movie being bad is the EPITOME of TERRIBLE CURSES to befall me. girl. i am a sonic the hedgehog fan. this movie is bad and so is like half the franchise, we Pick and Choose here. anyway. disorganized and spoiler review under the cut WHATEVER

it gets. very mean. SORRY im very attached to shadow the hedgehog i take him very seriously.

ok the first thing that stood out to me is maddie's hair is once again straight. this isnt like the Worst thing, just a nitpick, but i was so excited for them to keep giving her new styles to at least like. make her interesting in that way, like her microbraids from sonic 2 RULED i was rlly hoping for that energy again. disappointing.

gun did surprisingly little in this movie? like even less of a presence than i thought? they couldnt even shoot maria, like?????? come on. are they supposed to be incompetent, are they supposed to be cool, are they supposed to have any weight or purpose At All?

the opening was actually rlly solid. the character animation in this franchise in general SUCKS, like its rlly rlly slow and the weight of the characters is all off, but BESIDES that and besides the. tbh very flat acting from keanu, the opening scenes with shadow were great. not as good as the shadow escape from sa2. not as good as ANYTHING from sa2 but we already knew that. that scene where he does the akira bike slide UPWARDS, UP THE TOWER AND INTO THE SKY????? THAT SHIT WAS COOL AS HELLLLLLLLLL

biolizard only as a reference.... i saw her. im not. happy about it but she was there. i miss her. the eclipse canon too, why isnt it. Where Is The ARK. maria isnt sick, she isnt in space, she isnt shot by the military. up until the end reveal of maria's death, i was assuming SHADOW had killed her? through an accident with his powers? lame. there isnt any tragedy to this story. maria dies and its like Sad or whatever, but i dont care abt her like i did the game version.

another GOOD thing, whoever decided super shadow would be ROSE GOLD with PINK HIGHLIGHTS I LOVE YOU THANK YOU. that shit RULED

ok i was also disappointed shadow didnt get to have a real gun. why a laser pistol? real gun is too scary? not marketable enough? probably.

this whole thing just felt extremely bland. the music was fine, yeah, the set pieces and everything, whatever. but the actual story is so over the place. i felt nothing the whole film. it was so much NOTHING. shadow has no nuance, he doesnt crack jokes, he doesnt smirk or sneak around or play fight or whatever. gerald robotnik is also so so so so so awful. Hes Just Evil! NOOOO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO N- [gets shot] WHAT happened to his NUANCE his MYSTERY. the tale of a brilliant man being turned against the WORLD because the government he worked for betrayed him and took away the one thing he loved. what happened to the story of a mad man who flew too close to the sun. what happened to his HUBRIS. his AUDACITY. now he eats cotton candy and plays VR. GODDDD. its better when we DONT know shadows backstory. its better when SHADOW doesnt know his backstory.

im also so tired of eggman dying at the end of every movie. give me a BREAKKKKKKKK. speaking of eggman, HATE IT. HATE ITT. "hes let himself go he sits around all day and is fat and gross and smelly" WHATT. WHATTTTTT. GOD. these writers. dont get sonic at ALLLL. "no you dont get it, its funny ebcause eggman eats gross burritos with slop and trash all around him and makes gross farting sounds and is gross!!!" YOU DONT KNOW HIMMMMM YOU DONT KNOW HIMMMMMMMMMMMM. his whole outfit for the movie being like gross and dirty and ragged and stained.......... EGGMAN THIS ISNT YOU.........

i justt. idk. they rlly. rlly just are not sonic the way i like it. im so. Shocked tbh that i know so many fans who seem to think this was a really really good movie. they barely even had Live and Learn guys........... this movie is the table scraps they feed the dogs........ this movie is 3 week old leftovers pig-slop meal. i have to play sonic adventure just to cleanse my palette. Good Lird. GUN didnt even shot maria....... they tried to Save Face by making Towers (forgot his movie name i literally dont care abt him even a little) try to Save Her. Youre Kidding Me. You Are Kidding Me. dont even get me STARTED on the meteor. Gerald didnt even fucking MAKE Shadow, Shadow is just a Normal Mobian Hedgehog. GOOD LIRD. he does have a home, on mobius or Wherever, AND he can actively just Choose To Go There with Ring Teleportation. unless when Knuckles said he had the last ring he meant the LAST last ring EVER??????? but no becuz amy had rings too so. what is she doing here. hiiii girl, she was actually kinda cute her model was appealing. metal sonic looked rlly good too but this ISNT ABT THEM. SHADOW WASNT EVEN MADE BY GERALD DO YOU GET IT???? HE HAS ALL HIS MEMORIES, ALL HIS WITS ABOUT HIM, HE ISNT EVEN RLLY BEING MANIPULATED THAT MUCH. not in the same horrific tragic way that makes him so impactful. this movie is NOTHING. dont waste your time. play sonic adventure 2, even watching the fandub is better than this. shadow wasnt even made by gerald. GOD. GODDD.

oh uhhh the women thing hasnt improved either, to no ones surprise. got WORSE actually. even less human screentime, and they couldnt even make rachel Real????? shes a hologram or whatever the fucK???? AND shes still just Black Woman Who Yells At People. Yayyyyy. im so done with the sonic movies. SORRY i made myself mad thinking about how MARIA WASNT EVEN IN SPACE SHE WAS ON EARTH?????? THE WHOLE TIME???? WITH SHADOW??????? WHATS???? WHATS EVEN THE POINT???? god. OKAY OKAY sorry. BUT HE WASNT EVEN MADE BY GERALD DONT YOU GET IT

they couldnt even make prison island a ukulele shape. no jungle fight. whats even the pointtt. no "i will grant you one wish". they wanted that stupid No Food Or Movies line sooooooo badly and it hit me like a truck. like a giant gun truck. awful awful movie. SORRY FOR BEING SO DRAMATIC ITS JUST THAT SONIC ADVENTURE 2 MEANS A LOT TO ME, SHADOW THE HEDGEHOG MEANS A LOT TO ME. bastardized. worse than i expected.

SHADOW DIDNT EVEN SWEAR. FUCKKKKK

Ok now I'm watching Sonic 3 too, pray for my swift recovery 🙏🙏

[artificialqueens]

cat got your tongue? (bob x naomi) -- frenchy

a/n: hello!! i dropped 2 fics and dipped, but hi again! i was looking through some requests for an idea on what people are wanting to read, and especially any ships people want, and i found a few requests for bob and specifically bob/naomi. i got BIG inspired because i love me a more rare pair AND i love them both so much, they are the cutest!! luv them. i was hesitant to share/write bc i’m not sure if many ship, but i decided to fully send it anyway. anyway enjoy!! <3

Bob buzzed with anticipation, bouncing on his heels as he stood in the airport terminal, hands clutching a thick cardboard poster and eyes on a search mission. He nudged his glasses up absentmindedly, trying his best to keep his sign visible among the dozens of reuniting families, tourists, and rolling suitcases. There was always something about airports that put Bob on the edge, whether it be the pressure of being on time for a flight or the fear of delays and being stuck wandering for hours – though neither gave reason for his current flurry of nerves, as he wasn’t here for a flight himself, but instead to pick up a friend. He had felt the building anxiety all morning, but lacked the ability to pinpoint why it had chosen to plague him today, and potentially sour what was intended to be a pleasant reunion.

With an impatient click of his tongue, Bob couldn’t even resume pondering his anxiety, since it was quickly replaced with annoyance. Figures Naomi had to take her sweet time coming off the plane. Bob could already picture her stopping to snap a picture against the window, imagining the way she’d caption it “hi, new york” for her Instagram story, or write something about it being “golden hour”. It was almost too vivid in his mind.

The (probably not) imaginary scenario he was in the works of fabricating was prematurely abandoned by the sight of a certain leggy supermodel in the distance. Immediately perking up, Bob tightened his grip on his sign, his face breaking out in a shining grin.

His face already began to cramp as he waited for Naomi to look up from her phone, presumably texting him to see where he was, where they could meet up. If only she’d glance up and see him, but no, she instead slowed down, phone coming to press against her ear. Bob wished he could make a moving walkway appear in front of her, something to glide her over so he could whack her with the sign he spent a half hour making.

He decided against grabbing the phone that vibrated in his pocket, instead staying put, hoping it wouldn’t be long before she noticed him. With the other passengers slowly dissolving from around him, it made it almost impossible for them not to see each other. Naomi finally took a good look around her, eyes meeting Bob’s and a smile following not long after.

Pocketing her phone, Naomi started towards Bob, but stopped midway with a squint of her eyes and her attention on Bob’s sign. “Oh my Godddd,” he heard her drawl in the that voice he missed hearing, a voice he’d be hearing on his TV for the next – hopefully - several weeks.

“There’s my All Star!” Bob spread out his arms, wrapping himself around his friend as soon as they were close enough, feeling accomplished in how he had achieved a Naomi Smalls eye roll within only seconds of their reunion.

“Bob, you’re totally making a scene,” Naomi groaned, but still lifted her arms in a reciprocation of his hug – only after first squirming under her dramatic friend’s stronghold.

She didn’t see the way Bob was fully cheesing until they had pulled apart, and the sight made her heart simultaneously melt and hurt. It wasn’t often that she saw Bob look so sincere and even less often that they even saw each other in person due to their schedules and events.

“I missed you, bitch! Can I miss my friends in public and cry like a little toddler without fear of judgement?” Bob moved to link arms with Naomi, which she didn’t fight him on.

“No.”

“And to think I was going to take you home with me,” Bob mimicked Naomi’s eye roll when she featured it a second time. “You like the sign, huh? Don’t even answer me, I know you do,” Bob shrugged proudly, like it was no big deal, the sign that read “THIS WAY TO THE DRAG RACE HALL OF FAME!” in bold print and tacky star decorations held limply from his right hand.

She nudged his shoulder with her own, their arms not breaking their link.

The teasing moment died when they both remarked each other’s fond smiles. “What?” Bob chuckled, nudging Naomi back as they walked away from the gates. He wondered if the blush on her cheeks was just the Universe playing tricks on him. A cruel trick that caused a blush of his own to spread, one he was hopeful she didn’t notice.

“I like it. And, like. Thanks for coming to pick me up. It’s been - oh my Gosh - stressful as hell. All Stars was something else, girl. Season Eight had nothing on the past few weeks,” Naomi sighed, focusing her eyes on the ground below them. The tiles of the airport floor. The way the lines moved underneath them. “And I’ve never been happier to be in New York, even if just for a few days.”

“Well, you’ll have to tell me everything. Spare no details, or else. You already know that I’ll find out through Monét if you lie about how bad you did in all the challenges–”

“Oh my God, you’re ridiculous,” Naomi pushed him away with a laugh. She led the way towards the baggage claim, Bob following closely behind her, laughing heartily at his own joke.

+++

“Like, the Henny. Stacy Layne Motherfuckin’ Matthews, Bob. It was crazy. I was starstruck, honestly,” Naomi laughed, one leg crossed under her and the other hanging off the edge of the sofa. They were settled in Bob’s living room, avoiding the film equipment and lighting setup in the corner that was used for his podcast with Monét. Naomi scrolled through her phone as Bob watched her, mug in his hands and affectionate smile on his face.

“I’m so happy for you, and super jealous. I might have to start a real girl group with Stacy. So, this means you didn’t go home first, right?” Bob segued, more serious. He could tell Naomi wasn’t keen on talking about it immediately, but he was dying to know. “You don’t have to tell me everything, but I’d rather be prepared for when I see it on TV.”

“I know, Bob. And you know that I’m not supposed to say anything–”

“Stacy Layne Matthews?”

“That’s different.”

Bob sighed, but he knew she had no obligation to spill. He’d just have to wait like everyone else. “Okay. Okay, yeah, that’s fine. Don’t tell me about how you won All Stars 4, I’ll just have to see it for myself.”

“Bob,” Naomi warned, shaking her head with a sad smile. “I trust you. I didn’t,” she shrugged half-heartedly.

“Didn’t what?”

“Win. I didn’t win,” Naomi pouted dramatically, but Bob could see the real sadness in her eyes, beyond her trying to act dramatic to put him off. “I won a lip sync. I made the top four. I don’t know who won yet, but I didn’t. So.”

“Top four! Oh my God, Naomi,” Bob isolated the good news he heard, and placed his mug off to the side in order to give her a congratulatory hug. “Fuck the crown, or whatever. That’s still a big deal. Farther than I thought you’d make it, if we’re bein’ honest,” Bob added in a deadpan, the laugh threatening to break his act.

But Naomi didn’t laugh like she normally would, still facing Bob on the sofa but her eyes were downcast.

“Hey,” Bob scooted forward, placing a hand on Naomi’s shoulder comfortingly. “I know you wanted it. But you should still be proud of yourself.”

Naomi nodded, her phone long abandoned in order to preoccupy herself with the hem of her shirt. “Yeah. I was just, like, so close. It still sucks.”

She looked up, and she could’ve sworn they weren’t sharing each other’s space so closely before. Something in her jumped, flipping the switch to send her heartbeat into its maximum speed setting. When did Bob get so close? Why wasn’t he giving her a consoling hug and scooting back away?

“Um,” she muttered, barely audible between them. If Bob had just leaned back away, she wouldn’t have made the mistake of glancing down towards his lips. She wouldn’t have looked back up, hopeful to meet his eyes, but instead catch him doing the same. She wouldn’t have had the chance to kiss him back when he finally closed the distance between them.

Naomi had thought about kissing Bob before. She imagined it for the first time during the filming for season eight, after they had properly met. After being in a competition with him for a few weeks. After joking around with each other in the “Shade Tree” room, in front of the camera, Naomi on Bob’s lap. After hugging each other and saying they loved each other, solidifying their new friendship, Naomi still wishing she could beat Bob but knowing she never would.

Bob had thought about kissing Naomi before, many times. After being friends for two years. After all the times they visited each other’s shows, or hung out with fellow queens and gravitated towards each other in the larger groups. After Naomi came to watch Bob in ‘Angels in America’, or spent time at his house watching Pose, or was a guest on his podcast. After Naomi was away for weeks and didn’t win All Stars 4.

Neither of them were ready for how it really was, in the small living room, on Bob’s sofa.

Whether this was just Bob cheering her up or not, Naomi took the opportunity to kiss him back without giving it much thought or question. It was timid, and a little shy, but Bob felt like he was growing wings from the kiss alone.

“You just kissed me,” Naomi whispered after they had parted, like they weren’t the only two people in the room, like someone could have heard or seen. She blinked at him, eyes adjusting, her blank expression not giving Bob much to work with in terms of reading her. She peered into him, not with perplexity or shock, but with a subtle awe. Her lips were still puckered, as if anticipating a second kiss. He battled with the idea of answering her, and the idea of leaning back in again. The only option he didn’t have was leaning too far away – a rope threatening to sever them both in half if he so much as considered it. And he didn’t. He couldn’t trade away the comfort and familiarity he felt pressed so close to her, even if he had just risked ruining that with a single kiss.

“Yeah,” Bob nodded slowly, his ordinarily bold self gone within moments, rendering the older queen speechless. Stomach doing somersaults, voice quivering. All unusual for someone so typically assertive. “I’m… I don’t know,” He answered, riddled with uncertainty. His answer reflected his feelings on both what he did, why he did it, and what her reaction was. He didn’t know anything in those few seconds. Or were they minutes? He was going mad in an attempt to gauge her reaction. She had kissed back, but that didn’t reassure or satisfy his conscience; instinct and feelings lacked synonymity in moments like this. Naomi not making an effort to push him away or gasp in disgust didn’t mean she shared his long-lasting feelings.

He could easily pass this off as a joke, right? It wouldn’t be off-brand for Bob, to fuck around and maybe go too far with a joke, a kiss that he could easily claim meant nothing but a friendly pass. Could save him from the inevitable rejection.

Except that claiming the kiss as a joke wouldn’t warrant how tense the moment they shared now was, the moment after the kiss. A friendly peck was one thing – the tenderness and earnestness in that kiss was reasonable cause to ax the idea of saying that it wasn’t a big deal. That this wasn’t really happening.

Naomi narrowed her eyes, worrying her bottom lip. “Why sorry?” Bob wondered if the smile he heard in her voice was authentic or all in his head. He risked a peek at her lips, a single corner slyly inching upwards. Was she fucking with him, like he had debated doing?

His anxiety was relieved by Naomi raising a hand, her fingers barely ghosting along his jaw, slower than either of them would have liked.

Bob held his breath.

“I don’t want you to be sorry,” she continued after a beat, making Bob realize that he never answered her. “What’s wrong, Bob?” Naomi pouted innocently; Bob noted how her eyes harbored mischievousness, still. “Cat got your tongue all of a sudden?”

“No, uh,” Bob cleared his throat with a shake to his head, desperate to not let this die at the account of suddenly becoming a deer caught in headlights. “I thought – I didn’t want to, like. I didn’t mean for it to be –”

“Bob.”

“You can totally ignore me for at least a week –”

“Bob,” Naomi raised her voice, effectively overpowering Bob, who was oblivious to how fast he had been rambling. “For the love of God. Stop talking. For, like, once in your life?” If anyone else had said this, Bob would have jumped straight into defense mode, but the fond look in Naomi’s eyes and the humor in her tone prevented that. “You were doing so well.”

She was fucking with him. This wasn’t about Bob, or any kind of reciprocation – she went almost 5 weeks with no attention. He didn’t want to hear her admit it.

“– I’m just fucking with you,” Bob screwed his eyes shut in an extreme wince after hearing the words come out of his own mouth.

“What?” He couldn’t deny the sudden and genuine confusion in her voice this time. “What do you mean?”

“I’m, uh,” Bob laughed unnaturally, pushing it into the empty space between them. “It’s just a joke, girl. Testing out my acting chops for my next audition.” Bob played along with the wicked, brutal joke he just turned his admission of feelings into. He could deal with Naomi’s frustration with a prank more than he could handle her laughing in his face if she knew what that kiss really meant.

“Um,” Naomi was the one at a loss for words this time, “oh. Wait, like – what? You’re serious?” She looked at him weirdly, seemingly unconvinced. And, God, how could she be? She waited a moment, her weird look urging Bob to take back what he said – but he didn’t. “Okay,” she nodded curtly, pulling away from the comfort of sharing Bob’s personal space – the rope that tethered them together was left frayed, laying on the floor before Bob, as she made a beeline for the door.

“Where are you going?” Bob watched her in panic, the somersaults in his stomach bouncing at record speed, wondering how his plan to save the situation only made it worse. And more anxiety inducing. Why wasn’t she laughing? Swatting at him and rolling her eyes in the way that she does when he playfully insults her makeup or makes fun of her for being younger than some of the shoes in his closet? “Naomi, girl,” Bob ignored his own aside, following her and stopping only a few feet away as she struggled to slip on her shoes. “It wasn’t that deep. I’m sorry. If it was weird. You were upset, I thought it’d distract you, or make you laugh. I was waiting for you to shove me away and laugh, or call me gross, or… I don’t know.”

With a heavy sigh, Naomi looked over her own shoulder. “No, yeah, I know. It sure made me forget all about losing All Stars. Ha ha. It was funny, see? You’ll kill your audition. I just forgot that I have to grab lunch with, uh, with Kim.”

“It’s six o’clock.”

“Kim slept late.”

“She’s not even in New York. Naomi, come on,” Bob reached out, laying a hand gently on her shoulder. Ignoring how his heart stung when she recoiled. “You’re mad.”

“Yeah, I am,” Naomi wasted no time arguing, turning her head back around and fumbling with the lock on the door. She was fixed on leaving.

“Can you just turn around, like, for a second?” Bob grew impatient, knowing he couldn’t let her walk out. “Please?”

He had a hand on his hip when he heard the fumbling stop, and when Naomi slowly turned around to face him. He opened his mouth to speak, but Naomi beat him to it. Her throat was reddening, rising from below her collared shirt and up towards her face.

“It was a joke? It was really something to distract me? You thought it’d make me laugh?” Her voice was taut, forced. Bob knew she was holding back. Whether it was a sob or a string of insults, he wasn’t sure.

Bob hadn’t expected the sudden confrontation when she had been so intent on leaving, and scoffed in offense. He laughed incredulously, glancing around as if there was someone else or perhaps a camera in the room. He couldn’t look at her, not for more than a few seconds at a time. “It was a joke, I just told you that.”

“Bob, stop,” Naomi groaned in frustration, and if Bob would have blinked, he could’ve missed the glassy look in her eyes, the threat of tears. “Even I know you don’t make jokes like that. That was low, and the weirdest timing for something like that. It didn’t feel like a joke. And it wasn’t funny, not really.”

“I’m-” Bob looked back up at her, eyes wide. “Naomi, girl, whoa-”

“I’ve been waiting for you to do that since we filmed. Filmed our season,” Naomi’s arms were crossed, her eyes watering. “That’s, like, two years, Bob.” She bowed her head, in a way that would have hid her face had she been wearing a wig.

Bob stood wide eyed, frozen. His eyes didn’t blink for at least 30 seconds. “Naomi, I…” He didn’t know what to say, searching for the right words to fix this quicker than he managed to ruin it. “Really?”

“Yeah. Yeah, really.”

“You never said anything.”

Naomi laughed, but there was no humor in it. “I never said anything because I was afraid you’d do what you just did. That you’d make it all into a joke. Think that I’m a joke,” she placed a hand on the doorknob behind her, the confidence that fueled her confrontation faltering.

“Wait, don’t. Please stay. I chose the worst way to do this,” Bob stepped forward, eyes pleading. “You can hate me, unfollow me even, but I can’t let you leave thinking I meant any of that. I don’t even have an audition booked,” he admitted softly, but didn’t expect her to believe him. He wasn’t really proving to be the most trustworthy person. He really thought he did something, huh? Beyond fucking up both their years of friendship and something that could have gone beyond? “I… Like you? More than a friend, or another sister, or whatever. Genuinely like you. I just happen to be a huge fucking idiot and did something about it before coming to terms with the fact that you don’t feel that way. Thought I could cover it up, but I had to kiss you at least once. I didn’t really expect you to kiss me back, so I guess… I guess I panicked?“

“You panicked because I kissed you back? Oh my God, that is so backwards, Bob. You’re so… You’re such an idiot. I say it all the time, but I’m serious,” Naomi raised her eyebrows in disbelief, accompanying it with a shake of her head.

They stared at each other for a moment, regarding the other, and also this whole fucked up situation. The misunderstanding and how stupid the both of them were, how neither knew how to communicate.

“We’re both idiots,” Naomi continued, a smile growing. Bob couldn’t help but match it.

“You can say that again. So, uh. Can I kiss you again and not ruin it this time?”

“Please.”

Bob stepped forward, arm reaching for Naomi’s waist to pull her close, their lips meeting again in a kiss Bob definitely preferred to the first one.

She instinctively brought both hands up to the side of Bob’s head, pulling him closer and making the timidity of their kiss obsolete. Making a surprised noise, Bob gave way to let Naomi take control of the kiss, his head spinning. She felt him wrap his arms fully around her waist, both of them trying to close the distance that didn’t even exist between them anymore.

“Wait,” Naomi pulled away, taking a large breath. “Can I just say. I’m really glad you were joking about that audition, because you definitely would not have gotten the part. Your acting has gotten much worse. Really unconvincing, Bob.”

“You’re such a bitch,” he smiled lazily back at her, positive that she could sense the relief that flowed from him as his shoulders visibly relaxed. Their laughs mingled and died together as they started for another kiss, Bob stopped right before his lips met Naomi’s. “Can I just say, you’re a winner. Too good for All Stars, honestly. To me, you didn’t lose,” he laid a hand on her neck, sliding toward the back of her head. He leaned into her side, mouth nearly meeting where her jaw and ear met. “Twice,” Bob added in a mock-seductive whisper, exuding an instinctively hearty laugh and gentle shove from Naomi.

“I hate you,” she laughed sarcastically, shaking her head at the sheer ridiculousness he insisted upon even during such a tender moment. “Aaaaand you just killed the mood.” Naomi gave a sigh of disapproval, but Bob could tell she held no authentic contempt.

“Yeah? Well I just thought of something that might make this,” he gestured between them, raising his brow, “a little complicated.”

Naomi narrowed her eyes, puzzled, but had to smile weakly at his acknowledgement toward whatever they were, with or without labeling it. “Go on.”

“I think Monét’s gonna take it personally when she finds out I’m not rooting for her to win All Stars,” Bob admitted, eliciting a laugh from the both of them, Naomi throwing her head back. She swatted at him playfully after catching her breath.

“Bob, you already know I’m not going to win. That was, like, what started this,” Naomi enunciated her words slowly, making it clear that she was stating the obvious. “I know you’re older than me, but girl, is your memory already going down the toilet?”

“Pfft, you wish, crazy bitch,” Bob sneered, endearment flashing in his smile and humor in his voice. “I know you won’t. Your fans knew you had no chance of winning season eight but did that stop them? Not that there were many of them,” they gasped in unison, Naomi in offense and Bob mocking her on cue. “Don’t mean I won’t be the biggest, most obnoxious Naomi Smalls advocate in the bar – nay, on the street.”

“You’re ridiculous,” Naomi matched his affectionate look, exposing her sarcasm. She wrapped her long arms around his shoulders, effectively pulling him back from when she had shoved him away, leaning their foreheads together.

“Ridiculous? Maybe. But a winner? Absolutely,” Bob emphasized the final word, his beam matched Naomi’s as they leaned into another kiss, “And I’m not talking about Drag Race this time.”

[siremyy]

episode 9 play-by-play

we don’t have screentime for yoga we need to get to the siremy go go go

AW EVERYONE’S SAD ABOUT MAASHOUS LEAVING EVEN GORDY

robbie chillax you’re gonna get her kicked out even faster ajsdgakdfg

this principal can suck my [redacted]

can we hear something..... other than mama who bore me? please??

prinCIPAL WARD THAT’S HOMOPHOBIA IM ABOUT TO AJDGKSJHGSHG

so just run through it all clean for ward, but then perform for real. he really can’t do anything once they’re onstage,,

oh my fuck robbie you’re breaking my heart wtf

WHY AREN’T THEY RUNNING THIS THROUGH SOONER OH MY GOD

lexi askgadgradjfkhg “oh my god”

y e s s i m o n stand up for this show!!!!!

okay i’m still on the fact that they’re running this through for the FIRST TIME like two days before opening

fling 👏 his 👏 words 👏 in 👏 his 👏 face!!!

f r i c k ed jakhdfglakdh

“totally messed up, will they mess you up” me trying to meet my word quota for my end-of-the-year essay

EVEN GORDY KNOWS THIS IS SHITTY OHH MY GOD

awww liletteeeeeee good for u bb but also accept help pls

simon i’m gonna cry stop being such a good character

just tell ward you didn’t have time to change the costumes!!!! ahhhh!!!!

oh what wild mrs. strickland is actually.... not bad/???

martha has such a pretty voice ohhh my godddd i’m so emotional also wtf is francis doing OH MY GOD CLARK’S THERE TOO

i love lilette’s costume she’s so adorable!!

tracey is a fashion icon honestly

SHE’S SO CONCERNED ABOUT MAASHOUS AHHHHHH i mean me too bitch

HAHAHAHAHAHA LOU JUST ASSUMES GWEN WOULD NEVER LOOK AT GORDY GUESS WHAT BITCH

okay dad saunders can stfu but simon looks GOOD in this scene like have you noticed his hair getting gradually better as the season goes on???

fuck off dad saunders oh my god

simon’s so angerey in this song i am living for it

oh my gosh clark’s solo is SO GOOD

THEY CUT IT BEFORE SHOWERING AT GYM CLASS FUCKKKK WHAT DO THEY HAVE AGAINST MY BOY SEAN

“make compromises?” oh sHIT

CAN SOMEONE APPLAUD TED RIGHT THERE HOLY FUCK THAT MOMENT WAS AWESOME

fuck man i want a burger and fries and soda and a shake now stop that rise

do not kill his mother oh my god that’s so close to crossing a line for me 

IF SHE DIES OPENING NIGHT I’M GONNA SUE NBC

HE’S SINGING AMAZING GRACE N O

“please let me install it” yeah mood

oh my god did they have the heterosexual sex

oh no they didn’t it’s okay

jeremy k n o w s something’s wrong y e s go to him

that was it???? THAT WAS IT????? T H A T W A S I T ????????????

omg gordy opening up to gwen i’m weak

after he said “pretty stalkable” i thought gwen looked into the camera like she was on the office for a second

ADOPTION CENTER M O O D I AM THAT GIRL THAT GIRL IS ME

hohhhhh my godddd can we please hear something other than mama who bore me????? p l e a se??? like it feels like the “can i have a waffle” vine. “can i get a woybr?? can i please get a woybr????”

ah yes because everyone knows the show ends at totally fucked

ew that creepy arm touch WARD CAN SUCK MY [redacted]

lou stfu you NEED tracey ohhh my goddd

that was the END???????? this show is totally hosed amiright

can you believe there’s only one episode left?? wild

[tellywoodtrash]

ishqbaaz 12.06.17 lb

plain text version here. 

ohhhhhhhh boy, right off the bat, a difficult scene. omRu confronting anika. ow my hearttttttt. 😬😬😬

but i'm already getting the vibe of old omkara from this scene and that's making my heart feel a little bit better. 😌😌😌

my girl can't even look them in the face, because she knows om will instantly know. 😞😞😞

SHAYARI! AFTER SO LONG! THAT TOO A "I LOVE MY BHAABI" ONE! LIKE THE DAYS RIIIIGHT AFTER THE WEDDING! 😍😍😍

OH MY HEARTTTTTTTTTT, KASAMMMMMMMMMM. SHE CAN'T DOOOOOOOO ITTTTTTT. SHE CAN'T JUST BE WILLY NILLY DOING KASAMS ON HER BABY RUDY'S HEAD. HE'S EQUIVALENT TO SAHIL FOR HER. 😭😭😭😭😭

om knows something is up. he knoooooooows. 😔😔😔

ok they can clearly see her distress now. 🙁🙁🙁

oh my heart, rudra is cryinggggg seeing her cry. i can'tttttt. 😭😭😭

oh wow, she's really gonna tell them??? 😧😧😧

lmao don't worry anika, these two haven't bothered telling shivaay ANYTHING for the past 4 months. kasam-vasam lene ki bhi khaas zaroorat nahi thi. 😂😂😂

okay still FUCKING DYING at them doing the kasam thing though. 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭

OH WOW SHE TOLD THEM. HOOOOOOLY. 😧😧😧

aw, rudy boyyyy. *holds him* you should be happy! you have ONE MORE big brother! one more superman! who's even better at fighting that the existing one! 😊😊😊

om's in denial. snap out it son!!!!!! you’re the one who’s gotta handle shit now! you gotta be strong! 👏🏽👏🏽👏🏽

FUCKING HELL, IN HINDSIGHT TELLING RUDRA WAS THE WORST IDEA EVER THOUGH. ISKE PET MEIN KUCHHHHHHHHH NAHI REHTA. 😣😣😣

oh suddenly sachchai ki mooorat, raja harishchandra waala omkara is back. 😒😒😒

lmao rudra remembers learning to walk?!?!? pfffffft. 🙄🙄🙄

"shaayad beta jaayaz/naajayaz ho sakta hai hai, lekin bhai hamesha bhai hi rehta hai, aur rahega." 

i'm a fucking only child. i don't even relate to this situation and i am fucking sobbing buckets here. 😭😭😭😭😭

lmao you idiotssssss, you're still related to him by khoon tho???? 😕😕😕

OMFG OK PAIR CHOONA IS TOO MUCH CALM YO TITS ANIKA JESUS. 😟😟😟

i'm so fucking gladddddd this scene happened. they know the wholeeeee truth. 😪😪😪

that gul and harneet would throw us such a bone is pretty damn unexpected! 😯😯😯

shivaay is angry drinking? really? so unlike him. 😕😕😕

lmao even then it's champagne. this man is so damn extraaaaaa. 😆😆😆

ohhhh yuppppp. she's gonna bang him. that's what "is raat ke yaadon ke sahaare main puri zindagi jee sakoon" means. great. justtttttttt great. 😒😒😒

you know what though, at this point i'll take what i can get. just fucking bangggg already. 🙄🙄🙄

lmao like, i don't drink, so i'm no expert, but is champagne supposed to be colourless like that? 🤔🤔🤔

wow. someone's learnt to articulate his feelings with his big boy words. instead of throwing things. the progress this man has made. remarkable. 👏🏽👏🏽👏🏽

also, lmao, you won't be angry for much longer once you know what wifey has in mind for tonight. 😏😏😏

aw man, my heart. my poor girl. 😥😥😥

girl, you know what you've planned for the night. y u no close the door? 😶😶😶

he knowsssssss. HE KNOWS. 😫😫😫

the way she keeps tracing his face with her hands, as if to memorize it. i can't. i'm dyingggggg from the sad. 😭😭😭😭😭😭

his earnest face as he asks her what she wants. 😭😭😭

i die whenever nakuul does the eyebrow thing. like you know, the i’m being soooooooo sincere with my feelings thing? you know what i’m talking about right? 💔💔💔

yeah, she needs your mom to fucking die. 😒😒😒 that would solve all her problems. she’s not even your real mom. we’ll get jhanvi to adopt you and be a better mom laterz. just arrange for the immediate termination of mummeh’s services. 😠😠😠

ugh. you twooooooooo. why are you so disgustingly in loveeeeeeee???? it's twisting up my insides and making me FEEL shittttttt. and not in a good wayyyyy. 😫😫😫

"mujhe SIRF ANIKA chahiye." 

fullllll acceptance of who she is. no naam khoon khaandaan. sirf anika. 😭😭😭

ohhhhhhhhh yeah. now we talkinggggg. 😏😏😏

see? isn't this muchhhh better billu? emotional vulnerability and honesty, and no awaiiiii ka show-shaaaa and OTT-ness. pehle se hi yehi approach lete. you just missed out on 3 days worth of orgasms due to faulty strategy. 🙄🙄🙄

SOMEONE CLOSE THE FUCKEN DOOR. WHY ARE YOU PPL LIKE THIS?????? HONESTLY?!?!?!??! 😩😩😩

oh great, he's gone to do some OTT nonsense. i just know it. i justttttt know it. 😖😖😖

oh thank god, it's just to get the lights. i thought he'd run to tell the servants to set up the lights and flowers again. 😑😑😑

girl what do you mean "kamzor nahi padna"??? what was with all the "yaadein" shit then? at least get the ONE orgasm (or more... idk what shivaay's game is like, lmao, but for YOUR sake i hope he’s good) to remember your whole life. 😒😒😒

wow. bottoms up. our girl's a champ. 😗😗😗

lol, hubs seems to be into it though. 😆😆😆

ok, one glass of champagne doesn't act that fast does it? 🤔🤔🤔

heinnnn? what shoddy editing. 😑😑😑

lollllll "cuuuute waale billuji" 😽😽😽

"i'm not CUTE ok!" 

um sources point to the opposite. you heckin’ cute af. 😍😍😍

billu, you betterrrrrrr remember all these hintsssss she's dropping. i swear to godddd, or i'll kill you.  😡😡😡

ouffff, tensionnnnnnnnn. 😫😫😫

oh boy, is he talking about doing the marriage ceremony again? and is she going to run away from it????? godddddddddddd. why can’t my kids just be happpppppppy??????? 😩😩😩😩😩😩😩