#but people who swear regularly using it for its intended use are people whose anger management concerns me

[zyin]

I genuinely believe that unless your use of swearing is akin to punctuation, allowing yourself to swear increases your natural disposition to bouts of anger.

[xxfanfiction-emo-trinityxx]

Lie or Dare - Frank Iero x Reader

Request: Hey! On your imagine book can you write a frank imagine? But the reader is drunk and accidently tells frank they like him?!?! Warnings: alcohol, angst, fluff Word count: 2 781

“Come to this party, Frank. It will be fun, Frank. I promise, Frank,” Frank mumbled to himself in annoyance as he stood in the corner of a living room whose owner he did not even know.

He always felt misplaced at these college parties, and he was only here because of your big, beautiful, pleading eyes. You had mentioned over the last few weeks how much you would like a party to take the edge of, with all the stress you had, so Frank knew you would jump at the first opportunity you would get, and he felt obliged to go with you.

He looked around the room, his eyes gliding over all the people, intelligent, educated, well-manned people. Not people like him, at least not in sight. No punks, no musicians, no one who spend their early twenties driving around the country in an old, beaten up van, getting stopped by the police regularly because they thought ‘my chemical romance’ was some code for drugs, instead of a band name. It was not like Frank was ashamed of his life, of what he was doing. He was in no way inferior to these people around here, who spend their days in libraries and lectures, learning math and geology and physics and literature and what not. But he had a feeling that they thought they were superior. And he knew that every single one of them would have a better shot at you than him, and that was what made him feel sick.

Finally he found you, sitting on the floor in a circle with several other people, some of which he thought to recognize.

“Frankie,” you exclaimed happily, your heart beating faster, and your focus immediately shifted away from the action in the room to the young man in with the fauxhawk in front of you, “do you wanna play along?”

Before Frank even had a chance to ask what you were playing, several hands, all belonging to people he had never seen before, reached for him and pulled him down to the floor so he sat next to you, so close in fact, that his shoulder was tightly pressed against yours. But you did not seem to mind. With a second look at you he also figured out why. You were drunk. Your eyes were glassy, your cheeks tinted pink, and your gaze almost absent, at least for a moment, before a sporty looking guy at the other end of the circle declared “Time for the new guy! Truth or Dare?”

Well, shit.

“Ahm… Truth.”

Frank usually loved to take a risk, but not in front of a dozen people who he did not know and did not trust, especially not when it came to your safety. You were not the kind of person to get this drunk, so he assumed this game had to have something to do with it.

“Boring,” the guy groaned, but thought for a question anyway. “What do you do? You don’t go to college, right?”

Frank hesitated for a moment. Should he tell the truth, or rather the old I-work-at-a-supermarket-story. But these people already thought they were better than him, so he decided to brag a little.

“No, I don’t,” he answered, shooting a quick glance over at you, “I’m playing guitar in this band called My Chemical Romance and-“

“He’s gonna be famous one day, I mean, he already is,” you jumped in, wrapping your arm around Frank’s shoulder proudly, and giggled.

A grin spread over Frank’s face at your words, so he simply shrugged and nodded, before he reached for the empty wine bottle in the middle of the circle, and spun it.

It did not take Frank long to find out the reason for your drunken state. Basically every single dare was to take a shot. The only exception was a muscular guy who looked like he was a footballer or something, who was dared to take off his shirt by a squealing girl who was quicker to shout that, than the rest of the group to request a shot.

You in the meantime felt dizzy. Your head was feather-light but also incredibly heavy, and you had to resist the temptation of resting it on Frank’s shoulder. He looked so good tonight, with his crazy hair, and his lip ring, and the nose piercing, and the skeleton gloves he was wearing.

“(Y/n), truth or dare,” someone shouted across the room.

You jumped out of your thoughts, and realized the bottle was pointing at you. You were about to answer ‘dare’, fearing to reveal some secret if they asked you something, but Frank leant over to you.

“You’ve had enough, you should take truth,” he whispered, and you nodded.

Not even thinking about what he had told you, and why you had originally decided against it, you answered “Truth”.

There was some mumbling for a moment within the group until someone had come up with a good question.

“Are you in love with Frank?”

Somewhere in the back of your brain your consciousness scrambled to its feet. You felt Frank tensing at your side, and a voice in your head screamed about how he would hate you until the end of time if you told the truth, that yes, in reality you did like him. Admittedly this game was called TRUTH or dare, not “Decide if you want to tell the truth, and if not, lie and dare”, but nobody would know if you lied, and it would safe your friendship with Frank.

“Nah,” you shook your head, chuckling slightly, hoping it would be convincing, “we’re just friends, right Frankie?”

Playfully you nudged Frank’s shoulder, but something about his reaction seemed off. You felt it in the way how his shoulder did not give way to the soft push, instead it felt more like running into a door frame. He was not looking at you, his eyes cast across the room, staring into the distance, his jaw tense. Something was wrong. Majorly wrong. You felt your heartrate pick up, quicker and harder than was comfortable, and it felt as if your heart was beating right in the back of your throat, every single heartbeat causing your face to feel like it was pulsating with blood, but instead of blushing you felt yourself growing pale.

The rest of the group seemed not to notice; they just sighed in disappointment, and spun the bottle again, immediately daring the next victim to do a shot.

“Frank,” you asked carefully, nudging his shoulder again, gentler this time, hoping to make him look at you, but instead he got up wordlessly.

Panic started rising in your chest as you watched him unfold his legs, and stand up from the floor, turning his back to the group, and starting to walk away. You jumped up, intending to run after him, but the sudden movement caused your equilibrium to finally get affected by the alcohol, and you almost fell, in the attempt to run after Frank.

Slower is quicker, you told yourself, trying to ignore the spinning room around you, and the panicked breathing. Slowly, placing one foot in front of the other consciously, you made your way through the room, trying to find Frank, but he was nowhere in sight. Where could he have gone? Following an instinct you walked towards the hallway, and outside, into the front yard. And sure enough, walking down the pavement, away from the house, you spotted a figure who matched Frank’s appearance.

“Frank!”

You did not care about the looks that were thrown your way, when you shouted for him, instead you felt panic rising as he sped up his steps. Feeling terribly dizzy, but determined to figure out what the problem was, you started jogging after him.

“Frank, wait! Where are you going?”

You had almost reached him, only six feet separating you from him, and you were ready to stretch out your arm to take hold of his shirt, when he spun around, making you stumble to an immediate stop. Never before had you seen an expression that scared you as much as the one on Frank’s face in that moment. It was not necessarily the anger that glimmered in his eyes, which made you flinch, but far more the pain, the disappointment, but also a hint of apology. His face was drained of all colour, except a fine line around his eyelids, that had turned red, as if he was about to cry. His lips were quivering, in held back anger, or suppressed tears, you weren’t sure. His teeth were clenched together, and his hands tensed into fists.

“What!”

You had heard Frank scream on stage, had heard him swear like a sailor in a volume that should be forbidden, but nothing had ever made you feel as small as that single word he shouted at you now.

“What’s wrong, why’d you go?”

He stared at you, fire of anger glimmering behind his eyes.

“Why should I stay, isn’t like I’m welcome there anyway,” he hissed.

“But-“

You did not know how to phrase the questions in your mind without risking to have him run away. Was this about the truth question you had been asked? You wanted him there; there was no use in going to a party if it wasn’t with him. So instead of finishing your question, you let it hang in the air between the two of you, watching how the anger in his eyes slowly died down, and instead got replaced with sadness.

“I hate this party, they all think I’m not worthy or their company because they go to college and I don’t,” he mumbled, his eyes slowly looking away from yours. “And I’m almost tempted to believe them sometimes, you know?”

“Frank-“

Your heart broke at his words. Of course he was not worth any less than the bunch of students in there. In your eyes he was worth more than all of them together. That thought triggered a realization in your mind.

“It’s fine, let’s just admit that maybe we’re destined to go different ways in life, you go to college, and I go on tour,” he sighed, blinking several times, making you suspect that he was trying to blink away tears.

“This isn’t about college or not, is it? It’s never bothered you before,” you remembered, finally daring to take a few steps towards Frank, now that his hands started relaxing, and his angry posture fell into a defeated one. “It’s about that truth or dare question.”

The lack of reaction from his side was proof enough that it really was about this. The way he was standing in front of you now, shoulders hanging down, eyes cast to the floor, arms dangling weakly at his sides, an eternal sadness on his beautiful face, was heartbreaking. He looked like he was waiting for the final blow, like the prisoner who has accepted that he was being executed, like he had given up the fight, and was waiting for you to finish him off with a dagger to the heart.

“It’s okay, I mean, I know you deserve so much better than a dirty punk who only spends his time hanging out with his friends in an old van, you deserve so much more than me,” he whispered, his words causing you pain and fury at the same time.

You wanted to punch him for thinking so lowly about himself, but for that would be enough time later.

“If it’s any consolation,” you whispered back, slowly stepping even closer to him, so close that you were able to spy into his eyes that were still cast on the floor by his feet, “I was lying.”

It took Frank a moment to process your words. When he did, his eyes flickered up, staring into yours, and he lifted his head slowly.

“What,” he asked weakly, and more than before he looked close to a breakdown.

“I lied, when I said I wasn’t in love with you, I lied,” you explained, watching how his eyes were searching for the ‘but’ in yours, only to come up empty.

Suddenly you felt dizzy again, your head was pounding in rhythm with your heartbeat, and your knees felt week as you realized that you just had done what you had tried to avoid earlier. Maybe you just had ruined your friendship, maybe you had just screwed up majorly, or maybe-

There was no time for you to finish the thought, because you got interrupted by Frank, who had leapt forwards, grabbing your face into his rough hands, and pulling you against him, crashing his lips into yours desperately. It took you a second to respond, to wrap your own arms around him, one around his back, and one around his neck, burying your fingers into his soft curls, while his hands were holding tightly onto your face. You could feel the tips of his fingers move over the delicate skin of your cheeks, never loosening the grip, instead carefully exploring what he could reach. Underneath the hand on his back you felt him shiver, and goose bumps rose on his neck, as you gently tucked on his short hair.

In no time he was breathing heavily, and had to pull away, to catch his breath. His cheeks had gained back their colour, and his lips were slightly parted as he sucked in breath after breath, his eyes never leaving your face which he was still holding.

You too were out of breath, your fingers tightly curled into the hair in his neck, holding him close, pleading him silently not to pull away too far.

Neither of you had re-caught your breath when Frank could not stand the tension anymore, and leant back in, his lips ever so slightly quivering against yours. While the first kiss had felt like he was trying to catch you, so you were not running away, the second kiss felt like he tried to convince you to stay. Not that he had much convincing to do, but anyway. He wrapped his arms around you, one hand landing on the small of your back, pulling you into him, the other mirroring your gesture, and wrapping into the hair in your neck, holding you in place while he kissed you with more desperation than you had believed one person was able to feel, but here he was, carefully, gently, testing, pleadingly moving his lips against yours, while his breath blew hot over your skin in irregular patterns.

Somewhere in between you had closed your eyes when Frank had leant in again, but when he was still kissing you, so sweetly, you could not help but flicker them open for a second. You had never pictured seeing somebody from so close up. His skin was impossibly smooth, and this dark lashes fluttered against his cheeks. Even though you had spent the last minutes trying to catch up with what was happening, that you were really kissing Frank, that he really was returning your feelings for him, sudden realization washed (once again) over you, causing your blood pressure to drop suddenly, making black spots appear in your vision, and your knees giving in.

Breaking the kiss by stumbling slightly, you quickly steadied yourself, Frank’s arms around you playing a big part in stopping your way to the ground.

He was holding you close to his chest, allowing you to feel the deep rumble that originated in his lungs and escaped his mouth as an amused chuckle.

“You’re wasted,” he giggled, helping you stand up straight again.

“Overwhelmed,” you corrected, but at a glance to his shit eating grin, and his raised eyebrows you added, “and tipsy.”

“If you say so,” he winked.

“I insist,” you nodded, making both of you laugh.

“Do you also insist on going back inside,” Frank asked, his eyes getting lost in yours.

“Not really,” you admitted, earning an agreeing nod from him, “I’d rather find some sort of sofa where I can fall asleep.”

Frank laughed quietly, letting go of you, and immediately wrapping an arm around your shoulder so you were both facing into the same direction.

“Only if I’m allowed to fall asleep next to you,” he spoke seriously, guiding you down the street slowly, into the direction towards your flat.

“In my mind I was actually cuddled into you, maybe I should mention that,” you added, glancing at Frank to see his lips pull into a wide, happy smile.

“Sounds perfect,” he agreed, turning his head to kiss you on your hair.

You shivered comfortably, and leant your head against his shoulder, allowing Frank to guide homewards.

[theangrypokemaniac]

@its-whitetomorrow

I appreciate that you take the time out of your day to read my witterings, and respond to them in detail, but I'm somewhat intellectually limited and it takes a while to write an answer.

The final one is a bit of a problem. The original post is long, your bit is long, and my addition is probably twice both put together.

Did you know Tumblr has a limit: no more than two hundred and fifty text blocks per post? I discovered this from experience, unsurprisingly.

I think the only solution is to split it across several posts.

I wasn't going to say anything, but I suppose I should.

I started this blog last May, to relieve the boredom of my main embarrassment, whose only likes (all three of them) were from porn bots.

It wasn't even meant to be about Pokémon. I'd left the fandom years previously. It was odds and ends, but I happened to find a few silly screen shots so wrote a couple of joke remarks, not expecting a ripple of interest.

Within a couple of hours I got more notes than t'other's managed even to this day. I had the idea this was where I was more at home, so I started taking it seriously.

My pseudonym was just daft thing I'd made up previously, to reflect that, whilst still in love with old days, I'm not exactly pleased with how it's gone.

I thought it might stand out as memorable, plus I like acronyms, so it affords me the opportunity to call myself 'T.A.P.'

In the early days the focus was on the 'maniac' aspect. Anger as a description didn't fit at all. The farther back you go, the more stupid and clownish it gets. It's not been like this all the way through!

Seriously, it used to be an entertainment blog, designed to make people laugh. It's all ages: no swearing, no porn, nothing to put anyone off.

(This post under discussion contains the only profanity I've ever deployed. I thought saving it up might add some oomph.)

I mean it, it's was all light-hearted ridicule. Every so often, there would be a slightly cutting remark, but mild compared to now.

Then, last September, someone I spoke to regularly, who assured me we were friends, suddenly cut off all contact.

At first I wasn't aware of it, but by October it became too glaring a silence to ignore.

I thought rifts started because of massive disagreements, but as far as I remembered our last exchange ended normally.

I found out by accident that the reason for it was because I am repugnant and morally inferior and so swollen with my own ego that the existence of others doesn't register. Instead they are but soulless droids built to worship the great T.A.P. mollusc.

Well that was news to me. I had no idea I came across like that. As far as I knew, I was on my best behaviour when we interacted.

I was polite. I tried to be ingratiate myself. I kept talk to the fandom. I didn't pry. I attempted humour when the opportunity arose.

I thought I'd done all I could to be liked, but apparently I hadn't. It was a revolting experience for them, for all of saying they loved me and I was 'honey'.

It really, really, really got to me, and the feeling hasn't abated, if anything it's worse.

As I said, I don't know what I did wrong, and because I don't, I can't mend my ways. If I am this repellant waste of flesh I'd like to change, but if I'm not told my offence, what am I meant to do?

If what I thought was the best I could be wasn't good enough, and instead was so sickening I don't deserve their presence, then I have no idea how to interact with people.

Maybe every time I respond to someone, thinking I'm at worst, civil, is really grotesque conceit, because my arrogance is so extreme I'm not even aware it's there. In my head it sounds normal.

It'd be too easy to scoff that they were the one with the problem, but, given all the arguments that happen in life, it can't always be someone else's fault. It's got to be you at least once.

They obviously think they were justified, so who's to say they weren't?

You may say not to let it worry me, that I should just get over it, and you'd be totally right. Being bothered makes me feel pathetic and petty on top of the rest, but this is me you're talking to, not a sane person. Self-hatred is more instinctive to me than breathing.

I always dwell on the negative. If one hundred people were assembled, ninety-nine of whom declared me the most wonderful being ever to live, and one remarked I wasn't all that special, it's him I'd remember. 

It's called ghosting because that's what happens. There comes a moment when you accept that, no, it's over, rejected again, and it's like realising I'd died, and had been gone for a while.

Except I hadn't noticed the process, so I was always dead in a way, and they spoke to the silvery silhouette left behind, until that too dispersed into untraceable nothingness. Again,  the silence is my fault for dying, not theirs.

I feel there's no point in messaging anyone, because I'll only disgust them too. Some blogs encourage contact, and when I see it I always think:

Yeah, but they don't mean YOU.

If it's another person I already spoke to, I can't shut up. I bombard them with text in the hope they know I don't think they're a menial droid. Every one I immediately regret, and wish I could take back, because that will irritate them until I'm just a sad, nagging past.

The Ghost-Maker used to reblog 99% of my work. This dropped to nothing overnight, so not only am I worthless, but so is everything I do.

Posts G.M. didn't like got 0-5 notes. Ones they did had 20+. Many a time, it took their reblog for anyone else to notice.

It was like others used that blog as a filter to pull the fool's gold from the murk of this one. Once their favour evaporated, so did a lot of the goodwill from elsewhere, so it's was as if Tumblr agreed I was scum.

Saying that above just shows they were right, because it takes one smug bastard to believe their existence registers with anyone else.

Please don't think I'm demanding likes, that my stuff deserves them, although as I'm arrogant I am. It's just that 99% to 0% is a bit of a fall.

Up til then, I held back much of what I thought about the current state of the anime, as they liked it, but now I have no reason to stop.

If I'm to be accused of all these vices I might as well have them. I'm dead, so who cares what I say? No one listens to a ghost.

It's not that I'm unconcerned if I upset anyone, it's just the truth that I don't matter enough for what I write to be valued enough to offend.

As a ghost, I think of this blog as invisible. It's there, but not really, so how can anyone mind?

Incidentally, the first week I was here I got blocked by someone who hates all fans from the Nineties. I don't care about that, as they sound like a cretin, and I'd have to be defective to gain their approval.

I just want to say I find that moronic. I don't hate new fans at all. I wouldn't block someone because we disagreed.

Blocking denies people access to your blog, stating they don't deserve your ART. That's arrogant to me.

Blocker likes Ghost-Maker, but...

Ever since around October, I've progressively become angrier and angrier. Whenever I'm here or Pokémon enters my head, it just reminds that I'm pond slime, about the most crude, malformed half-life freak you can envision.

I don't like being here anymore. I keep intending to leave, the site and the fandom, and set fire to it all before I go, wipe away the slug trail to spare people's stomachs.

I kept quiet until now, but holding it in just made it more intense. If I may describe myself in ridiculously flattering terms, I feel like a shaken champagne bottle, but the cork is welded in, so the only option is for the glass to shatter.

If anyone's reading this, wondering where the fun went, well this is why I flipped. The red mist won't clear. I can't see beyond it.

I won't name Ghost-Maker, because I don't want to start anything, plus most will take their side. They may see this as they still rifle round these parts occasionally for posts that aren't mine.

Well done, Ghostie. You're the lucky one. We'll never meet and you haven't seen me. Pity the poor sods I've encountered. There must be vomit trails across the land provoked by my vile condition. I wasn't aware of this until you let me in on the secret.

There's an English television presenter called Caroline Flack. She killed herself yesterday and everyone loved her. I feel guilty that I'm alive and she's not.