#but that’s ultimately your choice to make and not mine

[rabiesofficial]

one thing i think is stupid about all these arguments is everyone assumes every lesbian is like, partnered or actively seeking to partner, celibate lesbians who choose to be celibate (for reasons beyond living in a homophobic society - i am NOT talking about homophobia) do exist and it's like... they have friends. the reasons why someone chooses celibacy may be different, but it's not like it's only an option presented to osa women or that the quality and depth of these relationships differ because someone is ssa and someone else is osa

[jiggery-duggery]

I think if I get they/themmed one more time by someone who knows damn well what my pronouns are I’m just gonna go full chimpanzee mode and start tearing peoples faces off

[daytaker]

The Gang React to You Ignoring Them

Lucifer

"How childish. They'll have forgotten by the end of the day."

By the end of the day, however, Lucifer has reached his fucking limit. But his pride will not only prevent him from begging you to knock it off-- it will prevent him from even acknowledging in your presence that he is remotely bothered.

He probably goes to vent to Diavolo -- that is to say, visit him for tea and offhandedly comment about your immaturity for pulling such a stunt, knowing that he'll just contact you and beg for him.

Mammon

"Oh no you don't! MC! MC! MC! MC! MC! Hey! MC! MC! Hey! MC!"

He will follow you wherever you go. At first he thinks he's hilarious, being an absolute pain in the ass, but the longer it goes on, the more dejected he gets. His energy level tanks and soon he's just lying on top of the nearest piece of furniture and whining for you to stop it.

If you manage to get him off of you long enough to escape him, he will just text you.

Mammon: MC Mammon: MC Mammon: Hey MC Mammon: Hey Mammon: MC

If you block him, he will just text someone else until that person becomes so annoyed that THEY beg you to stop.

When you finally give in, he pretends like he didn't even care that much. It was just a little joke between pals, right? Haha!

Leviathan

"So this is how easy it is for you to just toss me aside like a piece of garbage."

Levi will take this extremely personally. Depending on why you're ignoring him, he might blame himself and enter a spiral of self-hate. He'll hole up in his room, refusing to leave until you finally come in and either apologize or forgive him, whichever is appropriate.

He'll spend a few moody minutes acting like it's too late for that, but soon he'll be on the verge of tears, making you to swear on a copy of The Tale of the Seven Lords that you will never pull that kind of thing again.

Satan

"Really? Is this what it's come to? You understand how pathetic this makes you look, don't you?"

Like Lucifer, he won't be too bothered at first, assuming you'll get over things relatively soon. But if nothing has changed within an hour or two, he'll start to get testy. He'll send a text, sit in the same room as you and stare a hole through your head, and if you're still ignoring him after a while of that, he'll storm up to his room.

Depending on how emotionally charged the incident was that led to you ignoring him, he will be more or less capable of fending off an explosion of temper. Most likely, any acknowledgement you toss his way will ease the tension, so it might be a good idea to just shoot him a text asking him not to destroy the house, please.

Asmodeus

"But it's impossible to ignore me! You can't look away from a face like mine! See?"

I don't think you can ignore Asmo. Being the literal Avatar of Lust with powers to charm and an intense need to be admired and adored, he simply exudes an aura that demands attention. You should probably come up with a different strategy of attack.

Beelzebub

"...Are you mad at me?"

Why would you do that to him? How could you be so cruel?

If you did do it, it would probably confuse and sadden him. Confusion and sorrow both make him feel hungry, so he will go ahead and start eating his feelings within an hour of the silent treatment. Even if you're content to allow this to continue, the other six demons in the house aren't, and you will ultimately have no choice but to make up with Beel.

Belphegor

belphie.exe has stopped responding

Considering you'd already forgiven him for the whole murder thing, he can't comprehend how you've become so mad at him that you'd go so far as to give him the cold shoulder. He won't know how to respond at first, but he will quickly become an angry, sulky ball curled up under the blankets on his bed. If it takes more than a few hours for you to come crawling back to him, things will start to change. Belphie will return to the common areas of the house, acting mostly the same as usual, and he will not spare you a second glance. Even if you stop ignoring him, well, two can play this game, and Belphie is absolutely petty enough to drag this one out.

After a day or two of you trying to talk to him, he'll relent. He'll feel kind of guilty, having worked through most of his anger while ignoring you. He'll probably text you a lot for the next day or two, just to ease some of his anxieties.

Diavolo

"I don't understand."

You can't do that. That's illegal. Next character.

Barbatos

"Hehe. What a troublemaker."

Barbatos likes it when you ignore him sometimes.

Barbatos will not change his behavior at all, ever. You could spend the rest of your life ignoring him, and he would simply accept it as one of those unfortunate circumstances life sometimes throws his way. He would prefer it if things didn't go down that way, though. Basically, he'll let you come to him whenever you've gotten over whatever it is you're upset about. What a king.

Solomon

"Hmm? Are you sure that's a good idea?"

Solomon will act pretty much the same as usual around you too. He'll point out that you're ignoring him to whoever else happens to be around and bemoan the situation, but he won't actively appeal to you. Instead, he'll orchestrate a scenario that traps you in a situation where he is the only person you can go to for help. As soon as you do that, he'll act as if nothing ever happened. If you resume the silent treatment, well, he can always come up with another scenario.

Are you still sure it's a good idea?

Simeon

"I didn't realize you were so upset. I'm sorry (that/if) I hurt you."

Simeon will either immediately understand why you are doing this, in which case he will apologize (using "that") or he will have absolutely no idea what's going on, and he'll still apologize (using "if") to be on the safe side.

If you don't show any signs of breaking, he'll enlist Luke's help to make you an apology dessert of some sort. And how can you stay mad at him when he's offering you angel food cake with such a sad expression?

Luke

😧😠😣🥺😢

Wh- Whaaa...?! How dare you ignore him! That's so mean! It must be all the demonic influences rubbing off on you! Stop it! Stop it or he's going to tell Simeon!

And then he'll go and tell Simeon. Simeon will probably tell him to just wait until you've calmed down. If he thinks you're being unreasonable, though, he'll probably have a talk with you himself. Really? Pulling the silent treatment on an actual child? Sure, he's a millennium old, but he's still a child.

[yandere4lyfe]

Imagine a water Greek God obsessed with you, a mere mortal. He tries everything he can to woo you, but you refuse him everytime.

It doesn't deter him though. He will have you.

His pursuit of you becomes more aggressive. You start to feel helpless, afraid, powerless. Your family gathers around you, assuring you that no harm will come to you.

"Continue as you always have," they said, but an overwhelming feeling of dread started to flow throughout your body. You could feel that the fate of your life has been decided and ultimately, you will be in the hands of that god.

One day, you walk out to the sea and you come face to face with the God who keeps trying to court you. His face was devoid of any emotion and he towered above you.

"Come to me," he said, his hand outstretched towards you for you to take. It seemed inviting and tempting.

But that same sickening feeling came over you again. You refused him, just like before.

Suddenly, the air around you changed. It became heavy and the winds whipped around you angrily. The once clear, blue sky turned dark as the clouds swirled in together as they blocked out the sun. And the waves rushed back to the sea, leaving the sandy beaches bare.

Fear began to nag at you and you looked back at the god, whose expression has changed to one of anger.

"Come to me," he said again. This time he demanded it, his voice taking on a possessive, furious tone. "Join me as my wife, mortal. I will no longer take no for an answer."

Your breathing became heavy and your body trembled. You couldn't move you legs and your lips quivering as you tried to stutter out, "But why me!? I do not want to leave my family nor my village!"

His eyes flashed with anger and waves came crashing back, violently, against the shore. His voice boomed, almost roaring, as he spoke to you.

"It matters not! The fates have decided that you shall be mine! I have been courteous enough. Come to me or I shall flood your village. In the end, I will get what I want, my wife...

You have but one choice."

Your eyes began to sting and tears ran down your cheeks. You were truly powerless.

There was nothing you could do. You were just a human and he was a God.

He held out his hand once more.

"You will make the right choice, or will you not?," his voice went back to being void of any emotions once more. With your tears still falling, you made your choice and took his hand.

He smiled down at you. A cold, terrible, obsessive smile that didn't reach his calculating eyes.

"Good choice. My wife."

Ketos had finally found his bride...

[boobearymuch]

A Promise

Summary: You locked yourself away in the bedroom after getting home, and when Zayne called you over for dinner, you took the plate to go. At that point, perhaps someone braver than Zayne would have followed you and finally talked it out. Zayne sat alone and ate in silence instead. Tags: Zayne/Reader, gender-neutral, fluff, light angst Word Count: 1.4k read on ao3 | masterlist

Careful tapping filled the tense silence of your apartment—accompanied by your occasional stomping to the kitchen and back—as Zayne typed away at his laptop. It was getting dark out, and it was usually around this hour when patient forms and research articles blurred into an incoherent mess. The doctor looked up from his screen, blinking away the strain in his hazel eyes, before glancing around. “Love, have you seen my glasses?” You don’t respond. Instead, he hears your heavy footfall in the next room until the bedroom door abruptly swings open. Zayne glances at you, and you impatiently present him with the article he’s looking for. Except, you’re holding them by the lens. Zayne says nothing as he accepts the smudged glasses. 

“Have fun reading.” You mutter under your breath and stomp back to the bedroom. Zayne simply stares at the dirty glasses for a moment before sighing and shutting his laptop. You’re angry. Still angry. Have been since your hospital visit this afternoon. And Zayne isn’t sure how to approach you, so—like a coward—he busied himself with work to avoid your ire. He managed to convince himself you needed space, that you would pout and cross your arms for a bit, but ultimately come around to see his side of things. That never happened. You locked yourself away in the bedroom after getting home, and when Zayne called you over for dinner, you took the plate to go. At that point, perhaps someone braver than Zayne would have followed you and finally talked it out. Zayne sat alone and ate in silence instead. 

He pinched the bridge of his noise and inhaled deeply. Right. 

The bedroom door creaked as Zayne gently pushed it open to find you scrolling away on your phone. You were resting, at least, like he suggested you did. “Have you taken your vitamins yet? I can bring you a glass of water.” His soft gaze never left you. 

You didn’t even glance up from your phone. “Why? Gonna tell Jenna if I don’t?” Well, then, there was no avoiding it now. 

Zayne stepped further into the bedroom. “No, but it would make your doctor feel better if you did.” You did glance at him this time, albeit briefly, to glare. “We should talk about this.”

Your nostrils flared at the statement. “Oh, so now you want my opinion?” 

“I’ve always valued your opinion.” Zayne sat at the opposite end of the bed now, and you groaned as you turned away from him. He’s never seen you like this. At least, not with him. Knowing he was at the root of your anger weighed painfully on his chest. It hurt to breathe, even. “But when it comes to your health, I am always going to prioritize your well-being. No matter what.”

“You went behind my back, Zayne.” Your voice was low, spine facing him, but he hung on your every word. “You just went ahead and told my captain I’d be taking the week off before you even told me.”

“I…regret that.” Zayne clasped his hands together awkwardly, “I should have let you known first. Listened to you.” When you said nothing, he let out a small breath, “But I am not letting myself regret making you take the week off.”

At this, you finally sat up to whirl around and huff at him. “That wasn’t your choice to make. It was mine. My choice.”

Zayne met your heated gaze with an intensity of his own. “You walked into my office half-dead and bleeding—”

“I was not half-dead, it was a concussion!”

“Well, you scared me half to death. How could I, in good conscience, just let you return to work like that?” Your mouth opened, then closed. Did you have any idea how terrified he was? “When I saw you,” Zayne paused to swallow around nothing, “My first thought was, how many more times will I have to see you like that?” His brow furrowed, and those green eyes desperately darted to the bandage on your forehead.

“It’s part of the job.” Your voice held no bite to it. Instead, you watched him as closely as he watched you now, “You know that.”

“I know that.” He repeated, “I know.” His jaw clenched, and his voice came out smaller than he expected it to, “...And what if you don’t make it to the hospital next time?” You inhaled sharply and looked away now, head dropping to distract yourself with Zayne’s bedding. “You constantly throw yourself into harm’s way, again and again, with little regard to your heart condition. Can you blame me for taking matters into my own hands?” He watched the fabric of his comforter scrunch underneath his fist. 

You seemed considerably calmer now and managed a glance at him. “...I really worried you today, didn’t I?”

“I am always worried. More than I’d like to admit.” He added softly.

The moment hung in the air for several seconds. “You could have just told me that from the beginning, you know.” You mumbled—face burning—and Zayne finally looked up, “I know I tend to ignore your medical advice, but if I had known how you were really feeling, I would have listened to you. Anything to reassure you.”

Zayne knew that already. He knew, deep down, you might agree to taking time off. But his heart reacted before his mind did; he feared the worst. If only he were better at expressing himself, this entire conversation could have been avoided. Guilt sank his shoulders. “I’m sorry.”

The bed dipped, and you were suddenly mere inches from him. He said nothing as you grabbed his hand and laid his palm flat against your clothes. Over your heart. “Do you feel that?” You whispered, eyes searching his. Zayne’s breath hitched in his throat; the gentle drum of your heart beat faster than usual, “It’s still beating, thanks to you.” Your fingers curled around his, and Zayne took the moment to ground himself. You were so warm, so alive. You were okay. “I will always make it home to you, Zayne,” Your other hand gently thumbed his cheek, “I promised my doctor I would, after all.” 

He averted his gaze, embarrassed, as a breathy chuckle left him. Zayne felt ridiculous. You were the one with a concussion, yet here you were comforting him. “Can you make another promise? To just me?”

You perked up, clearly in a better mood now, “Anything.”

He brought your hands together to clasp them in his larger ones, “Promise me,” Then he brought them to his lips, “you’ll remember I’m always here for you.”

The kiss he placed on your knuckles brought the first smile to your lips all day. “What a sap.” You murmured timidly, and averted your eyes from Zayne’s. But he didn’t relent; this was the closest you’ve both been since your argument began this afternoon. You had no idea how sorely he itched to be at your side, to be within arm’s reach of whatever you could possibly want or need. Now that the matter was settled, he had no intention of letting you slip away. 

“Rest now,” And he kissed your hands again just because he could, “I’ll grab your vitamins and make tea.” He reluctantly pulled away to do just that—and completely missed the impish glint in your eye. Before Zayne could fully stand, a swift pair of arms wrapped themselves around his neck and tugged. A grunt of surprise left him as he fell forward and braced himself just in time to avoid crushing you. Wide eyes met your twinkling gaze, and you had the audacity to laugh at his expression. “Your concussion—”

“Don’t leave me, Dr. Zayne!” You wailed dramatically, “The only vitamin I need right now is vitamin you.”

“Stop.” His ears burned hot with embarrassment before you even finished your sentence. You’ve used that line before, every time he offered you vitamins, in fact. He should’ve seen it coming, honestly.

“And why should I? You’re too easy to tease,” You laughed to yourself and brushed disheveled bangs out of his flustered eyes. Then your gaze softened, “Come here?”

Zayne hesitated. “I shouldn’t. You need to rest properly.” But your arms only tugged at his shoulders impatiently.

“I can’t rest properly unless you come closer.” Zayne sighed, but smiled down at you gently. You could read him like an open book by now, and something told Zayne this was more for his benefit than your own. 

“Just for a few minutes.” Zayne carefully lowered himself to nuzzle into the crook of your neck, arms instantly wrapping themselves around your waist, “And then you’re taking your vitamins.”

“Mhm…” Your own hands began their lazy circles across his back, one reaching up to slide into his raven hair, “I missed you, too, by the way.” He chuckled softly against your skin. 

Like an open book.

[celestial-sphere-press]

what kind/style of endbands do you usually do? they look so good 👀

hi!! sorry for taking a while to answer, I wanted to make sure I could give you my best answer.

I usually do what's called a "double core" endband. I use double core endbands over the "bead on front" method because bead on front style is not great for uneven distributions of color, irregular patterns, or using more than three colors. Functionally it works by having your extra threads wrapped up inside the thread that is showing, forming the smaller secondary core. Ultimately you are doing figure 8s around the main core & then your secondary core of thread. This keeps things pretty neat & tidy. The tutorial I first used was this one by DAS Bookbinding, though I don't think his endband tutorials are his best ones. Another binder I've spoken with endbands about a lot is maleeka, who recently did an endband tutorial herself.

maybe I should do one... but it takes a lot for me to get enough motivation to make videos. I'll take this opportunity to write up some tips I've shared when people ask instead:

1. Endband core material is the MOST IMPORTANT component. You need a core that is stiff but flexible - it should NOT be floppy because it wiggles everywhere under the tension of the thread, but still needs to flex with the opening & closing of the book. You want something that doesn't compress, to reduce tension shifts in thread creating a lumpy endband. Have a smooth core is less critical but helps to avoid snagging threads & allows you some leeway on sliding threads around for adjustments. My personal choice is smooth leather jewelers cord (link is just an example, I get mine from a local craft store).

2. Thread size. All your threads need to be the same size; it will be visible if you are using two different sizes, and mess with your front core. Additionally, I know lots of people will use larger twists of multiple strands of embroidery thread, which can work, but is more likely to compress & alter its size in unexpected ways. A single strand is preferable. If you want something thicker you can find some thread weights that are heavier twists intended to be used in a single strand, not pulled apart. I prefer smaller sizes because it works better for the gradient designs I like.

3. Silk thread is your friend (if you can spend the money on it). It reduces fuzz (no fuzz like you get with cotton/DMC embroidery thread), it's usually easier to manage, has a more compact twist, and a higher shine. I use Japanese silk hand sewing thread in size #9 (9号). There's multiple brands (Tire, Daruma, KNK/kanagawa, etc). Here's a wholesale listing (minimum 20,000¥ for international). A non-Japanese brand is Guterman silk (German brand). Both the Japanese & German threads come in a heavier weight (Japanese is #16, Guterman is buttonhole).

4. Thread tension is the most important part of the actual technique. You need to ensure the threads currently wrapped in the secondary core keep tension when you are working the thread around them.

5. Working on a curve. This is only really relevant if you're doing an endband on a rounded book, but the circumference of the curve means there's more real estate on the outside vs inside of the curve. Sometimes this can cause bunching on the secondary core. My own solution to this is that sometimes I wrap the primary core but drop a wrap here or there around the secondary core (only between two wraps of the same color I'm dropping). I uh... don't know of anyone currently recommending this besides myself so I can't point to any pro endorsement for this method, it's just what works for me. Forgive my terrible writing:

6. Pattern management. I... don't really plan much how my patterns sit on the spine, which is not very helpful. HOWEVER you can do some pattern management on the fly, if you really want your pattern to end at a certain place. Thread can be packed more or less densely on the core, resulting in some pattern compression; you could also strategically drop wraps in less noticeable locations. An unintended example: I was replicating the pattern on this endband (left) when I realize I wasn't packing the thread as densely as I had the first time around (right), which resulted in the overall pattern taking up more space. You can do this on purpose, if you need to.

this was way more than you asked but it gave me a chance to put all this in one spot. Best of luck in vanquishing the dreaded EndWyrms.

[fairyminnie444]

✨ the ultimate post u need to LET GO ✨

ok so what we KNOW and has already entered our heads:

i want it so I got it

circumstances DOES NOT matter

there’s no time to wait, it’s ALREADY done

“feeling is the secret” Neville Goddard

So why do we keep scrolling through tumblr, reddit, twitter to read more posts thinking that we will always find something more?

Because we are seeking reassurance, we might be subconsciously looking for validation or “proof” that your manifestation techniques are working or that you’re on the right path.

Each new post feels like it might hold the missing piece of the puzzle, even though you already have everything you need within you.

But the more you consume, the more your mind becomes overwhelmed, making it harder to trust your own intuition. Instead of clarity, constant scrolling can increase doubts and make you second-guess what you already know.

LETS BREAK THE CYCLE 🔁 ❎

✨ Set a Limit ✨

Give yourself a specific time frame for scrolling (e.g., 15 minutes). Once the time is up, redirect your focus to practices like visualization or affirmations or anything that make you FEEL your desire.

✨ Create Instead of Consume ✨

Shift your energy from seeking external input to producing something meaningful:

Write about what you already know (like I’m doing rn), If you don't want to post it just save it in your notes, draw it, make your vision board in Canva, etc.

LET IT GO, ITS DONE ✅

✨ Understand What “Letting Go” Means ✨

It doesn’t mean giving up on the desire, but rather stopping fighting the idea that it hasn’t arrived yet.

It’s trusting that the desire is already yours in 4D and that it will manifest in 3D, DEFINITELY. The world is a MIRROR of you inside.

✨ Strengthen Your Certainty ✨

Repeat to yourself:

“My desire is already mine, it is done.”

“I trust completely in the universe and my power.”

This trust helps you let go of control and stop looking for external evidence.

✨ Practice the Feeling of Already Having ✨

Close your eyes and imagine life as if the desire were already a reality.

Feel the joy, relief, and ease of already living it.

When you feel that you already have it, there is no need to “hold on” to the desire.

✨ Redirect Your Focus ✨

Instead of thinking about how or when, focus on living your life lightly.

Engage in hobbies, relax, enjoy the present, and trust that everything is moving in your favor.

✨ Observe Your Thoughts Without Attachment ✨

When thoughts like “what if it doesn’t happen?” arise, acknowledge them without holding on to them:

Say to yourself: “I see that thought, but I know it’s not true.”

✨ Trust the Intelligence of the Universe ✨

Remember: you don’t need to know how things will happen. The universe (or your subconscious mind) is already orchestrating everything to deliver you the best possible way.

Affirm: “Everything is always working out perfectly for me.”

✨ Gratitude in Advance ✨

Be grateful as if you already have the desire. Gratitude is a powerful way to let go:

“I’m so grateful that this is already mine. Thank you, universe.”

Letting go is a conscious choice to trust the process, because you already know it is yours. It is not about “forgetting” about the desire, but about stopping worrying about it. Live your life as if everything is already resolved, and the universe will mirror this certainty in your 3D.

[capquinn]

thinking about Quinn and family doing a holiday movie night… matching pjs, Christmas movie the kids picked out, holiday treats. How excited the babies are for it and lowkey the parents too. Truly was one of my favorite memories as a kid and still kind of now at 22 tbh LOL and my mom just told me the other day it’s one of her favorite things we do every year for Christmas even though we’re all older

The living room is a picture-perfect holiday haven. The Christmas tree stands tall in the corner, its soft white lights twinkling slowly, casting a warm glow over the room. The ornaments glimmer softly, a mix of hand-me-downs, mismatched baubles, and Bug’s latest preschool crafts. Outside, frost clings to the windows, the kind of biting cold that makes you grateful for the cosy warmth inside.

Every Friday night is movie night but on the first Friday of December, it's the official kickoff of the family’s Christmas movie tradition — something that began long before the kids, back when it was just you and Quinn curled up on the couch together, sharing a bowl of popcorn and a blanket as the glow of twinkling lights painted the walls. It had been your little ritual, a moment of calm in the whirlwind of life, gearing up for the busy holiday season.

And then Bug came along, turning your quiet little ritual into something bigger, brighter. Suddenly, there were tiny hands tugging at blankets, excited chatter about which Christmas movie was “the best ever,” and bowls of gummy bears added to the lineup of holiday treats. It wasn’t just about the two of you anymore — it was about her wonder, her laughter, her joy becoming the heart of the tradition.

Now, Bug is old enough to pick the movies, Cub is here for his very first holiday season, and it feels even more magical this year. The kind of magic that makes the tradition feel brand new, like it’s grown right along with your family. What started as a small ritual between you and Quinn has blossomed into something so much bigger. Something that belongs to all of you, something that will grow with them, too.

Bug has been talking about this all week, her excitement bubbling over like a pot about to boil. After days of careful deliberation — during which Arthur Christmas had been a close contender — she’d finally settled on The Grinch, her nearly four-year-old self treating the responsibility of picking the perfect holiday movie with the gravity of a major life decision. Quinn, ever the doting dad, had already promised they’d watch her second choice next Friday, but for tonight, the Grinch’s antics reigned supreme.

“Daddy, hurry!” Bug calls from the couch, her voice high-pitched with impatience as she sprawls across the cushions. Her little legs, clad in Christmas tartan pyjamas, kick aimlessly in the air, her feet landing every so often on the spot where Quinn will inevitably sit.

“I’m coming, Bug,” Quinn calls back from the kitchen, his tone laced with mock exasperation.

He reappears moments later, balancing a tray stacked with steaming mugs of hot chocolate topped with whipped cream and marshmallows, a bowl of popcorn, Christmas cookies, and a small dish of Bug’s favourite red-and-green gummy bears. He’s wearing the matching pyjamas you picked out, a reluctant but ultimately endearing participant in your insistence that everyone match for the occasion. The flannel tartan pants, patterned in red and green, and the long-sleeved button-up shirt feel almost comically festive, but he wears them anyway, his protest never extending beyond a half-hearted sigh when you first handed them to him.

Bug’s face lights up at the sight of the snacks.

“That one’s mine!” she declares, pointing eagerly at the mug with the mountain of whipped cream.

“Of course it is,” Quinn replies, his tone warm and teasing as he sets the tray on the coffee table. He ruffles her hair playfully before finally sinking onto the couch beside you with a contented sigh.

Cubby, who had been nestled in your arms, immediately perks up at the sight of his dad. His little hands grab at the air, making soft, insistent noises until you lean forward and let him scramble across to Quinn. The eight-month-old settles happily against his chest, chubby cheeks squished against Quinn’s shoulder, one tiny hand clutching at the fabric of his dad’s shirt.

“Of course, straight to dad,” you murmur softly, your smile widening at the sight of Cub settling so perfectly against Quinn’s chest.

Quinn adjusts Cub carefully into a more comfortable position, his hand resting protectively on his tiny back as he presses a gentle kiss to his head.

“Well, can you blame him?” he teases, glancing at you with a playful glint in his eye. “I mean, look at me — prime cuddle material.”

“Okay, big guy,” you tease, rolling your eyes with a soft laugh as you lean into him, your head settling naturally on his free shoulder. Your hand drifts to Cub’s back, resting there gently, your fingers tracing lazy patterns over the soft fabric of his Christmas pyjamas.

Quinn adjusts instinctively, shifting slightly to tuck you closer against his side. His arm tightens around your shoulders, his hand curling lightly against your upper arm, fingers tracing soft, absent minded circles into your skin and you feel the warmth of his body, solid and steady, enveloping you in that quiet, unspoken comfort that only he can give.

Bug, sprawled at the other end of the sofa, suddenly starts to wiggle her way back toward the center of the action. She’s determined, her little feet finding their way onto Quinn’s lap as she nestles into the corner with all the authority of a tiny queen reclaiming her throne.

“Can we start the movie now?” she asks, her voice high-pitched with impatience but brimming with pure, uncontainable excitement.

Quinn glances down at her feet, then back at you with an exaggerated sigh. “Guess I’m a human footrest now,” he quips, his tone light and teasing, though the fondness in his eyes gives him away.

“You’re just so popular tonight,” you tease softly, your voice full of affection as you nuzzle closer against him, brushing your nose lightly against his neck. It’s playful, warm, the kind of moment that draws a quiet smile from him. He tilts his head against yours, letting the weight of it linger in the soft space between you.

Bug wiggles her toes pointedly against Quinn’s leg, her feet still sprawled across his lap. “Daddy, the movie,” she prompts, her voice a mix of impatience and innocence, entirely oblivious to the tender moment unfolding just above her.

Quinn huffs a soft laugh, shifting slightly to look at her, his hand giving her ankle an affectionate squeeze. “Alright, alright, hold your horses,” he says, his tone teasing but full of love. “You’ve been waiting all week for this, haven’t you?”

Bug’s grin is wide and triumphant.

“Yes!” she exclaims, leaning back dramatically as if she’s been terribly wronged by the wait.

“Then I guess we’d better get started,” you say, laughing quietly as you reach for the remote.

Bug's entire body leans forward as though that might make the movie start faster, her little fingers clutching the small bowl of gummy bears like a lifeline, her wide eyes glued to the screen as the opening credits roll.

“He’s so grumpy!” she giggles loudly as the Grinch makes his first appearance on screen, her hands clasped together like she’s witnessing the most thrilling moment of her life. She looks over at you, then Quinn, as though seeking confirmation. “Is he always like this?"

Quinn chuckles, adjusting Cub slightly in his arms as the baby nestles deeper against his chest. “Yeah, Bug. That’s kind of his thing,” he says with a grin, his voice warm and amused.

Bug doesn’t respond immediately, her wide eyes glued to the screen as though the Grinch himself might pop out of it. The bowl of gummy bears rests tightly in her grasp, her legs tucked underneath her. The twinkling lights of the Christmas tree reflect in her curls, making her seem even more alight with energy.

And then, with all the flair of a dramatic revelation, she gasps. “But why does he hate Christmas?” she demands, sitting up just enough to point emphatically at the screen. “Did someone take his presents? Did his tree break? Did—”

“Bug,” you interrupt softly, a laugh escaping as you reach over to rake your fingers gently through her unruly curls, smoothing them back from her face. “Just watch the movie, sweetheart. You’ll see.”

She huffs, reluctantly sinking back against the sofa, her head finding its new resting spot in Quinn’s lap, her feet tucked up beneath her as her wide eyes stay glued to the screen. But her little mind is clearly still at work.

“He’s just so mad, though,” she mutters under her breath, her tone brimming with quiet exasperation, as though trying to reason through the Grinch’s grievances herself.

Quinn glances down at her, his free hand absently brushing along her arm. He casts you a look — one that’s equal parts amused and adoring, the kind of look that says, can you believe her? but also, I love her so much it’s ridiculous.

“She’s really into this,” he murmurs, his voice low so as not to disturb her moment of contemplation.

“She’s been waiting all week for it,” you remind him just as quietly, your fingers still threading gently through her hair. “I mean, who can blame her? It’s the first Christmas movie of the season.”

Bug wiggles slightly, making herself more comfortable as she pipes up again, unable to help herself.

“I think maybe he needs a hug,” she declares solemnly, her little voice so sincere it tugs at your heart.

Quinn bites back a grin, looking down at her. “You think that’s it?” he asks, humouring her, his voice warm and indulgent.

“Yeah,” Bug nods firmly, her eyes back on the screen. “A hug and some gummy bears. That makes me happy.”

Her words spark a quiet laugh from you, and Quinn shakes his head fondly.

“She’s got it all figured out,” he says softly, leaning back into the couch, his hand resuming its gentle patterns along Cub’s back.

Meanwhile, Cub doesn’t last long, and as the Grinch starts hatching his plans to steal Christmas, he is completely out, his little body molded perfectly against Quinn’s chest. His tiny hands clutch at his daddy's shirt with a grip so sure it tugs at your heart, as though even in sleep, he knows this is the safest place in the world. His chubby cheeks are squished against the soft fabric, his face utterly peaceful, serene in the way only a baby can be. His soft, rhythmic breathing the only sound competing with Bug’s constant chatter.

“Why is he taking their stockings? He can’t do that,” Bug whispers urgently, her big eyes darting between you and Quinn.

“Because he doesn’t like Christmas, remember?” Quinn replies, his voice low and patient, his hand lightly resting on her back now. “But maybe he’ll change his mind.”

And by the time the Grinch’s heart grows three sizes, Bug’s eyelids are drooping, though she fights to stay awake, her little fingers fiddling with the hem of her shirt.

“I knew he’d like Christmas,” she mumbles sleepily, her voice slurring just a little.

Quinn glances down at her, his eyes soft, his free hand brushing over her curls once before settling her head more comfortably against his lap. “Told you,” he murmurs, his voice low and fond.

You smile, leaning into his side, your fingers still raking through Bug’s hair.

“Merry Christmas, Hughes,” you whisper softly, and Quinn turns his head to press a kiss to your temple, the kind of moment that lingers, warm and unhurried.

“Merry Christmas,” he echoes quietly, voice full of love.

[creatingblackcharacters]

i have a question im seeing an influx of elphaba/glinda fanart based on the movie but sometimes im not sure if the artist drew Black hair correctly? i wanna reblog but i dont wanna promote art that doesnt draw Black hair correctly but i also dont want to be overly critical of the art? im using my best judgement but sometimes it feels like none of the way people draw Black hair looks right and i have to lower my standards i feel like im going crazy scrutinizing elphaba’s braids every time i see art on my dash is it supposed to be like that (i am poc but not Black)

It's maddening, isn't it?

You're talking about lowering your standards and being less critical, but the standard is "depicting a Black woman as she looks". That's the bare minimum! Cynthia Erivo said that she intentionally chose microbraids for Black girls to see that style on screen- choosing not to depict that style as is, is tantamount to saying "fuck them Black girls and their rep".

So! This is a CHOICE that you have to make!

Do you choose antiblackness for the sake of your enjoyment? Do you accept that you'd rather be antiblack in order to feel comfortable, to feel included, to feel "more sane"? Because you've said the quiet part out loud- be willing to accept that you'll be letting antiblackness slide for fun! But it's easier!

Or, do you choose to keep your standards, and accept that it is, ultimately, lonely? And yes, it is sad and hurtful and crazy that in order to be included, you have to accept racism (and you're not even a part of the group being demeaned this time). You can choose antiracism, and accept that it means seeing just how normalized racism really is in your spaces, and just how unwelcome being Black really is. And that is hard.

Me personally, I usually choose the latter. It is lonely, and 8/10 I cannot share the art of the "Black" character I love. But I think it was Che Guevara that said "If you tremble with indignation at every injustice then you are a comrade of mine." 👍🏾 My integrity means a lot to me- if they don't respect me, I gotta respect me, and I respect those who own up to the hard choice.

[chronically-ghosted]

i wonder if you stopped his world like you did mine

rating: teen

pairing: frankie morales x f!reader

word count: 5K

summary: watching the woman he loves be with someone else is killing him, but for your sake, he manages. But when Benny's birthday loosens him up, he can't help but bear his soul over a phone call. Too bad you don't pick up and he's forced to leave the evidence in a voicemail.

tags/warnings: pining, light angst, idiots in love, country music as a catalyst, romance, tw alcohol, tw drinking, hangovers, ultimately very fluffy

a/n: Happy Valentine's Day @toomanystoriessolittletime! I hope you receive and give all the love you need and want! I've had this idea for a while, but once I saw that Frankie was your fave, I knew I had to do it!

one day i’m gonna do the series of all of my favorite country songs with a Pedro boy. This is one of them: Singles You Up by Jordan Davis. Had thoughts of Me and My Kind by Cody Johnson for our ever-fantastic Jack Daniels and Hurricane by Luke Combs for Joel. One day, my loves, one day. 

🤍Masterlist | Frankie Morales Masterlist

Frankie Morales has a problem.

Given the life expectancy in his line of work – all things considered – it really wasn’t that bad of a problem. Sure, his knees were busted, his shoulder aches when it was cold out, and his ex keeps hounding him for money he doesn’t have. But on the flipside, his little family unit of friends and brothers united by combat are (mostly) all alive and healthy. He has a steady job and his little girl, whom he loves and adores, thinks the sun shines out of his ass. All things considered, there’s not much else he can ask for. He’s far better off than some of the men and women at Will’s talks, or in Santiago’s field teams. 

So – really, truly, seriously – all things considered . . .  he can’t classify this as a bad problem.

In fact, this is a problem he would willingly have. Gladly even. Not quite joyously, but if it’s a choice between this problem and not having the problem at all, he will choose having this consistent, thorny, kind-of-hurts-to-breathe-sometimes problem every single time.

And right now, it’s wearing a dress.

Uh, well, you’re wearing a dress. An off-white, hinging-on-cream, dress that sits above your knees, cuts flat and wide across your chest, and puffs out into cotton sleeves that remind him of those conchas his abuela used to make. Sweet, fluffy, and absolutely forbidden. 

Until the time is right, at least. His abuela always made him wait to eat until the time was right.

He calls it – you – a problem, when in fact, it’s the opposite of a problem. There is nothing he would ever want to change about the warm, engulfing feeling that starts somewhere in his stomach and rises like conchas up his spine until it’s somewhere in his ribs, then under his breastbone, right by his –

He would kill anyone who tried to take that feeling away from him. It’s when he feels most alive, most present, most out of his head – like these things in the dark and sleeping corners of his mind that nip and bite at him can’t find him. He’s thrown them off his scent in his search for you and, even for a brief moment, he can step into the light.

There is no problem, in how you look tonight, how you look every night, with your bright shining smile, sweet-smelling hair, cowboy boots, glass of whiskey – you had such a fantastic taste in –

Wait. 

That’s not whiskey. Not even a whiskey glass. 

That’s –

“White wine?” Benny yelps as he leans forward and his chair legs clatter against the concrete floor. “If that’s Moscato, I’m calling the cops because you’ve been replaced by an equally hot body double.”

You roll your eyes as you sit down and take a long drink from your glass, as if to make a point. Frankie’s eyes are drawn to where your dress hangs over your crossed legs, exposing the curve of your thigh. 

“It’s not fucking Moscato, Benjamin,” you say, eyes narrowed, completely side-stepping his compliment, like you always do. “It’s Chardonnay. Nick recognized the vineyard on the menu so he recommended it. Thought I’d give it a try, because I like trying something new, Benjamin.”

He rolls those beautiful blue eyes and leans forward towards you at the table, that grin that brings grown women to their knees plastered across his face. He knocks back his cowboy hat with a tap of his knuckle. 

“Well, excuse the fuck outta me.”

“The fuck outta you is excused.”

You tug his hat back down over his face, smirking back at him, just as Nick saunters over – with what looks to be a wine glass of his own. 

Okay, in hindsight, you’re not the problem. 

His real fucking problem is Nick. 

Your boyfriend. 

Frankie, who has decided to only drink beer around you since The Almost Incident, takes three long pulls so he doesn’t have to watch Nick and his stupid hands slide across your exposed back and sit down in Santi’s empty chair. 

“Happy Birthday, man, thanks for inviting me out.” Nick says briefly, raising his glass to Benny. “But I gotta say, I was a little worried when my girl here said your party was gonna be at a country dance hall. I’ve never been to one of these. I had to buy cowboy boots just for the occasion.”

He sticks his leg out, and rotates his gator-skin boot back and forth as if to illustrate how important to him this whole thing is. 

But Benny doesn’t look down, doesn’t approve the boots, or Nick’s attempt at fitting in. Instead, he just smirks, his smile growing fat and lazy, a bit of the warmth fading from his blue eyes.

“Your first time at a cowboy hoe-down? I had no idea.” 

Nick grins, because he doesn’t know Benny well enough to see the dig for what it is. But you do. You know him and you know he’s ragging on your boyfriend. You narrow your eyes and shame coats Frankie’s chest. Because he knows also Benny and he knows why he’s giving Nick such a hard time.

See, the problem isn’t you, or even your boyfriend – not really. 

Nick is actually a decent guy. He treats you right, if a little delicately, but he buys you drinks, takes you places Frankie could never afford, in a car Frankie could never ever afford. Sometimes, you’ll say something, or tell a story and it’s obvious Nick doesn’t really understand you or your jokes, but he smiles along anyway. He makes good money and supposedly he keeps in touch with his mom. Nick is the kind of guy any brother would want his sister to date.

So the problem isn’t that Nick is a bad boyfriend, but that he’s your boyfriend.

The problem that Frankie Morales has is that he is painfully, achingly, in love with you.

And he’s your friend.

Maybe that would change, if he ever could work up the guts to say something. For fuck’s sake, he’s killed people – asking you out can’t be that much worse (as Santi often reminds him). But if the guys you’re into are like Nick, or even Nick-adjacent, then what fucking chance does he have? He never thought money was important to you, but apparently it is and that’s something he definitely can’t give you.

Or maybe you like the stability of a high-paying job with fucking miraculous health-care. And that’s two things more he can’t offer: stability and health-care. 

So, maybe, maybe his problem isn’t with you or Nick or the fact that Nick is your boyfriend. It’s that he never could be. He, with one failed marriage already behind him and a coke rap sheet, has nothing to give you . . .

And you deserve the world.

You deserve more than he can offer you. You deserve better than him.

That’s his real fucking problem. And one he can't ever fix.

Will couldn’t get off work to come to this, so he owed Benny a beer and a nice steak dinner – according to Benny. Santi, despite absolutely swearing up and down for a week he wouldn’t be caught dead in cowboy boots and a hat, showed up tonight in full gear, belt-buckle included because he lost a bet with Benny over the Thursday night game. Santi, like everything else in his life, researched the hell out of the two teams, their past history, older statistics of both the players and the coach. He was confident, so confident, that he put his pride on the line. 

Never a good idea with Benny Miller. 

I don’t know, Benny said at the sports bar when his team was whooping Santi’s team’s ass, I just had a good feeling. Presumably, Santi did three shots before leaving and with another two in his system at the bar, all anger and frustration and embarrassment and inhibition had melted away and now Santi was doing what Santi did best, especially when drunk: dancing with beautiful women.

“The son of a bitch can dance, I’ll give him that. ” Benny muses as the three of you watch Santi, who despite having been taught the moves three minutes ago by two gorgeous blondes, complete a perfect line dance of Copperhead Road. 

“Oh, shit, I could never do that.” Nick shakes his head. “Not even after a hundred classes.”

“Ah, I find that hard to believe, Nicky Boy. You seem like a natural,” Benny smirks over the lip of his beer bottle. He finds Frankie’s eyes and winks. 

You are not amused. You glare at him over Nick’s shoulder for the second time tonight. 

“It’s really not that hard,” you smile tightly and squeeze Nick’s shoulder. “I can teach you.” 

“Oh, yeah, don’t you know your girl here?” Benny leans back in his chair, balancing against the rung of Nick’s chair by the ball of his foot. “She used to put all of us to shame. Dancing the night away, leading the crowd in line dancing. In fact, if I remember correctly, she and Frankie used to get into all sorts a-trouble on the dance floor. Isn’t that right, Frankie?”

Now he drew a glare from you and Frankie. 

Don’t, man, just don’t. 

Benny shrugs, swallowing his smirk with another sip of beer, hands raised. Just trying to help out. 

Over the speakers, the song winds to a close and the crowd does their final spin. Across the dance floor, Santi bows, his hat sweeping the floor, to both of the girls who giggle like high schoolers. 

“I’m gonna go get Boot Scootin’ Boogie over there some water before he up-chucks all over those nice ladies.” Benny stands and fixes his hat. “You guys want anything?”

Frankie shakes his head, his own hat that Benny insisted he wear, making the line of sweat across his forehead itch. You and Nick decline as well. You’ve barely even touched your drink, Frankie notes with a certain level of satisfaction. 

As Benny walks towards the bar, the next song starts up and you let out a squeal. Bring on The Good Times has been one of your favorite songs since college. And Frankie should know – he introduced it to you. 

“This one is the best! A classic!” You grab Nick’s forearm, but he almost immediately pulls it back. 

“Ah, babe, my first line dance is not gonna be in front of strangers! I’ll embarrass you and me. Why don’t you ask Frankie?”

Fuck, why could Nick just be a raging, flaming asshole? This would be so much fucking easier. 

Frankie swallows his beer empty, an excuse for a refill prepped. He hates cowboy hats, but he’d fucking set fire to the sky for Benny – he just hopes he immolates himself in the process. The giant brim makes him feel like he’s got a neon sign over his head that blinks, I Am A Giant Dork. Only further proven if he gets anywhere near that dance floor with his two left feet. 

Your eyes are unreadable as he tries to coax your boyfriend into taking you dancing.

“Nah, man, you got this. Your girl’s a great teacher.” By some cowboy miracle, his voice is steady as he says those two words. On the table, your fingers curl in, your wine glass still untouched.

Nick makes a face, eyes flitting back and forth to the dancers as they start the dance.

“My feet are already killing me in these new boots. Besides, this isn’t really my song.”

Over his shoulder, you find Frankie’s eyes. He knows that look on you – he knows everything about you – and you’re trying to hide how hurt you are.

He’s on his feet before he knows what he’s doing.

You and Nick stare up at him, surprised by how he practically bounded to his feet. 

The sweat at the ring of his hat runs down the back of his neck. Frankie does the only thing halfway-normal and extends his hand.

“Alright, princesa, I’ll fill out your dance card.”

He doesn’t care, or even really register, the darkly confused frown Nick sends him when you stand up, take his hand, and smile at him. He feels warm all the way up to his chest. 

“Thanks, Frankie. Let’s boogie.” 

That was a mistake.

This whole fucking night is a mistake. God help him, he loves Benny like a brother but he should have just said no and promised to take him out later like Will. He would have bought Benny any drink, any ridiculous chicken wing plate he wanted if Frankie didn’t have to be here, right now. 

Because right now, right now, that wall of self-control that he uses to stem the reservoir, to stem the flow of whatever you cause to pour out of him, it’s leaking. It’s busted holes and now he’s drenched with it – with the scent of you, with the memory of hair down the length of your neck, the heat of your skin overworked and flushed, the sweet taste of your breath in his mouth when you leaned forward, into his space, his senses, and whispered,

“C’mon, Frankie, you’re a better dancer than this.”

But in his defense, he couldn’t feel his feet, much less make them move when he watched you with your skirt rucked up high in your fists, your cowboy boots kicking like fish in a stream, and that smile – that fucking smile – brighter and sweeter than all the whiskey in the world. 

C’mon, Frankie, you’re a better dancer than this

C’mon, Frankie, you’re better than this.

C’mon, Frankie, tell me you love me.

Kiss me, Frankie. Kiss me now.

His restraint, his resolve that he will never, ever have you – he can feel it throb beneath his palms. Shudder and wobble under the thundering of his heart. It’s so close to breaking. Too close. This is why he doesn’t drink anything harder than beer around you. This is why he rarely drinks around you at all. 

When Nick finally calls it a night because he’s already got a blister from the new boots, you don’t put up much of a fight. You’ve danced with Benny, you’ve danced with Santi and his gaggle of girls, Nick himself went up for a slow dance or two.

Frankie only ever asked for one. 

He knows he disappointed you, has been disappointing you because you can feel him layering you away, brick by brick by brick. One of his oldest and longest friends, barely visible now, and he’s going over it with caulk to make sure you can’t touch this fragile, weak, emaciated thing he calls a heart. 

The instant you walk out of the bar, Nick’s arm across your tense shoulders, he all but rushes for the bar. 

“Six tequila shots, please.”

You wake up where you went to sleep: curled up on your couch, your giant Florida Gators blanket wrapped around you like a mentally-supportive straight-jacket, with Golden Girls reruns on the TV. The empty bottle of 19 Crimes explains the sticky, dry feeling in your mouth and the thundering headache accompanying swollen eyes and cheeks. You’d rather get hit by a train than have to move out of this position, but Nick has always been punctual.

Which, you assume, extends to picking up his stuff from your apartment first thing in the morning, his final threat that ended your conversation last night. 

The sooner, the better, you mother fucker. 

You blindly grab around for your phone, knowing that it’s most likely shoved into the deepest cracks of your couch, hoping against hope Panera delivers on a Saturday morning. There’s a distinct possibility you might start swinging if Nick shows up before you get a baguette and a coffee into your system. 

The things he said about Benny and Santi last night on the drive home. This break up was a long time coming, but fuck, if this is what he’d been sitting on about your friends, what the fuck did he actually think of you? 

And the things he implied about Frankie – how Frankie was in love with you and you were willingly not seeing it – ridiculous.

You fight the rancid taste of hope that anything Nick implied about Frankie might even remotely be true when you close your fingers around the shape of your phone at the far end of the couch. 

22%

Just enough to order then yeet this fucking thing into another room because there is no way in hell you are answering Nick’s calls.

But, as you scroll through your notifications, maybe you should have answered Frankie’s.

He had called sporadically, starting about two hours after you and Nick had left the dance hall, all the way until four in the morning. 

One text at 1AM: com e hang out wit us.i mis s you u 

You smile, despite the obviously drunken text. Frankie rarely texted, only if it was dire need – and apparently, you continuing to party with the boys at 1AM was very, very dire. Judging by the eight missed calls.

Eight missed calls, but only one voicemail. 

Like you’re about to settle down for some good TikTok scrolling, you lean back into the pillows, rubbing your eyes to clear the hazy fog, and press play. 

First, there’s noise. Lots of it. Country music and people laughing and singing. Clearly still at the dance hall. You wish for a minute it is a video instead because you’d pay hand over fist to see those guys falling all over each other.

But then comes Santi. Over the years, you’d picked up some Spanish here and there, mostly enough not to embarrass yourself if you ever went to Miami. 

But whatever Santi is saying, you’re not entirely sure it is Spanish, or any human language. 

“Comotuamiga, teruegoqueselodigas porfavornopuedo hacerestopormucho mástiempo. Estaríasmásfeliz y ellaestaríamásfeliz. Nomemiresasí, sabesqueloúnico quequiereesqu labeses y la beses y luegohagasotrascosas – ¡Estúpido! ¿La llamaste?”

There’s a shuffling, hushed voices, the music still far too loud to make anything out.

“Déjame en paz, dude.” Frankie. Frankie, very very very drunk. “I’m gonna – I’m gonna say – voy a decirle. Ella lo sabrá. She’ll get it. I know–,”

“Then say something now because you’re leaving a voicemail!”

“Ah, mierda – um, baby?”

In two words and two filler words, Frankie’s whole demeanor changes. You can almost picture him curled around the phone, his hand cradling the phone to his ear as he rests his head against a wall. 

“Baby, listen – fuck, sorry, I’m starting all wrong. I shouldn’t even call you that – I shouldn’t call you ‘baby’ because you’re not mine. You’re not my baby or anyone else’s because you’re so fucking independent and I love that about you but I wish you were. Mine, I mean. Not a baby.”

You don’t even remember sitting up, but your feet are on the ground. You’ve dropped the phone onto the table in front of you, staring at it as if it’s been dripping poison into your ear. Your heart is pounding. 

There’s silence from Frankie for a second, the music still loud, but it’s dampened. You can hear Frankie breathing, swallow, and start again.

“You looked so fuckin’ good tonight. You look good every night but fuck, baby, that dress. I couldn’t take my eyes off you. Even for a second . . . he doesn’t tell you that you look so fucking good enough, you know? You should hear it all the time. I wanna tell you – tell you all the time – he didn’t say it once. Not once and that’s a fucking crime. He makes you drink white wine when I know you fucking hate it – I know you, baby. I know you more than I know myself because you’re all I fucking think about. You’re in here, all the time, all up in my chest, my throat, my gut – and you can have it. You can have it. You can have all of me, if you just . . .”

His voice breaks and your fingers clench around the edge of the cushion. 

“If you just . . . look, I know this is so fucking outta line and I wanna say it to your face and I’m gonna but . . . when that fuckin’ moron forgets how good he has it, I’m gonna be there. Gonna be right there. Because –,”

And then like someone shoved a speaker right up against Frankie’s phone, as clear as day, you hear Benny yell:

“IF HE AIN’T HOLDING YOU TIGHT, IF HE AIN’T TREATIN’ YOU RIGHT, I’MA BE THE FIRST ONE CALLIN’ HIM CRAAAZY–,”

“Benny, fuck off!”

And then the call drops, along with it your stomach. In fact, it slides out of your body, slouches off the couch and melts into the floor.

Oh, Frankie, do you even mean a word of it?

The hangover rubbing your nerves raw, tears spring into your eyes, the silence and fear and terrible hope tightening like a band around your head and infinitely increasing the pressure in your temples. You want to cry but your eyes already feel too puffy. 

You’re stuck, frozen by every single possible outcome or single next step spinning out like chaotic webbing you can easily catch yourself on. 

This was a mistake, it had to be. He didn’t mean to call your phone. He had accidentally called you when he meant to call another girl . . . also with a boyfriend named Nick. Frankie, sweet Frankie, who you’ve all but outright begged to take an interest in you – said it with your eyes hundreds of times – Frankie couldn’t actually have feelings for you.

Not like you had for him. Not like the ones you’ve slowly plucked out of your ribs over the years because god, even just looking at him seared a scar across your heart. 

Fuck. Fuck!

You snatch up your phone, wiping your teary eyes and frantically hoping he might have said a name or anything – he couldn’t possibly have meant you – when three loud bangs on your front door sends your phone into the air and your heart into your throat.

The way he calls your name is frantic, verging on hysterical. In a daze, you glance at the clock. 9:04. Frankie’s had about four hours of sleep, if any at all.

“Please, open the door! We gotta talk – there’s something – there’s something on your phone you shouldn’t hear – please, baby, open up –,”

You stare at the phone on your floor. 

Don’t they always say you can’t tell the moments that irrevocably change your life until after they’re gone?

Not this time.

You open the door and either way, everything changes. 

“C’mon, please, let me explain.” His voice has quieted, no longer shaking, softer as though wounded. “Just five minutes and I’m gone. I swear. We can forget the whole thing –,”

You open the door to a hungover Frankie Morales, still in the same outfit you saw him last in, but his eyes are rimmed with black circles, his patchy beard even more patchy as if he had rubbed the bristle clean off. He reeks of beer, peanuts, and cigarette smoke. His shirt is loose, wrinkled, his belt isn’t even on all the way, and he’s the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen.

“What if I don’t want to forget it, Frankie?”

You see the realization strike him through the eyes, the throat, the chest, his gut, his brown eyes swimming with shame and horror. He leans over as if kicked and presses a hand against your doorway. His thumb rubs the corner and he swallows.

“So you listened to it already?”

“Yeah, I did.” He closes his eyes briefly, hanging his head, every apology in every language he knows sitting right behind his teeth. “But did you hear what I said?”

He frowns at you through those thick eyebrows. “What?”

“When I opened the door, did you hear what I said?”

“You said –,” that beautiful bottom lip parts from its sensual top and Frankie blinks at you. The oily blackness of shame has evaporated from his eyes, but that stormy fear rages on. 

You inhale, breath getting caught on every knot in your spine, and step back.

“We need to talk.” 

He glances once over his shoulder, as if taking in the hallway to your apartment for the last time, and he steps inside. Immediately his height and broadness fill out every empty space in your tiny living room and you’re launched back into the memory of when the boys came over for Christmas and there was hardly enough room for anyone, but somehow you all made it work and after four rounds of DDR, everyone was so tired and drunk, you passed out pillows and blankets and you spent your first adult Christmas at what could have been mistaken for a thirteen year old’s slumber party. It was one of the happiest times of your life.

His thick fingers clench and unclench when Frankie spies your phone on the floor, like a bomb waiting to go off. 

Your brain struggles to default to hostess mode because you can’t think of anything to say.

Do you want coffee?

Do you want some cereal? 

Do you want to– 

“Tell me what happened last night.” You surprise yourself, Frankie, and your whirring brain by cutting right to it. As with the first question when you opened the door to him, there’s something inside of you that has taken on wings, spread them wide, and threatens to soar out of your body. Frankie’s here, he’s here, and he said he wants you –

He called you baby.

You breathe in, trying to scrape up some courage from the bottom of your lungs, wishing in the back of your mind under everything else that you’d chosen literally anything else to go to bed in than your Tweedie Bird shirt from Six Flags. 

“I don’t understand, Frankie. Please help me understand.” 

With a monumental sigh, he rubs his wide hand across his face and up into his hair, his other hand lifting his cap up off his head so his fingers can dig into his curls. It’s only then that you realize Benny’s cowboy hat he wore last night is gone and his tried and true Standard Oil ball cap is back. Meaning he must have gone home at some point. When did he realize (or remember) that he’d left you that voicemail? 

“I’m gonna get my ass kicked,” he murmurs, eyes darting like a fox to your bedroom door. “Maybe that’s exactly what I deserve.”

“He’s not here.” This great thing arcs between you, the emptiness a presence and clarity all at the same time. 

“What do you mean? Where is he?”

“We broke up.”

“When? Why?”

“Last night, after we left the bar. We got into an argument. He doesn’t like the way . . .”

Frankie – physically, mentally, emotionally, fundamentally – overwhelms you. He’s across the room in an instant, closer than you think he’s ever been before. But maybe this is the first and only time you’ve ever allowed yourself to enjoy it. Revel in his closeness and let this caged feeling in your chest break free. You touch his chest with the flat of your palm, the size of it, the breadth of him, staggering. You literally feel weak at the knees. 

“He doesn’t like the way what?” His voice luxuriates in his throat – warm, deep. He sounds like what you imagine a hot spring feels like against your skin.

“He didn’t like the way I looked at you.” Your fingers make circles where they did into his shirt. His hands have found their way, after all this time, to your waist. “The way I always look at you, Frankie.”

His breath, subsequent to the ghost of his lips, across your forehead is so gentle it makes you close your eyes, to block out one sense to encourage another. 

You feel him swallow even though he’s a foot away from you.

“Why –,” he stops, and starts again, just like on the phone call, “why do you look at me . . . when you have him?”

“Oh, Frankie.” His grip on your waist tightens as if you’re about to disappear forever. “I took him because I can’t have you.” 

You blame the tears on the hangover, the headache, and the way he takes your chin between his thumb and knuckle. 

Grateful.

He’s looking at you, eyes soft, mouth curved into a disbelieving smile, with gratitude. 

“He’s the furthest thing from you because I tried to get you out of my system – I did – I promise. I can’t lose our friendship, Frankie, but it’s killing me . . . not having you. Nick said it was obvious the way I felt about you and that was a problem for our relationship, so he tried to make me choose between you and him and every time, without a doubt, I’ll always choose–,”

This is the right time, he supposes. 

Hand over your cheek, he holds you still in silence to press his mouth to yours. The final word of your sentence dies on his tongue, muffled by a soft groan of surprise. Your breath is terrible, your skin is oily and damp, he knows he stinks like the bottom of a wet bar, but he can’t find himself to care. Your mouth opens to take him and the hand on your cheek sinks to your neck as you both move past the initial shock of I’m finally getting to do this and you’re not pulling away and into an actual, proper, deep kiss that sends sparks into his toes. Your tongue marks the bottom of his mouth, your arms going around his neck like you want more – you need more – and Frankie pulls back.

Not only because he’s slightly dizzy but because he a) won’t fuck you for the first time on your living room floor and b) absolutely will not do it hungover. 

“Breakfast. Do you like . . . uhm, breakfast?” He can’t quite focus on a single spot on your face, eyes half-lidded and gaze blurred.

You giggle, letting his beard tickle your nose as you sneak your face into his neck. He sways a bit with you, his arms around your back, and you don’t think he’s even realizing what he’s doing.

“Yes, Frankie. I like breakfast. I eat it almost every day, in fact.”

He grunts, neck suddenly flushed, embarrassed. “Sorry, I mean –,”

“I know what you mean, baby.” You lean back and run your fingers through the thatch of curls at the back of his neck. Both of you are so grimy but you can’t care. “I’d love breakfast.”

Frankie smiles his Frankie smile and the thing in your chest is illuminated in gold. 

“How do you feel about conchas?” 

Translations:

Como tu amiga, te ruego que se lo digas. Por favor, no puedo hacer esto por mucho más tiempo. Estarías más feliz y ella estaría más feliz. No me mires así, sabes que lo único que quiere es que la beses y la beses y luego hagas otras cosas. = As your friend, I beg you to tell her. Please, I can't do this for much longer. You would be happier and she would be happier. Don't look at me like that, you know all she wants is for you to kiss her and kiss her and then do other things.

¡Estúpido! ¿La llamaste? = Idiot! Did you call her?

Déjame en paz. Voy a decirle. Ella lo sabrá. = Leave me alone. I am going to tell her. She will know.

[endlessdreamworld]

for the yandere alphabet thing could u do aventurine from hsr?

H, N, S, and T

Hell: What would be their darling’s worst experience with them? You'd go through many hells with this absolutely shattered individual, Aventurine's Inferno if you will. A different hell for a different sin. One of the more common hells you might experience is the one that manifests from any kind of firm rejection. He's initially understanding about this aspect of your relationship. In his earlier years, he's had to do many many many things things that he didn't want to. But he learned to swallow of his pride and do what needs to be done, so why can't you? The ultimate taboo would be an escape attempt (if it comes to that) or trying to end the relationship in some sort of way. You can't do that to him! Why would you do that?! Are you really going to abandon him just like that? Like everyone else? Why whywhy why

Naughty: How would they punish their darling? He wouldn't really want to enact any kind of punishments initially during the adjustment period. In fact, he'd want to start it as a normal relationship and only veer into the danger zone if it comes to that. He's on the delusional end of things -- a very "This hurts me more, than it does you." He'd stick to non violent punishments, which sounds nice but it ends up being worse in many ways.

The typical punishment would be a solitary confinement type of situation where you stare at blank walls to deny you any and all stimulation so the next time the door opens, you'll be grateful for his presence, as you should be. If you were particularly petulant, it's isolation but worse. You'd be isolated in darkness with the lights coming on irregularly.

A combination of white room torture and sleep deprivation is enough to break your brain a little bit in ways that pain couldn't -- not that he'd ever actually physically hurt you. Pain makes you defiant, as does taking away privileges. He knew that from experience. But some extreme isolation? That'll do plenty.

Stigma: What brought about this side of them (childhood, curiosity, etc)? He is the logical product of his upbringing. Everyone who he crossed paths with in his earlier years, outside of his far earlier years with his family, was a miserable experience. The guy was used in every conceivable way, so meeting a genuine soul that wants the best for him drives him crazy. He'd try to behave normally, or as normal as can be, but his darling would be walking around in a minefield although they wouldn't know until they stepped on a mine.

Tears: How do they feel about seeing their darling scream, cry, and/or isolate themselves? It breaks his heart, truly. That it even had to come to that is agonizing but there's really no other choice. Letting you go? Of course not, you're basically already married in his mind. He just needs to work his way up. Seeing your tears and heartbreak would spur the instinct at the core of him where he wants -- no, needs to provide for you. Tears and crying means you need to be comforted. Of course, you'd want anything other than having him near you like that. What you really crave is space, but the wires in his brain aren't connected properly. Tears would be met with rewards, rejection would be met with some punishments.

[shorthaltsjester]

trying not to set myself up to start spiralling back into c2 (i’m always like. a slight gust of wind away from it if i’m being honest) but i was confirming a quote from ep 141 and in general the conversation between fjord and vandran makes me insane, it’s truly some of my favourite rp from travis across all the campaigns, it has one of my personal top 5 cr Thematic™ quotes when fjord tells vandran “you showed me kindness, and love, and honour, and it meant the world to me.”, it has lore drops about vandran and avantika and uk’otoa, it has a silly sweet interaction of jester shouting out a greeting to vandran and fjord going “she’s wonderful.” and vandran saying “she’s a handful.” and fjord agreeing only for vandran to add “she’s perfect for you.” but beyond all that wonderfulnesss packaged into a mere 30 minutes, i am once again struck by how fjord and imogen are very interesting foils in terms of like. the absence of a parental figure who has knowledge of the curse you bear that your own curiosity for has led you through your recent life.

especially with (relatively) more recent imogen literally pretending to be her mother for utility versus fjord who took on aspects of vandran hoping to feel more assured in himself (featuring nightmares sponsored by a malevolent being intricately tied to said missing parental figure and occasionally featuring their presence). like both imogen and fjord start off their campaigns being like I Would Like Answers About My Powers (at any cost implied by the apparent possibility both of them had early on to be swayed away from the Good™ side) only for it to become clearer to them that the person who might have the most answers for their questions was not only their parental figure but was a parental figure they assumed dead only for that assumption to be undermined. and the fact that vandran and fjord stay apart so long because fjord is scared and busy and hadn’t even considered that vandran could’ve survived and because vandran made the same assumption that fjord hadn’t lived — but who also had a sense of hope that maybe that meant the cycle of violence had ended only to be met again with a fjord who tells him “despite your best efforts, your curse is now mine.” versus imogen and liliana who stay apart so long because of liliana’s choices, her insistence that imogen stay away from her even when imogen made it clear over and over that she wouldn’t stop without some answers or some clarity. the fact that fjord is reunited with his father figure and says i have so many questions and vandran gives him answers, even hard ones. that imogen has to beg just for her mother to actually hear her and not just the paternalistic idea of an infant she left behind decades ago. even fjord asking vandran if he wants to leave with them, and vandran making in clear he doesn’t intend on staying with them long term but whose happy to join them. versus imogen who begs her mother for help and to come with them and who ultimately can’t trust her to be telling the truth when liliana offers to come. i just think they should meet. i am always vying for a fjord cameo just because he’s my best friend but i think they should meet.

[minminbunny]

Stalker X Stalker AU - Psychotic! Lee Felix/Love Straved Gender Neutral! Reader

*smut part - AFAB/AMAB

💕Drabble Masterlist

❤️Ultimate Masterlist

"We're done, Felix. I can't do this anymore," you scoffed, tugging your wrist back from his grip. Felix felt his blood boil, "What do you mean, we're done. I can't stay having another break from you just because you don't understand that I hate it when they stare at you, baby. You're mine, my little darling," he growled, glaring at you.

"Not a break, it's over. I'm sick of you being possessive of me. I'm sick of you watching over me. Just leave me alone, we're breaking up," you sniffled as angry tears dripped down your cheeks. Felix's eyes widened, "Baby, you can't do this to me. I'll give you more space. I just hate when people gawk at you like some toy. Darling, you're worth more than that. You're my everything. Please don't leave me," he pleaded, feeling his knees get weak.

You looked away, dragging your suitcase, "I'm sorry," you whispered, closing the front door behind you. Felix held his head in his palm, laughing controllably at the events that just happened, "It's a nightmare. It's all just a nightmare. They'll come back for me. They have to," he babbled, tears streaming down his cheeks as he wailed.

You curled up in a hotel bed, clutching the plush Felix won you at an arcade. You sighed, "It was for the best, right?" You sniffled, feeling the usual familiarity of loneliness. "It's not like he wouldn't find another. He's handsome, charming. He can easily get another partner that's just like me," you sniffled, your voice cracking as you spoke.

You looked at the plush, staring into its eyes, "This is where I belong," you whispered, crying yourself to sleep. Felix clenched his jaw and stared at the screen, his gaze icy and blank. Tear stains etched into his pale skin, "You can't escape me, darling. I understand where you're coming from though, those stupid ex partners of yours surely implanted those thoughts in your mind, but I'll come after you. I'll show you true affection, I'll teach you. Mark my words," he growled, staring at your sleeping face through the plush he gave.

Weeks went by and the loneliness grew heavier and heavier. It felt like Felix's constant affection was filling up the empty gaps throughout the day. It felt like he was distracting you from the heavy thoughts in your mind. You stared at the plush, "Is he right?" You whispered, stroking the plush. You questioned your decision, pondering if it were the right choice to make or were you just too caught up to escape.

You couldn't tell the difference, "Maybe I should go on a blind date and see how that goes," you murmured, calling a friend to step you up. Felix pressed his tongue against his cheek, "Not on my watch," he grits, eavesdropping on the call and forming his plan. You dressed up nice, it's been a while since your first date with Felix and you know that first impressions matter. You kissed your plush goodbye and left for the venue.

When you walked in, someone was seated at your table. You went up to them, but they were on a call. They gave you a guilty look and apologized. You nodded and waited for their call to end. It was a quick date, one with not many defences, just a smooth sailing date. You exchanged numbers and went to the bathroom. It wasn't like your first date with Felix. His eyes weren't glued to you and his smile was half-hearted.

When you first met Felix he gave you the brightest smile you've ever seen. He made you feel seen. You sighed, filling the bathroom with an odd sense of longing. Felix waited by your car, waiting and lurking for your arrival. He had a cloth drenched in chloroform, ready to kidnap you in your own car. You walked through the parking lot, mind still dazed from the odd longing in your chest, you missed him.

You missed the way he would cheer you up when you're down. You missed the way he would tighten his grip around your waist and bite the back of your nape to claim you. "I miss him," you whispered, holding the hood of your car. Felix shifted his jaw, 'You just met him, and you miss him?' he thought, waiting for the right moment. You sighed, unlocking your door when you felt a cloth over your nose and mouth.

You panicked, thrashing away when you heard a familiar deep voice, "You're mine," he purred, holding the cloth closer. You felt yourself subconsciously relax, knowing that it was Felix that's holding you. He furrowed his eyebrows, subtly questioning why you gave in so quickly, but he paid it no mind. You were in his arms, and that's where you'll stay. Felix placed you in the back seat, bound your ankles and wrist, and taped your mouth.

You stirred awake hours later, your arms bound to the back of the chair and your ankles tied apart. Felix sat in front of you, watching your sleeping body like a drug, "Wakey, wakey," he chuckled, seeing you stir. "Slept well?" he asked, twirling a pair of scissors in his hand. You blinked at him, "Where have you taken me?" You asked, your speech slurring.

Felix chuckled, "Curious, aren't you? We're in my relatives' cabin house, in the middle of nowhere, darling. Even if you run, I know these acres better than you," he warned, holding the knife to your throat. "Tell me, was all our love for nothing? I just want you to love me like I love you," he pleaded, tears dripping down his cheeks. You bit your bottom lip, staring at him with wavering eyes.

Felix threw the scissor aside, "Answer me, Godamnit!" He lashed, gripping the chair behind you. "I don't know! I don't know what love is, Lix," you sobbed, hunching over. Felix felt his breath hitch at the nickname, "I know you don't, darling. That's why I've been showing you. I didn't mean to overwhelm you," he said, wiping your tears.

You leaned into his palm, "Teach me? I can learn to be as lovesick as you. Please, I want to love like you," you sniffled, looking at him. Felix took in a deep inhale, "Okay, precious. You'll see the way I'm obsessed with you," he whispered, patting your cheek.

NSFW BELOW CUT

AFAB

"Fuck, you're so tight," Felix groaned, his hands tied behind your back and his ankles tied apart. You held a knife to his throat and rode his hot girthy cock, "Can't, can't," you moaned, trying to ease down to the hilt. Felix groaned, digging his nails into his fist, "Yes you can, darling. You can ride my cock without my help," he hissed, feeling your slicked tight walls clench around his cockhead.

You sniffled, bouncing your hips up and down his cock, barely taking half of his length up your puffy cunt. Felix chuckled, raising an eyebrow, "See precious. This is how you depend on me. This is how you let me take care of you," he said, removing his hands from behind, easily undoing the rope as he took the knife away from you. "Now let me help, yeah?" He said, thrusting his hips upwards with your bounces.

He held your waist tight as he buried his cock deep within your cunt. You cried into his shoulder, the stretch dulling your mind from the sheer pleasure and pain coating your senses. Felix kissed your shoulders, "There we go mmh down to the fucking hilt," he chuckled, kissing up your neck. You clawed his back, "Please make love to me?" You pleaded, looking into his eyes with a pitiful gaze. Felix smiled, kissing your cheek, "Of course, my darling. We have all night for this," he said, thrusting his hips at a languid and lazy pace. Taking his sweet time to engrain this moment into your heart.

AMAB

"Fuck, you're so tight," Felix groaned, his hands tied behind your back and his ankles tied apart. You held a knife to his throat and rode his hot girthy cock, "Can't, can't," you moaned, trying to ease down to the hilt. Felix groaned, digging his nails into his fist, "Yes you can, darling. You can ride my cock without my help," he hissed, feeling your slicked tight walls clench around his cockhead.

You sniffled, bouncing your hips up and down his cock, barely taking half of his length up your puffy hole. Felix chuckled, raising an eyebrow, "See precious. This is how you depend on me. This is how you let me take care of you," he said, removing his hands from behind, easily undoing the rope as he took the knife away from you. "Now let me help, yeah?" He said, thrusting his hips upwards with your bounces.

He held your waist tight as he buried his cock deep within your hole. You cried into his shoulder, the stretch dulling your mind from the sheer pleasure and pain coating your senses. Felix kissed your shoulders, "There we go mmh down to the fucking hilt," he chuckled, kissing up your neck. You clawed his back, "Please make love to me?" You pleaded, looking into his eyes with a pitiful gaze. Felix smiled, kissing your cheek, "Of course, my darling. We have all night for this," he said, thrusting his hips at a languid and lazy pace. Taking his sweet time to engrain this moment into your heart.

[sparklemaia]

Heyyy!!

So I've recently read a lot of your comics about top surgery, and I really resonate with your experience (I haven't had it myself but I'd like to). I've recently been exploring my own gender and realising I might be non binary, but I guess I feel sort of an imposter in that I want to keep my name and pronouns (afab), despite feeling like I never got the memo about what a "woman" is, which I know is fine, but I guess I was wondering how the shift from your agab into realising you were nb felt?

Like, you seem to describe your gender as sort of unknowable and indefinable, and I guess that's sort of how I feel? I just want to be... More me. I guess what I'm really asking is, how would you define/feel about that shift into realising you were nonbinary, do you still feel connected to your agab, how do you reconcile the two?

Sorry for the long ask!

Hi, this is such a good question! I actually DO still feel pretty connected to my agab. I feel like I am a girl but also more than a girl but also not enough of a girl, simultaneously. (Weirdly, I never ever feel like a woman, and definitely not a man, but I do feel like an adult at least some of the time.) Top surgery was 100% the right decision for me; my body feels so much more correct and I am grateful every single day this procedure was accessible to me. (I was on a low dose of T for a year and a half too, and I basically just got biceps and a sliiiightly lower voice out of it. We stan.) I simply don't have strong feelings about how these things do or do not map onto gender identity or other people's perceptions of my gender. I am generally perceived as female, and that's fine! Like, close enough! I often feel somewhere BETWEEN cis and trans, or even between cis and nonbinary, and sometimes I joke that I'm just "nonbinary for insurance purposes." I mostly use she/her pronouns, although won't object to they/them. I like my "feminine" name -- I chose it myself years ago for reasons unrelated to gender and I have no plans to change it again. In terms of gender presentation I'm usually somewhere in the "tomboy femme" zone. Basically, I've been through a medical transition but not a social transition. Which is not very common, or at least I haven't seen much representation of it! (Be the bad trans representation you want to see in the world, i guess??)

Even though the words are often used interchangeably, I feel more alliance to genderqueer as a label than nonbinary, because nonbinary feels too clinical and "third checkbox"y to me, whereas genderqueer feels more expansive and undefinable and dynamic, with space for the ways in which I both am and am not performing girlhood correctly. When pressed to pick a gender word for myself, that one feels the closest. But if I'm filling out a government form or whatever? Yeah sure F is fine.

A lot of where I land with this stuff, though, is just kind of relaxing my grip on language. Top surgery was a relief, it helped me feel present in and connected to my body. Ultimately it doesn't matter much to me how much of that was *gender* dysphoria and how much of it was just... something I wanted, a way to make my body feel more like mine, to align my mental image of myself with the thing I had to stuff into clothes and walk around the city every day. I believe very strongly in bodily autonomy, and in making our lives as easy and comfortable and joyful as we can for ourselves, without needing to have a clean and tidy explanation for our choices. It is very possible to know with reasonable certainty that you want something, that it will be a net positive for your life, without being able to articulate, even to yourself, WHY you want it. It doesn't need to have a bigger meaning than ahh yes, this feels right. At this point in my life, I'm more invested in marveling at the sheer improbability of my own existence than in wedging myself into the taxonomy of known and acceptable gender narratives. I'm just a person, here for the merest twinkle of a moment in cosmic history, making soup and knitting baby hats and admiring bugs and singing off-key and cutting my own hair and doing my gosh darn best to light my tiny patch of night sky with stories so that you (and you, and you) feel less alone on your own journey through the unfurling dark. Gender is just such an inconsequential detail in the narrative of my life, and pretty open to reader interpretation anyway.

Not having to wear bras is pretty great though ngl

[pagesofkenna]

monte cristo 2024 makes some minor changes to the story that i wouldnt have made because it reduces the role of secondary characters im obsessed with but primarily makes major changes to the story to VASTLY INCREASE the role of different secondary characters im obsessed with and i'm frothing at the mouth about it!!!! i'm feasting!!! monte cristo 2024 said 'you want the children as primary characters actively participating in their own revenge plots well here you go' and i'm OVER THE MOON

monte cristo 2024 good

[finniestoncrane]

Are smut Headcanons okay?? What r your HC about Arkham Harvey dent with an inexperienced reader ? Like its her first time but she's super shy.

Arkham!Two Face x Fem!Reader Headcanons oh my god yeah ok this is!! yippee!! thank you anon for this delicious fucking request 💙 request info • prompt list • send me a request • kofi • masterlist minors DNI!! 🔞 cw: corruption kink, loss of virginity, rough sex, praise, posessive, marking kinda, obsessive

the minute he finds out that you're inexperienced (in any way really, not just if you're a virgin) he's honing in on you

there's something so appealng to him about being the main factor in someone's corruption

in passing on the torch of becoming someone new, someone a bit nastier, a bit freakier

it means he can mark you as his own, albeit in a less scarring way than he was

but he's determined to be your first, the one you think back on fondly (if he ever lets you go)

and he won't be shy about his intentions (or possible achievements) either

he needs to make sure that everyone knows who changed you into the very experienced little thing you are

he'll offer you his coin, letting you decide which of them is going to be the one who fucks you first

so hopefully it lands on your preference, or that you don't really have one

if it's two face then it's going to start off rough and not let up

it might hurt at first, but he'll make sure it's worth it in the end

you'll eventually get used to it, because this is not going to be over in any short amount of time

he'll be testing your limits, but ultimately ignoring them

it's a game to him, another name on the list of people he's ruined, another accomplishment

someone else who can't be with anyone else, who longs for him, who only thinks about him when they're alone and needy

whether you cum or not is hardly his interests, it's only about filling you and stretching you

and he's cumming inside of you regardless, so he stays with you even after he's finished brutally fucking you

if it's harvey, then he'll make sure to begin gently

your comfort is important to him, not only because he's more gentlemanly than big bad harv

but because it feels more in line with his own corruption, which is what excites him most

you're a good girl, a sweet and innocent girl

and you're about to have that ripped away from you

the minute you're finding your bearings with his pace, he starts ramping it up

reminding you that there really is a very thin line between harvey and harv these days

but at the very least, harvey makes sure to keep asking if you're ok

he's not going to intentionally hurt you, unless you beg him

and he'll praise you the whole time, telling you how good you are, how sweet you are, how well you're taking him

telling you that your his, "mine, mine, mine" as he reaches his climax, cumming whereever you want, your choice