#details matter folks

[viivdle]

I stand before Cardan, and he looks mortifying in his beauty. He carelessly slumps down on the sofa in his chambers, blissfully unaware of my anxiety. Or, worse, blissfully aware.

“I ought to be mad at you,” he says, and I almost flinch at the sound.

“As I said, I didn’t kill my husband, Your Majesty,” my voice shakes, and I hold onto the hope he will think I am holding back tears.

“Yes, that would be correct. Your husband is sitting in front of you, well and alive. Is he not?”

viivdle productive era??

my ~1900w jurdan fanfic heaven and hell were words to me is out now!!

i tried something different with this one, hopefully it was a good something different

this fic is for @annamatix who i have the pleasure to call my friend. i hope this is just the right amount of "romancy"

happy ramadan<33

[sailing-through-hawkins]

i got a much bigger response to my Harrington Charms Hellfire post than i expected so i wrote a little something that was along the lines of what i was thinking!

Part 1 ✧ Part 2 ✧ Part 3 ✧ Part 4 ✧ AO3

Sometimes Eddie thinks the real Upside-Down is his life after they close up the gates and pulverize Vecna ("they" in this situation being superhero Jane Hopper and the rest of her merry band of warriors), because past-Eddie would probably have a breakdown over...well, everything.

For one thing, Eddie is currently in the passenger seat of none other than Steve Harrington's Beemer, at the man's very request himself.

"Wait, I'll drop you off."

"'Preciate the thought, Steve but -"

"Munson. It's been like two weeks since you even started walking by yourself, sorry if I'm kinda worried about letting you go across town without me."

"Uh...just you?"

"Any of us, but me specifically since I'm clearly everyone's chauffeur. Might as well play the role, right?"

It's been like a month and every time Eddie wants to go anywhere in the slowly rebuilding town, Steve's right there with him. It'd be infuriating if it wasn't so obvious he liked doing it. If Steve wasn't so intent on just making sure Eddie's alright and yeah the mother-henning should have gotten old by now but if Eddie even thinks about telling him to stop, all he sees is sad eyes and hunched shoulders hiding under a complacent smile and wave bye-bye. God those eyes are fucking weapons.

They're heading over to Gareth's garage for a light-hearted band session. It's funny because Dustin was the one who convinced Eddie to "get your head out of your ass and talk to your friends, dick" and actually reach out to the rest of Hellfire about the whole 'not a murderer OR dead' thing. After some apologizing (ugh) and grovelling (double ugh), the rest of his sheep were willing to forgive him for ignoring their calls and visits while he was in recovery. Provided, of course, that he continue to check in with them on a bi-weekly basis at minimum. It's unfortunate that Steve, for all his head trauma, makes sure that Eddie actually sticks to that basis.

The things he does for love.

Or no, not love, definitely not love, it is way too fucking soon to call this teensy little infatuation anything as huge as love. No. Not love at all.

They're about to reach Gareth's place, that's important. By the time Steve rolls to a stop outside the garage, Eddie's panic (not panic, just a strong argument, this is not love) has simmered down. He has to take his time getting out of the car today, thank whatever deity is out there for quick-feet Steve, who runs around the front to help Eddie out onto his two feet. It's been a rough week but he had way worse back in that first month at the hospital, not to mention needing a little Steve-assistance isn't the worst thing in the world.

"Hey!"

Eddie blinks as Steve helps him lean against the car, the spots in his vision fading away to reveal Gareth right up in his space with a murderous gaze directed right at Steve.

Eddie worries that he's gonna start a fight even though it's been months since he's introduced Steve as his live-in-nurse (nobody takes Eddie's hints at a sexy nurse uniform to heart thankfully, he doesn't know what he'd do if Steve caught on that he's only half-joking) and Steve's been doing the best he can to make amends with Hellfire.

At least the guys aren't walking on eggshells around him anymore, judging by how Gareth barely took a glance to assess Eddie's wellbeing before going back to glaring at Steve with eyes ready to kill. Well fuck you too Gareth.

He crosses his arms, eyes burning with resentment as he continues go stare down a pretty nonchalant Steve who is very much in Eddie's space as he also leans against the car, fuck he's so close. When Eddie glances at him to scope out what the fuck is happening, he sees that gaze again. The gaze that reminds Eddie of Steve's days as King, looking over his reigning population with a boredom teetering on malicious negligence. That gaze used to send Eddie's mind into hysterics, painting images of crowding into the King's space just to see those big brown eyes waver. But that's not how it is anymore, Steve's eyes are usually brimming with concern, irritation or a spark of contentment as he watches his little nuggets run around screaming about Eddie's latest one-shot campaign.

Right now, there's no screaming teenagers. It's just silence for a few moments, a tension building in Eddie's bones until he thinks this must be what it's like to watch a sports match, head running back-and-forth between the two teams and waiting with baited breath.

"So?" Gareth spits out, squinting at Steve, just tilts his head in response and lets a few strands of perfect fall into his eyes, damn that bastard. Gareth grits his teeth and takes a breath, "What did you think?"

Steve watches Gareth, as if assessing his line delivery, shifting so he fully faces him but is still totally in Eddie's space with a hand on the car roof behind Eddie and the other crooked up on Steve's hip. The motion lets Eddie smell his aftershave and fuck, Steve still runs so warm. Whatever he finds in Gareth has to be what he wants because he gives them both a half-lidded smirk and shrugs his shoulders. "Eh, wasn't that into it."

Gareth sputters, face turning crimson and Eddie is like super confused because what the fuck is going on right now? 

Steve is the one to fully break his brain with a laugh that throws his head back, his neck stretching out so the light hits his jawline perfectly, that bastard. He looks back at Gareth's flushed face with a sunny grin that sets fire to Eddie's veins. "You totally liked it, didn't you?"

Eddie snaps his head to Gareth, who squirms before dropping his shoulders. His little mutter of, "Yeah, I did," sounds so defeated that Eddie feels a second-hand guilt, but over what? He has no fucking clue.

That small pit of guilt quickly dissolves into even more confusion when Steve laughs again, kicking himself off his car to land a hand on Gareth's shoulder and fucking wink at Eddie. "The miracle of Grease, huh Munson?"

Record-scratch. Sorry, what?

"Sorry, what?" Eddie snaps his eyes from the grinning god that is Steve and the sulking fluster that is a member of his club, one of his friends, one of his very overprotective sheep who has hated Steve's guts for a long time and is now letting the guy give him a fucking noogie in broad daylight with empty complaints.

"Looks like I've been corrupting your crew, Eds, if Gary being a Greaser -"

"I am NOT a Greaser, I just -"

Gary? Steve calls Gareth the Great...Gary? And he doesn't even comment on it? Last time Jeff tried that, Gareth threatened to hide a spider in his guitar case. But Steve Harrington, someone Gareth has had no qualms about verbally tearing apart, does it and it's fine?

"Eds? Hey, Eddie." And now Steve's looking at him with that concern-rotten gaze, eyes flitting over every inch of Eddie's face as if to pinpoint what's wrong and fix it with a smile and a soft you're okay now, I've got you. "Back with me?"

Swallowing down an incessant I'm always with you, sweetheart, Eddie nods. In his peripheral, Gareth is watching him with his hands out as if to catch Eddie from falling. Which is stupid because Eddie hasn't fallen from light-headedness in like two days (Eddie shuts up the part of his brain that reminds him Gareth wouldn't know that with a part that says Dustin probably gives the whole club daily medical chart updates) and wait fuck is that Steve's hand on his neck right now?

"So!" Eddie claps his hands, eye twitching as Steve's hand slowly trails to his shoulder, lingering for a moment before he takes it off entirely. Stupid jock bastard with his touchy-ness and his smile and - "What's this I hear about Grease, Gary?"

Oh yeah, there's that livid face of watch out for the tarantula bitch, Eddie's missed that. Well, Gareth still does it everyday but not at Eddie for a while there, probably because of the whole intensive injury recovery shit. Oh well. "None of your -"

"Gareth and I made a bet," Steve clamps his hand back onto Gareth to shove them closer together, pointedly ignoring Gareth glare of betrayal. The space on the back of Eddie's neck still burns with the ghost of Steve's touch, something ugly in his chest snarling at how that touch is now on Gareth's arm. He wonders if the bats left him with more than bites sometimes. "About some movies we recommended each other. And since I won, that means -"

"No way, I'm not -"

"Uh yeah you are, I won so -"

"Fuck you, Harrington -"

"Not on the first date, hotshot," Steve laughs as Gareth tries wrangling out of his hold, holding onto him by his shoulders with one gloriously bulging forearm. Eddie's starting to think the light-headedness might be a symptom of something other than his brush with the bats. Oh don't think about the bats, bad move, bad move. "Didn't know you raised a cheater, Eddie."

Steve's eyes are glowing with mirth, his grin wide as Gareth threatens to bite him with a smile of his own. And that's. Huh?

"And I didn't know you two were so close," Eddie manages to cough out, snapping his gaze to Gareth with a raised eyebrow. He squirms again, ducking out of Steve's grasp (Eddie can't imagine why anyone would want to) and dusting off his shirt. "Holding out on me, Harrington?"

Steve shrugs, his eyes fixating right next to Eddie's eyes. He steps closer, a firm and warm presence right in Eddie's space, right in front of him, and raises a hand to caress Eddie's hair, that fucker. Eddie stifles his gasp because he knows Steve's just getting something out of his hair, like he does every goddamn time he sees a leaf or dust or fucking anything in Eddie's mass of curls. "Just being friendly. Now giddy up, you two've got a session to do."

"Not sticking around?" Gareth looks back at the garage, the forced nonchalance in his tone nothing compared to the shadow of King Steve's gaze. "Frank wanted to ask you about those threads from last week."

"Shit," Steve slapped his forehead, looking into the garage at Frankie who - fucking waves at them?! Mr. "Do what you want but I'm never falling for that Harrington charm bullshit" is waving at Steve. Who, incidentally, waves back with an apologetic smile. "Sorry, Frankie, I can't make it today, got a shift with the supply run! Rain check on the wardrobe?"

And Frank the Unwavering, notorious for sticking to his guns with a grip tight enough to choke a man, gives Steve a thumbs up before going back to strumming with Jeff. What the fuck.

"Wardrobe?" Eddie chokes.

"Don't worry about it," Steve waves a hand in the air and gently pulls Eddie off the car, settling his arm around Gareth, who takes Eddie's weight with ease. "I'll tell you later. You'll be good to take him, or should I?"

Gareth scoffs but his eyebrows aren't scrunched with any irritation or anger. "I think I can handle it, Harrington. Go handle your hero shit."

And here's the thing. Steve has a thing about that word. Eddie's noticed because, well, he's always watching Steve and he has a rocky relationship with the word "hero." Sometimes his whole body glows with the praise, smile so wide and eyes so sparkly it makes Eddie want to scream. Other times, Steve shrinks just a little, barely noticeable, and his smile dims and his eyes are shadowed with something Eddie doesn't understand. Or can't understand. He's not sure.

This time, Steve seems to be on the glowing side of things but it's so subtle compared to usual that Eddie just has to blink and all that golden haze is gone already. He blinks again and Steve's waving bye to him, blinks and Steve's in his car, blinks and he's driving back on the road to wherever people need him to be.

Gareth snorts, tugging Eddie out of his daze and shuffling them both toward the sofa at the back of the garage, the brown beauty it is. "Wipe the drool, man, you're getting it all over my hair."

"Oh like you're one to talk," Eddie waits until Gareth settles him on the sofa and fully stands up before fluttering his eyelashes up at him. "Gary."

"Shut up!" Gareth flushes, stomping over to his (barely holding together, but Eddie likes to think they're made of the same stuff Steve is, to keep going after a fucking averted apocalypse) drums. Jeff laughs when he fumbles with his sticks and Eddie grins when Gareth's attempt at throwing them lands the fuckers right at Frank and that sets them all off.

Yeah, maybe some stuff has turned on its head, Steve and the town and Eddie's general worldview, but he's still got his inner circle and that's good enough for him.

[splickedylit]

i think. it's been too long since I drew something.

[awakefor48hours]

My grade school teachers: Be careful of your thoughts, for they become your words…

Me, neurodivergent and has millions of intrusive thoughts:

warning: I talk about my intrusive thoughts in the tags

[cosmicwhoreo]

I JUST NOTICED THIS-

DARK MATTER FUCKING TRAVELED THRU THE SHADOWS TO GET UNDER DEDEDE.

I NOTICED THAT YOU DARKENED TAFFETA'S SHADOW TO INDICATE THAT DM WAS FUCKING WITH HIM BUT I JUST NOTICED THIS.

YOU SNEAKY TARD! 👏👏👏

hur hur hur- Eyup, das how he gets around without being noticed as well as "communicate" (harrass) select targets without being heard by a wider audience. It's like possession but not really. He's like a disease~! Dedede's more than familiar with him and his tactics and that's why when first hearing his voice, he immediately turns and shoots a look at the ground in his shadow.

[valiant-portabella-pirkko]

So! I haven’t seen anybody mention this yet, BUT

The original Guild Wars Trilogy set is currently on sale on Steam! And from what I’ve seen, that doesn’t happen very often. So if you’ve been waiting for a time to snag it, there you go. Just a few notes though;

- the Steam trilogy pack does not include the Eye of the North expansion. This means there’s still another part to get to unlock the GW2 Hall of Monuments, and it’s only available on the Guild Wars store. It’s not available for purchase on Steam, far as I can find.

- because of that, the deal is actually only about $5 off the ‘complete collection’ version; with the Steam discount it’ll total around $35 ($15 for the trilogy and $20 for the Eye of the North) while the complete pack on their store is about $40.

Anyway, do with that as you wish. (And if I got any details or math wrong, feel free to let me know!)

[publicuniversalenemy]

also. as sponsored by the song featured in my last post. cheers to all the other kids who went through a ~serial killer phase~ that had literally fucking nothing in the world to do with any sense of ‘oooh ohhh theyre so FASCINATING i wonder why they would DO THAT’ or whatever these true crime bitches are going on about. here’s to all of us who saw our own monstrosity as an inevitability and had some vain hope that if we stopped resisting we wouldn’t hurt so bad all the time.

[dutybcrne]

Kaeya did the Emperor Kuzco Entrance™ into the Angel’s Share ONCE and then Never Again.

[dulcewrites]

I just found out that Rufus Thomas was Carla Thomas’ dad. It gave me idea…..

[waterbearable]

both in an attempt to be more deliberate about the work I'm doing w Personal Project and to stop myself from the pattern I have which is Do No Creative Work/Spend Hours At A Time On One Aspect of Creative Work, I have set a very loose timeline/goals for progress on Personal Project, part of which is to do my best to commit myself to spending at least an hour each on writing, drawing, and reading weekly (with the idea that I could literally just do 15 minute bursts multiple times a week and still meet the goal, since I normally have trouble scheduling things out bc I feel like there's not enough time in my day For A Task)

[headspace-hotel]

I full understand that it is not appropriate as response to talking about the various roles of christianity in colonialism and Christofascism,

However as its own thing, I think its an interesting subject how the Bible is supposed to be the fundamental source of Christian doctrine, BUT most of the "traditional values" of christian conservatives and ideas that are powerfully associated with christianity...just Are Not In There, or are only mentioned as brief, isolated side notes amidst much longer and more detailed passages discussing something different

Whereas many ideas that are emphasized HUGELY in the Bible are just totally and completely ignored by these rightwing political folks 

Much of Christianity is not actually based on the Bible, but instead on a bunch of traditions and later writers, but protestants have problems with admitting that.

And as someone who was raised very "sola scriptura" i don't even get why church tradition matters for anyone. Who cares what Augustine thought about abortion. He was literally just a guy

[carmelcoco]

mercury notes. 💅🏻

Disclaimer. these observations do not have to resonate with everyone and everything, all expressed in this post is based on personal experience and research.

mercury signs and their characteristics 🍭

🫧 aries mercury

You're blunt and direct because you deeply care about your loved ones and want what's best for them, even if it initially hurts. You're a reliable friend who values mental stimulation over constant chatter. You're quick-witted and passionate, often diving into new interests headfirst, even if you haven't mastered them yet. Challenges excite you, and you prefer things that make you think hard. You can get obsessed until you figure something out, and once you do, you stick with it. However, you might get competitive or jealous when others are better at something you're passionate about. Plus, all that thinking can give you headaches. But ultimately, your bluntness stems from a place of caring, and your loyalty and agility of mind make you a valuable friend.

🫧 taurus mercury

Your laidback nature stems from your focus on what truly matters to you. You're guarded because you've learned to prioritize your goals and rely only on yourself, leading to a preference for a small, trustworthy circle. While emotional, your rationality guides you to offer practical advice sought by many. When you love, you do so intensely, either fully invested or not at all, which can leave you drained in communication and occasionally introverted, causing concern among others. You're honest and direct, with an appreciation for the beauty of words, possibly drawn to poetry. In youth, you might have easily developed crushes and possess a melodious voice, possibly skilled in singing. With Taurus Mercury, your communication style is stable and methodical, marked by a reserved demeanor and a tendency to carefully analyze your thoughts and opinions. While you may appear stubborn, others view you as thoughtful and reliable due to your grounded approach to communication.

🫧 gemini mercury

With your mind always buzzing, you might need to work on organizing to avoid getting overwhelmed easily. You're a sponge for information, possibly even having some psychic intuition. Your ability to grasp concepts quickly lets you talk your way through things effortlessly, even if you haven't fully digested them. People trust whatever you say, even if it's random, thanks to your charm. Your hunger for knowledge keeps you everywhere, possibly juggling multiple social media accounts or interests, making you intriguing yet hard to pin down. From a young age, you displayed advanced intellect, impressing others with your wisdom beyond years. However, your thirst for new knowledge can lead to forgetting old ones, making exams a struggle unless you study hard. Despite this, you're generous and respectful, always open to communication, which earns you many acquaintances but perhaps few deep emotional bonds, leaving you somewhat detached. You're expressive, likely talking with your hands and body to drive your point home. With a Gemini Mercury, you're curious and talkative, overflowing with ideas and a penchant for witty, sarcastic communication. You enjoy delving into topics deeply and playfully, often expressing yourself through clever wordplay and puns.

🫧 cancer mercury

Cancer Mercuries are often misunderstood due to the crybaby stereotype, but they're much more than that. They have a knack for sensing emotions, especially in their loved ones, and their words carry a depth that reflects their own experiences and wounds. They have a remarkable memory for emotional moments, often recalling cringey or painful events vividly while forgetting trivial details easily. These folks lean towards introversion and need plenty of alone time to recharge, thriving best among their loved ones. Clear communication is crucial with them as they can sense insincerity. Despite their emotional nature, they keep their feelings guarded and may use self-deprecating humor to deflect. Once they trust you, though, they're fiercely loyal and offer comfort and support with their words. With a Cancer Mercury, communication is deeply compassionate and intuitive, rooted in empathy and a desire to nurture and support others. They express themselves poetically and creatively, understanding others' pain and offering unwavering support.

🫧 leo mercury

Individuals with Leo Mercury express their love and affection through communication, showing warmth and making others feel like instant best friends. They can get obsessive about their interests and crushes, giving them intense focus. In learning environments, they need joy and fun to stay engaged. They value actions over words, so if you claim to love them, you better show it. Their charming communication style attracts attention, but they must be mindful of what they say as people tend to magnify their words. They're prone to checking up on loved ones frequently, regardless of how much time has passed, as attention is their love language. However, a downside is their reluctance to consider others' viewpoints, often believing they're always right. With Leo Mercury, communication is energetic, confident, and direct, with a charismatic and engaging flair. They enjoy being the center of attention and aren't afraid to assert themselves, making them natural leaders in communication.

🫧 virgo mercury

Virgo Mercuries are like the champions of communication, always making sure their words are well put together and hard to argue against, reminiscent of those kids who constantly won spelling bees. They're high achievers from a young age, constantly seeking logic and truth in everything, which can lead them to get lost in details and feel overwhelmed. Even in chaos, they handle things maturely with logic, earning them the reputation of wise advisors. However, their attention to detail can lead to overthinking, as they scrutinize even the smallest actions and texts, making it hard to deceive them. Suspicious by nature, they'll do thorough research, even stalking if needed, to uncover the truth. They should trust themselves more and boost their self-confidence to overcome intrusive thoughts. With a Virgo Mercury, communication is analytical and critical, driven by a desire for perfection and precision. They analyze everything before speaking, taking a methodical and logical approach that can sometimes lead to overthinking. Patience and self-discipline are key for them to manage their overactive minds effectively.

🫧 libra mercury

Libra Mercuries thrive on peace and harmony in their daily lives, feeling unsettled when things are out of order. While they're adept at seeing both sides of a story, they can get lost in trying to maintain balance. However, they've learned it's okay to embrace chaos occasionally, especially since they easily get bored. Despite their indecisive nature, they possess objective intelligence, making them skilled at solving problems from different perspectives, which suits careers in law or similar fields. Yet, their desire for justice can lead to complicated situations due to their reluctance to choose sides. This indecision may strain friendships, although they can also be seen as loyal and reliable if positively manifested. They have a thirst for knowledge and are drawn to what stimulates their minds, enjoying romance books or shows and even finding amusement in chaotic situations, despite not being naturally chaotic themselves. A positively manifested Libra Mercury is a great friend to have, always supportive and having your back. In communication, they're charming and balanced, adept at friendly and diplomatic interactions. They enjoy engaging with others, keeping conversations light and positive, and prefer to avoid confrontation or conflict, prioritizing harmony and balance in their relationships.

🫧 scorpio mercury

Scorpio Mercuries are enigmatic and hard to decipher. They're private and move in silence, carefully displaying only what they want others to see to avoid suspicion. With high emotional intelligence and intense intuition, they can easily fall into destructive thought patterns, including intrusive or sexual thoughts, and fear being exposed. Despite their suspicion of others' intentions, they strive to maintain a high vibrational image. In love, they're fiercely loyal and keep secrets close, but they can be ruthless if wronged. They delve deeply into thoughts, even overanalyzing simple problems and pondering existential questions. Their intuition often reveals truths they'd rather not know, making hiding things from them futile. Obsessed with what stimulates them, they can become stubborn and refuse to let go of harmful things. They find meaning in everything, holding onto items or information they believe will be useful. While loyal, they keep themselves guarded, trusting only themselves. Others may find them intimidating or blunt, and they enjoy playing with power due to their ability to easily gain trust. A Scorpio Mercury communicates sensitively and perceptively, reading into hidden meanings and subtext. They tend to keep their thoughts and feelings to themselves, balancing expression with restraint. They possess strong intuition and mental energy but may struggle with overthinking.

🫧 sagittarius mercury

Individuals with Sagittarius Mercury are warm and nonjudgmental, making others feel at home and giving them the best time of their lives. They're open-minded and objective, often surprising people with their vast knowledge and random facts, although they may feel insecure about their intelligence. They tend to see the best in everyone and can easily be taken advantage of due to their desire to do the right thing. They're great listeners and offer wise, unbiased advice, drawing people to them for venting sessions. Growing up, they were likely interested in solving larger problems, but they can get stressed easily and lost in knowledge and details. They're open to new experiences and friends but are put off by judgmental or arrogant people. They have a playful sense of humor and enjoy sharing random facts with friends, but they don't like being told what to do and can be unreliable if they're not truly interested in something. Their attention span is short, making it difficult to focus, and meditation may be challenging due to their constantly active minds. With Sagittarius Mercury, communication is playful and positive, marked by quick wit, humor, and a talent for uplifting conversations. They bring a bright and lively energy to any interaction, making people laugh and bringing joy to any situation.

🫧 capricorn mercury

Capricorn Mercuries are reserved and only share what's necessary, commanding respect with their directness, which can sometimes be mistaken for rudeness. They avoid drama and focus on their own pursuits, maintaining a private and reserved demeanor. Their knowledge comes from life experiences and karma, often shaped by past struggles and moments of loneliness. While typically kind, they have clear boundaries and won't hesitate to assert themselves when pushed too far. They're calculated and loyal, often taking on a protective role, especially with siblings. With a mature outlook on life, they exude old soul vibes and may seem like natural teachers. They excel at planning and methodical tasks, dedicating themselves fully to their responsibilities. Despite being social, they prioritize duty and future success over socializing, often retreating to recharge. They value trustworthiness and responsibility in others but have little tolerance for foolishness. Communication for Capricorn Mercuries is pragmatic and logical, characterized by a clear and ordered approach. They prefer speaking with precision and clarity, often overthinking decisions and striving for perfection.

🫧 aquarius mercury

Aquarius Mercuries possess vivid imaginations and creative minds, often thinking far ahead but struggling with simple concepts. They may excel in unconventional roles while finding day-to-day tasks boring and easily becoming distracted. Despite being social, they struggle to open up and may feel neglected or misunderstood for their ideas. Their innovative nature draws admiration, but they may attract copycats without calling them out due to their kind demeanor. They have a random but fun sense of humor, often sending memes or random comfort items. Their accepting nature and detachment make them intriguing to others, who are drawn to their unique perspective and lack of judgment. They may be interested in the occult or unconventional topics. Getting to know them is a hit or miss, as they either click with someone completely or don't connect at all. Communication for Aquarius Mercuries is unique and inventive, characterized by creative and original thinking, often outside the box. They may get lost in their thoughts and should strive for more grounded and effective communication.

🫧 pisces mercury

Pisces Mercuries possess vast knowledge and ideas but may struggle with insecurity and seek validation. They have an old, wise soul, often knowing things intuitively and feeling deeply. They are sacrificial and generous, prone to being taken advantage of due to their kindness. In love, they may overlook red flags and defend their passions fervently. Drawn to beauty and gentleness, they have a creative sense of humor and may struggle with mundane tasks. Their relationships with siblings can be complex, ranging from intuitive understanding to manipulation. When expressing their darker side, they can be manipulative or prone to self-deception. Words of affirmation are important to them, as they have a vivid imagination but are often misunderstood. Pisces Mercuries approach communication intuitively and emotionally, valuing creativity and empathy but sometimes struggling with logic and detail.

this post was created by @carmelcoco on tumblr <3 if reposting my work please give credits.

pics by @vmstv

[luxurychristmaspudding]

Pickup Truck

summary: frankie hates your boyfriend. in fact, everybody does. but he’s willing to give him a chance. you’re his best friend, after all. until frankie discovers something he can never forgive.

pairing: frankie morales x f!reader

ratings/warnings: 18+. MDNI. this fic contains allusions to, but no descriptions of, domestic abuse. please do not proceed if you know this will upset you.

frankie's pov. no lady and no baby for our boy. drinking, violence (against pos bf), angst, lots of hurt, allusions to dv. comfort, fluff. frankie to the rescue. unprotected p in v (wrap it irl!). oral, f receiving. creampie. bad spanish (again). kings of leon references. happy ending, of course.

wc: 9.8k

an: whew, this was an emotional one to write. but i hope a good love comes to all of you in time, no matter where you are at the moment. and if you already have it, may it always keep you safe. lovely divider from @saradika.

Frankie really doesn’t like your boyfriend.

Scratch that. Nobody does.

Nobody really knows where you found him, either. A sweet, smart girl like you, moved back to your small town from your big city life, and it looks like you picked up the very first guy who sidled up to you in a grimy bar.

Which, if you’re really honest, is exactly what happened. Because he was nice at first. Real nice. He was charming and sweet and interested - he bought you drinks all night and didn’t push to come in when he walked you home. You went for dinner a few times, and sure, he could be a little rude to the waitstaff, but it was only because he was so focused on you. He bought you flowers and took you for rides, and sure, sometimes he’d come home far too drunk after seeing his friends and get a little too close, a little too loud, but he always apologised.

And sure, he sometimes made you cry, but he always made it up to you. Sweet promises, small gifts. And he'd never laid a finger on you.

Not until last week, anyway.

You don’t know what to do. You don’t know who to turn to. The thought of it makes you so sick you have to lock yourself in the bathroom at work. How did this happen? How did it turn so sour?

And how do you get out?

Walk you home to see

Where you're livin' around

And I know this place

Frankie walks you home from the bonfire. He always does.

It’s his favourite moment of the night.

He gets to have you all to himself. Gets to watch your cheeks cool in the night air, watch as the blush from the heat of the fire subsides. Your giddy, wide eyes, your tipsy babbling about stories which had been swapped over the flames, picking out particularly scandalous details for you two to giggle about before doubling over into breathless laughter over something Benny had said. 

He likes to hold your elbow, your hand, as you catch him in your amusement, gripping onto his bicep. He loves to lose himself in this little pocket of time with you.

He loves the sparkle of the stars, the glow of the streetlights as they light your features.

Frankie loves you.

And he’s so glad you’ve moved back from your life in the big city to come and be around your real friends again. So glad that you’ve all found your way back to each other. Tonight has left him with such a mellow tingle in his bones that he finds he can’t stop smiling at you, looking at you, on your walk home.

Bonfire nights have always been your monthly hangout, a time when you can be sure you’ll get the whole gang together. There used to be more of you through highschool, and still a fair few during college. It dipped when the boys joined the forces, when people moved further east and further north. But eventually Frankie, Benny, Santi, and Will had come back. Jessa, your other best friend, had returned too. A few others coming and going - Lily, Marcus, Maggie - also back and forth from their new homes to their old ones. And then eventually folk had just… settled. 

Frankie felt like he was one of the last, like he was maybe the one finding it the hardest, retired to a life of civvy duties. Unable to hold down a girlfriend, struggling to stick at a job, sofa surfing around friends’ places. He was still flying whenever he could, but then this coke allegation happened, and it was like the world was finally swept from under him. 

You were the first person he had called, the first person to talk him down from his panic, that debilitating squeeze around his heart when he thought about the future. The first person who made him feel like it would be okay.

So of course his joy when you had come back had been immeasurable. Maybe this time, he’d thought.

And then you’d met Tanner.

He’s pulled from his thoughts as you drag your hand out of his, skipping a little further up the dark street until you reach a corner. Frankie watches as you spin on the spot in the quiet neighbourhood, gesturing down the pathway before you. 

‘This is me.’ You say.

But you don’t turn to keep walking. You watch him, a small, excited smile on your lips. Like you’re waiting for him to work it out. 

Frankie drags his eyes from you, away from thoughts of your new boyfriend, to look up and down the street you’ve led him to, and for a second he is pulled beneath the ebbing flow of memory, towed with the riptide of things forgotten. 

This is his grandmother’s street. Was his grandmother’s street.

The cracked concrete, the peeling paint of the porches. The weeds, the flowers, the smell.

He breathes your name like you’re the only thing tethering him to the now.

Breathes your name through the bright, sunny flashes of his childhood. His mama bringing him here with his brother, his papa swinging him by his legs in the flower-riddled front garden. Cartoons in the ripe heat of the afternoons, him and his cousins stuffing their faces with Guagitas and Frugele until they’d made themselves sick while the younger siblings napped in the sunbeams of the bedroom next door. Cycling over on his bike after school to sit at her kitchen table to do his homework, letting her fuss over him - his height, his friends, his grades, girls -

A skinnier, younger Frankie stopping by his abuela’s house with you to pick up her up for his nineteenth birthday party, along with her homemade tamales, her chiles rellenos, and specially made pumpkin sopaipillas for later on. The way you had chatted to her, natural, easy going, how you had made her laugh, her eyes sparkle. How, when you had taken some of the plates to the car, his abuela had pinched his cheek. I like her, she’d said, Será tuya algún día, mm, mijo? And Frankie had flushed bright red, batting her arms away as she chuckled at him. He had hidden in the back bedroom when you came in from outside, and listened a little longer to your conversation as he waited for the heat of his face to die down. When he reemerged, you had helped his grandmother into her shoes, her cardigan, and kept ahold of her arm until she got into Frankie’s beat up old car. At the end of the night, his abuela had kissed both your cheeks several times, rocked you back and forth in a hug, and clapped her hands as she said how she looked forward to seeing you again.

When you came home from college every summer, you’d have tea with her in her garden. She always asked Frankie about you, about how you are doing. When he told her you were coming home, she’d been so excited. Quizás este sea el momento? She’d said to him, squeezing his hand. He’d smiled, his heart quietly full of hope. Tal vez, abuela, he’d said.

When he called you two weeks later, his voice weak from crying, to tell you that she’d passed, you had been heartbroken. And it seemed like her wish, the red thread she’d seen between the two of you, had been snipped, too.

Pour yourself on me

And you know I'm the one

That you won't forget

Frankie likes to listen to you talk, because he’s never much been one for talking. 

He supposes you just bring it out of him, though. Because here on this street, in the moonlight, he tells you more about his grandmother. You spend hours walking up and down the pavement as he recounts every story he can remember; him and his brother, his parents, aunts and uncles, cousins. Birthdays, weddings, funerals. The street comes alive with the ghosts of people, the spectres of feelings. You and Frankie talk of growing up. Of falling in love. Of each other. 

Your small, well-loved house is half way down the street, four up from his abuela’s. It does something strange to his heart to have two of his favourite people, who loved each other in their own ways, so close but so far away. 

Your fingers hold his wrist as he shows you a scar on his palm from eating shit on his bike when he was eight, and when he looks up, your eyes are shining under the streetlights. There is a glint of moon in your teeth, and a shocking want so clear on your face, but when he meets your eye there is suddenly hesitation, a realisation, a shuttering. Frankie stops his story. There is a moment, and then it slips away like sand.

You shiver, chilled all of a sudden, and wrap your arms around yourself. Frankie tries not to look too hard at the goose bumps blossoming on your bare skin, tries to fight off the urge to kiss the little raises until you’re warm again under his touch.

‘Cold?’ he asks, and you smile back up at him. God, his heart.

‘As a hole,’ you giggle, and he feels himself smile goofily back at you. ‘We gotta warm up.’ You say, and then freeze.

It takes Frankie a little while longer to hear the inadvertent invitation in your words.

Boyfriend. Boyfriend.

You both stand on the porch, frozen, like some great frost has swept over the land. If Frankie squints, he can imagine the glitter of your eyeshadow, now fallen, dusted on your cheeks, is a collective of tiny constellations of ice. 

Your body is wracked with a shiver again, but when Frankie looks you in the eye, you’re burning up from the inside. He swallows.

If he could only make the steps towards you. If he could only will his heavy feet to move, if he could summon his nerves to do exactly what his brain says, he would already be in front of you. He would have your face in his hands, be able to look into your eyes to see that deep, hidden want again, and kiss you. Again and again and again, and he wouldn’t stop, because things like that shitty boyfriend of yours wouldn’t matter anymore.

No. The whole world would be glitter and stars and constellations of ice crystals.

And then you blink, smile softly, and wish him a goodnight.

When he can finally lift his foot to move, your door is already closed.

And in your denim eyes

I see that something's awry

And I see you’re weak

You don’t see Frankie for a while after that, always finding a way to brush off his attempts to hang out. 

At first he doesn’t worry too much about it. You’ve just moved back - you have a new job, a new place, new friends to get to know. Tanner. 

Frankie finds other things to do. He gets business cards made up for the flying school he’ll be setting up next month. He pilots people across the state, sometimes across the country. He sees the boys for drinks, even sees Jessa for a coffee. He starts to worry when they say their texts have gone mostly unanswered, and they haven’t seen you either.

It must be why he turns up on your front step one day, a six pack in hand. 

You open the door on the second ring of the doorbell, and Frankie finds himself rendered speechless. You look… different.

Tired and wary, a little thinner. And when he gets you chatting, you say you haven’t really been anywhere, done anything. You’ve been settling in, getting used to it. You have two beers each, but you seem on edge, like you’re waiting for a knock on the door. And then Frankie asks about Tanner, and your eyes linger on the entryway a little longer.

‘Yeah,’ you say, ‘He’s okay.’

Frankie’s jaw twitches, his stomach clenching uncomfortably.

‘Just okay?’ He asks. 

Because you should be excited. You should be gushing and giddy and falling in love. But you’re not.

‘Yeah,’ you shrug. ‘He’s good.’

There’s something in your eyes. Something which shrinks away, skitters back. Something drained, something sapped of life, of energy. Hurt, maybe. Fear, perhaps.

When Frankie thinks back now, he knows he should have pressed you harder. Maybe should have taken you to his, made you talk a little more for a little longer. Away from Tanner, the threat of his presence. But he didn’t. He didn’t.

And he hates himself for it.

When he comes around

I see you're fixin' to shine

And my face won't speak

When Frankie next sees you, you’ve had a hair cut, and there are deep, dark bags under your eyes. Both of these things worry him equally. 

Your beautiful hair that you’d been growing out since you were young, hair that you swore you’d never cut shorter than it was in seventh grade, when your mum had to chop it into a bob after you got gum caught in it. And here it is now, much shorter. 

Jessa says she likes it, and you give her a watery smile, a weak thank you. She asks where you had it done, when. She asks if you like it, and you shrug. You say you’re trying something new. You say Tanner likes it.

Over your shoulder, Frankie exchanges a look with Santi.

You’re quiet the whole time you're at the bar. Far too quiet, so far from the bubbly conversation you usually hold, your loud cackle, your bent-double amusement. Your affection for your friends - the hands on knees, arms around shoulders, kisses pressed to cheeks. It’s hardly there. 

Frankie offers to walk you home, but you wave him off kindly. Tanner’s picking me up, you say, he’s probably outside. Jessa frowns at you.

‘Are you sure, babe?’ She says. ‘It’s not even late yet.’

You smile and nod at her, gather your stuff to go. Jessa catches your arm.

‘We’re still on to go shopping Saturday, though - right?’ 

You smile at her, the first warm one you’ve mustered all night.

‘Of course,’ you say, ‘I’m looking forward to it.’ 

When you stand to leave, you hug everybody goodbye. Tightly, for longer than usual. Frankie doesn’t give you an option when he walks you out to Tanner’s car. The smug prick is hanging out the driver’s seat window. He watches Frankie as you walk up, hostile, threatening, arrogant, and somehow still ridiculous. And, Frankie thinks cruelly - ugly.

Frankie pulls you into his arms a few steps away from your boyfriend. He kisses your hair, and you sigh.

‘Have a good time on Saturday,’ he says softly. You twitch a smile at him. 

‘Thank you, Frankie.’ You say before stepping back and walking to open the passenger door. As you climb in, Tanner winks at him. 

‘Gettin’ a new one tomorrow,’ he says, stupid fucking grin on his face. ‘New car. Exciting stuff. Anyway, better get this one back,’ he says, squeezing your knee a little too hard. You don’t look at Frankie, something like humiliation colouring your cheeks. ‘See you around, Frank.’ Tanner says.

Frankie steps back from the car as it glides forwards, and he watches it disappear up the street. 

Deep anger burns in him. And a kind of fear. It crawls over his skin, cooling the sides of his neck. His heart churns uncomfortably in his chest.

He tells your friends about it when he returns to the table. And they form a plan. Jessa texts you a time she’ll pick you up on Saturday. You say you’re excited again, you need some new clothes.

But Frankie knows Jessa won’t take you shopping. 

No, she brings you here, to the beach, to the bonfire. To him, to Santi and Benny and Will. Because they’re worried.

So worried, they tell you.

They sit you down in one of the chairs around the fire, and they explain why they’re worried. They tell you they love you - so much - and they just need to know if you’re okay. Because they can help. They want to help, want you out of this, because he’s not good for you. The silence, the hair, the clothes you were going to buy. They tell you they hate the way he doesn’t let you speak, how he speaks to you. And you are so quiet through all of it, Frankie begins to get more worried. He speaks to you gently over the fire, but you can’t meet his eye. He tells you his worries, their love for you again. He swallows down his own confession, anything to make you see. How they don’t want you pushed closer to him, want you to be pulled closer to them instead.

But your eyes are so vacant, so far away, that Jessa leaves her deckchair next to you to sit on the burned up log closer to you on your other side. She takes your hands, and you finally, finally look at her. You open your mouth, and you say so quietly -

‘You’re right. You’re right.’ 

It feels like the biggest gulp of oxygen Frankie has ever taken. He feels lightheaded from the relief, from the knowledge. They were right, they were right, which is a terrible, terrible thing.

Will clears his throat, and Frankie looks at him to see similar thoughts flicking over his face like film reel. He licks his lips, opens his mouth, and -

Hate to be so emotional

I didn't aim to get physical

But when he pulled in and revved it up

I said, ‘You call that a pickup truck?’

And in the moonlight I throwed him down

Kickin', screamin' and rollin' around

A little piece of a bloody tooth

Just so you know I was thinking of you

Whatever Will is about to say is cut short by the sweep of headlights over the brush near the dunes. 

A beat up old pickup truck bumps up the track and pulls up alongside Will’s Ranger. The driver’s side window slides down, and Tanner’s face emerges from the gloom. He revs the engine loudly, making you and Jessa jump. A sick feeling curls in Frankie’s stomach as he watches him, this piece of shit who’s been so busy crushing you down. 

Tanner leaps out of the truck, and slams the door. Frankie looks over at you, visibly panicked on the other side of the fire. How the fuck did he find you?

‘Hey baby,’ Tanner says, sickly sweet as he strolls towards you, ducking to press a kiss to your unresponsive mouth. He turns to the rest of the group, eyes skating over Will and Ben until they land on Frankie. Tanner steps towards him, offers his hand.

‘Good to see you again, Frank,’ he says, ‘Told you I’d be getting a new ride.’ 

Frankie stares at his hand. He takes a deep swig of his beer, breathing deeply before looking Tanner in the eye, refusing to shake it.

‘I’m surprised to see you.’ He says to the dirty-haired man.

Tanner tries his best to appear unfazed, but there’s a glimmer of something hot behind his eyes.

‘’Course man, wanted to show off the new pickup.’ He says, grinning broadly. He looks around again, eyes falling hungrily on Jessa. She shifts uncomfortably on the log, rearranging her body so there’s less for him to look at. A deep heat begins to rise in Frankie’s chest.

He glances again at the ancient car that Tanner’s driven up in. The front bumper almost hanging off, the red paint aged and scratched, bumps caved in all up the sides, the roof sagging. 

‘You call that a pickup truck?’ Frankie says lightly. Tanner narrows his eyes at him, angry, before he catches the sound of Santi’s laugh.

He whirls around to the other man and spits -

‘Who the fuck are you?’

Frankie almost laughs, too. Almost.

Pope spreads his hands. He looks up at him through his brows, a glint in his eyes that Frankie is violently familiar with. You must notice it, too, because you clear your throat and say -

‘Santi’s one of my friends.’

Tanner doesn’t even look at you. Just keeps staring at Pope. 

The moment seems to last an eternity. Frankie feels like he’s watching everything through sludge, like he’s in someone else’s dream. His whole body is on edge, vibrating, ready to lunge - he’s just not sure at who. He looks between the two men before he catches your eye through the flames. The adrenaline in Frankie’s heart gutters at the look of panic in your eyes.

Please don’t let them do this. Please help me stop it.

Frankie glances back to Pope, and says, so softly only he can hear it -

‘Pope.’ 

And Santi immediately looks away, taking a swig of his beer.

Tanner stands there still, clearly baffled at Santi’s sudden lack of interest. Then he turns to the rest of the group like a petulant child, a toddler who has been ostensibly robbed of its favourite toy.

‘It’s a good truck,’ he says, before turning to you. ‘Ain’t it, baby?’

You hum your agreement as Tanner scoops a beer from the pile by Will’s chair, shucking off the top with his teeth. Jessa looks away, disgusted. He settles himself in the deckchair at your side.

‘Y’aint allowed to touch it, of course, sugar,’ he says to you, before laughing into his bottle. ‘Ruin everything you come into, anyway. Root of all my problems, ain’t ya?’ Tanner takes a pull of his beer. The group is silent around him. Around you. Tanner notices.

‘Boy, fun bunch you are.’ 

You look at him through your eyelashes.

‘Baby, that’s enough.’ You say as softly as possible, and Frankie cringes at the pet name. 

Tanner looks at you sharply. Dark, furious. It’s in the pinch of his jaw, the anger at what you’ve said so obviously rolling around in his skull.

Frankie hates him for it. And he hates that he hates him for it. There are already so many things he hates him for, but he’s so fucking stupid it’s almost funny. Not your equal in any way. In kindness, in conversation or in intellect. And not even willing to try. To learn. For you. Just trying to dumb you down instead, squash you into smaller, more digestible bites to chew on. 

When it comes down to it, Tanner has nothing smart to say back. He just pushes a short breath from his nostrils and mutters out a little -

‘Well, well, well.’

Then he flexes his fingers against the chair, and you flinch. 

You flinch hard, your brows coming together, chin scrunching, waiting for the blow to land. And when it doesn’t, your eyes flicker open slowly. Hollow, bereft, drained and dim. 

Tanner hasn’t noticed, but everyone else has.

The awful unveiling of your last secret.

Frankie forces the bile down his throat. His head swings forward to the ground of its own accord, a faint, resonant ringing in his ears. When he looks at his hands, they aren’t his own. In fact, he recognises no part of his body as the ringing gets louder, as he gently places his beer bottle on the floor. When his eyes leave the dirt, the mix of faces around the fire are all mirror reflections of each other. Horror, disgust, grief. Grief that this is what you hid from them, this is what they have taken too long to pull you from. The burning building splintering around you, your shell of a body immovable in the middle. 

You won’t meet his eye. You won’t meet anyone’s eye as your hand shakes around your bottle. Jessa notices. She stares at your trembling fingers for too long, but she can hardly say anything. None of them can. Her eyes shine like beacons from her seat, wet with tears. Frankie sees her bottom lip quiver, her chin dimple. And then she swallows, swallows again, and reaches for your hand.

You flinch again, softer this time, and Frankie is sure everyone around the fire - everyone in the town, the world, must hear his heart crack. Because he feels it so keenly, so deeply, that it takes the air from his lungs. His breath is caught in his throat, and no matter how hard he tries to draw it, it seems impossible to claw it down. He’s drowning. He’s drowning right here in front of everybody, and it makes it all the worse to know that this is how you must feel. Every damn day.

Come on, he hears Jessa say, Let’s go and get another drink. And through the dark swirling of his mind he watches the two of you stand slowly and disappear towards the back of Frankie’s truck. He waits until Jessa has you hidden from view, her arms around your hunched back as you bring your hands to your face - crying - and that’s when the thread snaps.

Frankie gets to his feet, slowly.

Pope and Will watch him. Benny is still staring at Tanner.

Tanner looks up at him, chin jutted out, smirking as Frankie approaches. 

He’s challenging him. He’s waiting for a war of words, for the shouting to begin, for the insults, the observations to fly.

He expected the wrong war from a soldier.

The first punch sprawls him out of his seat. It makes a satisfying cracking sound, and the first trickle of blood starts to bleed from behind his lip.

Then Frankie kicks him. He kicks him hard in the ribs, making sure he doesn’t have enough time to recover from the punch to deflect Frankie’s boot. 

Tanner clutches at his abdomen, wheezing, gazing up at Frankie with bewildered eyes. Fucking coward.

Frankie grabs him by the front of his shirt, pulls him upwards. He has nothing to say to him, but the fury he feels, this deep, endless, swirling pit of rage, he lets him see. He lets it fill him from the soles of his feet all the way up through his eyes, and he lets it bleed out. He lets the blackness flood the ground. He lets Tanner watch it, lets it petrify him, and then Frankie swings again. Tanner takes it on his chin this time, his jaw snapping closed, and when it goes lax, a couple jagged bits of tooth fall out. Frankie grunts in satisfaction and swings again, again, until blood spouts from Tanner’s eyebrow and his cheek begins to bruise and swell. Frankie breathes deeply, in rhythm, doesn’t even feel it when Tanner manages to land a lucky punch to his eye socket. He plants a knee into the other man’s crotch, lands him an elbow to the back of his head when he keels over, and then shoves him to the ground. Frankie gets on the floor with him, raining blows down on Tanner’s body, his face. He’s methodical about it, a punch to each eye, the crack of the cunt’s nose, one to either side of his mouth, then bloodying up his jaw. He’s aware, somewhere, that Tanner is screaming. Strangled, gargling sounds trying to claw up his throat. And then he’s aware of two pairs of hands around each armpit, dragging him away, pulling him up. Will is saying something in his ear, that’s enough, Frankie, alright now, and Benny is speaking, too, panicked - you’ll kill him, Fish, come on man.

Frankie blinks, really looks at Tanner where he lays bleeding on the dirt. His eyes already swelling, a couple more teeth scattered on the ground next to him. His face different shades of red and purple, a mess of a man, and Frankie is pleased. He could keep going. He wants to see him bleed much, much more. Will and Benny keep their grip on him.

‘Leave,’ Frankie growls, low, without a quiver in his voice. ‘And don’t you ever come back. You ever look at her again, I’ll gouge out your fuckin’ eyes. You ever touch her again, I’ll break every bone in your body. I’ll make sure they don’t find anything left of you.’

Tanner doesn’t say anything, which must be the only smart thing he’s ever done in his life. But he still doesn’t move.

The four men watch him for a moment, the silence heavy, broken only by the crackle of wood and Tanner’s heavy, wet breaths.

Then Benny lets Frankie go, steps forward and picks the man up by his collar, swinging him around to the direction of his truck. He throws him down on the dirt.

‘Move,’ he spits. ‘Get out of here. And if you have the courage on the way, wrap your fucking truck around a telephone pole.’

Tanner finally has the good sense to crawl over to the vehicle. He hauls himself up the scarred body work before creaking open the driver’s door and slipping inside. The truck sputters to life, yellow bulbs flooding the bonfire site again before it quickly backs away, turns, and drives off. Frankie watches its blinking red brake lights until he’s sure the cunt is gone, and then he turns around.

You’re stood with Santi’s arms wrapped around you, back from the fire where Tanner’s blood is drying. Pope strokes your hair, squeezes you tightly as your body shudders. And Frankie can only stare. 

Minutes might have passed. Hours. And Frankie is terrified. Terrified that he’s scared you, broken you, pushed you away. And then you turn your face on Pope’s chest, moving your head from shoulder to shoulder, and you’re looking at him. Eyes red-rimmed and raw, face flushed and damp, and it’s like Frankie’s trance breaks.

Frightened, he takes a step forward. He breathes your name.

‘I’m sorry,’ he says, and you shake your head. Fuck. What has he done? What has he allowed himself to do? ‘I’m sorry, querida, please - I know, I know -’ but what does he know? He looks to Santi, pleading for help, and the man offers him a small smile as you step out of his arms. 

Through a fog, you come towards him. Your chin wobbles. Your eyes swim. You’re a little wide-eyed, a little shocked. And something else, something beyond his reach. 

You get to him, and your arms make their silken way around his middle as you begin to cry. Hot tears stain the front of his shirt, and he cradles you to him, holding your skull gently, enveloping your abdomen. A loud sob looses from your ribs.

‘I’m sorry,’ he whispers, ‘I didn’t mean to scare you.’ You wrap your arms around him tighter, press your nose into his sternum.

‘I’m not scared of you, Frankie,’ you sob into his chest. He clutches at the back of your head, holds you even closer, strokes your hair. When you speak again your voice is higher, strained with your tears. ‘I could never be scared of you.’

The sting in Frankie’s throat becomes hot, burning. He doesn’t know whether to pull you impossibly closer or to push you away, to run as far as he can from your broken, heaving body in his arms. Because what he’s done should scare you. It should. He’d lost all control. The only thing he’d been able to see, to feel was his all-consuming, depthless fury. And Tanner’s face as it splintered, bloodied, swelled. And he’d wanted to keep going, until there was just pulp. No nerve endings, no teeth, no eyes, no mouth, no body that he could ever hurt you with again. He doesn’t want you to hurt any more.

‘I’m sorry,’ he whispers into your hair.

Trembling misery

And as cold as a hole

I hug your bones and skin

Frankie holds your hand the whole way home, the drive passing in a dazed silence.

You still don’t talk when you get to his place, when he unlocks the door, lets you in, and locks it behind him. You take his hand in the quiet cool of the house, lead him upstairs. He follows, slowly, sore, exhausted. Trying to process it all.

When you reach the landing, you turn on the bathroom light, and he trails behind you. He stands propped against the sink as you dig around in his medicine cabinet, finding wipes and bandages and anything else you think might be useful. You take Frankie’s hand again, examine his bruised, bleeding and swollen knuckles with solemn eyes. You are so gentle, twisting his hand in the light, inspecting. You look over it for a while, and Frankie watches you. When you reach for an antiseptic wipe, your hand is shaking.

Frankie winces silently when you start to dab at the blood on his knuckles, cleaning it away with minute swipes. You chase the dried rivulets of blood down his fingers, over his palm. The scar there from when he ate shit riding his bike.

‘I’m sorry,’ he says. You ignore him, breathing shallowly as you inspect his hand, holding his wrist, cleaning blood which is no longer there.

‘Might be a hairline fracture or two,’ you say, distant. ‘I won’t bandage it, gonna let it dry out first. But you’ll need to rest it. And we’ll need to ice your eye.’

‘I’m sorry,’ he says again, into your hair. You shake your head, and the light catches the different colours in every strand. Frankie’s throat tightens.

‘Please stop apologising.’ You whisper.

A shaky breath pushes itself from between Frankie’s lips.

‘No, querida,’ he says softly, ‘It wasn’t right. Shouldn’t have done it. And I shouldn’t have let you see -’ he swallows thickly, throat bobbing. He looks over your head at the white tiles behind you as your grip on his wrist tightens. You still don't look up at him. ‘But it’s not how you treat someone you love. Not how it should be. Should be protecting them, treating them right, loving them the way you love -’ him. He cuts himself off, because he realises as he says it he’s wrong. So wrong.

Right to be like you in your gentleness. In your care, your touch, your tenderness, your loving. But Tanner deserved none of those things. He didn’t deserve your faith, didn’t deserve your protection or your silence either. None of it. 

He closes his eyes.

An image of you flickers through Frankie’s mind. Your fingers on his wrist as they are now, your eyes shining under the streetlights. The glint of your teeth, and the want so clear on your face, then the hesitation, the fear, the shuttering - 

And if only he had kissed you then. If only you had taken him inside. He could have shown you what it was supposed to feel like. He could have saved you from the hurt, the fear which lay ahead.

There’s a splash of warmth on the pale skin of the underside of his forearm, and he opens his eyes again. You’re still hunched over his hand, but your movements have stilled. Frankie waits, confused, before another warm drop lands on his arm and you hiccup a sob out. He whispers out your name, and you turn your face up to him, devastated.

Frankie’s face crumples, and your grip on his wrist loosens enough for him to lift his hands to your face and cup your cheeks.

‘I’m sorry,’ he says, ‘I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have said it. I wasn’t thinking -’

‘You think I love him?’ You croak.

Frankie’s jaw works around his next sentence, his next thoughts. He tries to process what this means. That look in your eyes, your tears, your implication. His lips move, but no sound comes out.

‘I don’t love him, Frankie,’ you choke, ‘I don’t. Christ - I don’t think I ever did, I never could -’ you suck in a deep, stuttered breath. ‘I’ve never - never hated anyone more. I couldn’t stand him, couldn’t have him near me, couldn’t have him touch me -’ Frankie flinches at your words. ‘But I was so scared. And embarrassed. I didn’t know how to leave - I didn’t know how to tell anybody about what was going on. I was terrified of what he’d do. To me, to you guys, if he found out I’d spoken about it. And he made it so hard for me to see you, so hard for me to get away.’ You sob now, panic and relief forcing out your words. ‘I thought - wherever I go, he’ll find me. He’ll track me down, and he’ll bring me back - and somehow - somehow that was worse than if he tracked me down and - and - I don’t know, killed me or something -’

Frankie’s eyes shutter. He can’t even follow your thought, so awful is the image, the gaping emptiness. He pulls you close, he lets you cry. Curled into his chest, your body wracking with tears, shaking, tense and uncontrollable, the sounds you make rooting in his brain. They file themselves away in a box where very few things go. Deployment. Tom. The darkness after his investigation. You break and break in his arms, and it’s all he can do to hold the pieces of you together. To press kisses to your head, breathe in the smell of your hair, rub his hands over your back, cradle you like a child. 

He doesn’t know how long the two of you stand there for. He waits until you stop sobbing, stop crying softly, stop hiccuping, stop sniffing. He waits for a few more minutes in the silence, too. And when he pulls away, he presses a long, sweet kiss to your forehead. 

You blink up at him through red, swollen eyes.

‘You’re safe here.’ He says, and you nod.

‘I know. Thank you. For - everything.’ You say thickly. Frankie swallows, nods. You know it all anyway. Any time, for however long you need.

He pads downstairs to get you a glass of water, and while he’s pouring it, he can hear you blow your nose, wash your face. Somehow, they are the most perfect sounds in the world.

Crackling wood’s gone white

And my eye swole up now

I can see the light

Frankie gives you one of his sleep-stretched t-shirts and an old pair of shorts for you to wear to bed. 

The clothes dwarf you a little, and he can’t wipe the small, thrilled smile from his face, even when he looks away. You look fucking adorable. 

You giggle at him every time you see it, your little what? only making him smile harder. It stretches his mouth until it hurts and his cheeks start to cramp up, squishing his swollen eye. Stop he tries to say, but it comes out as an equally breathless huff of laughter - and that only makes you giggle more. So much so that he sweeps you up into his arms to stash you under the covers, and you laugh even harder as he tucks the sheets in tight around you, just like his mama used to do when she wanted him to stay put. 

He looks down at you from the side of the bed, hands on his hips, and you laugh back at him - eyes shining, mouth open in wide hoots of delight, your hands coming up in a desperate attempt to contain yourself. He points a finger at you.

‘You need to calm down,’ he says, voice tight with bridled amusement. ‘It’s bedtime.’

But you cackle back at him, this glorious puddle of sunshine in his bed, only howls of laughter for a response. Unable to help himself, he returns your joy, turning off the bedside lamps to slip in beside you.

In the darkness, your snorts subside into ragged breaths, and you turn on your side to look at him. You study him as though you never want to forget a single line on his face; such warmth, such affection in your eyes that Frankie’s whole body swells and lifts.

You take his hand beneath the sheets and hold it between your faces, smiling softly at him.

The first and only girl he’s really ever loved. This brilliant, fierce, bright, intelligent woman damped down by the waste of fucking space who had bled by the fire. At the thought of it, Frankie feels his heart fall out of his chest, down through the floorboards, and plummet towards the middle of the earth.

And finally, he begins to cry.

He tries to stop it, he really does. It’s selfish, he thinks, so awful and selfish to cry in front of you when it’s you who should be wrapped in his arms, swept away by emotion again if you needed to be, safe and warm and unworried, never having to fret about anything again.

But he can’t stop it. It comes out in great shuddering breaths - pained, wracked sounds slipping past his lips, and he can’t help it. He tries to gather them in his hands to shove them back in his mouth, tries to scoop them in his arms and press them back into the caving ache of his chest, but he can’t.

When Frankie was a child, he saw his dad cry once. Only once, and exactly like this, after his father’s brother was killed in a car accident. He had seen it through a crack in his parents’ bedroom door, and it had hurt him. It had wounded him, as a child, to see his father break with such grief, such pain, such emptiness, and to know there was nothing he could do about it. And now, he is split into those two people - younger self, older self - as he thinks of you lying next to him on the bed. This person who he loves so much, who is now so full of the knowledge of the worst parts of living, wound up so tight within you that you let it settle, let it unfurl around your bones. He sees your hurt, your grief, your pain refracted around him tenfold, and he hurts with you. He sees you as the boy he once was, this poor creature looking in at a heart breaking, as he has unknowingly watched yours break for months.

And he’s so sorry, he doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to stop saying it.

But here you are, still, performing the ultimate act of kindness. Comfort.

He feels the mattress move as you slide closer to him, and then your hand is on his back, swooping in gentle movements. He feels the scrabble of your fingers under the ribs he has pressed into the bed, the pressure of your arm moving under him so you can hold him properly. Frankie sobs harder, but he opens his body to you. You press closer to him, burying your face in his neck, and he breathes you in as he cries. Your scent is here, you are here. And like you heard him, you whisper -

‘It’s okay, Frankie. It’s okay. ’M here. I’m safe.’ And this realisation allows a little more air, but it doesn’t make Frankie’s guilt, his shame any better. But you’re right, he knows it. And somewhere in his crying, this turns his gasps to tears of relief. Softly, you retract your arms from around him.

You take his hands away from his face, and kiss the palms. You kiss each fingertip, each bruised and cracked knuckle. You lean forward and press a kiss to each tear, each trail of saltwater on his face. And you are so beautiful in the moonlight. Soft and wide eyed. Safe. Kind, always kind, and full of understanding. Frankie sees now that you have been crying against him, too, your eyelashes cloyed with tears. Sees his thoughts in your eyes as though you have had each of them zip to you through the air. When you were a child, you saw your dad cry once. Only once, and exactly like this, after…

A smile breaks through your eyes, chasing away the remnants of tears, glazing down, softening your lips. 

And Frankie doesn’t think this time. His feet don’t fail him. He doesn’t think of stars or glitter or constellations of ice crystals. He just kisses you. And kisses you and kisses you and kisses you. And he doesn’t stop, because nothing else matters anymore.

You’re safe. You’re warm. You’re in his bed. 

You’re here.

You tip your head back, deepening the kiss, licking into Frankie’s mouth. He gives in so easily to you he’s almost ashamed. But then your fingers clutch at him, ball at the bottom of his shirt, tangle in the thick of his hair, and all his thoughts are forgotten. He feels you slip a soft, strong leg over his, pulling him forward. You groan against him, and Frankie’s cock twitches. You feel it, you must do, as you pull your body closer to him, tight against him. Frankie is so lightheaded he doesn’t know where his hands are, what they’re doing - and when he concentrates, he finds them skating over your back, squeezing the tension out of the back of your neck, gripping your hip.

He moans against you as you rock your hips over his thigh, as he feels the heat of your sex against his skin. He feels like he’s on fire.

You slip a hand under his sleep shorts and palm him, brushing his silken length with two fingers, feeling him grow harder, thicker against you. You take him in your hand, pump him once, twice with the perfect grip, the perfect speed, like you were made for him. He’s gasping against you, panting as you suck his lower lip into your mouth.

‘Baby,’ he groans, breathless, ‘We don’t have to. We really don’t -’

You look up at him through gorgeous, glazed eyes.

‘I want to,’ you say, ‘Do you?’

Dangerous, dangerous question. 

Frankie tries to shake his head, look away, think of anything but the tight fist of your fingers around his cock.

‘I do,’ he says, ‘I do. But I don’t think - this is the right thing -’

You loosen your grip, draw away from him. His body aches with a shudder.

His eyes flick back to yours again - confused, hurt - fuck, he can’t do that to you, ever -

‘I - I don’t want to take advantage of it - of you,’ he says. Your eyelashes flutter against your cheeks as you look down the sheets towards your toes. His jaw tightens. ‘And - and I don’t want this to mean - different things for us. I don’t want it to ruin what we have.’ Frankie breathes out heavily through his nose. He has to tell you now. He has to. ‘I don’t want it to mean different things, because I love you. I always have. And if we do this, if I have you even just for a night, I - I’ll never recover from it.’ Tears spike in his eyes again. He tries to smile. ‘You’d ruin me. And I don’t think I’d ever forgive you for it.’

Your breath hitches in your throat, and Frankie watches as your eyes flit back up to his. They search his face, the dribble of his barely-shed tears, the slope of his sad smile. You bring a hand up to cup his cheek, running your thumb over his scraps of beard. He closes his eyes.

‘What you said earlier,’ you begin. Frankie swallows. He waits for the blow of rejection. ‘About me - about me loving him.’ He opens his eyes slowly to find yours, bright and clear. Something begs to bubble over in them. Something golden and warm. ‘You were wrong - obviously. And I couldn’t tell you truly why, because I was afraid. So afraid of pushing you away, even though I think that’s all I’ve ever done. I’ve never thought I was worth it, Frankie. I don’t deserve you. And I am terrified of how much I love you.’ You beam at him, eyes bubbling over with that thing - love - ‘I love you,’ you say simply, like it’s not the most beautiful thing he’s ever heard. 

A stunned little laugh ripples up his throat, and you copy it. He grips your face in his hands, and kisses you again, again, again.

‘I love you,’ he says.

‘I love you, too,’ you giggle.

‘And you are,’ he presses to your lips, ‘You are absolutely worth it.’

He rolls over on top of you, and begins to kiss your jaw, nipping at the skin there, before moving down your throat. He kisses you with a hot, open mouth, sucking marks into the sensitive skin at your pulse point. Mine, he groans, and you whimper against him, rubbing your thighs together.

Frankie pushes your shirt up - his shirt - so he can bite at your chest, press kisses to every bit of exposed skin. Every single part of you that deserves to be loved, every single place which has so far been unknown to him. He sucks each nipple into his mouth, delighted when you keen beneath him, panting, please, please Frankie, before he sinks lower down, peeling his shorts away from you to expose your glistening cunt. 

He groans, unable to take his eyes away from it as he leans forward, pressing his body into the mattress to lick a stripe from your asshole to your clit.

‘Frankie -’ you groan down at him as he begins to work at you, sucking and licking, nipping at your thigh before slipping his tongue into your hole, swiping and tasting everything you’re giving to him. He grinds himself into the mattress, hissing at the relief, the uncomfortable weight of his cock dragging below him.

‘Taste so good, baby,’ he tells you, and he doesn’t think he ever wants to taste, wants to smell anything else ever again. All he can do is eat at you, breathe you in, until you’re begging him -

‘Frankie, your fingers - please -’ And he flexes his hand at your hip before brushing a fingertip against your entrance and gasping at the pain. 

You try to bear down towards him, but he rips his hand away, lifting his head towards you.

‘Can’t,’ he gasps, and you mewl, bucking your hips up to his face, desperate. ‘Hand’s fucked,’ he says, and you still your movements before beginning to laugh again. It’s loud and from your belly, and it's bizarre. But Frankie gets it. He gets it, and he giggles too. He doesn’t try to fuck his broken knuckles into you, but he does try to continue lathing you with his tongue. You’re making it pretty fucking difficult, though.

‘Stop laughing,’ he huffs against your clit, ‘I’m trying to make you come.’

‘Okay,’ you say, gasping for air, ‘Okay. I’m sorry. I’m very sorry. You’re doing really well, by the way.’ But this only makes him laugh. He groans, leaning his forehead against your inner thigh. ‘This is impossible.’ He pouts.

‘Nooo,’ you cry, leaning up on your elbows to pout down at him. ‘Please, baby. I’ll be good. I’ll be so good. I won’t laugh anymore.’

‘Promise?’ He says. You hold out your pinky to him.

‘Pinky promise.’ You say.

Frankie stretches his hand out to you and tries to extend his pinky. He winces at the sharp pain which shoots from the movement, and grunts at you, your eyes sparkling with mischief.

‘You bastard,’ he says, trying and failing to hold his smile, ‘You knew I wouldn’t be able to do that.’

‘Just keeping you on your toes,’ you grin, and then before you can make any more smart remarks, Frankie resumes his ministrations, lapping and tonguing at your clit, your hole, mouthing hot, wet kisses to your pussy. He shakes his head from side to side, running your bud in tight, hard little circles until you’re a moaning, whimpering mess beneath him. Your hips buck unconsciously, and Frankie hooks both his arms around your thighs to hold you down, flattening his hands against your belly to keep you firmly in place. He reaches up to twist at your nipples and you gasp. 

‘God, Frankie, tongue feels so fucking good -’ 

He can feel you begin to pulse against his chin as your whines get higher in pitch, and he groans as you twist handfuls of his hair.

‘Come on, baby,’ he says, ‘Give it to me. Wanna see you come, querida. Wanna taste it. Come on my face.’

And you do, the sensation of it arching your back tight like a bow, a strangled moan cutting off into the ceiling.

‘Fuck, Frankie, fuck -’ as he drives you through it, nodding and murmuring against you as you try to wriggle free, squealing in protest until you manage to twist a leg and set a foot against his chest, pushing him off. 

‘Fucking - hell -’ You pant, and Frankie grins down at you, smug.

‘Good?’ He asks, quirking an eyebrow.

‘Oh, fuck you, Morales.’ You laugh, pulling him in for a sloppy kiss, moaning when you taste yourself on him. Your tongue explores every part of his mouth, every crevice behind every tooth, like you can’t get enough of him. Like there'll never be enough of him. ‘Now fuck me.’ You whisper.

And Frankie does not need to be told twice.

He rips his shirt up and off his back, shucks his shorts down his legs, and squeezes himself tight as he can in his left hand. He ruts into his palm, thumb swiping to slick his heavy beads of precum down his length.

‘Ready?’ he asks, looking down to find you staring wide-eyed at his cock. It twitches under your gaze.

‘What?’ He says, and you shake your head in quiet disbelief and amusement. You lift your eyes back to his face, and they are so dark with arousal he almost melts into the mattress.

‘Nothing,’ you shrug. ‘Just somehow never believed Pope and the boys when they said it was like two coke cans put together.’ 

‘Jesus Christ.’ Frankie laughs, his face pulling tight with a grin as he lines himself up at your entrance, swilling the head in your arousal.

‘I mean, what if it doesn’t fit?’ You babble, and he shakes his head.

‘It’ll fit, baby,’ he says. ‘We’ll make it fit.’ Then he sinks the first inch in, and just waits. He waits and watches you, watches as your mouth falls slack, all the smart things coming out your mouth grinding to a halt. He throbs at how tight you are around him, at how you clench already, trying to suck him in further. And fuck, you are so wet.

‘You okay, querida?’ He asks through gritted teeth.

You manage a nod, a broken whine escaping you.

‘Move Frankie, please baby -’ you beg, and he groans as he pushes further inside you, watching the obscene stretch of your pussy around him, the way it pulses, the way it gets wetter and warmer and tighter around him. When he bottoms out, he feels the hot rush of his orgasm leap towards him a little too quickly.

‘Fuck, baby,’ he breathes, closing his eyes just to make sure he doesn’t come right away. You squirm beneath him, canting your hips up, trying to fuck yourself. Frankie grips you, gritting his teeth. ‘Stay still,’ he hisses, flushing a little. ‘God, fuck, please - just for a minute.’ He opens his eyes to find you watching him, your bottom lip caught in your teeth. His eyes glaze down your body - his t-shirt bunched up around your chest, perfect tits, perfect belly, and your sweet, sopping cunt split open on his cock. 

He groans again, slipping out, watching as he retreats, soaked by you, before pushing back in. A high pitched whine leaves your lips, and you twitch your hands up to play with your tits. Frankie doesn’t think he’s ever seen something more sexy in his life.

‘That’s right,’ he says, ‘Keep playing with yourself like that, gorgeous. Look at you.’

So you do, looking up at him with doe-eyes as he fucks into you, soft at first, letting you adjust before quickening his pace, readjusting his angle, feeling you leak around him. His balls slap against your ass loudly, and you keen up at him, eyes wide, begging for something as you tighten like a coil around him, something you can’t quite voice. But Frankie knows.

He swipes his thumb against your clit, and your eyes roll into the back of your head, your back arching again. He groans at the sight, and works the bundle of nerve endings in tight circles, faster and harder, harder and faster, until you’re gripping him so tight he thinks you might push him out.

‘Come baby, come,’ he pants, ‘Please, querida, need to feel you - need to feel you soak me. Need you to come for me, come on this cock, baby, please -’

And he groans, long and loud as you clench and pulse around him, milking him, pulling him impossible deeper - fuck, Frankie, oh my god, feels so fucking good - the delicious pressure at the base of his spine at breaking point as he fucks you through it, as he pants and gasps -

‘Come, Frankie,’ you plead, ‘Please - want you, need you -’ and he spills himself deep inside you, hips stuttering, eyes clamping shut, overwhelmed and short circuited. He’s never known it could feel like this - good to the end of every synapse - and he’s fucking it in with three long thrusts, pulling out slowly just to watch it dribble out of you as he twitches against his thigh. He thumbs your clit just to watch you seize and sigh against him, then sits back on his knees to look at you.

‘You are something else,’ he says in disbelief.

You smile lazily at him.

‘Ain’t so bad yourself, Morales,’ and he laughs, throwing himself down next to you, kissing anywhere he can. I love you, I love you, I love you. Safe.

You lay there for a while afterwards, just feeling each other, calming your ragged breathing. Eventually, Frankie rises from the bed to grab a washcloth, coming back and swiping between your legs tenderly, gently, before collapsing back into bed and pulling you into his chest.

He feels like he’s in space, and he tells you as much. He spills secrets like a child at a sleepover. He tells you about the glitter and the stars and the constellations of ice crystals. You match him with a galaxy of feeling spanning the time he’s known you. And he feels that this is a dream, this love which floats like a nebula within the bed. He tries to keep his eyes open for as long as possible, even as you sleep. And even when he does drift off, he dreams of you. He dreams of you sparkling with stardust, waiting for him with your arms open.

When he wakes the next morning, you’re still there. Safe, soft and warm against him, furled into his ribcage, heart beating against the hand that’s pressed against your chest.

Everything’s okay. That red thread still intact, after all.

When the sun rises, bloody and mild, it’s never been so sweet.

A little piece of a bloody tooth

Just so you know I was thinking of you

[natalchartnurtures]

PAC: What Greek Mythology love story would you and your FS be?

○●○●○●○●○●○●

[pile 1 to 3- left to right]

Just came out of a bone-crushing healing and shadow work period for my Kundalini Awakening going on right now T-T In an attempt to raise my spirits, I created my very first FS reading-

pile 1:

General vibe of your love story with your FS-

This is the movie pile. I see a full-blown movie arc in my mind’s eye for your love story with your FS. I see an opening at- you guys meeting, the middle act- your separation and individual trials, and the final act- the happy reunion! OBVIOUSLY, there's nuance to how all of this will unfold for each of y’all reading since it's real life we're talking about, but your story with your FS is the closest thing to a happily-ever-after if I've ever seen one.

It's like when y’all first met, y’all were young, or maybe some of y’all didn't know how to handle a relationship or didn't have the resources in the 3D (think money or a place of your own, something like that) to make this relationship happen? Maybe it was long distance for a looong time? And so, for whatever reason (along said lines) y’all had to let each other go or y’all couldn't be together. It's like y’all were shown a grand possibility to be together, and BOOM it was taken away.

Then you guys enter a separation period right after, and the length of this period will differ for everybody reading, anywhere between months to a couple of years. After having worked HARD on yourselves ON YOUR OWN to overcome your personal issues, traumas, and suffering, you guys come together. The key to really mastering your obstacles is in the day to day. You will have set routines to tackle your obstacles, such as say you’ve got anxiety or a dys-regulated nervous system, so maybe you'll always have a stress relief meditation scheduled in no matter how your day looks. So on and so forth, fill in the details of this period as it best suits your life. But the common denominator, I feel like, is that y’all really fight to be with one another. The love is so deep here, and that's what motivates each of you to overcome your personal hurdles, yk? And THEN, when it happens, and y’all reunite, it's sooo beautiful. It's like you guys will build a brand new life together where you can put the past behind and finally enjoy the fruits of your labor! Also, I see you guys growing and blossoming over time with your FS upon reunion 🥺✨.

So… which Greek myth sums up YOUR love story with your FS the best?

drum roll

It’s the story of Cupid and Psyche!

From what I’ve read about this story, Cupid and Psyche couldn’t immediately be together after they met. Cupid could only meet Psyche at night AND she’s not even allowed to see him! T-T This was part of what Psyche has to overcome- the challenges put forth by Aphrodite just because the goddess was jealous of Psyche. And poor Cupid had self-esteem issues from what I gather lmao. He didn't even feel worthy to show his mortal wife what he REALLY looked like (which, by the way, is GORGEOUS af?! Like who hurt you, Cupid?) They eventually overcome their odds and reunite. Eventually, Jupiter blesses Psyche with immortality, which allows them to live forever in their new life happily ever after. Ahhh… beautiful.

I encourage you to read the original story (or watch it on YT, do whatever you like :p) to pick up on any additional messages! Buuut that’s all I have for you lovely folks today.

Love and loads of light, sweet pea :)

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pile 2:

General vibe of your love story with your FS-

Reeeeally strongly coming in right off the bat, I feel like both you AND your FS will be turning a brand new leaf in your lives. Think a new job for one or both of you. A major relocation for one or both of you. A major relationship ending for one or both of you. You catch the drift, right?

It feels like y’all will be closing out a cycle and entering into a new era, so to speak. And in this new era, I sense that you'll keep mostly to yourself and aren't all that interested in anybody because you're still processing this BIG shift you just went through and you're reflecting a lot, drawing on your wisdom, staying in your lane. Ngl, you do feel vulnerable and raw too, which is probably why you seem to keep to yourself mostly during the time you might run into your FS. I sense the same from their end too.

You know what this is? Mutual healing. Your future spouse finds you at a time when you're in the dead center of healing and vice versa. You will both be the catalysts to each other's healing! How cool is that? And after y’all find stability in your journey together especially after navigating healing for so long… I see y’all being so comfortable and content and peaceful with one another 🥺 this makes my heart full!! Stop it! Ahhhhhh <3 The vibes are immaculate, it's giving 'comrades in the battlefield' kinda energy. Your FS will stick with you no matter what, literally. And that's the kind of loyalty many people only dream about. Love it 🤌🏾. Y’all will love each other's pain away 🥺😩. Ugh my heart can't take it anymore!

So… which Greek myth sums up YOUR love story with your FS the best?

drum roll

It’s the story of Odysseus and Penelope!

Now in the story of Odysseus and Penelope, both of them undergo significant changes and face major disruptions in their lives. Odysseus’s long journey home from the Trojan War and Penelope’s long period of waiting and dealing with suitors at home. BUT even in Odysseus's absence, Penelope remains faithful and focused on her own survival and household. Similarly, Odysseus endures many trials and tribulations. Both characters are found in a state of self-reflection in the face of personal challenges (in my humble opinion of course). Their reunion symbolizes mutual healing… both of our characters here show incredible loyalty and perseverance despite being apart for 20 years!

-Side note: on a completely different note, your story low key kinda reminds me of the story of James and Claire from Outlander >< shoutout to the Outlander fans hehehehe, I'm waiting for the 9th season to come out SO BAD ughhhh lmao-

I encourage you to read the original story (or watch it on YT, do whatever you like :p) to pick up on any additional messages for yourself! Annnnd that’s all I have for you lovely folks today.

Love and loads of light, sweet pea :)

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pile 3:

General vibe of your love story with your FS-

Ah.. my Pile number 3s.. you guys are afraid to love.. aren't you? You might be blocked off from your heart and as a result won’t be open to true reciprocal and healthy love for a WHILE. But then I see that the divine will enter your life in some way and shake you up in a big way to show you how you've been standing in your own way and keeping love at a distance.. I'm seeing the tower card in my third eye as I say this even though it hasn't come out for you today.

Ah, this is like a personal journey I see you taking before your FS comes in and swoops you off your pretty lil feet 🙃 tehe! Your energy seems quite mental to me. You love living in your head, thinking, planning, analyzing, and just knowing things. But this came at the grave cost of not being connected to your heart.. and when the divine intervenes and helps you connect to your heart again is when your FS comes in flying ✨.

Side note: Ooh.. suddenly I hear Lavender Haze by our queen Taylor Swift? Take that only if it resonates for you :]

But yea, I see you struggling and feeling out of control when all of this happens because you're used to being in control of things usually but now all of this has you a bit overwhelmed I'm ngl.. but you end up navigating this perfectly well! Yay! I'm glad haha 😅🫂👏🏾

So… which Greek myth sums up YOUR love story with your FS the best?

drum roll

The story of Pygmalion and Galatea!

Yup, just like how Pygmalion accidentally manifested Galatea, you kinda accidentally manifest your future spouse too (low key reeeal funny ngl). Because Pygmalion refused to love anybody, he sculpted out his perfect woman and fell in love with his creation. His deep affections attract the attention of you guessed it Aphrodite herself, and she decides to ahem intervene. She brings Galatea to life, which represents the transformation of Pygmalion's mental fixation (and emotional disconnection) TO emotional CONNECTION. How perfectly beautiful. Ugh. Love your story, Pile 3. Gosh.. who doesn't love their FS simply falling into their laps? Haha

I encourage you to read the original story (or watch it on YT, do whatever you like :p) to pick up on any additional messages! Soooo that’s all I have for you lovely folks today.

Love and loads of light, sweet pea :)

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[wombywoo]

Ok! I've finally decided to put together a (somewhat) comprehensive tutorial on my latest art~

Please enjoy this little step-by-step 💁‍♀️

First things first--references!

Now I'm not saying you have to go overboard, but I always find that this is a crucial starting point in any art piece I intend on making. Especially if you're a detail freak like me and want to make it as realistic as possible 🙃

As such, your web browser should look like this at any given point:

Since this is a historical piece, it means hours upon hours of meaningless research just to see what color the socks are, but...again. that isn't, strictly, necessary 😅

Once I've compiled all my lovely ref pics, I usually dump them into a big-ass collage ⬇️

(I will end up not using half of these, alas :'D)

Another reference search for background material, and getting to showcase our models of choice for this occasion~

When picking a reference for an actor or model, the main thing I keep in mind (besides prettiness 🤭) is lighting and orientation. Because I already kinda know what pose I'm gonna go with for this piece, I can look for specific angles that might fit the criteria. I should mention that I am a reference hound, and my current COD actor ref folder looks like this:

Also keep in mind, if you're using a ref that you need to flip, make sure you adjust accordingly. This especially applies to clothing, as certain things like pants zippers and belt buckles can be quite specific ☝️

Now that we've spent countless hours googling, it's time to start with a rough sketch:

It doesn't have to be pretty, folks, just a basic guideline of where you want the figures to be.

The next step is to define it more, and I know this looks like that 'how to draw an owl' meme, but I promise--getting from the loose sketch above to below is not that difficult.

Things to keep in mind are--don't go too in-depth with the details, because things are still subject to change at this point. In terms of making a suitable anatomically-correct sketch, I would suggest lots of studying. This doesn't even have to be things like figure drawing, I genuinely look at people around me for inspiration all the time. Familiarize yourself with the human form, and things like weight, proportions, posing will seem a little more feasible.

It's also important at this stage to consider your composition. Remember to flip the canvas frequently to make sure you're not leaning to one side too often. I'm sure something can be said for the spiral fibonacci stuff, which I don't really try to do on purpose, but I think keeping things like symmetry and balance in mind is a good start ✌️

Next step is just blocking in the figures. Standard. No fuss 👍

Now onto the background!

It's frankly hilarious how many people thought I was *hand-drawing* these maps and stuff 😂😂 I cannot even begin to comprehend how insanely difficult that would be. So yeah, we're just taking the lazy copy and paste way out 🤙

I almost always prepare my backgrounds first, and this is mostly to get a general color scheme off the bat. For collage work, it's really just a matter of trial and error, sticking this here, slapping this there, etc. I like to futz around with different overlay options until I've found a nice arrangement. Advice for this is just--go nuts 🤷‍♀️

Next, I add a few color adjustments. I tend to make at least 2 colors pop in an art piece, and low and behold, they usually tend to be red and blue ❤️💙There's something about warm/cool vibes, idk man..

Now we move on to coloring the figures. This is just a basic block and fill, not really defining any of the details yet.

Next, we add some cursory values. Sloppy airbrush works fine, it'll look better soon I promise 🙏

And now--rendering!

I know a lot of beginner artists are intimidated by rendering, and I can totally understand why. It's just one of those things you have to commit to 💪

I've decided to show a brief process of rendering our dear Johnny's face here:

Starting off, I usually rely on the trusty airbrush just to get some color values going. Note--I've kept my sketch layer on top, but feel free to turn it on and off as you work, so as to not be too bound to the sketch. For now, it's just a guideline.

This next stage may look like a huge jump, but it's really just adding more to the foundation. I try to think of it like putting on make-up in a way~ Adding contours, accentuating highlights. This is also where I start adding in more saturation, especially around areas such as ears, nose and lips. Still a bit fuzzy at this point, but that's why we keep adding to it 💪

A boy has appeared! See--now I've removed most of the line layer, and it holds up on its own. I'll admit that in order to achieve this realistic style, you'll need lots and lots of practice and skill, which shouldn't be discouraging! Just motivate yourself with the prospect of getting to look at pretty men for countless hours 🙆‍♀️

I'll probably do a more in-depth explanation about rendering at some point, but let's keep this rolling~

Moving forward is just a process of adding to the figures bit by bit. I do lean towards filling in each section from top to bottom, but you can feel free to pop around to certain parts that appeal to you more. I almost always do the faces first though, because if they end up sucking, I feel less guilty about scrapping it 😂 But no--I think he's pretty enough to proceed 😚

They're coming together now 🙆‍♀️ Another helpful tip--make sure you reuse color. By that, I mean--try to incorporate various colors throughout your piece, using the eyedropper tool to keep a consistent palette. I try to put in bits of red and blue where I can

Here they are fully rendered! Notice I've made a few subtle changes from the sketch, like adjusting the belt buckles because I made a mistake 😬 Hence why you shouldn't put too much stock in your initial sketch~

The next step is more of a stylistic choice, but I usually go over everything with an outline, typically in a bright color like green. Occasionally, I can just use my initial line layer, but for this, I've made a brand new, cleaner line 👍

And the final step is adjusting the color and adding some text:

Tada!! It's done!

All in all, this took me the better part of a week, but I have a lot of free time, so yeah ✌️

I hope you appreciated that little walkthrough~ I know people have been asking me how I do my art, but the truth is--I usually have no clue how to explain myself 😅 So have this half-assed tutorial~

As a bonus, here is a cute (cursed) image of Johnny without his mustache:

A baby, a literal infant child !!! who put this wee bairn on the front lines ??! 😭

Anyway! peace out ✌️

[dailyadventureprompts]

Do the ethnostates inherent in major fantasy ever feel real weird to you? You’ve got elftopia (full of elves, where everyone speaks elf and worships the elf gods), orc-hold (full of orcs and maybe their slaves, where everyone speaks orc and worships the orc gods), and dwarfton (made by the dwarves! for the dwarves!).

You might have some cosmopolitan areas, usually human-dominant, but those are usually rare enough in-setting that they need to be pointed out separately. Is this just based on a misunderstanding of the medieval era, and the assumption that countries were all racially homogenous?

This has been bouncing around my brain the last little while. Do you have any thoughts on that? Is it just in my head?

I think what you've noticed is a quirk of derivative fantasy writing, which like a lot of hangups with the genre originates in people trying to crib Tolkien's work without really understanding what he was going for:

Though it contains a lot of detail, Tolkien's world is not grounded. It functions according a narrative logic that changes depending on what work in particular you're focusing on at the time (The Hobbit is a fairytale full of tricks and riddles, Lord of the Rings is a heroic epic, The Silmirilion is a legendary history).

One of the reasons the races are separate is to instill the feeling of wonder in the hobbits as POV characters for the reader, other folk live in far off places and are supposed to feel more legendary than our comparatively mundane friends from the shire. The Movies captured this well where going east in middle earth was like going back in time to a more and more mythologized past.

In real life, people don't stay static for thousands of years, no matter how long their people live. They meet, mingle, war and trade. Empires rise and fall creating shrapnel as they go, cultures adapt to a changing environment. This means that any geographic cross section you make is going to be a collage of different influences where uniformity is a glaring aberration.

What the bad Tolkien knockoffs did was take his image of a mythical world and tried to make it run in a realistic setting. Tolkien can say the subterranean dwarven kingdom of Erebor lasted for a thousand years without having to worry about birthrates or demographic shifts or the logistics of farming in a cave because he's writing the sort of story where those things don't matter. D&D and other properties like it however INSIST that their worlds are grounded and realistic but have to bend over backwards to keep things static and hegemonic.

Likewise contributing to the "ethnostate" feeling is early d&d (backbone of the fantasy genre that it is) being created by a bunch of White Midwestern Americans who were not only coming from a background of fantasy wargaming but were working during the depths of the coldwar. Hard borders and incompatible ideologies, cultural hegemony and intellectual isolation, a conception of the world that focused around antagonism between US and THEM. These were people born in the era of segregation for whom the idea of cultural and racial osmosis was alien, to the point where mingling between different fantasy races produced the "mongrelman" monster, natural pickpockets who combined the worst aspects of all their component parts, unwelcome in good society who were most often found as slaves.

This inability to appreciate cultural exchange is likewise why the central d&d pantheon has a ton of human gods with specific carveouts for other races (eventually supplemented with a bunch of race specific minor gods who are various riffs on the same thing). Rather than being universal ideals, the gods were seen as entities just as tribalistic as their followers.