#frank looks like a pope or something

[slut4sigourney]

tern haven

[alexjcrowley]

Yeah sorry about the public humiliation but you were so right

hey uhm by the way

[stagefoureddiediaz]

So its 2am and I’m still on my ‘911 is using The Wizard of Oz theming to tell Eddie’s story’ soapbox and thought I’d talk about something I didn’t go into in my other 911/Wizard of oz post - the fact that Oz, the Emerald City, the wicked witch of the west and the Wizard are all an allegory for the Catholic Church and Christian faith more widely!

I’ve made quite a few posts about 911 playing into religious iconography and so I thought I’d add to that post count by talking about the (anti) religious theming in The Wizard of Oz more generally and how it relates to Eddie’s arc!

The Emerald city is designed to look like a Cathedral

The way the wizard of oz - both the books and the film, plays on religious imagery is similar to the way that C.S Lewis played on it in his Chronicles of Narnia series - but where C.S Lewis created a positive allegory that upheld religion and religious beliefs, Frank Baum was creating a more negative allegory- where religion does't provide the answers, but the individual person

Dorothy starts her journey in Kansas - in the real world, but finds herself in the technicolour world of Oz after a tornado transports her over the rainbow. The film, especially, plays on the idea of her having a head injury - causing her to have this vivid dream of this fantastical land - which is why we see the people of Kansas appear as characters in Oz.

Oz is clearly playing on the idea of heaven and hell and limbo. The wicked witch of the west represents the devil (lucifer) and her castle Hell. While the Emerald city represents the house of God (the church). Glinda is supposed to be an arch angel. Remember that lucifer is a fallen arch angel.

The wizard is a man from the same world as Dorothy and is meant to be viewed as a priest (most likely the pope) - priests being Gods representatives on earth

While the silver (book) or ruby (film) slippers are a representation of enlightenment.

Dorothy is searching for a way out of her ‘coma’ dream and so goes on a journey through Limbo to the house of god to try and get home- along the way the devil tries to stop her getting to the church and subsequently into heaven using the tricks at its disposal. The devil doesn’t succeed and Dorothy and her friends navigate their way to the emerald city and complete the tasks they think god has set for them so they may gain what they seek - to go home, brains, a heart, courage.

It is here that they discover the lies of the priest and once he is gone they all figure out they had what they sought all along - they are enlightened and didn’t actually need the priest or the house of god at all. From there Dorothy chooses to go home and awakes from her coma back in the real world - but retains the knowledge of what she dreamt in her coma.

The wizard of oz as a piece of media (in either book form or film form) is showing the audience that they hold their own power within them and it cannot be granted by outside forces.

The film chooses to show Oz the great and powerful in much the same way as the crucifix is displayed in a catholic church - praying to a false idol in search of what you seek

The wizard hiding behind his curtain is akin to the priest behind the confessional screen - offering absolution and healing etc, when he doesn’t actually possess the power to do so because he is just a man pedalling falsehoods and lies.

The residents of the emerald city in their monochromatic green colouring are an allegory for the members of the churches congregation - blindly following the edits and rules set out by the church in the hope of a happy and fulfilled life - but they are shown to be almost drone like - subjugated and controlled into mindless devotion in the same way people follow the churches teachings without questioning.

Dorothy and here friends never change though - they don’t start wearing green and blending in to the emerald city and they find out that they actually have the power to achieve their desires within them the entire time - as represented by the silver/ruby slippers.

the moral of the Wzard of Oz is ultimately that what we desire or want is within and it cannot be found externally by putting our faith in something outside of us like the church. - Dorothy and her friends always had the things they sought - they just had to figure that out for themselves.

This ties into Eddies entire journey perfectly.

Just because I couldn't write a post about Eddie and not have a picture of him!

Eddies Kansas pre the tornado is his childhood - before he was parentified/husbandified by Helena Diaz.

The tornado is Shannon - she provides him with the escape from his old life and sets him down in California (Oz).

There is a reason the Wizard of Oz theming is heavily coded toward him and his arrival on the show - it is the idea that he has landed in California (Oz) and on top of the wicked witch of the East (hence why we never see Eddie at the same level as the red shoes in the rubble) and has been following the yellow brick road the entire time.

Chris is waiting for Eddie on a yellow strip of flooring at the end of 203

Bobby (Glinda) who shares the catholic faith with Eddie, brings him to the 118 and helps guide him forward on his journey - providing advice and support as and when Eddie needs it, but always watching over him. (one could view Eddie leaving the 118 as the equivalent of the poppy field in the film - leaving his path briefly before returning to it when he wakes up in mayday 'god has spoken')

He has now reached the crux of matters - he has arrived at the Emerald city. It seems likely here that in 804 we will see him have his encounter with the Priest who like the wizard in Oz, will guide him towards a reckoning with his mother (the wicked witch of the west) in order to find his way to inner peace and who he is supposed to be. Once he has dealt with Helena he will discover that he won't find what he seeks in the church - but it will have provided him with something important that plays into the idea that he is a combination of all four characters who journey along the yellow brick road, as their individual traits all represent a part of himself Eddie needs to embrace in order to break free of the chains that have held him back his whole life.

The knowledge (scarecrow) of who he truly is that will also make him realise he already has what his heart (tin man) truly wants if he has the courage (lion) to go for it and that it will get him home (Dorothy) where he truly belongs - accepting himself as a queer man who is in love with his best friend and Chris's forgiveness and return to him in LA.

[anitalenia]

━━ 𝒆𝒓𝒈𝒐 𝒅𝒖𝒎 𝒎𝒆 𝒅𝒊𝒍𝒊𝒈𝒊𝒔 pt. 4

━━ 𝒇𝒓𝒐𝒏𝒕𝒊𝒆𝒓 𝒃𝒐𝒚𝒔 / 𝒎𝒖𝒍𝒕𝒊𝒑𝒍𝒆 𝒄𝒉𝒂𝒓𝒂𝒄𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒔. the frontier boys as random tropes. ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ part one | part two | part three

┊┊✧ ⁺ 𝓹𝓪𝓲𝓻𝓲𝓷𝓰 ⋆｡˚ ⋆ Pope, Will, Benny, Frank x fem!Reader

┊┊✧ ⁺ 𝓽𝓻𝓸𝓹𝓮𝓼 ⋆｡˚ ⋆ ceo!Pope x assistant!Reader, lumberjack!Will x bimbo!Reader, bartender!Benny x fem!Reader, step dad!Frank x step daughter!Reader

┊┊✧ ⁺ 𝔀𝓪𝓻𝓷𝓲𝓷𝓰𝓼 ⋆｡˚ ⋆ sexual content, implied smut, graphic depictions of sexual acts, fantasized sexual content, blowjobs, depictions of fingering, pussy eating, inappropriate family dynamics you definitely shouldn’t partake in, inappropriate work relationships that you definitely shouldn’t do in real life (unless you want to purrrr💅🏻), a little long just cause I haven’t made one in a while, slight dark content in Franks section

┊┊✧ ⁺ 𝓪𝓾𝓽𝓱𝓸𝓻𝓼 𝓷𝓸𝓽𝓮 ⋆｡˚ ⋆ sorry for the wait with this series, people really loved it actually, more than I thought they would. The begging for another part finally got to me, so here you go!!!! Hope you enjoy while I work on the next one 😭

━━ SANTIAGO ���POPE’ GARCIA ˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆

CEO! SANTIAGO ⊹₊˚

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 𝐘𝐨𝐮’𝐝 𝐬𝐢𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐚𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 desk in those cute little skirts and too tight dresses, always so busy and always so beautiful. He liked to stare out at you from his private office with a semi hard cock in his black slacks; a perfect view of your desk and the best view of you.

He could never get any work done of course, not properly anyway, too busy thinking about you and all the things you’d do for him if he asked. You always did what he asked, so eager to work and so eager to please. You, you with those black stiletto heels and those pink pouty lips, you, you with your sweet voice and your round hips — begging to be fucked good.

Nngh, just you.

He liked to call you into his office for no real reason other than his own selfish desires; he liked to see your hips sway when you walked and stare at your soft tits when you’d lean over — it’s what really got him through the tough days.

He loved to hear your soft giggles and see your cheeks go pink when he’d say something scandalously sly, something a ceo definitely shouldn’t say to their assistant, something a boss definitely shouldn’t say to their employee.

He’d take you on business meetings and lavish business trips, invite you to expensive business dinners and elite business parties, it was always business, business, business. He wanted more than that, wanted to take you out for real and show you how much of a gentleman he could be if you’d give him the chance.

Mainly, he wanted to show you how good he could fuck you, much better than any man could, show you how well he knew your body in ways you even didn’t, in ways no man did.

He’d have to clench his fists and hold himself back from fucking you on his very desk with his blinds open for all the horny temps to see — the ones who could never seem to leave you and your beauty alone, the ones who gawked at you in the break room, the ones whose grimy hands lingered on your arm for just a little too long…

That always pissed him off, having to see those puny fanboys of yours charade around your desk like prissy princesses and fight for your attention — it was pathetic and obnoxious. He couldn’t fire them like he wanted to though (unfortunately), too many lawsuits already being filed against him that he was too rich to really care about.

He had lawyers for that shit anyway.

Santiago, or Santi as he’s made you call him now, liked to watch you talk. He loved hearing your voice, seeing the way your lips moved and sparkled with gloss as you rambled on about some company he supposedly owned, pacing his office as he sat in his chair with his dick hard under his desk.

He’d clench his jaw and picture how those lips would look wrapped around his thick cock, your lipstick leaving stains all over him that he could admire later — maybe he’d even have you under his desk during meetings, sitting right between his legs with your lipstick smeared over your cheeks, and a sweet mix of your saliva and his cum dripping down his balls —

“Are you even listening to me?” You’d always scold him with your arms crossed over your chest when you’d notice his blank stare, pushing your tits up and giving him yet another fantasy he couldn’t get his mind off of.

He’d quickly snap out of whatever trance he was in, eyes flickering from your tits to your face, intense and twinkling — really thinking he was slick enough that you wouldn’t notice it. Then he’d let out a husky chuckle, his hand subtly palming his cock as he’d say, “Of course I am.”

You’d just roll your eyes and continue talking, oblivious to his arousal as he’d stare at your ass, your lips, your legs, his hungry eyes running up and down the length of your perfect body until he was so hard he physically couldn’t stand it.

But that was the norm for him.

For any other girl he had everything — the money, the power, the cars, the looks. He could’ve had literally any other girl he wanted yet he wanted you, yet he couldn’t have you.

You were so professional, always did your job perfectly and always did the right thing, the perfect assistant, the perfect employee, the perfect woman. Why, why, couldn’t you be one of those dumb slutty assistants who he didn’t give a damn about? The ones who didn’t bother to hide the fact that they were a slut, the ones who’d drop everything and suck his dick if he asked, even if he didn’t ask.

But no, you were you and you were so damn different from that and really, that made him want you even more. The fact that you weren’t a dumb girl but a mature woman, as flawless and elegant as rose petals and wine. He wanted you to break out of that persona, see your strong facade crack and crumble for him, for his love, for his cock.

He wanted to see that perfect red lipstick smeared over your tear stained cheeks, see that tight pussy gaping and wet and begging for him, see those lacy panties wrapped around your ankles as he’d fuck you hard and fast before a business meeting in just the way he knew you’d like, just hard enough so everyone could see the stumble in your walk and the tears in your eyes.

One day he was going to have that, one day. But for now he was just gonna have to stick with the lustful stares during crowded meetings and the not-so-innocent fantasies when you’d poke into his office.

One day he’d have you, one day… but for now he was satisfied with jerking his dick off in his office at the sweet smell of your lingering perfume. For now he was okay with imagining to throw you on his desk and fucking your brains out when you’d deliver his coffee in the mornings, his lunch in the afternoon, his dinner in the evenings… all the while staring at you from behind his computer with his dick so achingly hard he couldn’t focus on a damn thing.

All right, he wasn’t okay with it but what choice did he have? Bosses shouldn’t fuck their assistants, but damn, he couldn’t wait to break his own rule and see how easily he could make a good girl turn bad.

━━ WILL ‘IRONHEAD’ MILLER ˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆

LUMBERJACK! WILL ⊹₊˚

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐬𝐭𝐮𝐜𝐤 𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐧𝐨 𝐦𝐚𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫 where you went. It was inevitable really; a pretty girl like you, wearing those pink skirts like you did, wearing those 6-inch heels like you did, wearing those tight tops like you did, in a town like this? It was really no wonder why you always got stared at.

It was just unfortunate that you were too dumb to notice that he was no better than the countless men that gawked at you, he was just better at hiding it.

You were the bosses daughter — dangerously beautiful and utterly unattainable (spoiled rotten too). You were a walking, talking Barbie in pink dresses and pretty purses; a pink, glittering ditzy princess who carelessly walked around the muddy work site in those cute heels of yours — William believed you were too beautiful to walk around in the filth.

You were the sweetest little thing he had ever met too — a butterfly in a battlefield — so giggly and cheery it drove him insane. The sound of your voice in his ears, your laugh, twinkling and sweet like sparkling water; he could only imagine how good you’d sound underneath him as he drove his cock into you nice and slow so you felt every vein, every ridge, every curve hitting that spot inside you that made you squeal.

Your father was a good man, had hired Will in a desperate time when he needed someone — something, constant. Ever since then Will had always been the best employee. He was the first hire and the only one to stay when things got tough. He put in the most hours, doing the most work, being the best lumberjack he could be for your father in repayment of his kindness. So for that reason Will had earned your father’s respect in more ways than one — for being patient, hardworking, loyal.

So sometimes Will would feel bad when he’d sneak into the bathroom after a rather short conversation with you; he’d slam the stall door closed and whip out his throbbing cock to relief some of the tension you had so dim wittingly caused.

He’d fuck his fist at the thought of you bent over the break room table he had left you at, cute mini skirt flipped up and giving him a perfect view of that pretty pussy he only prayed to see. He knew it was gorgeous, knew it’d be just as pretty as you, knew he’d be fucking addicted at the first taste.

Will was patient, level headed, a loyal worker who’d never betray your fathers trust… but he’d picture thrusting his thick fingers inside you slowly and carefully, smearing cum over your warm hole and feel your wetness drip down his palm as you begged him to go faster — a pretty pink mess all for him.

He'd imagine throwing your cute little ass against a tree and wrapping your smooth legs around his waist when he was supposed to be working, telling you to be a good girl for him as he'd grope your tits and hear your needy whimpers.

He’d hold you against him as he’d push his hard cock inside your tight little pussy once you begged him enough, listen to your gasps as he’d stretch you out in ways you’d never been stretched before. He'd be sure to cover your mouth with his calloused, work torn hands to muffle your screams, have you claw his chiseled back with those glossy pink nails of yours until he bled.

He’d make you cum around his cock as he whispered every filthy thing he could think of in your ear, hear you whine and whimper and leave bruises in the sweet spots only he got to see; your father would be down the hill confused on where the both of you had gone.

He’d squirt all over his hand and thighs once he was done, panting and hissing from the pleasure pulsing through his body. He knew you were right outside those doors too, right where he left you in the break room, sipping on an ice coffee — completely oblivious.

Will would take a long while to clean himself up after that, the guilt burrowing heavy in his tummy knowing your father’s office was right down the hall. He wouldn’t dare look in that direction, and he certainly wouldn’t be able to look your father in the eye for a good hour.

He’d walk out the bathroom as inconspicuously as possible and put his hands in his coat pockets, walk back into the break room like nothing had happened, like he didn’t want to fuck your brains out right then and there, and he’d lean against the door frame and give you the most charming, innocent smile you dotingly believed.

“Hey, darlin’.”

You’d look up from your phone startled, your tits spilling out of your pink top and the plushness of your thighs flared out on the bench. Your hair was shiny and glittery with cute hair clips on each side, your makeup done so prettily and perfectly he just wanted to ruin it. You looked so damn good Will couldn’t help but take a minute to admire you some more, his eyes running over you hotly, but too subtly for you to notice.

“Oh, hey, where did you go? You said 5 minutes…” You teasingly pouted up at him with those glossy, twinkling lips of yours like you weren’t making this hard enough as it was.

You’d giggle and smile at him — making his heart churn and dick stir. He’d be entranced by your tits jiggling as you did, covered in glittery perfume and smelling of vanilla and strawberries.

So fucking delicious.

Then you’d wrap those same lips around your pink straw and take another sip of your iced coffee.

God damn those lips of yours… Will would go in a daze at the image of you on your knees for him, your lipgloss smeared over your cheeks as you’d suck his swollen cock head into your mouth, patiently waiting for him to say you could take more. Sparkly pink lip stains marked over his dick and balls… it was his dream.

Will knew he was bigger than you too, in a lot of ways, was reminded of if every time you stood next to his hulking form in those cute heels of yours that still didn’t manage to reach him. He was a 6’0 mass of muscle and brawn, carved from brick and forged from stone and way too rough around the edges to handle a delicate thing like you — it’d be like putting a pretty flower petal in the brazen hands of a giant. He wasn’t sure he could have you and not ruin you.

But god damn he’d fucking try. He’d be so delicate and tender with you in ways he’s never been with another woman. He’d cherish every scar and blemish on your smooth skin and treat you like the princess you so clearly were. He’d kiss you from head to toe and lap at your pussy like a poor man worshipping a goddess — he’d be oh so lucky.

He was big, yes, but he promised he wouldn’t crush you. He was rough, yes, but even a pretty girl like you liked having a rough hand wrapped around her throat. You’d be a pretty pink angel wrapped in his gray cotton sheets, held between his mundane, trauma stained hands.

He was manly and burly, all flannel jackets and tree stained jeans and you were girly and feminine, all short skirts and glittering strawberry lipgloss. You two didn’t work in a conventional sense but nothing about his life or yours was conventional.

Your father was a good man and William was a good worker, the best employee, the best lumberjack. He was patient and so loyal, fully aware he was risking his livelihood by wanting you but yet he was left wanting anyway. You were too cute and bouncy and he needed you to bounce on his cock more than he needed a job.

He wanted to see you bare for him — bare in heart, mind, and soul because he knew there was more to you than meets the eye. There was more of you to discover beyond the pink masses and he wanted to be the one that discovered it, the one that you trusted enough to show it to. He wanted to see the real you bared to him in the middle of the night with the beautiful afterglow of what you two had just done shining on your skin — your most organic, happiest form.

“Ah, William, I see you’re keeping my girl company? I hope she’s not keeping you, she’s a chatterbox.” Your father laughed and smacked a hand on Will’s shoulder, suddenly popping up in the doorway like Will had conjured him with his guilt. A thud sounded from the smack and Will felt his shoulder sting, completely shaken out of his fantasy now.

He looked at your father and laughed that charming laugh — I want to fuck your daughter more than I need air to breath sir but no she’s not a problem at all.

━━ BENJAMIN ‘BENNY’ MILLER ˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆

BARTENDER! BENNY ⊹₊˚

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 𝐇𝐞 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐬𝐨 𝐝𝐚𝐦𝐧 𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞 it almost angered you. Every Saturday night the club was packed with women just hoping Benny the Bartender would look their way… it was pathetic, if you didn’t do the exact same thing.

It was routine for you, the only thing you really looked forward to in your long weeks of monotonous work and errands — Benny was new, exciting, and so fucking hot you blushed at just the mere thought of him.

He was so charming too, so good at his job by simply just existing you could see why the company had hired him. With just one dazzling smile the whole room swooned and came, even you, who so pathetically tried to act hard to get at the corner of the bar with your lonely margarita you only ever ordered — you needed to be somewhat tipsy to actually have the confidence to talk to him.

You’d wear your sexiest dresses, your cutest shoes, have your hair done pristinely and your makeup done perfectly all in hopes of Benny noticing you — you were almost ashamed that you valued his attention that much.

You’d sit by yourself, alone, at the end of the bar staring at him while he worked, staring at his face and body and just picturing him fucking you on this very bar with his snapback still on his head, his hands gripping your thighs, your hips, your tits, anywhere his greedy hands could leave their mark on.

He’d wear baseball tees and black t-shirts that clung perfectly to his abs and muscles — you even heard a rumor that he was in an underground fighting ring that gave him all those muscles and scars in the first place. The thought aroused you incredibly and you couldn’t stop from fluttering your eyes at him more than usual that night.

He seldom never wore his snapback, and while you loved seeing his full face you couldn’t deny how much you loved the nights when he left his hat at home more.

He’d have his dirty blonde hair slicked back out of his face but yet there was always that one rebelling strand that fell over his eyes when he was working… it drove you insane. And the way he’d run his fingers through his hair when he was in the middle of a busy service, the way your own hands could pull it when he was laid between your legs, nibbling on your thighs and bringing you to such an ecstasy you’ve never experienced.

He was such a natural flirt too, professional to a limit when it came to all the women fawning over him over the bar, their tits falling out of their dresses and their lips over lined with lipstick. He’d laugh that boisterous laugh of his, take shots with them like he wasn’t on the clock, and he’d charm the panties right off them and the money right out of their purses by the time he was done.

You couldn’t say you weren’t jealous.

Benny, on the other hand, was all too aware of the pretty girl at the end of the bar who never seemed to bring anyone but her credit card. He was all too aware of her pretty eyes and pretty lips and perfect set of tits in those skimpy dresses she’d always wear.

And honestly, since the first night he saw you he’s wanted you.

He’d flirt with you all the time in that southern accent of his that charmed all the ladies, but you never seemed to register it, or in other words, you never seemed to care.

You were nothing like the women he dealt with every night — you would roll your eyes when he’d tell you how happy he was to see you again, purse your lips when he complimented your makeup, and seem totally disinterested in him and whatever nonsense he had to say.

And he fucking loved it.

You didn’t fawn over him like the others girls did, you didn’t seem to buy into the whole charming bartender shtick he portrayed either. You were quiet and beautiful and sharp; you never seemed too desperate or eager for him like everyone else. Sure, he loved the attention from other women, he’d be a liar if he said he didn’t, but the fact that he never seemed to have yours made him want you even more.

He’d flirt with you whenever he got the chance to, knew your drink of choice by heart now and was always there to fill it back up when it was empty. He was attentive to your needs and he swore he could be just as attentive in other settings if you gave him the chance.

You’d just sit there in the shadows, skin flashing blue and black from the lights of the club and looking so damn fine Benny wished he could drag you into the bathroom and fuck your brains out on the door, feel the music pumping through your veins as you stuck your tongue in his mouth until all he tasted was you and liqueur.

It’d be fast and hot and he wouldn’t be able to breath in anything but you and margarita salt but it sounded perfect. His big hand wrapped around your throat as people knocked on the door like you two weren’t busy. He’d try to muffle your moans for your sake but he’d also decide he liked hearing them more. It’d be cramped and intimate and it would certainly leave him breathless but god damn that sounded like just what he needed right now.

He’d be drunk on you, the taste of you, the smell of you, the feel of you wrapped around him so tight — the mysterious girl he could never seem to break through to no matter how many times he tried. Sometimes, Benny even felt like giving up — you clearly didn’t want him like he wanted you.

But then, at some point during the night when you were two margaritas in and your eyes were starting to get hazy, he’d look over at you and you’d be giving him the hottest, most seductive look he’s ever seen. It makes his heart pound and skin prickle, his cock ache for something.

It was the kind of look where your eyelashes would flutter and you’d stare up at him with a delectable little smirk on your face, a look that screamed take me now, take me on this bar and show everyone what you’re capable of, show these other bitches you only want me.

And he fucking wished he could. It was that look that kept him going, that look that gave him hope.

And you wanted him to do just that. To leave bruises on your skin and taint your body with himself, to leave his mark on your pussy and soul and be so deep inside you you weren’t sure where his body began and your pleasure ended, just that you needed more, more, more of it.

But Benny assumed that was the game you two liked to play — to show up every Saturday night with the expectation that one of you was going to finally make a move on the other. To see who would crack first, give in to the temptation the both of you so clearly desired but neither were confident enough to admit.

Benny, the sexy bartender obsessed with the mysterious girl who barely gave him the time of day.

You, the girl at the end of the bar wishing Benny would just take the initiative and fuck her already.

And to think, Benny did want you, wanted you so fucking badly, only you. You’re the one that he even bothered to show off for anyway; flipping bottles, being quick on his feet, being better than anyone else cause he knew you were the one watching.

He made a soulful promise to both you and him that one of these nights you’re gonna give him that damned look one more time and he’s not gonna have a choice but to prove to you why you shouldn’t start things you don’t intend to finish.

━━ FRANK ‘CATFISH’ MORALES ˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆

STEP DAD! FRANK ⊹₊˚

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 𝐇𝐞’𝐝 𝐛𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐝𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐦𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 for a good year and a half before he met you, the young and beautiful daughter of the woman he supposedly loved.

You were grown, well, grown enough; a beautiful woman with dreams and ambitions, goals for her life that he couldn’t help but admire. But you also had this delectable snark you certainly didn’t get from your mother, an attitude that made anything remotely good about you pale in comparison — it drove him mad.

He hated to act like a father to you because he wasn’t your father — you were in your 20s anyway, it was too late for him to be anything other than Frank. He was just an older man in your life set to wed your mother, yet he really only had eyes for you, his beautiful step daughter he certainly shouldn’t be fantasizing about when he was fucking your mother.

You were bratty and mean, always rolled your eyes at him and walked off right in the middle of him talking to you; you wore those short shorts he despised (loved more than he should have) and those dresses that clung just a little too tight to your body for his liking. You were disobedient and rude, but so fucking sexy he was left torn between his desires and morals.

You never cared what he had to say about anything, never bothered to listen to his rules, and never bothered to wear some god damn house appropriate shorts that didn’t shove your round ass into his face every time he walked past you.

He imagined bending you over his knee and pulling your shorts off you, gently sliding your pink panties down your thighs, then spanking your ass, hard, like the disobedient brat you were until his handprints were etched into your skin, until you were sniffling and moaning for him to stop, until you had finally learned some respect.

He wondered if you’d get wet from that simple act alone: maybe your childish attitude was all a front, an act, to really piss him off to his limits and see how far you could push him until he broke. Maybe you wanted to be punished by him, be spanked raw, be fucked hard, until tears were streaming in your pretty little eyes and you were sobbing your apologizes to him instead of running your mouth.

As a matter of fact he should do just that; with all the times you’d “accidentally” leave the door open when you were showering and your mother had gone shopping, just you and Frank and the sizzling tension between you left to fend for itself. He was a gentleman at heart but no man could deny the allure of such a pretty body like yours covered in water.

He should shove your face into his pillow and fuck you from behind so you didn’t have to see his face like he knew you’d want to. He’d hold your hands behind your back and pound you until you cried for him to stop, to go faster, that it hurts, but you fucking wanted more.

You’d probably be a squirter too, all mean girls like you were when they got stripped down to the bare parts of themselves, where they couldn’t hide behind their own insolence and were touched by the experienced hands of an older man.

Frank was a patient man, a very patient man. It took a lot to drive him over the edge but yet you always seemed to know just what to say and just what to do to really push his buttons.

Your bedroom door wide open as you changed out of your bra, your perky tits all smooth and round for him to ogle at through the hallway, your music blasting through the whole house when he was trying to get some god damn sleep, bringing over your stupid little boyfriends into his house and letting them fuck you under his roof — it was all reason enough for him to punish you.

And no, Frank wasn’t jealous. He was a grown man, what did he have to be jealous about? He wasn’t jealous when he’d hear your moans sound through the whole house, the headboard banging on the wall, the giggles you’d try to hide as you’d walk them out the door. It was pathetic. Those boys could never fuck you like he could and he knew it. He was not jealous.

You were a bad girl, a naughty girl, and he didn’t like pretty little girls who thought they knew better than him.

You never showed him any gratitude, or appreciation for taking you and your mother in when he didn’t have to, you never thanked him when he made you a hot meal, and you never listened when he’d say put gas back in my car if you use it.

He basically let you do whatever you wanted, whenever you wanted. There was no structure, no rhyme or reason to anything you did and he’d be damned if he was going to let a spoiled brat like you make his life any harder than it needed to be.

Your mother was an angel, all kisses and kind words and that’s why he loved her in the first place. He had plans to marry her and live a great life with her. Even when she mentioned a daughter Frank didn’t worry, he imagined an adorable little toddler with big doe eyes and a kind heart just like her mother. But then he met you, and you were no kid, and you were certainly no fucking angel.

You were a soul sucking succubus sent from the depths of hell to tempt him, to make him fail yet another marriage. You were young and he knew it was wrong to despise you yet simultaneously want you so fucking badly. He wanted you out of his house, but he also wanted you on your knees and gagging around his cock. He wanted you to shut up for once, but he also wanted you to scream his name until the neighbors knew it.

It was certainly complicated and contradicting, and with his wedding on the way he really didn’t need anything going wrong. But, he figured, if he married your mother at least he would always be around to keep you in line, right?

[qwimblenorrisstan]

Tension | Frank Woods x Reader

Summary: You and Woods have had it out for each other since you joined his team, but tensions reach their breaking point in enemy territory, when it’s just the two of you.

Word Count: ~4.6k

Warnings: this would make the pope cry, implied misogynist, p in v, fingering, oral fem receiving, violence, blood, guns, violent make out sessions, handjob, cutesy kissing, overstimulation, just a lot

Minors, do not interact!

A/N: thank you to britney spears, alex mason, sleep deprivation, and my glorious king lin manuel miranda for this thing I have created❣️first frank woods fic and this thing is filthy wow. it’s been a long time since I’ve written something this long

(also this is woods between bo1 and bo2 before menendez snatched his knees up💔)

Requests are open!

Frank Woods clearly had never met a woman before.

That was the natural conclusion one would come to, after seeing how he interacted with one. Especially a woman in the military who was on active duty, and not just a secretary or some CIA lapdog.

He was rough around the edges, and you didn’t mind that, hell, you were an active-duty Marine. You’d gone through basic training, survived the screaming and orders, and shed a few tears before wiping them and getting back up. But he was only rough around the edges to everyone else, and that made your blood boil.

He didn’t seem to know what to do with you.

“You cut out for this?”

Had been the first sentence he’d said to you after you’d been handpicked to join his team. His expression, an eyebrow raised, something like doubt that you could’ve sworn was in his eyes.

You’d given the look right back, looking him up and down, giving a once over in a more im-sizing-you-up than a taking-you-in kind of way. Maybe you’d had a bit of sass to your tone.

“You think I’m not?”

It had been more of a challenge than a question, a sharp brow cocked at him. The man to his left, an operative named Alex Mason, you’d learn later, had grimaced slightly.

Woods had chuckled, raising his hands in a gesture of mock innocence, before replying.

“No need to get all pissy, hon, just want to make sure you can keep up. This ain’t exactly any normal team—“

Hon. Something like pissed disbelief was on your face as the rest of his words went unheard in your temporary shock before you gave a little huff of mock laughter.

“I’ll keep up just fine, sweetheart.”

You laid the mocking tone on thick with the ‘sweetheart’, walking forward and slamming the paperwork you’d been given into Wood’s chest while walking past him. The little flicker of surprise that went across his face was enough to satisfy you for quite a while.

As you walked away, you heard a sigh from Mason, and Woods mumbling something under his breath.

That had been the beginning of your rivalry with the man, and his every action drove another needle into your skin.

From mission to mission, he repeatedly displayed his complete lack of trust or faith in you. You could understand being skeptical of someone who had just joined your team, but it was getting ridiculous

“Mason, take point.”

It was Mason’s fifth time taking the lead. He hadn’t asked you to even once. Never mind if you enjoyed the view of Woods’ ass when he was in front of you, or the way you could see his muscular thighs moving on some parts when he had to climb over something.

Or when he’d be demeaning.

“Here, I can hold it.”

Your 15-pound weapon. Sure, it was getting heavy, but you didn’t need any help. Not from him, or any man for that matter.

“I can handle it.”

You’d ground out, shooting him a look, trying not to watch how the muscles of his arms flexed slightly as he shifted, the sweat beaded on him, and the few little drops down his forehead. Or how good his tactical vest looked on him.

“Whatever you say, sweets.”

You hated it when he called you that. It felt demeaning, and worse, it sounded hot when the names rolled off his tongue with the little bit of a low rasp that his voice had.

Or worse, when there was a grenade thrown. The first time it had happened, you couldn’t decide between throttling him or jumping his bones right then and there.

“Grenade!”

You’d heard the clatter, and being in an enclosed room, had been decidedly fucked. It had been a few feet away, and when you’d gone to move, you had been jolted forward, a pair of arms wrapping around you, and slammed into the dirt ground on your side.

You’d smelt the cheap cigarette smoke on his breath and the balm he used in his beard, and known it was Frank fucking Woods who’d tackled you.

The explosion had gone off, dust kicking up everywhere and shrapnel flinging itself in every direction but somehow barely nicking either of you.

His hot breath had fanned against your neck, mouth mere inches from your neck. His arms were squeezing tight around your torso, almost to the point of pain, but just not quite. One of his legs was thrown over yours, foot hooking around your ankle and pulling you back into him.

It was an oddly intimate position, and not just because of the fact that he had very likely just saved your life.

It might’ve been his hard-on pressed against your ass.

For a moment, there was just silence and the sound of both of you panting. Adrenaline and something else was running through your veins. You shifted and glanced back at him, taking one look at his heated stare and blown pupils, the way his tongue darted out to lick his too-chapped lips, and knew that things couldn’t go back to normal.

The moment had been interrupted by Mason, walking in and telling you both to wrap it up, only to take a very bewildered double take a moment later as he realized what he’d seen.

“Get off me, bastard.”

“A thank you would be nice.”

“Thanks for not flattening me, fatass.”

After that, the line between professional and something else had blurred, and you didn’t know where either of you were now. Too afraid to cross, unsure if you already had, and not eager to take the first step.

It had escalated from little lingering glances during debriefs, to the smallest brushes of touch between insults, to now, wearing his trademark green slip of fabric as a ponytail holder and not hesitating to flank him alongside Mason.

A rocky, unsteady trust was built, though more out of necessity than want.

You had slowly become his weak spot. Heated touches and looks, wanton gazes, made the entire team tense. The anticipation of waiting for something to finally happen between you two, for someone to take the first step despite the animosity both of you showed.

It had come to a head on a specific mission.

It should’ve been simple, get in, get the information the CIA wanted, and get out. Key word: should’ve.

Not clad in your usual military gear, opting for normal black clothing to keep hidden. If everything went right, you wouldn’t need a bulletproof vest or any gear, anyway.

Everything had gone fine right up until the point where it hadn’t. You had managed to slip past the guards quickly, in the outside base, Frank following, Mason stationed nearby to provide an eye on everything.

“All clear.”

His voice came over the radio.

You turned the corner, moving to a small building where you heard the crackle of a radio, and slowly opened the rickety metal door, scanning for anybody in it.

Clear.

“Moving into a building.”

You’d muttered, holding a small button on the radio clipped to your vest to relay the message to Mason.

“Copy that. Keep quiet.”

Woods snorted at that.

“Great advice.”

He muttered, closing the metal door behind him and twisting the small lock on the handle, standing up from his crouched position and stretching his back with a small groan.

“Like you’re any better.”

You shot him a look, moving to the table with the radio and observing it, fiddling with a few buttons before deciding there wasn’t anything valuable. The rest of the contents of the table, not as useless, not at all.

“Isn’t this what we need?”

You asked in a skeptical tone, looking at a few of the files on the table, all classified information that they’d carelessly left out. Woods had leaned in, just a bit too close to you, and shrugged.

“Fuck if I know. Probably.”

He glanced back at them, then at the stairs to the second floor.

“Gonna head upstairs, see if anything good’s up there.”

His definition of good was an explosive, a gun, or money, so you weren’t exactly confident he’d find anything actually useful for the mission.

You opened the files, skimming over the information inside, missing the subtle click of background noise that you had probably assumed was Woods shuffling around upstairs. A few quiet footsteps, and then something solid was slammed into your head.

Pain blossomed through your body as an adrenaline rush began pumping through your veins, and you grunted at the pain of the blow before turning—more being grabbed, and thrown to the floor before you could even attempt a defense.

Your hands pushed at the enemy soldier above you, kicking and clawing at him, trying to yell only for his gloved hand to smother your mouth.

“Who the fuck are you?”

The hand over your mouth quickly went around your neck, squeezing just tight enough for you to start losing the ability to think straight while running out of oxygen.

“Fuck off—“

You ground out, eyes going over to the stairwell as you saw a blurry figure stalk down them. Just as your vision began turning to black, objects turning to blurry flecks of color as your eyes watered, the man above you was suddenly ripped off as Woods wrestled him to the ground.

You took a desperate gasp of air, lungs burning with it as your throat ached, the pain in your head barely beginning to subside.

Moving to get to your feet, you watched as the man collided to the floor with Frank, your coworker’s fist slamming into the soldier’s face with a strength you hadn’t seen from him in….ever.

The man grabbed his pistol, hand barely gripping it as he used it to pistol whip Woods right in the nose, before you scrambled over and wrestled the gun out of his hand, seeing his finger going for the trigger before you snatched it, and aligned it with his temple before firing.

The grunting and sounds of fighting suddenly died down completely, the mystery soldier going limp, and Woods rolling off of him.

“Jesus,”

He muttered, wiping at his bleeding nose, his knuckles scraped and bloody. Maybe it was the lightheadedness from being choked out, or the adrenaline making your blood rush through your body, but goddamn did he look hot.

He glanced up at you, both of your eyes meeting, and for a split second there was dead silence other than both of your ragged breathing before you lunged and this time, you tackled him to the floor.

Your lips collided with his, body landing right on top of his as your hands went to grab his face, not letting him move an inch other than closer to you. He hummed, almost fucking moaning into it, shoving his tongue right into your mouth with no qualms, only to let out a huff of laughter through his nose when you pushed right back.

He rolled over, trapping you against the concrete floor, not being surprised when your hands shifted right down to his chest and tried pushing him back onto his back.

Your mouths separated long enough for him to gasp in a breath of air before slamming right down into you again, his rough, calloused hands sliding under your shirt, feeling up every inch of your skin until reaching your bra, only to get kneed in the dick by none other than you.

You ended the kiss for the moment, pushing him off of you, watching as he groaned and cradled his crotch.

“Bitch,”

He panted out, no real ire in his tone, a near-feral grin on his face as he watched you get up, knees nearly buckling.

“I’d rather not repeat earlier, dumbass. If you’re gonna fuck me—“

Your sentence was interrupted with a grunt as you grabbed a nearby metal cabinet, and moved to push it in front of the door so you didn’t have anyone interrupting either of you. He watched you struggle for a moment, before getting to his feet, and planting his feet on the ground while shoving the cabinet alongside you.

“—we aren’t getting interrupted.”

You finished once the cabinet was moved, watching as he grabbed it and picked it up with an astounding ease too, shifting it to an angle against the door, wiping the sweat from his forehead.

“Show off.”

You scoffed. He let out a little chuckle at that, turning to you with a raised brow.

“Barricades go at an angle. I’ve told you that before.”

Stupid banter and teasing was all it was. You looked him up and down, eyes lingering on certain areas, before replying.

“I was a bit distracted.”

He was a sight like this. Bloodied knuckles, dried blood on his face, sweaty and clearly on some kind of high from adrenaline, spit smeared on his beard.

“Oh, I’ll show you distracted.”

The hint of a threat made something fire up in your veins as he wrapped a single one of his arms around your waist, lifting and throwing you over his shoulder, ignoring your little “Hey—!”, as he carried you to the desk, his other arm impatiently swiped all of the important documents to the ground as he set you down on the desk.

“I hate you,”

You said, giving him an indignant look before leaning forward and hurriedly resuming the earlier kiss you had abruptly ended, his beard tickling your face as you moved your hands to slip under his shirt, feeling up from the little pudge of his stomach, to the hard muscle of his torso, to his hairy chest, and back down.

He caught on quickly, groaning as he shoved his hands under your shirt in return, rough, calloused hands feeling up every inch of your skin, the fat and muscle of it, up to your bra.

He pulled away just a moment, panting for air, fingers lingering at the edge of your bra. He raised his brows in question.

“Go on,”

“Thought you hated me?”

“Shut up.”

He didn’t need to be told twice, cupping your breasts and squeezing, kneading the fat of them as your breath caught in your throat. Your hands moved to his shirt, pawing at it until catching the end and yanking it upwards. He flashed a cocky grin, pulling his hands out from your shirt, quickly stripping out of his shirt, revealing the thin layer of fat covering his muscular physique.

You practically clawed your shirt off, feeling overheated in it now, anyway, the bra soon to follow.

“Fuuuck,”

He groaned as he saw you, his hands itching to touch you anywhere and everywhere, need building in his gut as he began a slow, heated trail of kisses from your jawline, down your neck and collarbone, taking care to suck and bite on the skin there, leave his mark, all the way down between the valley of your tits, your stomach, until he reached your pants.

A little glance up at you for confirmation, and he was pulling them down with an almost embarrassing desperation, though Frank Woods would never be embarrassed of being desperate for you.

Your underwear was yanked down as he dropped to his knees, the hard impact of the concrete barely registering as he wrapped his hands around your thighs, letting you choose to spread them, and fucking buried his face in your cunt.

“Jesus fucking—Frank!”

Too much too fast, the sensations went from zero to one hundred as he slid his tongue up your folds, took a second to find your clit, and latched onto it, lapping at it like a dog while groaning like a senseless mutt.

Your hips bucked forward as you cried out, muscles constricting and tensing before relaxing as you squirmed beneath him. One hand deserted its post at your thigh and slipped down to your pussy, and he ran his middle and index finger through your slick, before surprisingly gently fingering at your hole, making sure that would fit.

Your hands fisted in his hair but allowed a moment of reprieve as he stopped for just a moment to breathe, nearly gasping for it. His eyes were half-lidded and looked hazy, like he was drunk, high, or both.

“Fuckin’ heaven.”

He muttered, throwing a lazy smile up at you as he leaned forward, licking a lewd stripe up your cunt while maintaining eye contact, slipping both of his fingers in right then. You groaned, eyes squeezing shut as your walls clenched around the sudden intrusion of his fingers, their calluses and thicker-than-normal girth a new experience for you.

“Woods,”

You gasped his name like a prayer when he dove back in, his tongue working you hungrily, like a man starved, disgustingly hot slurping sounds making their way into your ears as his pace with his fingers quickened, slamming in, out, in, out and rubbing against a certain sweet spot in a delicious way that made you dizzy.

Your eyes squeezed shut as you felt everything tense, an orgasm quickly approaching and threatening to overwhelm you completely. You were torn between tugging his face closer and pushing it away as your hips steadily rocked against him, basically grinding against his face at this point.

Either he noticed your tighter grip, the gasps and moans becoming quickly incomprehensible as you babbled pure nonsense, or the muscles in your thighs tensing up just a bit too much to be normal, because he intensified his ministrations, sucking on your clit and flicking his tongue against it, until that cord in your stomach finally snapped and you nearly screamed, only not because his other hand moved to your mouth, shoving a few fingers in, and you began mindlessly sucking on them, moaning around them.

Your vision went blurry and spotted for almost a moment, everything trembling as Woods slowly pulled his fingers out, sucking each off with a little ‘pop’ at the end, and standing back up.

He eased his other fingers out of your mouth, wrapping both arms around you, holding you against his chest as he rubbed your back, cradling your trembling body.

“I know, it’s a whole fuckin’ lot. Did so good for me, pretty girl.”

He murmured, one of his hands going to gently rub at your scalp, idly playing with your hair while waiting for you to come down from your high and resettle. He didn’t want to overwhelm you too much.

A few minutes passed, of him holding you close, muttering sweet nothings into your ear, with a honeyed tone with that delicious rasp and almost growl of his, before you finally came back down to Earth, dazed and horny as fuck.

“You alright?”

He asked, and you groaned.

“Never been better. You gonna show me what you’re packing?”

You gave a pointed glance at the very noticeable tent in his pants, and he laughed breathlessly, his hand going to tug down the thick canvas texture pants he was wearing, kicking them off until they joined the rest of both of your clothes on the floor. His old, ratty boxers that he’d probably had since the Vietnam War were next to go, his cock springing out in all of its ungroomed glory.

Precum was smeared and beaded on the tip, probably why there was a wet spot on his boxers. It was hairy, much like the rest of Frank, not that you really gave a shit. A good 5 inches, pretty damn thick too.

Jesus Christ.

“Enjoying the view?”

He asked with a cocky, knowing smirk, as you’d been having a staring contest with his dick. You rolled your eyes, reaching down and wrapping your fingers around his cock, watching as it twitched a bit in your hand, examining the way Woods’ expression shifted into pleasure when you squeezed just a bit, and teasingly just barely rubbed the tip.

“I think I’ll like the feel more.”

You said, listening to the low moan that slipped out from his lips, the steady rocking of his hips against your hand as it seemed to throb in your hands, having a pulse of its own.

“Oh, god—“

Woods wasn’t a religious man by any means, but he figured that he was being blessed by some god out there if he was experiencing this right now.

His breathing grew a bit heavier as his brows furrowed, thighs clenching and his knees threatening to give out from under him. God, he was so fucking close—and—

You stopped.

Completely took your hand off, and when he fully opened his eyes, you were looking at him with a smug little smirk that both made him want to strangle you and also made his dick stand prouder than ever.

“You just love torturing me—don’t you?”

He asked, trying to regulate his breathing as he wrapped a hand around himself, giving a few little pumps, and moving forward, rubbing his cock through your folds a few times to lubricate himself, before aligning with your entrance.

You spread your legs, wrapping them around his torso and squeezing to pull him in closer, trap him in, your hands going to hold him close as they wrapped around his upper back, nails threateningly close to scratching him.

“It’s hardly torture,”

You said in an amused tone, squeezing just a bit tighter as his hand went to rub at the fat of your hip.

“Relax, mama, don’t wanna hurt you.”

He muttered, moving torturously slowly as he pushed his bulbous tip in, finally getting it all the way in as he let you have a little moment to adjust as you clenched around him. His thumb went to go rub at your clit, small, slow circles around and around it, trying to get you to relax.

He succeeded, as the stimulation went right to your head, lips parting as you lowly moaned, leaning forward and leaning your head on his shoulders.

“Yeah, feels good, right? You like that, baby?”

He cooed in your ear, using your state to slip just a little bit more slowly in, and letting out a shaky breath as your body clenched around him, sucking him further into the sticky, wet, warmth of you.

He began rocking his hips slowly out, then right back in, until eventually he could slide nearly all the way in. Finally, after what felt like hours, he bottomed out and let out a shuddering breath that almost sounded like a whine.

“So fuckin’ tight, gonna squeeze my dick right off, baby—“

He mumbled, letting his finger on your clit speed up just a little bit while beginning with slow, languid thrusts while he groaned right into your ear, slowly speeding up until his arm was holding you tightly to him purely so you didn’t move around too much or get friction burns.

The initial stretch hadn’t been terrible, but now, with his pace picking up until he was pounding into you like a rabbit, rubbing right up against every little sweet spot buried in you that you hadn’t even known you’d had.

Your puffy cliff was practically being rubbed raw, overstimulation building as your mind tried processing and failed, too overwhelmed in a good way as you couldn’t think of a single fucking thing.

“Frank—“

His name, you could cry out that much. Your nails dug into the tanned and freckled skin of his back, scratching long red marks up and down, something he’d definitely feel later.

“Yeah? What is it, baby?”

You were jolted back and forth due to the impact of his hips and yours. The whines increasing in pitch and the moans were about the only thing you could get out between hiccups, your back arching in ecstasy, hips jerking forward in an attempt to push him deeper.

“‘S too much,”

You whined, and he gave a little shake of his head.

“No, you can take it, doing so well. Being so nice and pretty, jus’ needed a little bit of dick, didn’t you?”

He mumbled, pushing forward in a particularly hard thrust and watching the little bulge that appeared for a second, and leaning forward to press a hot kiss to your lips, not caring for a mess he made.

His thumb picked up the pace, rubbing faster and faster, while he continued to hammer into you, and the pleasure quickly became overwhelming, a few tears pricking at your eyes as you couldn’t do anything but cry out his name, moan, and take it. He was clearly getting close to a climax as well, judging by how his eyes squeezed shut, thighs clenching desperately.

“Jesus, fuck, oh my god,”

He rasped out, his head tilting back slightly as his rhythm slipped for a moment, desperately rutting into you like an animal. All the pleasure came to a singular point, and your orgasm crashed over you, unbearable and making something under your skin claw at you for freedom.

Your legs spasmed as you clenched around his dick like a vice, and he let out a little yelp, his eyes nearly rolling back in his head as he came on sight, stuffing you full of his cum while desperately shoving it deeper with his hips, groaning like a whore.

Your entire body felt weak and drained, limp as a fucking noodle, your vision still not completely back to normal after the intense aftershocks of your climax. Your heart was pounding, hips bucking at every little crumb of stimulation now.

Frank was breathing hard, leaning against the table, before regaining mental consciousness and slowly pulling out, cringing at how sensitive he was.

“You okay?”

A glint of worry underlied his assessing gaze as he looked you over, this time not a hint of lust, checking for any injuries to see if he accidentally had hurt you.

You felt like you’d just run a marathon. But taking a look at the documents on the floor, you remembered that you both still had a job to do, and an important one, too.

“Fine. Just..tired.”

Taking one look at you, he picked your clothes up off the ground and set them on the table.

The chill of the air nipped at your skin, though he didn’t seem as bothered by it, slowly helping your limp legs back into underwear, trying not to watch his own spend drip out of you, then pants.

He slipped your bra on, shirt soon to follow, eyes momentarily drifting to the various bruises and little indentations of teeth marks he’d left, before grabbing his own clothes and beginning to put them back on. A few minutes and he was clothed, before the both of you began picking the documents up, at this point just assuming they were the right ones and wanting to leave.

You realized quite a lot too late that the way it had landed on the floor, the button to relay a message had been pressed down the entire time.

Meaning Mason had overheard the entire thing.

You and Woods exchanged a look, before he started poorly suppressing a laugh. You sighed, pressing the button down.

“We’re finished in here. Got the information, we’ll be heading out now.”

Mason’s voice came back over after a minute.

“I’m well aware that you both finished. You’re clear, no traffic.”

Woods’ poorly restrained laugh became a poorly muffled laugh at that.

It was safe to say that once all of you got to exfil, simply a discreet van, it was a long ride home. Mason stared at the ground the entire time, while you took a nap on Woods’ shoulder, and Frank seemed awfully proud of himself, talking about anything that came to mind before passing out on Mason’s shoulder in the final stretch of the car ride.

At least you wouldn’t be alone in your barracks anymore.

[aziraphales-library]

Hiii! Love your blog! I've been devouring almost everything you rec here and it's been fantastic!!

I'm looking for something a bit specific, i have no idea if there's any fic like this but i seriously hope so. Hoping you might know some fics like this! (I'll probably write it myself if there aren't any haha)

Do you know any fic where Aziraphale and/or Crowley interact with priests/monks/nuns/any other religious figure? It can be outsider pov or a/c pov or whatever else. During, before or after the show. I don't really care. It's just so funny to imagine their interactions :D

If anyone is wondering where this comes from? Lucifer and Father Frank interactions and (a lil bit) Amenadiel and the nuns interactions from those two episodes of the tv show lucifer have been on my mind for whatever reason :) (ahhhh I LOVED Father Frank!!!!)

Alternatively, if you can't find anything, also them interacting with people who are strong believers or complete atheist would be appreciated a ton!!

Thanks a lot for your time!! Again, love this fantastic ff heaven you've created here!

Hello. Here are some fics in which Aziraphale and/or Crowley interact with religious figures...

Sister Mary Clarice's Totally Normal Vespers by euzede (NR)

Something very odd is happening with the stained glass windows at church. It’s moving. More precisely, the Serpent of Eden and the Cherub guarding its Eastern Gate are moving.

Of shouting at God and making new Friends by Primroza (G)

After Aziraphale leaves Earth, Crowley moves to the countryside village, gets befriended by a local priest, talks at God (and occasionally yells at Her), drinks his weight in wine and routinely burns his feet at the local church. It’s super.

Last Christmas by clubs14 (M)

When a former Satanic nun joins the Dowling's staff it quickly turns everything on it's head. Crowley and Aziraphale try to balance out the extra bad influence with a bigger emphasis on Christmas and being good in exchange for presents. Or at least one present in particular. Or a take on why they lost their jobs with a Christmas vibe.

How an Angel Learnt to Relax and Rediscover Christmas by Jupiter_Ash (G)

Aziraphale has a complicated relationship with various religious holidays. Christmas was no exception.

ad vitam aeternam by mayhawk (T)

In the beginning of the sixteenth century, Aziraphale and Crowley converge on a monastery in northern England, each on an assignment as an undercover priest. Or, on the nature of miracles, love, and forgiveness. “Give it a try.” “What?” “Confess to me.” His voice was low and sweet. “What - I - confess what?” Aziraphale said, and laughed nervously. “I have nothing to confess. Certainly not to you.” “Well, how about drinking in the confessional? Start small.” “What - I - you tricked me into doing that!” “I thought angels couldn’t be tricked.” “Tempted,” Aziraphale said, absent-mindedly. “Angels can’t be tempted. Alright, fine. Yes, I confess to - to drinking in the confessional. Give me that,” he said, reaching over into Crowley’s side and wrenching the bottle out of his hand. He drank, and tucked the bottle between his thighs, daring Crowley to say something. “See?” Crowley said. “S’easy once you start. Go on then, what else?”

Part II: Is It Raining In Heaven? by beardo (T)

It was the lark, the herald of the morn, no nightingale... I must be gone and live, or stay and die. (Romeo and Juliet, Act III, Scene 5) The new Supreme Archangel is Struggling. He can't stop the Second Coming, the archangels barely take him seriously, and a fog of blissful joy, only controllable by incessant, stone-cold fury, seems set to make his own mind betray him. Aziraphale has never been the one with the plan, but now, he needs to prevent the next apocalypse and keep Crowley safe on Earth, all while that reckless serpent insists on meddling in Heaven's affairs. (At least the new Christ is a good kid, and the Pope has nice tea.)

- Mod D

[avastrasposts]

The Pilot and his Girl - ch. 14

I'm sorry. Please feel free to yell at me.

Warnings Contain spoilers

Word count: 5.7k Chapter 15

You start pulling on your clothes as you come back from the bathroom, Frankie is already wrapped up in the bed sheets, half asleep as he pries open an eye to look at you. 

“I was thinking we should maybe not both sleep at the same time,” you say, reaching down for your boots. Frankie loses his sleepy look almost immediately and shoots up in bed, but you’re already holding your palm up to him.

“I’m taking the first watch, Frankie, no arguments. You didn’t sleep last night, I did, albeit behind the couch, but still. You need to sleep because to be frank, we’re gonna need you alert tomorrow more than me.”

“Cariño…” he starts to protest but you physically push him down onto the bed with your hands on his shoulders, and he lets you topple him over.

“Sleep, Frankie, I’m going to be outside the door, you’ll hear me shout if anything happens.” 

He looks up at you, trying to find an argument for taking the whole watch himself, but his brain is scrambled by adrenaline and sleep deprivation. The post-orgasm hormones don’t help either. 

“Leave the door open, wake me at three,” is all he manages before you kiss his lips and stroke his cheek, you swear he’s already asleep by the time you leave the room. 

Staying awake was harder than you thought, sitting on one of the bar stools by the kitchen counter stops you from dozing off, but you still feel like your jaw is going to pop as you yawn widely. Your gun is on the counter in front of you as you study the ring Frankie slipped onto your finger. The delicate gold band is thin, three simple diamonds set in a row, with room, you notice, for more diamonds along the band. You know Frankie isn’t the kind of guy to spend three months pay on a ring just so that it’s as big as possible, he would pick the ring that meant something to him and make it mean something to you too. You run your fingers over the diamonds, three in a row, you’ll have to ask him tomorrow. 

At three am you gently walk into the bedroom to wake Frankie, but he sleeps too lightly, your footsteps wake him up and he shoots up in bed. 

“It’s ok, Frankie,” you say in a low voice, “It’s three am.” 

“Ok,” he rumbles, his voice rough with sleep as he rubs the heel of his hand into his eyes. You pull off your boots and crawl into bed with your clothes on next to Frankie. He catches your chin between his thumb and fingers, giving you a slow kiss, before letting go. 

When you wake up a few hours later daylight is starting to slip through the shutters of the window. Frankie’s hand is on your shoulder, gently shaking you. 

“Hermosa, time to wake up,” he murmurs as he bends and presses his lips to your temple. “The night was quiet and I made coffee.”

“Thank you,” you mumble and push the covers back, sitting up as Frankie hands you a mug. 

You drink it while you get ready, which only means you put your boots back on and stick the gun into the back of your trousers. Frankie’s heated up another can of stew from Denny’s supplies and you both eat it in silence. You’re apprehensive about leaving the safety and quiet of the cabin and move back into populated areas, but you can see Frankie’s nerves too. His jaw is clenched as he goes through both your packs, swapping out some of the food for Denny’s supplies. As soon as you put down your spoon into the empty bowl he grabs it from you and starts readying up to leave. 

“We should leave a note for Pope or anyone else who comes here,” you say and Frankie nods.

“Yeah, I did already,” he points to a folded piece of paper on the dining room table, “Read it and tell me if it makes sense.” 

You pick it up and flip it open, reading Frankie’s neat handwriting; 

September 29th 

To anyone of the guys

My girl and I are safe up here for now. We’re heading to L’s place today. Pope was here on the 27th, also went for L but hasn’t returned yet. 

We’ll return here when we have L, hope to see you all safe. 

Catfish

You fold it up and put it back on the table, “Looks good to me, I really hope they’re all here when we get back,” you say, looking over at Frankie who’s picked up your backpack and walked over to you with it.  

“Yeah, I really hope so too,” he replies as he helps you on with the pack, turning you around and adjusting the straps before he pulls your gun from behind your back. 

“I made you this while I was keeping watch,” he holds up a makeshift leg holster. “You can’t wear a regular holster with a backpack on and you won’t be able to get the gun from behind the pack, and I don’t want you walking around with the gun in your hand.” 

He kneels down and straps it to your thigh, using a snap-link to attach it to your belt. “Denny had a couple of old holsters for his hunting gear so I repurposed them.” He’s got a similar holster on his leg, his gun already in it and now he slides your gun into yours. 

“Feel good?” he asks, looking up at you from the floor, tugging on the holster, making sure it’s not too tight. 

“Yeah, but I’m not sure how much use I’ll be, Frankie, I’ve never even fired a gun.” 

“Hopefully you won’t have to but I can’t show you, I don’t know when we’ll get more bullets,” he gets up and gives your backpack a final look over, “Denny didn’t keep any guns or ammo up here so we’ll have to grab any that we find.” 

Once outside the cabin, Frankie locks up and puts the key back into the lock box before turning towards the lake. 

“There are a couple of canoes down by the small boat house,” he says, “we can use one of them to get across the lake, saves us walking around it, we’re heading in that direction.” 

You nod and follow him down the gentle slope to the lake, the morning is calm and quiet, and again you’re struck by how normal everything feels. If it wasn’t for the slightly heavy feeling in your stomach, a small hot ball of anxiety, you’d think it was just Frankie and you heading out for a couple of days camping. 

The trip over the lake is smooth and when you get to the other side, about a mile from the cabin, you get the packs out before Frankie paddles the canoe into some thick, tall reeds to camouflage it as much as possible. Luckily it’s an old wood canoe and it all but disappears into the reeds. 

Frankie glances down at his compass, attached to his belt, and motion for you to follow him. You’ve agreed to speak as little as possible and move quietly. There probably won’t be any infected out here but Frankie doesn’t want to take any chances. So in silence you walk behind him for three hours, stopping when he holds up his hand, checking his direction or listening intently. At one point he signals for you to stop and crouch and as you sink down behind a bush, you hear rustling in the shrubs ahead. Your skin goes cold as you mimic Frankie’s movement and pull out your gun, moving it slowly out of your leg holster. The rustling continues, coming closer until, finally, you see the source of the sound, a white tail deer, slowly ambling through the forest, nibbling at leaves here and there as it goes. You let your breath out slowly, as Frankie stands up, startling the deer enough to make it prance away into the underbrush. 

At the three hour mark Frankie finds a good spot for a break, a small stream that lets you refill your water bottles. Stretching out your legs on the ground, your back against a large boulder, you try to savor your lunch sandwich. Frankie sinks down next to you and gives you a little nudge with his shoulder. 

“How you holding up, cariño?” he asks in a low voice. 

“I’m alright, just jumpy,” you reply, leaning your head on his solid shoulder for a little bit. He caresses your cheek with his warm palm and you feel his lips press into the top of your head before he begins to unwrap his sandwich. 

After lunch you get even jumpier, you’re still following hiking trails through the forest but every now and then you have to cross main roads, you start seeing houses, you even skirt around a small town. In the distance you see a group of people, you can’t tell if they’re infected or not, but as Frankie leads the two of you in a wide circle around the group, you keep watching them. They don’t move and you think they’re too unnaturally still for humans. 

Just as you’ve managed to clear a small ridge and put some distance between yourself and them, a loud collective shriek goes up from the group of people. Frankie immediately grabs you and pulls you down into the tall grass next to the trail. It feels like your heart is going to claw itself out of your chest as you feel Frankie’s weight on top of you, he’s half covered you with his body. You glance up at his face and you see him carefully lift his head out of the tall grass. 

“It’s ok, they’re running, but in the other direction,” he whispers and pulls you up. In a crouch Frankie starts to jog down the other side of the ridge, holding on to your hand as you run to keep up with him. You continue running until your lungs are about to give up and Frankie slows down but starts walking next to you, keeping a brutal pace, still holding onto your hand. 

“We need to get away from them as fast as possible, we can’t fight that many on foot,” he pants, giving your hand another squeeze. 

Not until you’ve covered about three miles does he slow down to a regular pace, you’re drenched in sweat and breathing hard, your legs aching. He pulls you off the side of the trail you’ve been following, into the forest and behind a thick shrub. 

“Sit down,” he motions, pointing to the ground, “catch your breath and drink some water.” 

You gratefully sink down and pull out your water bottle while Frankie remains standing. 

“We’re about half a mile from the bridge and the river crossing,” he says, looking at the map. “We need to be extra careful as we approach, if people in this area were trying to get away from any towns they’d probably have to cross there which means a potential traffic jam and potentially infected.” 

You nod and sip the water, offering Frankie your bottle when you’re done. He gratefully takes a long swig while you get back to your feet. You’re still exhausted after the sprint but you want to keep moving. The countryside around you makes you nervous, there are small farms dotted across it, three days ago you would’ve thought it looked quaint and rural, now the sight of every farm house makes you edgy. 

Putting away your water bottle, you follow Frankie back to the trail and after a short time it emerges from the forest onto a large country road, up ahead you can see the bridge. As Frankie had feared, it’s jammed with cars. You can walk between them, but the thought of what might be hiding among them makes panic claw its way up your throat and you take a tight hold of Frankie’s hand. He looks back and sees the fear in your eyes. Pulling you back into the trees he wraps his arms around you. Holding you tight to his chest for a minute, he pulls back and cups your cheeks, his large hands are warm and dry on your skin, as he kisses you deeply before he looks down at you and traces his fingers over your lips. 

“I’m sorry, cariño, it’s the only way forward.” His eyes rake over your face as if he’s committing it to memory and you suddenly realize what he’s doing. 

“Don’t say goodbye, Frankie,” you croak, your voice catching in your throat. 

“Just in case, mi amor,” he says in a low voice, pressing his lips to yours again. When he pulls back he turns and takes your hand, leading you back to the road where he lets go of it. 

“Stay six feet behind me, gun out, safety off, but keep it pointed to the ground. If you have to fire, squeeze the trigger, don’t pull it.” He gives you a final look, a small smile, before turning back to the road. 

It’s slow going, following Frankie’s lead you move carefully in his footsteps, trying to make as little noise as possible. Frankie stops and surveys the cars in front of you regularly but nothing seems out of the ordinary, you see no humans, only open car doors, luggage that’s been left behind. 

As you’ve crossed about two thirds of the bridge a dog suddenly launches itself at the cage door keeping it shut in, barking loudly from inside a large SUV. Frankie and you both drop into a crouch, trying to see if the loud noise will draw in any infected, but the dog quietens down and the landscape around the bridge remains silent. You breathe a sigh of relief as Frankie carefully stands up again and motions for you to follow him. He carefully approaches the dog in the cage, a golden retriever you think, mumbling soft words to it, calming it down. Soon the dog is licking his fingers through the bars of the cage and Frankie slides back the lock, opening the door. The dog jumps down, its tail happily wagging as you scratch its ears. 

“Good boy,” you mumble, patting its flank as Frankie starts moving forward again. You give the dog a final scratch before you follow him towards the end of the bridge. The dog trails behind you for a while before it falls behind, going back to the SUV. 

As you get to the end of the bridge Frankie holds his hand up, signaling for you to stop. He points to the last pillar of the bridge, written on it, in what looks like black magic marker, are the letters SOF, underneath is a rectangle with a single line through the middle and the number 1 just outside the box. 

“Special Operations Force,” Frankie says, “Pope’s been through here but he’s alone. The rectangle means he’s motorized.” He walks over to the pillar, pulling a marker from his side pocket and crouching down he writes SOF underneath Pope’s message, but he adds an odd looking cross underneath, two sides are flat and two are rounded. Then he writes ‘2’ next to it. 

“Special Operations Aviation,” he explains while he stands up and puts the marker away. “I don’t think any of the other guys will come past here but if Pope comes back the same way he’ll see that we’ve been here.” 

You continue down the road, it’s still about an hour's walk to Lucía’s house and you’re forced to stay on the road, there are no hiking trails leading in the right direction. Frankie’s head is on a swivel, his gun drawn as you both walk off to the side of the road, creating some distance between  yourselves and the cars. There are less of them now, and up ahead you can see an almost clear road. You crest a hill in the road, carefully trying to see over to the other side before you’re too exposed, when a pickup truck just ahead rumbles to life and barrels towards you with a screech of tires. Frankie grabs your hand and pulls you behind one of the few cars on the road, his gun aimed at the truck. “They’ve got to be ok, right Frankie?” you say, his hand still holding you down behind the car. “Infected can’t drive!”

“Stay down, cariño,” he snaps, his eyes focused on the truck. You hear it come to a stop and the engine goes silent as the doors are opened. Frankie lets go of you and grabs his gun with both hands. You turn and peek over the bonnet of the car and see two men get out, staying behind the doors of the truck, as another two jump down from the flatbed. 

“You know how to use that gun, sonny?” the oldest man calls from behind the driver’s door. He’s big and burly looking, a cowboy hat squashed down on a very round head. 

“Sure,” Frankie calls back, shifting his stance. 

“Why don’t you lower it and toss it over here. And any gun your cute girl might be carrying.” The man’s voice is saccharine and makes your neck hairs stand on end, you glance up at Frankie and see the muscle in his jaw working. 

“We’re just passing through, trying to get to some friends, we don’t want any trouble.” 

“Then why you pointing a gun at me, son?” The older man looks over his shoulder and nods at the two men who got off the truck and they slowly move to the sides, circling the two of you. 

“Cariño, get your gun up and stand behind me, aim at the man on the left,” Frankie says in a low voice, his eyes never leaving the older man. You do as he says, trying to have a steady grip on the gun to keep your hands from shaking. Copying Frankie’s stance, you hold your gun in both hands, your feet apart and steady, aiming at the man on the left. With a thumb you flick the safety off and draw a deep breath. 

“Steady there, girlie,” the old man drawls, as he sees you move, holding up a hand to stop the two men. “Son, you don’t want to do anything stupid and get your girl in trouble here.” He moves out from behind the car door, and from the corner of your eye you see the rifle he’s holding low in his hands. “We’re just out here making sure no one’s looting these cars, especially of any guns they might find.” 

“These guns are mine, like I said, we’re just passing through.” Frankie calls back through gritted teeth. You can hear the sharp tone in his voice as his eyes flick from the man in the cowboy hat and the man still standing behind the passenger side door. 

“You’re outnumbered, pal,” the man on the right calls out with a chuckle, “just hand over the guns and any supplies, and we’ll let you pass.” 

“Might keep your girl though,” the man on your left drawls, the man you’ve got your gun aimed at, he’s eyeing you with a smirk on his face that makes your skin crawl. “She’s shaking like a leaf but I bet she’d put up a nice little fight.” 

Frankie glances over at the man on the left, before he looks back at the man in the cowboy hat, he’s got a crooked smile on his lips as he shoulders the rifle. 

“C’mon, sonny, the guns and the girl, and then you can walk away.” 

Frankie’s gun is loud on the silent road, and the man in the cowboy hat crumples over, his shot going wide as the rifle hits the ground. The man on the left throws himself forward and you feel the recoil in your arms as you fire, you don’t even know if your bullets hit, you can hear several shots from Frankie’s gun and your own, and Frankie’s hand on your shoulder as he pushes you to the ground. Two more shots ring out and Frankie ducks behind the car, his gun raised, listening. When nothing stirs he quickly glances over the bonnet before he stands up. Three of the men are dead on the ground, the fourth one, the one behind the passenger door, is scrabbling for something and with a few long steps, Frankie is on him, kicking the gun out of his reach. 

He’s on the ground, you can see him beneath the door, Frankie towering above him, his gun aimed at the man. As you watch, the man lifts his palms up, pleading, but the shot rings out and the man slumps back. Frankie bends down and picks up the man’s gun, quickly patting him down and fishing an ammo box from his pants. When he straightens up and walks back towards you his face is impassive, blank and you remember when you last saw that look; the bar that night you thought Frankie was a violent man. Now you know, he is violent, but only when he needs to and for now, you’re very grateful for his skills.  

You put your hands out to push yourself off the ground and a burning pain shoots through your shoulder, wincing you get to your feet and look at your torn shirt. Blood is seeping through and you suddenly feel faint. Frankie is on you in two fast steps, grabbing your arm and pulling back your shirt. 

“You’re hit,” his voice suddenly sharp with worry, as his gentle fingers push at the fabric, making you wince again. He unbuttons your shirt and pulls it over your shoulder. “Thank god,” he breathes out as he sees the shallow gash, “you’ve been grazed, it didn’t go in.” He pulls up his arm as if he’s about to pull his backpack off but changes his mind. 

“Come here, get in the truck,” he guides you over to the passenger side, “close your eyes, don’t look,” he mumbles as you have to step over the corpse.  You breathe in deeply and keep your eyes closed until Frankie closes the door. He bends down to pick up the other man’s rifle, putting it behind the bench seat, before he gets in and starts up the engine. It rumbles to life and Frankie turns it around, heading back down the almost empty road, and as soon as he sees a secluded spot he pulls over and kills the engine. 

“I’ve got to clean your arm, cariño,” says, opening up his backpack for the first aid kit. “Does it hurt?” He looks over at you, his eyes are worried and you shake your head to calm him. 

“Only a little, it stings more than anything.” 

“Ok, just keep breathing in and out while I do this.” 

The iodine solution makes you whimper but Frankie is fast and efficient, when the compress is on your shoulder the pain is already subsiding. He pulls your shirt back on, gives you a soft kiss, cradling the back of your head with his large hand. 

“You ok?” he asks in a low voice, “not just the injury, with what just happened too?” 

You let out a shuddering breath as you allow yourself to think about the situation, “I’m very glad you used to be a soldier, Frankie,” you say, leaning your forehead against his, “I think that’s the fourth time you’ve saved my life in twenty four hours.” 

“Me too,” he breathes, his thumb is caressing your cheek as he looks at you. His deep brown eyes are strained, but calm, “Things are going to get worse before they get better, cariño. I’ve seen it before, when society crumbles, it brings out the worst in people and they become very dangerous. I need you and Lucía safe at the cabin until we know things are getting back to normal, whenever that might be.” 

You nod and he turns back to the wheel and starts up the truck, “At least we got a truck out of it, this will make things easier as long as we have gas.” 

The truck rumbles through the landscape, in the distance you see a group of infected running towards something but the road curves and you move away from them. Frankie has driven this road hundreds of times, every time he came to pick up or drop off Lucía, and now he wonders at how eerily still it is. There are no people as the truck drives past the first few houses of the small town, cars line the main street but they’ve been pushed to the side. The dents and scrapes on them indicate that something big came through and shoved them out of the way. 

Frankie turns down a smaller side street, and then another small street, coming to the end of town. There are a few cars still parked outside the houses but most are gone. You glance over at him, his fingers are drumming on the steering wheel as his restless eyes bounce around the street, looking for infected, people, anything. He’s grinding his teeth, the muscle in his jaw flexing and when he pulls up outside a small bungalow you hear his white knuckles make the steering wheel creak. 

“This is their place,” he says in a low voice, “the car is still here.” He opens the truck door and steps down, listening for any movement as you follow him out. Pulling his gun he moves carefully up the porch and tests the handle on the door, it’s locked. 

“Stay by the truck,” he says to you, “if anything happens, if anyone comes, fire once in the air, ok?” 

You nod and do as he says. Frankie carefully walks down the side of the house, easily scaling the wooden fence that closes off the backyard. He disappears from view and you nervously wait, looking around the quiet neighborhood. When he opens the door to the house from the inside you jump but he holds up his hand in a placating sign, signaling for you to stay where you are. He disappears into the house again, you guess this means Lucía isn’t here, and neither is anyone else. 

You hear him walking through the house and before long he comes back out, a note in his hand. 

“They’ve been evacuated,” he says, showing you the note from Lucía’s mom. It’s dated the day before yesterday, Saturday, the note says the soldiers came at night and gave them fifteen minutes to pack up essentials. 

“She says they told her they’re going to a quarantine zone in Franklin. I’ve got to see if I can get them out of there.” He breathes a sigh of relief, “At least they’re safe for now.” he says, getting back into the truck and starting it up. 

As the truck rumbles through town you start seeing more infected, they stumble out of a few of the shops, attracted to the sound of the truck. At one intersection you see a large number of them fallen into a pile, bullet wounds to their heads, and you quickly look away. Their pallid skin, starting to show strange looking lesions, no longer looks human, but their clothes are still bright and colorful, reminds you terribly of the people who would’ve put them on, maybe on Friday morning, expecting just another day. 

Frankie speeds up, leaving town, and the shrieking infected behind, heading for Franklin. It’s less than an hour away, the nearest big city, and like before you see the cars pushed to the side of the road. Frankie’s fingers are drumming on the steering wheel again, his grip tight, his jaw clenched. He’s getting closer to Lucía, now he knows she’s safe, he just needs to get to her. 

“When we get to the quarantine zone, do you think we should stay there?” you ask him. “It doesn’t sound like a ‘quarantine zone’ is somewhere they’ll let you in and out of. Maybe it’ll be safer for us there too?” 

“I don’t know,” Frankie says, glancing over at you, “I need to see it first, how are they quarantining people? Keeping them separate enough so that if someone is already infected, they can’t attack and infect more people?” His fingers drum faster against the wheel, “I just need to see her, see her safe.” 

You put your hand on his leg and give it a squeeze and he drops his hand, curling his fingers around yours. 

“How’s your shoulder?”

“Still stings a bit, but it’s dulled, hurts when I move it.” You test moving your arm up and down, feeling the pull of the compress.

“It’ll give you gnarly looking scar,” he grins, “match some of mine.” He pulls your hand up to his lips and gives it a kiss, his eyes leaving the road for a second. When he looks back again he sees birds circling up ahead. 

“Buzzards,” he points them out to you. “Looks like they’re circling just over the road.” He slows down the truck as you come around a bend, clearing a small group of trees. The rumble of the truck startles the birds and you see more of them rise into the sky from the field bordering the road. Frankie stops the truck, leaving it in neutral, watching the birds circle, waiting to see if something moves. When nothing stirs he opens the door, signaling for you to stay put, and he steps on to the instep of the truck, hoisting himself up so that he can look over the door of the truck. 

“Oh fuck…” you hear him breathe out. 

“What, Frankie, what is it?” you ask but he doesn’t answer so you open your own door and swing yourself up on the instep. Frankie glances back at you and motions for you to get back inside. 

“Cariño, don’t, you don’t wanna- “

It’s too late, you look over the field, it looks like almost a hundred people are lying in it, none of them moving. The buzzards are settling back down, walking across the still bodies. 

“Oh my god…” you gasp, your hand going over your mouth as your eyes widen in horror. “What killed them?” you whisper, “are they infected?” 

“Get into the driver’s seat,” he says, “I’m going closer but I need you to be ready to drive if they are infected.”

“I’m not leaving without you, Frankie!” you say in a hard voice, as you slide over the bench seat and get behind the wheel.

“I’m counting on it, cariño,” he grips your hand before jumping down onto the ground. Grabbing the rifle from the back he loads it before he starts moving slowly towards the field. 

You step up onto the instep on the driver’s side, watching Frankie’s back as he makes his way across the road and into the field. As he reaches the first body he crouches down and seems to inspect them. Nothing moves, none of the bodies are jerking, they’re just dead. He stands up again and walks around the outskirts of where they’ve fallen. Suddenly he stops, slinging the rifle onto his back, before he steps into the mass of bodies, he must be stepping on them as he bends down and pulls at one of them, turning it over to face him. He stumbles back, losing his footing and falls onto his back among the bodies. 

Without thinking you jump down from the truck and run to him, grabbing hold of his arm as he scrambles to stand up, getting away from the bodies. 

“It’s Helena, she’s the mom of Lucía’s best friend,” he pants, standing up. You look over at the blonde woman, her open eyes looking sightless to the sky. Her torso has at least three bullet holes in the pale blue shirt she’s wearing, blood staining the light fabric dark. 

“They lived across the street from Lucía,” Frankie croaks and you suddenly realize what he’s saying, gripping his arm hard. 

He tears himself away from you as he starts circling around the bodies, crouching down, looking under those who have fallen on top of others, his eyes desperately scanning every face, every piece of visible clothing, looking for something he recognizes, praying he doesn’t. His heart is racing, his vision narrows into one long tunnel, focused on the bodies, praying, cursing, he can’t hear you call after him. 

And then he sees it. 

The hem of a dress he’d know anywhere because her abuela made it for her. 

With a shout he steps into the mass of bodies. You rush up behind him, tears are welling up into  your eyes, as you watch him scramble over to the small body. Skinny little legs in sneakers you bought for her birthday, you bite down hard on your lip to stop yourself from wailing. 

The dress is sticking out from underneath a woman, and as he gets closer he realizes it’s his ex-girlfriend, her arms hugging her daughter tight, even in death. The back of her tan coat is dark with coagulated blood that sticks to his hands as he bends back her arms to release her grip. As he shoves her aside a strangled cry goes up from the small body underneath, Lucia’s head moves as a rattled breath escapes her lungs and Frankie cries out in relief, grabbing hold of her waist to gently turn her over, scanning her body for injuries, he sees no blood on her. 

“Mija, I’m here, I’m here,” he gasps, “daddy’s here, Lucía, I’m here.” 

He’s holding out his arms to lift her up when he sees it. 

Trailing under the skin of her small throat. 

Up under the pallid skin of her cheeks, spreading out in a fine net. 

Tendrils reaching out from her small mouth. 

“Frankie!” you cry as the small body shrieks and reaches for him. He almost takes her hand, almost takes the small hand that’s grasping after his. You can see it, even from behind him, you can see the empty eyes, the twitching movement. 

Infected. 

His hand is still in the air, halfway to reaching out for her, his Lucía, her hand outstretched to him. As she screams, his hand drops to his gun. 

You turn your head when the gunshot rings out.

Chapter 15

Taglist: @pimosworld @i-own-loki @casa-boiardi @littlenosoul @stormseyer @mxtokko  @javicstories

[astroboots]

Driving by to order one smut from the smutdonald's. dealer's choice

<.< >.>

.....but Frankie facefucking Santi would be a-ok

okay ilu baaaiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii

DOWN ON MY KNEES

Pairing: Frankie Morales x Santiago Garcia

Summary: Santiago gets on his knees for Frankie.

Content: Explicit up the whazoo. MLM, and a very rough Frankie with a spoonful of brat taming to help the medicine go down (pssst, the medicine is his cock).

Homecoming Drabbles | Homecoming Masterlist | Astroboot’s Masterlist

Follow me on astroboots-writes and turn on notifications to be notified when I post something new!

The hard unforgiving wooden floor is digging into Santiago's knees. It's uncomfortable to say the least, the blunt pain eating into his kneecaps. He's going to bruise to shits, knees all black, blue and purple, he'll be paying the price for weeks, hobbling with every two steps. But like hell he's going to tell Frankie that.

Not when Frankie is looking at Santiago the way he is right now. Teeth bared, staring down at him. The obsidian pitch of his pupils eating into the warm brown. It's primal.

Rough fingers tangled in Santiago's curls as he grips him hard. It stings, giving him no reprieve for air at all as Frankie holds Santiago in place, the tip of Santiago's nose pushing into the softness of Frankie's abdomen until he chokes, and still Frankie doesn't let go.

If you were here, Santiago wonders what you'd think, your sweet, little Francisco. There's nothing sweet or little about the man now.

No, that thick intimidating girth that's blocking Santiago's airways, filling his entire goddamned throat until he swears it must be halfway down his lungs by now, is hardly little.

Fuck, the man's thick.

"What's wrong Pope? Thought you said you could handle it."

That warm palm of Frankie's, calloused and worn, comes to cradle Santiago's jaw, fingers fanning over his stretched and bulging cheek, and Frankie taps him there. Not hard, and that's worse somehow. It's soft, and amused, condescending, the way you'd pat an errand boy for doing a good job.

Asshole.

Tears are prickling the corners of his eyes, and it's about all Santiago can manage, to stay still and keep his eyes open so they don't breach the barrier and streak down his cheeks.

Santiago swallows around the man, and fuck, that's a mistake. The insides of his throats constricts around Frankie's cock, hugging around every inch of this Behemoth lodged inside him. It's like his body panics at the realization of just how big Frankie is, eyes welling up and he gags. Everything burns, as he desperately tries to swallow down his chocked coughs until he finally has to pull off.

And he's not even sure he can actually manage that, because every nerve in him is screaming for air. Begging him to pull away and run the other way. And he would, if it wasn't for his own stubbornness. He would if it wasn't for that infuriating expression plastered on Frankie's face right now.

Fuck! fuck!

Irritation burns across cheeks, and prickles across Santiago's swollen lips. He's a mess. Drool and spit running wet and sticky down his chin and he brings the back of his hand to wipe it off.

"Is it too much for you?" Boa handles me just fine."

Santiago grits his teeth at the taunt. He knows Frankie is doing it just to get a rise out of him. Knows that Frankie is needling his competitive streak. It's transparent as day. It's just annoying that the man succeeds.

"Fu-fuck you Frank!" It doesn't come out nearly as defiant and irritated as he intended to. Instead it's breathless, and flustered, and that irritates him even more.

There's a slow smile curling on Frankie's lips at that and before Santiago is able to think of better, and smarter retort, that familiar wide palm of Frankie's already back, pulling Santiago forward by the scruff of his neck.

"Thought that's what you'd say," Frankie says. Then he pushes Santiago forward, the rest of the way, guiding Santiago back down on him.

The fat, heavy head of Frankie's cock rests and prods against Santiago's lips until he slides in with a deep groan that reverberates and embeds itself somewhere deep in Santiago's skull.

It sends a shiver through Santiago that has him curling the tip of his toes. Everything in him aches. He's so hard, cock straining against the seam of his jeans, he's surprised the stitches haven't torn by now. His own hand comes to the front of his jeans, palming the bulge clumsily. There's a pleasure that skitters up the back of his neck so pleasantly that if Frankie's thick cock wasn't in the way, Santiago is pretty sure he'd be moaning.

"Fuck, that's a good look on you, Santiago."

Frankie's tone is almost awed as he says it. The honed sharpness softening around the edges as he stares down at Santiago. There's love there. Adoration. And there's nothing wrong with that...

But Santiago would be lying to himself that the Frankie with dark eyes, rough palm against his neck and taunting grin mocking him wasn't a turn on. He slides his mouth off the man, chin tilted up to stare up in defiance.

"Real good at playing tough when Boa's not around, aren't you?"

That's all it takes.

Something sparks behind those warm eyes until they're incinerating. Frankie reaches over, large hand wrapped around Santiago's throat that has his cock twitching and jerking against the strained denim. Precome leaks down the tip of him soaking his boxers from excitement at the man's grip around his airpipe with just the right pressure that he likes.

Then Frankie leans down, close enough that his lips brush against Santiago's ear.

"Our wife's not here to spoil you now, and I'm not planning on taking it easy on you Pope, so I'd save that smart little mouth of yours right about now."

Santiago grins. Frankie's right. If you were here, you'd spoil Santiago. If you were here Frankie wouldn't be quite this rough. If you were here that is... but you're not.

And in this moment, Santiago can't bring himself to be sorry that you're not.

Dedication: To @jazzelsaur for this demented thot. And to my beloved moose @thirstworldproblemss who helped me finish it.

[heretyc]

romantic headcanons for lovely boy Miles hehe i know it's a simple ask :,)

Simple asks are the best asks, anon ;) [well I love complex/detailed ones too, but simple asks have their charm!]

Miles is a man of humour, and you can expect that to transfer into his love language; he loves giving you things that he think will make you laugh. This includes random memes he finds online.

His lucky camcorder is used to record the funnier moments in life; pranks he's pulled on you [safe pranks!], that one time you and him saw a dog dressed as the Pope, they're all recorded, and you look back on them on the holidays.

But that isn't all; Miles can become the sweetest man on this planet. He's a sucker for a bouquet of roses, giving or receiving. Give him a bouquet and he'll feel like a prince.

Date nights typically include either a cafe or watching the stars in a field; he'll drive you two out and away from the city/town so there's no light pollution. To show off, he memorizes all of the constellations.

And yes, he's the type of freak to put a rose between his lips [without the thorns] and ask you to kiss him for it.

He's supportive of your hobbies and interests, and very rarely will ask questions, so worry not if you have any 'strange' hobbies.

He knows every little thing about you. Your favourite colour - the specific shade, too - your favourite food, your favourite animal, all of it. He's a journalist, he remembers a LOT.

The gifts he gets you are pretty and practical; a notebook, a musical box, an adult's colouring book and special pencil crayons. He's excellent when it comes to getting you gifts that you'll use.

Y'know that meme, "And then I go and spoil it all by saying something stupid like I love you"? That is exactly what a relationship between you and him will look like. [Also the song slaps. Jennifer Lawrence's voice...hnnngggg. I am listening to it as I write this lol.]

Speaking of that song, it's your theme. Something Stupid by Frank & Nancy Sinatra represents the relationship perfectly! Especially these lines,

"I practice every day To find some clever lines to say To make the meaning come true But then I think I'll wait Until the evening gets late And I'm alone with you

The time is right, your perfume fills my head The stars get red, and, oh, the night's so blue And then I go and spoil it all By saying somethin' stupid like, "I love you""

A trope I can see between you is either enemies to lovers - two opposing journalists, GASP! - or best friends to lovers. He isn't one to immediately rush into a relationship, and let's be honest, best friends to lovers has SO MUCH depth. You two are still best friends, you just kiss. Maybe even have intercourse if that's your thing.

If you're ever under the weather, he'll make you your favourite food and listen to you vent. You need his shoulder? Take it, it's yours. He'll crack a joke here and there if you want him to. He can read the room, I promise.

He also has a fondness for scent; he loves wearing a good cologne so he smells good for you. He uses shampoo and conditioner, not the 24-in-1 stuff lol. He'll buy you eau de perfum on Valentines day, as well as chocolate roses and a teddy bear.

Oh, also, your birthday and Christmas cards are always gonna have a funny joke in them. It's inevitable with this nerd.

He unconsciously does things for you; he'll open doors for you, lay his jacket down on a puddle [or pick you up], and go so far as to turn the mountains upside down to make you happy.

Miles is exactly like a golden retriever mixed with a french bulldog. Full of love, but has his funny moments.

His hugs are also super warm...the man works out lol. You're gonna be in them all night, every night. [He snores, I'm warning you in advance.]

[doctorstrangereview]

0129: Doctor Strange (vol. 2) #5

Cover Date: December 1974 On-Sale Date: September 10, 1974

And we come to the end of the first arc of our new Doc solo series. Sadly this is Frank Brunner's swan song as he leaves Doc, never to return. It's sad. Fortunately Gene Colan returns to art chores next issue. Doc died last issue and returned to life in the last few panels. Let's see what he does with it and what he does to Silver Dagger.

Clea is still a prisoner of Silver Dagger who is still attempting to break and "reform" her from the teachings of her demonic former instructor. Clea calls him mad and he replies he's as sane as anyone, proving it by comparing himself to Cotton Mather and members of the Inquisition. Yeah, that proves your sanity! Because it's what villains do and maybe Steve needed to burn a few pages of real estate, Dagger expounds on his origin!

In a nutshell: Dagger-to-be was a priest in the Catholic Church who worked his way up to cardinal. He expected to become pope but someone else was elected. For reason this makes Dagger-to-be in his own words "comprehend the power of evil." It sounds to me more like he's the ultimate sore loser. Brunner has some odd ideas about clergy vestments. Here's Dagger-to-be as a cardinal.

Here's the pope that's about to die wearing I don't know what.

Dagger-to-be goes wandering around in a fog until he stumbles into the Vatican forbidden library. He reads and reads and believes God has a new mission for him. To stamp out black magic with black magic. To me this is like fighting pornography by making hardcode blue movies, but what do I know? By the way, Brunner's Vatican Library has some cool books.

H. P. Lovecraft would be amused in-between his thoughts about European superiority. Dagger-to-be searches out mystic practitioners, learns all he can from them and murders them. He went to find the Ancient One but the old dude was already dead. For some reason Brunner draws the crypts of Kaa-U instead of the lamasery at Kamer-Taj. Did Dagger-to-be get his addresses mixed up?

Clea has now fainted. We don't know if she heard Dagger's entire story, but it doesn't really matter. While Dagger is distracted by Clea's current state, something slips out of the nearby All-Purpose Amulet of Agamotto. It's Doc! In through the Orb, out through the Amulet. Hey, maybe Dagger stealing it was a good thing! Doc doesn't have to travel.

Doc's senses have expanded and he's having one gnarly trip and it's without the aid of LSD!

This is definitely one time where eccentric panels work like a charm! Doc tries to find his body, but instead finds the wax figure Dagger decapitated a few of issues ago. He's confused and enters it anyway. He actually manages to get it going, despite like things like muscles.

Kicking the head is a nice touch. Doc-figure creeps up on Dagger and this is a truly marvelous image.

Dagger cuts the wax-figure to pieces, but Clea suspects more is at work here.

Doc "surges" into Clea. I think Englehart was perfectly aware of the double entendre he wrote! Together the two escape Dagger and flee back to the Sanctum Sanctorum. Steve and Frank even give us bystanders gawking at Clea's kooky outfit!

Clea/Stephen arrives back at the Sanctum and they ask Wong if Doc's body is still there. He answers in the affirmative while we look in on Dagger in hot pursuit. Dagger is not exactly thrilled about being mugged along the way.

Back at the Sanctum, Clea/Stephen asks why the body is still here and Wong says he couldn't bring himself to make the journey to Kaa-U. He probably dreads having to dig the place out with he bare hands after the place collapse in Marvel Premiere #10. He also mentions, that Doc doesn't have the usual dead body smell. Doc rejoins his body which, fortunately isn't really dead.

Dagger has arrived and he is so focused on Clea he hasn't put the clues together that Doc might still be alive. Dagger burst into the study with Doc and Clea. Frank gives us some great, cinematic panels.

After his poor aim, Dagger uses the Amulet to attack Doc and Clea. The pair manage to take over the eye. Clea remarks that she's able to to this much easier now. Doc "surging" into her appears to have increased her power. The pair point the Eye at Dagger who is suddenly filled with wisdom (or something) and jumps into the Eye!

The ordeal over, Doc and Clea share a tender moment. Guess where Dagger is?

The caterpillar has an eternal conversation partner!

And those we close the arc! Sadly it's Frank's final turn on Doc except for a one-shot in 2010. He has really been spectacular. Next issue Gene Colan restarts his long association with Doc. He will have a pair of runs that will end with issue #47. He returns for one more issue in the successor series.

This is a charming finale. There's so much at stake, but as in previous stories, these high stakes are told in an intimate tale with a small cast. Steve manages to communicate Dagger's insanity both through his origin and his actions. The man is loony! Doc hangs onto Dagger's dagger and Chris Claremont even remembers it, although it functions a bit differently. I'll get to that one in a couple of months.

Doc shows why he is sorcerer supreme. He approaches Dagger after he invades the Sanctum with a combination of caution and confidence. His absolute faith in Clea is on display here as well. There are some minor glitches I pointed out above but they don't distract from the larger story. A well done finale from one of my favorite creative teams.

[featherandferns]

7 fluff maybe?

7. I made us friendship bracelets.

This is very short but very sweet. Prepare to gag.

Feel free to request! - Prompt list

Beads - prompt 7.

Summer days call for chilling out: sun-tanning and swimming and sipping.

John B lounges at the helm of the boat, drifting in and out of sleep. Pope sits, reading a book, whilst JJ swims around in the water to cool off. Every now and then he climbs back aboard just to backflip off, aiming to spray as much water as possible on John B, who grumbles out cusses in return. You, Kie and Sarah are sat around. Sarah’s helping to braid some beads into Kiara’s hair. Pink, yellow and blue. Inspired, you’d dug about in the hold and found some string, and had started looping through some beads, working on a nice pattern. It was something you did a lot as a kid but had outgrown, and right now, you couldn’t remember why.

Tapping your foot along to the beat of a Frank Ocean song, you work at tying off the second bracelet. You’re snapped out of your peaceful haze when JJ climbs back aboard, shaking his head like a wet dog, spraying you with water.

“Quit it, JayJ!” Kiara hollers.

JJ sniggers and drops down in the spot next to you.

“What are you doing?” he asks. He steals a sip of your cider.

“I made us friendship bracelets,” you say with a smile, holding two up.

He grins down at you. “You’re too frigging cute sometimes.”

“Shut up.”

“Yes, I second that: shut up,” Kiara says.

“Save the foreplay for at home, guys,” John B feels the need to chime in.

You and JJ ignore their joking. He meddles with the beaded bracelets already on his wrist until there’s space for yours, and you slide one on. He watches as you slip yours on too.

“Fit okay?”

“Think so,” he nods, shaking his wrist out to inspect it.

The two of you have identical colour palettes but in alternating patterns. As yours goes green, blue, yellow, his goes blue, yellow, green.

You look down at the beads and debate making more, so everyone has one, but then you decide not to. It’s nice, having it just something for yourself and JJ. As if hearing this thought process, he presses a kiss to your forehead.

“I’ll never take it off,” he quietly says, so only you hear.

You flash him a smile, somewhat sappy in the moment.

“You two either get a room or get in the water so I don’t have to look at you,” John B says, propping himself up to point at the two of you. He says it as if him and Sarah don’t dote on each other openly all the time, churning up vomit in your throat at the sight.

JJ simply grins and shoots up, tackling his best friend into the water, making you laugh. You turn back to the girls and fall into the conversation Sarah’s started up about hair styles. The day slowly melts away like strawberry ice cream in the sun. But JJ keeps his word. From there on, amongst his muted coloured bead bracelets is a cheerful, bright plastic-bead one. If anybody asks where he got it from, he proudly tells them ‘my girlfriend’.

[writefightandflightclub]

Flight Instinct: (Santiago “Pope” Garcia x Francisco “Catfish” Morales)

Author’s note: this is a blurb request, and is a continuation of my poly!Triple Frontier fic, Captain of the Team. This could be read as a standalone I guess… but will make a hell of a lot more sense if you’ve read CotT and other blurbs which (chronologically precede this and) are connected to that ‘verse, i.e. Solid Ground, and Helicopter Guitar. 🧡

Screenshotting the request for this, which was sent in by the lovely @for-a-longlongtime 🧡 I’m sorry there’s no smut! But this is the scene that happened when I pressed the “play” button in my head. I hope you enjoy it, and thanks so much for the ask and your kind words about Solid Ground! I love this pairing and it was so fun to revisit them a little further down the line (though this is a little more of a rushed effort than the last one) 😀✨🙌

Pairing: Santi x Frankie centric for this blurb (Santi’s POV) but references to wider poly!relationship including Will and fem!reader.

Genre/warnings: m/m, early relationship, some angst and Santiago’s usual insecurities, smut references but only steam in the fic itself, some fluff.

Length: blurb, fairly short

Gif: by @pedrorascal 🧡

Santiago looks at the man - Francisco - reclined on his couch.

He looks beautiful. Unfathomably so. Long limbs stretched out, his dirty-pink Henley coordinated with the mauve lick of his plush, pouty lips. With the flush of exertion still held in his cheeks - from diligently sucking Santiago’s soul out of his dick less than half an hour ago. The garment rides up to reveal bare stomach. The dusting of his happy trail drawing Santiago’s gaze down to those tight, tapered hips. To his huge, powerful hands which nestle the paperback with care, dwarfing it in the broad span of his grip. He’s beautiful, his hawkish face tipping down towards the page, warm brown eyes soft and intent.

The fucking audacity, Santiago thinks. And the way he’s so casual about it too?

Still. Desire reliably twists a knot in Santiago’s belly, tightening like a fist even if he had been left very well-sated.

So then, Santiago tuts at him for the audacity of him daring to… for daring to…. Well. For something he can’t quite put his finger on yet. “Frank. What are you doing?”

Santiago sees Francisco’s eyes flutter closed in subtle aggravation. Maybe at the interruption. More than likely, though, at his harsh tone - completely uncalled for. And yet, calm and composed, he closes the book. “Okay,” he says with a finality. The straw that broke the camel’s back, apparently. “What’s going on with you tonight?”

“Nothing.” Well, that feels like a lie as soon as it’s out of his mouth. Francisco looks well aware of that fact though. Always was annoying like that. Seeing through his bullshit.

“So you always parade around the house like an aggravated chicken?” Immediately after asking his question, Francisco tilts his head, mentally answering it for himself. Often, actually.

That irks Santiago even more. So, he huffs and plants his hands on his wide hips, and meanwhile, Francisco rolls onto his side, propping his head on his hand. Somehow that makes him look even more beautiful as the lamplight slips fluidly over the planes of his face. Mingles into his dense mass of curls like liquid gold.

Annoying.

“Oh no,” Francisco rumbles, a deep, slightly mocking lilt to his tone which makes Santiago’s skin thrum despite himself. “Not you sticking that cute little hip out.” Francisco’s cheek tugs up with a lopsided smile, even if Santiago’s own smile does not greet him in return.

Perturbed, for no legitimate reason he can fathom, he scoops his forefinger and thumb around his mouth, his stubble rasping. He taps his foot almost impatiently, as though frustrated that Francisco hasn’t yet given him the thing he needs but can’t even name yet.

It’s hard. Makes him feel uneasy. An instinctual rather than conscious thing. A buzz in his limbs. A flutter in his chest.

A desire to leave.

To leave the room.

Maybe the country.

Definitely his feelings.

But he doesn’t.

He remembers what Francisco had told him last time he’d pulled that shit -firmly, and in no uncertain terms. “If we’re doing this, this can’t continue to happen, you hear me? I need you to stay in the room. Be a dick if you want. Just stay in the fucking room. After all this fucking time, man. Show me you at least respect me enough to give me that courtesy.”

He does. He does respect Francisco. After all this time. So, he stays. Despite his base instincts - which flood his body with the urge to run. The activation of his flight instinct. Thankfully, he supposes, Francisco is a pilot. If there’s anyone who can navigate him back to solid ground, it’s this guy.

“Come on. Sit down.” Francisco swings his legs, planting his feet to the floor. Sits up and pats the space beside him on the couch.

Santiago sighs deeply first; but then he sits, even if he doesn’t relax into it, perching his ample ass on the couch edge. He can feel the tension contorting his expression into something surly. He can’t fix it, but he makes sure to at least look down at the carpet instead of directly at Francisco. Somewhere deep down he knows he doesn’t deserve to receive the full brunt of his mood.

“Is this… because of the engagement?” Francisco ventures.

“No!” Santiago snaps back indignantly. Well. That’s another lie, apparently. As soon as that thread is tugged on, Santiago feels there’s truth in it. You and Will announcing your engagement has him feeling a lot of feelings - even if he can’t fully admit that to himself yet. Even if he can’t name them all yet. Still, that’s not quite it. At least… it’s not all of it.

“Well. Good.” If Francisco has noticed the lie, he steps over it. Instead of pulling him up on it, his hand slides down Santiago’s back and, counterintuitively, the man stiffens against the bestowed comfort. “Because they said it won’t change anything and honestly I believe-“

“-It’s not about that,” Santiago bristles.

“Okay.” Francisco’s hand smoothing at his back almost melts him. Almost. Stubbornly, he resists it. Still can’t fully admit to all the ways the man can see right through him. “Then wh-

Abruptly, Santiago rises to standing. An unfathomable adrenaline piping through his limbs. It feels like fear; though with no physical source he can name. “-What are we even doing, Frank?”

Frankie’s coffee cup brown eyes fall warm on Santiago, not bitter, even as the man clearly struggles to follow his train of thought. Honestly, Santiago is struggling to follow it himself. All he knows is he’s feeling… feelings.

“I mean. Seriously. Those two are engaged and we’re… I mean.” His voice falters. He hates that. Doesn’t like to feel vulnerable. Doesn’t like the way Francisco is able to pour himself into every crack he can find, sticking him together like glue. “Why the fuck are you on my couch? On a Tuesday night?”

“Would Wednesday work better for you, or..?”

“Frank, I’m serious. What are we doing?”

Santiago shuffles from foot to foot. Curls his tongue around his lip. Wants to run. Wants to get away from here. Doesn’t want Francisco to see him all opened up. He’s seen him all opened up. All opened up for him. Opening him up; and he can’t let him crawl inside any deeper.

He wants to leave the room.

But he doesn’t.

He risks a look back at Francisco, his head hung and his hands clasped in his lap. Santiago sees exactly what he expected to see there. Sees disappointment.

But he’s trying. For Frank, he’s trying..

Goddamn. He can say the right thing when he has something to gain. But oh boy. It’s a different story altogether when he has something to lose, isn’t it?

Francisco doesn’t rise to it though. Instead, he looks up at Santiago levelly. He feels embarrassed when he does that. Like Francisco is a man and meanwhile he’s somehow behaving like a small child.

“Take a second,” Francisco soothes, rising to standing in front of Santiago. “What is it that you actually wanna say to me?”

Santiago sniffs. Still frantic despite Francisco’s calm.

Stay in the room.

Stay on the ground, pendejo.

“You come here to fuck me and now you’re reading.” His palm gestures towards the couch in frustration. “You’re just sat there…”

Francisco’s eyebrows jump up, gently - to his credit, really trying to interpret what’s going down here. “Reading.”

“Yeah. Like this is all some…” Santiago doesn’t know where he’s going with this tirade, honestly. But he’s damn sure going to let it out anyway. “We’re not fucking married.”

Ah. There it is.

A flood of emotion rides in on the crest of that realisation. “We’re just hooking-up.”

A swallow sinks down Francisco’s corded neck. His mouth scrunches up into a pout, but other than that, he doesn’t give much away. Not beyond a tiny, discernible fissure of sadness in his tone. “Oh. I hadn’t realised that’s what we were doing.”

It’s preposterous, really. Preposterous to think that 18 years of friendship - and now this - could be reduced to “hooking-up”. Like he hasn’t known Frank for longer than he’s had the goddamn couch he’s complaining about him laying on?

Still - because of course he does - Santiago doubles down. Even as Francisco’s arms fold across his chest, suddenly making Santiago feel more lonely than he has in months. He tries not to dwell on the realisation that the past few months have been the first time he hasn’t felt lonely in such a long time. “Frank. Be real for a second. Like I’m not just some pit stop? You know. Until you find a new Mom for Bella?”

He can’t stand to look at the anger which flashes in Francisco’s eyes when he says that.

In fact, Santiago wants to run from himself in that moment. From the way he can twist something good and turn it bad. From the way he always seems to have the power to make his worst fears become real. Because he just has to poke something over and over to test how real it is. But, now that he’s started? He can’t stop.

“Fuck. And then, Will and…” he trails off before he says your name. Can’t bear to say it. Pulls on that thread and suddenly it’s all connected. Him and Frankie and you and Will. All tied together in a web he can’t yet understand, let alone trust. It’s all linked to the same fear in the pit of him.

There is a beat, and Santiago chews some more words down.

“You think we’ll all leave you.” Frankie says plainly, struck by the epiphany. Finally slotting everything into place, and Santiago feels his face pinch and draw down. Feels his chest tighten.

“No. That’s not what I’m saying.” Yeah. Yeah, Frank, that’s exactly it.

Santiago’s looking at the floor, but he can still see Frankie’s looming presence as he shuffles closer, mumbling idiota fondly under his breath.

Santiago is terrified that he will be angry. Expects it. Thinks he deserves it. But, instead, he feels Francisco’s strong arms wind around his middle. He feels the warm press of Frankie around him, muddling him closer. Still, although he wants to, he doesn’t yield to it yet. Not all the way.

“You’re the biggest flight risk around here, cariño.” Francisco chuckles warmly. “If any fucker was about to leave I’d have bets on it being you.“

“Fine!” Santiago snaps, irked by the mere suggestion even if he’s done it a hundred times before. “Maybe I will!”

“Oh. You will?”

He hadn’t expected Francisco to call his bluff, honestly. Hadn’t expected a lot of things when it came to him, to be fair. His next works are weaker. “I might.”

“Okay,” Francisco shrugs, before starting towards the doorway. Christ. Is this it? Has he fucked it already? Is this done?

“Where are you going?” He asks, his voice breaking.

“To the bedroom.”

“Why?”

“You’re coming, idiota.” Francisco doesn’t look “done”. Doesn’t look angry, even. Instead, he tilts his head -come on- and holds his hand out for Santiago.

“Why?” Santiago asks, even as he obliges.

Francisco leads him to his own bedroom then. Walks to the chest of drawers and pulls one of them open, lifting out piles of Santiago’s clothes and tossing them on to the bed.

“What are you doing?” Santiago’s eyes flit around the room in confusion. Embarrassment, as Francisco makes visible the exact upheaval he’s threatening.

“Well, see? That’s up to you. I’m either helping you pack, in case you wanna high tail it outta here - to get away from me reading so offensively on your couch. Or…” Francisco offers, matter-of-factly, “… I’m clearing myself a fucking drawer.”

“Huh? What for?”

Francisco turns towards him. Closes the gap between their bodies again. Presses his palm to Santiago’s face and rests the pad of his thumb on his shapely chin. “So that I have somewhere to put my stuff.” His gaze softens, and he presses a chaste kiss to the man’s lips. “When I stay over on Tuesdays.”

And with that, Francisco rests his case. Retrieves the book Santiago hadn’t even realised he’d stuffed into his back pocket before heading upstairs, and rounds the bed. Reclines himself on the clear side, looking all beautiful again.

Santiago sighs.

Santiago’s side of the bed, meanwhile, is covered in piles of his clothes. He can’t even lay down next to him. Not until he deals with this. Whatever “this” is.

Francisco is a clever fucker, alright.

Santiago saws his hand across his stubble as, meanwhile, Francisco disappears into his next chapter, not even looking up at him. “Your call, Santiago. Or, after 18 years, is a fucking drawer moving too fast for you?”

With Frank’s joke… it’s ridiculous, suddenly.

He feels ridiculous suddenly.

The situation and his anger and his fear feels… ludicrous.

He sees his situation better for what it is. It’s beautiful. Beautiful like Frank is.

Guess what? Santiago stayed in the room, and it all grew just a little less scary. In no small way thanks to his skilled pilot, who has spent so long learning his awkward, complex controls. Knows how to push all his buttons in just the right way.

His chest feels lighter. The knot in him unspools. An awed smile even cracks his face as he picks up a pile of boxers. “Well. You don’t need a whole drawer do you?”

“¡Ay, dios!” Frankie complains fondly.

“I mean. You don’t wear all that many clothes while you’re here, do you?” He raises an eyebrow suggestively - just in time for Francisco to clock it when he looks up, a smile chiselling itself from his strong features.

“Need extra hoodies, don’t I? You steal ‘em, pendejo.”

The two men lock eyes for a moment. Study one another, almost wistfully. Softer now. Full of feeling and affection.

Santiago knows it. Knows this is far more than hooking-up. And that’s it. That’s exactly what he’s so afraid of. He’s scared because it’s more than he’s ever felt. Deeper than he’s ever fell.

That’s the risk when you’re flying though, he supposes.

Still, there’s something about the soft light dancing in Francisco’s warm coffee cup eyes that makes him feel far less fearful. Makes him feel braver than he thought he could be.

“I’m sorry,” Santiago admits.

“I know you are.”

It’s okay. It’s okay to be scared, Francisco’s gaze tells him wordlessly. Just stay in the room. Just stay in the fucking room.

Santiago moves the final piles of clothes on to the top of the dresser and he crawls on to the bed beside Francisco. He nestles his cheek against the taller man’s chest. Curls his form around him and Francisco wraps him safely in his embrace. He feels the man’s heartbeat thud, pleasantly slow and steady, beneath his ear. He breathes in and out with the rise and fall of his chest, feeling the tension eke out of him.

“For the record?” Francisco begins, his voice striking a deep and robust note which shimmies right through him.

A divot notches in Santiago’s brow. “Yeah?”

“I’m not going anywhere. You got that?”

Francisco’s arms wrap him tighter, and meanwhile, Santiago’s eyes squeeze shut, fighting against hot, spiking tears of relief. He feels a warm, percussive kiss being planted at his hairline. Feels Francisco’s fingers raking impossibly gently through his curls.

“Better?”

“Mhmm,” Santiago agrees. “Yeah.” And, just for a moment, he allows himself to tug a little more forcefully on that thread. The one where you’re all connected. Him and Francisco, and Will and… you. For once, he tries to imagine the thread not as a web to tangle him up, but more like a… safety net. As something he could fall into, instead of run from. After a few moments of contemplating this, Santiago’s face splits in a tentative grin. “You know. She’s gonna look hot as all hell in a wedding dress.”

Frankie’s throaty chuckle, which sounds out, has to be his favourite sound in the whole world, and so, as he’s still laughing, Santiago opts to prop himself up on one elbow. Seeks out Fransisco’s gaze to meet with his own. He wants to tell him while he’s still laughing. Wants to believe this can all turn out happy.

“I love you.”

The words flow from Santiago’s chest so naturally, so freely and yet, immediately, a more solemn note chokes Francisco’s laughter. Weighs his smile down like a stone, until he is looking back at him with wet, shining eyes, his plush, mauve lips slightly parted in surprise.

He looks at Santiago as though he’s been waiting for him to figure that out.

He looks at him like he’s surprised, or like he never expected he’d live to hear those words out of his mouth.

Then, screw being on solid ground, Santiago thinks. As Francisco - after a dumbfounded beat - meets his revelation with a searing kiss, Santiago’s heart takes flight.

Francisco’s tongue curls tenderly into his mouth. His body rolls to shift Santiago beneath his weight, his knees falling open either side of his tight hips.

“I love you too,” Francisco says, voice revving with deep feeling as he braces on top of him. Then; “thank you”.

Santiago blinks. “For the drawer?!”

Francisco’s curse under his breath is nothing but fond. “Idiota. No. For trusting me enough to say that.”

Francisco’s tongue delves into his mouth once more, opening him up.

Frank, everywhere. All over him. With his tongue; his body; his heart.

Opening him up. Opening him up. Opening him up.

He’s opening him up, and what’s more… Santiago wants to let him in.

He wants to let Francisco into the deepest parts of him.

[hrodvitnon]

Thanks for hearing me out there, I really needed all of that. I think your blog (as well as other tumblr blogs in general like kaiju-krew) help keep me sane while witnessing all sorts of really dumb takes from the fandom, especially from the likes of Twitter and Reddit. The worst takes I've seen so far are the ones that claim that unlike Kong, if Godzilla ever encounters another one of his kind, he would kill them just for disrupting his nap and/or harm a baby of his kind because he's a reptile and something something "alphas in nature kill offspring that isn't their own to prevent competition" and junk like that.

It just really sucks to see them humanize Kong (and in many cases, turn him into a literal saint) while at the same time, reducing Godzilla to just a dumb animal when they're both intelligent and sympathetic but flawed individuals.

Also your comparisons of MV Godzilla to Doomguy and cats is very on-point. All three of them may look and act prickly at first, but there's more to them than just that and if you actually take your time to look past that and get to know them better while respecting their space, they're actually not bad at all. And in the case of both Godzilla and cats, it's kind of like intruding into an introvert's personal space and acting constantly annoying to them, and then getting mad and calling them a jerk once they show signs of wanting you to leave them alone.

(About Matt Frank's post, I took another look at it and he deleted the initial post, probably because of all the backlash he got from it since he misunderstood MV Godzilla's character hard. And in case you're curious on what the post said, it's something on the lines of something like "It's great that MV Godzilla is just an aggro jerkface in the whole movie (GxK) for NO reason at all and I'm all for it").

(That said, his follow-up replies to that are still there and they're still not the best takes. Here they are, for anyone who doesn't have access to that hellish site.)

Yeeeep, this is why I stay as much as possible away from the Twitter and especially the fandom side of Reddit; in fact, there are very specific reasons I would venture into those lawless depths: Check if anyone else has run into a game bug I've encountered and any workarounds for it, or fun gifs I just happened to spy on a Google Image search.

And you know, maybe it's because I just woke up, but to those who demonize Godzilla, I'm about to do something fuckin' hilarious with my power as a fic writer with my own canon at my fingertips. Check this shit out: In an AbraxasVerse take of GxK, when Godzilla is napping in the Colosseum and the authorities are like "what the fuck do we do," who rolls up but THE ACTUAL POPE to welcome the giant napping Nukasaurus Rex and be like "This is a beast of god who protects our world. I talked about this the last time he saved us, did you not listen to my sermon last Mass? For shame. Let the noble beast rest. Amen." Not in those exact words, but yeah.

Oh yeah, @thebeastunleashed showed the the tweets on Discord. Matt, I respect ya as a phenomenal kaiju artist and you're entitled to which Goji's your favorite and also your opinion, but sometimes it's okay to be wrong. (Incidentally, my favorite Godzillas are Heisei and MonsterVerse so I happen to prefer a Godzilla with a soft side.)

[abnormalpsychology]

I went to my first Rocky horror screening on Friday and I literally miss it so bad!!! I lost my mind and felt so hot and it was . transcendent . so I made a list of highlights:

- MY FRIEND AND I GETTING SAT IN THE SECOND UP CLOSE FRONT ROW BC WE LOOKED SO ENTHUSIASTIC IN OUR FLOOR SHOW MAKEUP AAGHDH 😳😳

-MY FRIEND AND I GETTING TO BE BETTY AND RALPH HAPSHATT (HER SAYING YES DESPITE NOT EVEN KNOWING WHO THEY WERE LMAO) AND ME MISSING THE BOUQUET TOSS TIMING - MY ONE JOB!!!! - OUT OF SHEER BLUESCREENING FROM SEROTONIN OVERLOAD AND PANIC LMAO

- OUR VIRGIN GAME WAS LITERALLY NOT BAD AT ALL DESPITE ME HAVING BEEN SO SCARED LOL. “I went to Rocky horror and now I’m popped!!” as our repeated call to worship with a guy dressed as the pope agahshgk, they were so gentle w us fr

- THE CAST DID THIS PRE RECORDED ROCKY HORROR VERSION OF THE NICOLE KIDMAN AD AHHAJDJ

- the audience making a joke to the stage guy (who was like probably 30) abt skibidi toliet and him being like “what the FUCK are you talking about” 💀

- preparing the audience for the ride like “people are going to be yelling the worst things you’ve ever heard in your life at the screen.”

- RIGHT INTO IT WITH A STRIPTEASE AND TIDDIES COMING ALL THE WAY OUT ON SCIENCE FICTION DOUBLE FEATURE

- “fight a triffid” “WHAT THE FUCK IS A TRIFFID”

- doing the time warp with a crowd was like the most fun I’ve ever had

- I ALSO GOT TO BE THE FUCKING LEVER RIFF RAFF CRANKS FOR ROCKY TO RISE OUT OF THE TANK LMAO

- I can’t even remember all the crowd chants but so many absolutely DESTROYED me w laughter

- “LIKE UR NECK BITCH”

- “you say goodbye / and I say” “hello 😒”

- “hey Janet are you a slut?” “yes ☺️ I am”

- IT WAS WEIRDLY LIKE CHURCH BC EVERYONE KNEW HOW ALL THIS SHIT WORKED AND HAD THEIR LINES MEMORIZED AND WE DIDNT BUT THEY LITERALLY HAD SIGNS AND SO MUCH KIND NICE INSTRUCTION FOR NEW PPL AND LIKE. I LOVE THEM

- THE LINES I KNEW I WAS SO GODDAMN HAPPY TO KNOW AND I EVEN YELLED OUT MY OWN ONES I CAME UP WITH AND THESE OLDER LADIES BEHIND US KNEW ALL THESE ORIGINAL ONES TOO

- “keep calm / don’t panic” or something like that and everyone just screamed in unison 😭 multiple times lol

- FORGOT TO GET US A PROP BAG BC WE GOT TO BE VIPS WHICH KILLED ME BUT IM GOING BACK ANYWAYS SOOOO 🤪🤪

- everyone had so many funny chants that kept surprising me but I was just singing along bc the songs already are just sOOOOO INCREDIBLY FUN anyways

- the improvisations by the cast were so consistently v funny, I loved them . and like everyone was trans!!! so many binders!!! it was incredible

- “-visitors, let alone offer them hospitality “HORSE BRUTALITY?” WAS SAID SOOO LOUD LMAO

- “it’s a Bird it’s a plane it’s SUPER ASSHOLE”

- THE WEAKLING WEIGHING 98 LBS CALLBACK LINE WAS EVERYONE JUST BEING MEAN TO BRAD AND IT WAS SOOO FUNNY LMAO

- EVERYONE THROWING UP TOLIET PAPER AND PARTY POPPERS AND CARDS IN THE AIR WAS SO BEAUTIFUL TO WATCH ACTUALLY <3

- THE BEDROOM SCENE OUR FRANK WAS LIKE “yep it’s totally me . Brad majors 😐 That’s me” not even TRYING and I fucking died lmao

- OH MY GOD. THE BEDROOM SCENES IN SILHOUETTE WHERE THEY HAD THEM PULL DIFF INSANE PROPS OUT OF BRAD AND JANETS ASSHOLES 💀💀💀💀 I WAS LIKE “THATS NOT HOT????”

- the Eddie chanting (“not the ass but the side!”) was SO FUN I WAS SO HAPPY I STUDIED FOR HOURS READING THE PARTICIPATION SCRIPTS LMAO

- Eddie live where they did the hand jive and I couldn’t do it fast enough and Rocky was wtaching me and said “IM LOOKING AT YOU”

- THE REVEAL OF EDDIE’S BODY WHERE THEY COULDNT HAVE HIM LYING UNDERNEATH THE TABLE SO THEY JUST HAD HIS ACTOR RUN OUT AND BE DEAD AS FAST AS POSSIBLE FHSAHSHHAHAHA

- them like “haha Dr Scott! we are eating ur nephew” 💀 #prankd

- I got to throw in my own little lines with like “You’re going to kill him? What’s his crime?”“WHATS NOT?” And I FELT SO FUNNY FOR IT

- riff saying “my most beautiful sister” and my friend (WHO HADNT FINISHED THE MOVIE) turning to me slowly like .. 😟?

- EVEN IN “IM GOING HOME” THEY STILL HAD CHANTS MAKING FUN OF IT FHAJQHS

- THEY DID SUPER HEROES AND I WENT “THANK YOU JESUS” ALOUD HFJSJW

- they had audience members also be the table Frank rides in the scene and the sonic oscillator which was so great!!! my FAVORITE of which was the cutie playing the globe at the end who got so dizzy she had to stop 😭❤️

- anyways it went crazy. pls go to Rocky horror if you get a chance asap!!!! go to events! be gay! it will change ur life

- <3 u rockyhorror :)

[literally-just-there]

Hi Gate! ♡ I have. A question. What's Seeker and your f/os' favorite classic paintings? Or statues etc! 👀🎨🖼

OOOOOHOOHOHOHO KUROH YOU ASKED FOR THIS *cracks knuckles*

(Putting this under a cut... Not doing just classic... No I did not do every f/o or I would still be here in a week. I just did paintings because that's what I'm more knowledgeable about)

🖌 • For Seeker :

She looks a lot at the eyes and facial expressions, and loves a good romantic scene like the pre-raphaelites do. We got "La Belle Dame Sans Merci" by Frank Dicksee, and "The Shadow" by Edmund Blair Leighton for example.

Strangely enough, she is also captivated by paintings that can be considered haunting, I'm thinking of John Martin's works that depict biblical, historical and other legendary apocalypses. She does not enjoy them per say, but she is captivated, especially since she is not religious but is herself a legendary being. I'm thinking of "The Destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah" and the triptych of "The Last Judgement".

She also likes "Christ in the House of His Parents" by Millais because it humanizes what is usually seen as only divine and otherworldly, and she relates to this paradox of being some kind of human god (I suggest reading the critics on the painting at the time).

🖌 • For the Informant :

Keywords are emotion and interactions. He loves when the painting displays interactions and especially love, whatever the kind. I have quite miscellaneous painting ideas for him ;

Leonardo Da Vinci's "The Virgin and Child with Saint Anne", Karl Gussow's "Old Man's Treasure", but also the more tragic "Tristan and Isolde" paintings by Rogelio de Egusquiza, "Romeo and Juliet" by Millais, or "The Meeting on the Turret Stairs" by Frederic William Burton.

🖌 • For Helen :

She loves paintings with soft vibes and that depict nature. I'm thinking of Rosa Bonheur as I type this. I love the cows she paints. Also pretty paintings like those of Sophie Gengembre Anderson, "The Turtle Dove", "It's Touch and Go to Laugh or No", "Little Helper", "Her Favourite Pets" or "A Fairy Is Made Of Most Beautiful Things" which is one of my favourites too.

🖌 • For Smallcat :

He does look like someone who would like grandiose official portraits. However he is more of a landscape type of guy. He paints some himself actually !! For me Monet is the absolute best, I'm of course thinking about his Nymphéas. And Pissarro !! Pissarro's landscapes !! Can we talk about "Le Grand noyer dans le pré, Éragny" ??!! Pretty !?!?!

🖌 • For Delacroix :

That arse head on the other hand LOVES a good lavish official portrait. It does make sense because he is a noble but also : the more gold, more jewels, more expensive fabric, more symbols of power displayed, the more he is eating this up like his eye dinner. I am thinking of Louis XIV by Hyacinthe Rigaud or Napoléon Ist by François Gérard, the good old coronation portraits.

🖌 • For Anna :

Most of all she wants to have something to say about the art piece. It has to make her THINK. So she prefers paintings that have intense facial expressions, and / or that tell a story that makes you THINK. I'm thinking of paintings about societal struggles, like "Burning the Brushwood" by Eero Järnefelt, or paintings that are sticking their chin at institutions, like Frank Cadogan Cowper's "Lucretia Borgia Reigns in the Vatican in the Absence of Pope Alexander VI" including more tragic ones like "The Martyr of Solway" by Millais.

But she is also a romantic at heart and appreciates paintings that display romantic interactions. There are the ones I mentioned for Seeker but I would add "God Speed" by Edmund Blair Leighton.

🖌 • For Wei :

MARINES. Anything that has to do with the sea. One name, Monet, again, yes, BUT !! The paintings he did when he was in Belle-Ile-en-mer !! The Port Coton ones !! He did so many !! And Turner !! Depicting the immensity of the sea !!

He would also love Chinese paintings, since this is what he grew up with. I am sadly not knowledgeable about this yet so I can't really go into details.

🖌 • For Hoggarth :

History is the key word, he prefers paintings that interpret historical events, that imagine the people's emotions at the time, especially when it is grave events. I'm thinking of "The Last Day of Pompeii" by Karl Bryullov or "Faithful Unto Death" by Edward John Poynter. Also "The Execution of Lady Jane Grey" by Paul Delaroche or "A Huguenot" by Millais.

Also, paintings that represent people feeling small before the higher powers they believe in, like "The Two Crowns" by Dicksee, or being powerless before them, like "The Ballad of Lenore" by Horace Vernet.

[rafesveryrealgf]

Surf The Wave

(JJ Maybank x reader)

Warnings: kissing, Curse words, the word ‘baby’, lowkey soft!jj

Synopsis: JJ attempts to teach his girlfriend how to surf.

Living in the outer banks and never having surfed wasn’t something you often liked to admit, and it also wasn’t something that sat right with your boyfriend, JJ. Being his girlfriend meant hours at the beach watching him and the Pogues surf and to be quite frank, you didn’t like that you couldn’t be out there with them, surfing the waves.

You wanted to surf, but it looked far too difficult so you never gave it a shot.

But JJ was determined to get you in the water, surfing waves by the end of summer.

You two were hanging at the Chateau with the Pogues, who were off doing their own things, when JJ decided today was the day he was going to teach you.

“Okay, so,” JJ claps his hands together, bringing you out your daze. “We’re surfing today, and you’re coming,”

You chuckled, smiling up at your boyfriend who hovered over you as you sat down on a stool that was place outside. “Yes..” you replied slowly. “don’t I always?”

He bends down to kiss you. “Nah, Baby, today is gonna be a little different.”

You hummed against his lips. “How’s that?”

“We’re teaching you how to surf.”

You quickly pulled away, smiling at his enthusiasm.

“JJ, I’m gonna suck,” you whined.

“Practice makes perfect, baby. Get your swimsuit on.” He quickly kissed you before running to get the rest of your friends.

You threw your head back like a child about to throw a tantrum before going inside to grab your spare swimsuit that you would leave at the Chateau incase you were in need of one.

You, JJ, and the rest of the Pogues hopped out the van when you arrived at the beach. John b. and Sarah walked hand in hand down to the water, while Pope and Kiara got their boards and made their way down to the water, following John b. and Sarah.

You and JJ hopped out the van last and made your way to the back of the van to get your boards. You crossed your arms and looked over your shoulder while JJ was busy getting the boards out the back.

He grabbed your board first placing it in front of you for you to grab when he noticed you were anxiously scanning the perimeter. “What’s wrong, baby?”

“I’m gonna embarrass myself. I just know it.” You frowned, looking down.

“Look, you’re gonna do great? And I’ll be right beside you the whole time, alright?” He reassuringly rubbed your arm to ease the angsty feeling.

It helped a little.

“Thank you,” You smiled at the blond haired boy, and grabbed your board before laying a kiss on his soft, pink lips.

He returned the smiled and kissed back before grabbing the other board out the van. “Let’s go,” he jerked his head sideways.

You both walked down to the beach, hand in hand, while your other arm carried your surf board.

By the time you made it down, your friends had already made it into the water. Sarah and John b. were splashing around while Pope and Kiara were paddling their surfboards.

You both swam out into the water until you could no longer touch the seabed, you both set your boards in the water and sat on them with both legs dangling on either side of the board.

He pushed up off the board and landed on his feet with his arms swaying by his side. “Alright, now first step is… learning how to stand up on the board.”

You rolled your eyes. “That should be easy.”

You got up on your hands to duplicate JJ’s moves “Shit.” as soon as you hopped up, the board flipped over, sending you sideways into the water.

When you re-emerged from the water with a smug look on your face, JJ, who was back on his stomach, waiting for you to come up, couldn’t contain his laugh.

“Ha. Ha. Laugh it up.” You gave him a sarcastic smile, and made your way back on the board so you could try again.

“Okay, okay. let’s try again, yeah?” He reached his arm out for you to grab his hand.

It had been 20 minutes of nonstop trying to balance yourself on your board at this point, and in all honesty you didn’t know how much more you could take.

You both stood at the same time as he helped you balance yourself.

“Alright, you gotta balance yourself,” he stated, getting ready to let go of your hand.

“JJ, no. wait!” You gripped his hand tighter. “I’m gonna fall.”

“You got this baby, c’mon.” He let go of your hand.

And.. you did it, you balanced yourself on your board.

“Look at you! First step down.” He smiled.

“That’s enough for me, I’m ready to go home.” You bring yourself back on your stomach, looking defeated.