#if love doesnt feel like this what is the point

[rafesbangs]

𝜗𝜚 mean!rafe loves cockwarming but you're not such a huge fan

c!w; mdni !! mean!rafe, desperate reader, cockwarming obviously tehe, bit of degradation ig?, use of the nickname bunny, dumbification sorta, overstimulation?, creampie, writer doesnt know what they're doing lol. an; first work !! um i apologise in advance bcs i used to write wattpad fics but i've just been a tumblr lurker... until now lol. pls leave me feedback!

rafe had been fucking you rough for what felt like hours. you were basically seated on his lap, backup against his chest with his cock deep in your sore wet hole. he was always pretty merciless when you had sex but this? this was just cruel.

after rapidly pounding you with his strong arms holding you up slightly by your ass as you yelped and tried to claw at his flexed bicep, he had let you fall hard onto his lap again, but didn't move.

you could feel his piercing smirk adorning his lips even without facing him. the way you wriggled, trying to gain whatever friction you could again, as you sat there begging to cum made him sooo smug.

you tried to move again, dragging your legs up from being splayed out in front of you to gain some height and fuck yourself on his dick, but he stopped you. grabbing at your hips with a bruising grip, "ah ah, you need to be patient baby..."

you whined at his scolding, the feeling of being so full of cock wasn't enough, you needed to move. your lips were red and swollen from pouting and nipping at them all this time, you grabbed one of his hands that was still on your hip, hoping the desperate touch would convince him to let you have your way.

"sooo needy aren't we bunny? god, dick's got you acting all dumb, huh? just want to be fucked soo bad, don't we?" he teased, his words syrupy. he was torturing you on purpose, having fun with it. he could handle the lack of friction, the way you were desperately clenching around him, your cunt fluttering everytime his chest rose and fell because that was basically the only movement you were getting now.

"rafeee" you whined, eyes closed and eyebrows cinched together as if you were in pain, "please... pleaseplease. i need you to move." he loved the way you whined his name, the way you begged, there was almost nothing you could do to get what you want at this point.

you looked down, a creamy line of arousal gathered around the base of rafe's cock. your breathing going all ragged as rafe ignored you and the sight of his cock so deep in your pussy only made you more wet and desperate.

you tilted your head back, getting all dizzy from the pressure of waiting and the way you were breathing too heavily. "aww, 's my bunny getting flustered and dizzy? this cock got you so good all thoughts are gone baby?" rafe chuckled, his hot breath on your neck making you twitch.

"please rafey it's so deep i need you to fuck me so bad..." you said all breathy, his weakness. you figured you might as well pull out all the stops now. with your head leaning back on his shoulder, you could sort of see his face, his jaw ticking in contemplation as you could feel his dick perk up at your words before. you grinned and continued, "rafeee... it's all i want."

he rolled his head to the side before finally moving his hands, one slid from your hip to the heat fresh and pooling in your lower tummy, finding itself on your clit. you gasped at the touch while his other hand slid under your ass, gesturing you to rise up a little again.

as soon as you did, you could hear a little scoff at the back of your neck before he began thrusting into you again, hard and fast. your loud pornagraphic moans bounced off the walls as he groaned into your neck, both of you really winning in the end when you came simultaniously, rafe then fucking the creampie back into you slowly.

"mmh, such a needy dumb bunny" he'd mumbled, still playing with your clit as he watched your pussy swallow the white liquid.

[honeytonedhottie]

decentering men and recentering urself⋆.ೃ࿔*:･💅🏽💓

the secret to decentering men and not having ur entire world revolving around them (bcuz it should be revolving around you, duh) is having a fulfilling life. it makes me ICK so bad when im watching a video or reading a post and im rly loving it, and then it'll find SOME way to make it revolve around men. like can we not?…💬🎀

WHY WE CENTER THE OPPOSITE SEX ;

a lot of people find themselves centering their lives around the opposite sex in an attempt to fill a void within themselves. they do it because they aren't happy with themselves or their lives, or maybe its learned behavior. whatever the reason is, its NOT hot.

some things that someone who centers men might think are "oh my life is so boring, maybe it would be spiced up if i got with a man" or "maybe it'll bring some excitement into my day" like EUGHHH. obviously the solution is to find ways to make our lives fulfilling but how do we do that? and how do we get to the root cause and squash this self sabotaging behavior?

SELF AWARENESS ;

if u have nothing going on for u, ofc ur gonna be energetically desperate and accepting anything and EVERYTHING. practice self awareness and try to get to the root cause of why u center men through things like shadow work, therapy, or just straight up having an honest conversation with urself cuz i swear it helps.

when you make the conscious effort to build ur dream life you'll notice that people that are on the same mindset as you will vibe with the REAL you. the need to fake/adjust urself to fit in with other people will dissipate because ur fitting into ur own standards and ur connections will be more meaningful because of it.

TAKE UR POWER BACK ;

no ones actions should ruin ur day or make u upset for more then a day (even less) cuz its YOUR world. 💕🍰

make time for YOU, doll. plan self care routines for urself every week. doing face masks, journalling, vision boarding, WHATEVER U LIKE TO DO. making time for urself reminds u that ur the main character of ur life so u dont have to settle for crumbs.

stop giving that power to someone else and dictate how u feel, NOT the actions of a significant other or the opposite sex or anybody. the reason why its important to make sure that ur the center of ur own life is so that you can be happy and fulfilled regardless of if there is a man or if there isnt a man present. so the objective is to decenter men -> and then put yourself at the center

GET A HOBBY ;

find something to make ur life fulfilling. pursue ur OWN interests and try out different hobbies if ur unsure of what ur interests are yet. cultivate ur world to the point where it GLEAMS with perfection and then do a little extra. build a life that u love so much that whether u get male attention or validation doesnt even matter cuz their opinions have little to no relevance 💀

challenge yourself: next time you catch yourself thinking, ‘would a guy like this?’ flip it and ask urself "hey, do i like this?" start checking with yourself first instead of checking with others.

MAKING THE DECISION TO DECENTER MEN ;

decentering men simply means that ur deciding to no longer think, feel, act, dress, or plan ur life around a man or for the validation of any man…💬🎀

relationships will actually get BETTER when u decenter the opposite sex. cuz ur not looking for someone to compete with and ur whole on ur own. this sets the stage for balance and mutual respect and THATS hot.

you can be in a relationship and still decenter men. decentering men simply means that you are the priority, not the relationship. how can we tell if we're decentering men or not? here are a few questions to help you know if u are ->

if i did not care about looking good to the opposite sex what would i actually like to wear?

if i did not get married, how could i create the best and most abundant life for myself?

what hobbies/interests do i have that dont involve being around men/have male attention as a component of it?

[lmaowhatt]

utterly obsessed? - three

summary: actress y/n I/n has recently skyrocketed into stardom after her breakout film 'castaways' alongside sarah cameron, kevin hart, chris evans and chris hemsworth. weeks after the movies premiere, she drops her debut single, further cementing her place in the spotlight. as millions of people around the world begin to idolize her, she catches the attention of rafe cameron, who doesnt shy away from becoming utterly obsessed in what seems to be the cutest way possible.

main masterlist

two - three - four

december 21, 2024

everythingyn

everythingyn y/n, accompanied by co-star rafe cameron and friends at 'hellraiser' premiere, as well as co-director, john b routledge making a couple appearances. bts pics were also recieved by fans who attended the premiere!

user jj and kie? kill me now theyre so cute.

user i will die on the cameron siblings supremacy hill.

user finest group of friends to EVER strut this earth.

user tuh. jj come home the kids miss you😔

➯ jjmay On my way!

➯ user BYE

user yall my friend said that backstage or wtv rafe and y/n werent near eachother at ALL..

➯ user they must be really good actors then😭😭

user john b, one chance! sarah, can you fight?

user i feel like theyd be so fun to hang out with if i had a man cs if u think im seventh or ninth wheeling😭

user love this❤️

user DJFVNIRJBV

➯ user real

truth was, the more sarah tried to get you and rafe close to eachother, to talk at the very least, the more the two of you found it awkward and distanced yourselves. you had spent the majority of the time at the premiere beforehand with jj, pope, kie and cleo, while he spent most of his time with sarah, john b, and topper. its her brother, can you blame her? why topper was there? no one knew.

you were mid conversation with jj when sarah came over once again with a beaming smile. "sarah, no." you immediately shook your head, glancing around at the fans that had turned up especially early, presumably wanting to capture pictures of whatever they could gossip about. "what? i cant smile at my bestfriend?" she jokingly crossed her arms over her chest, raising an eyebrow. "not when i know theres something you want," you point an accusatory finger at her.

you chuckled when she let out a heavy sigh, "okay, maybe." she said with a soft smile. "just a hug with you and rafe before you start, pleaseee." she begged, as she held your right hand with her left. you widened your eyes in agreement, tossing your other hand slightly into the air. "fine," you let her lead you towards rafe, where he glanced between you and sarah with a soft nervous? smile.

you offered him a tight lipped smile, opening your arms as if reaching in for a hug. he did the same, bending down and wrapping them around your mid-back as you wrapped yours around his neck. "sorry 'bout her," he mumbled into your ear. a slight chuckle left your lips, "its expected dont worry." you rubbed you hand up and down his back before patting it as if beginning to let go.

rafe noted the signal, also rubbing his hand up and down your back for a moment before backing away. the two of you stayed close, greeting some of the fans that had arrived early before saying a quick goodbye and retreating back to your original small groups. you sucked in a breath through your teeth as jj laughed, wrapping an arm loosely around your shoulder.

"y'good?" he mumbled as he watched cleo and pope innocently bicker as they tried to fix his hair with kiara laughing behind them. "yeah. i d'know what sarahs doing but as long as she doesnt push it." you shrug, watching as most paparazzi as well as a couple interviewers made their way to the designated area at the carpet, the horde of fans growing behind them.

he heaved out a sigh, wrapping both arms around neck in a warm hug. "whoa, hi there." you laugh. "whats this for?" you mumble, wrapping your arms around his waist as the two of you rocked slightly side to side. "im proud of you," he placed his chin on top of your head. "you tell me that all the time j," you laugh, however, you decide to stay in the hug for a while more.

"yeah, i know," he said softly, pulling away only slightly to face you. "but i want you to know i mean it, and thank you for keeping me by your side," he jokes, you laughing as he pulls you back into the embrace. after a short moment, you pull away. "thank you jj. love you." you smiled as he reciprocated, smiling down at you. "love you too, buddy." he kisses your forehead.

he nodded at the carpet, "go ahead, take some picture and let us know when you want us to join you." jj patted your shoulder, lightly pushing you towards the carpet where rafe was also approaching. you gave him a kind smile, glancing to where you previously were to see jj and kie, as well as pope and cleo smiling and cheering for you.

you laughed quietly as you and rafe wrapped an arm around eachother, taking a couple picture before some members from the rest of the cast, as well as john b and his co-director came over to also take pictures. after a couple more moments of posing for the cameras, john b gave you the all clear to call jj and the others over, so you did as he called sarah over. they all rushed up to you and rafe, hugging the both of you as a small greeting as if the nine of you hadn't greeted eachother before.

the nine of you got into random places, posing for pictures for some minutes. after a couple shots and different poses, everyone dispersed as you, john b and rafe moved on to the short interviews. your eyes first landed on a woman who looked to be in her mid-twenties, anxiously holding a microphone. you smiled politely at her as you approached. "hi," you extender your hand out for a handshake, one which she nervously accepted.

"hi," she stuttered back. "sorry.. my first time doing an interview." she shrugged lightly, to which you nodded. "dont worry, i dont bite." you laughed. she sighed as you stood patiently, "wanna get started?" she asked as she held a flash card in her hand. "whenever you're ready, dont worry." you held a hand out, silently saying that it was her call.

she inhaled slowly, exhaling after a moment. "okay- this was your first journey in horror/mystery film compared to your breakout role in the comedy, castaways," she paused as if asking for your approval, to which you nodded. "how challenging was it to manage the intensity and dynamics between your character and rafe camerons compared to castaways?"

you furrowed your eyebrows with a smile, pointing a finger at her as you raised your head in thought. "good question," you spoke into the mic she had moved closer to your face. "well, it was way more different in this movie. i feel like on set, whether we were filming or not, you could feel the sort of– tension? if thats what it could be called." you paused, gathering your thoughts.

"but compared to castaways where the tone was light and carefree both on and off set, yeah it was definitely challenging. this film defenitely required a lot more focus and deep diving into my character, but i was lucky to have a good co-star whos been in projects like this before to help me when i struggled." you glanced at rafe, who was at the other side of the carpet, also engaged in an interview.

the interviewer nodded along as you answered her first question, then trasitioning to her next. "speaking of, what was the first major difference you feel that set in when transitioning from four co-stars to one main costar?" you nodded, raising your eyebrows with a slight surprised face. "whoever writes your questions needs a raise," you joked, erupting a laugh from the interviewer.

you paused for a moment as you thought about your answer, "but, the first major difference i felt was the change in atmosphere. i feel like with multiple costars, theres sort of a family mood that sets in compared to with one main costar." you paused. "with one, its much more intimate, but it also allows for more exploration into your characters and their stories to make sure you understand the complexity of the entire plot." you spoke into the microphone with a small smile, "but i think it also had to do with the type of project you're working on."

"okay, good answer." the woman complimented to which you smiled with a small nod of your head. "heres a simpler question. did you have a certain routine you followed to get into your character while on set?" you fixed your hair as you thought about how to answer the question while also reminiscing about your days on set.

finally, you shook your head. "i wouldnt say i did. if anything, i would have my headphones in, listening to my playlist while in hair and makeup. but, to be honest, the music wasnt the same vive as the movie" you laughed as the interviewer smiled at you.

she tilted her head, switching grips on her microphone. "any artists we would know?" you nodded with a small smile, "hopefully," you crossed your index and middle fingers with a small laugh. "a lot of frank ocean, the weeknd, brent faiyaz, bryson tiller... a bunch of that type of music. and of course my baby, maddy beer." you blew a kiss to the camera, letting out a soft smile after.

the interviewer smiled at you and nodded, bringing the mic back to her face. "well, i believe thats all for this interview. thank you and good luck on your next," the woman smiled politely. you reached your arms out to pull her into a hug, "you did good," you smile as you pull away. "thank you," she mouthed. you waved a small goodbye towards her before walking a couple feet away to your next interview.

finally, after the entensive amount of interviews, where the questions were repeated for the most part, you shook the hand of the last interviewer, who for some reason had a habit of looking down your body, you not succeeding in hiding the disgust on your face. you walked away from the line of interviewers, looking around to find literally anyone you knew.

"boo!" jj grasped your shoulders from behind, to which you jumped. "jesus," you held a hand to your chest. "dont–" you shoved his chest, "do that jj." you concluded with a small laugh as he shoved you back lightly. "howd it go?" he asked you as the two of you walked away to find your friends. "eh.. it went good. i liked the first girl. she was nervous but shes good at her job." you smiled as you waved at random fans or people from set.

you sighed as the two of you went behind the carpet, "d'know about the last guy tho, bit of a creep," you shrugged. jj nodded along at your words, hand on your mid back as you moved around people. "well, at least its over," he joked with a small laugh. you reciprocated, laughing as the two of you approached kiara. you smiled excitedly, wrapping your arms around her neck with a small squeal as the two of you rocked back and forth giddily.

"im gonna go find jb," you removed yourself from the hug with kiara, turning to jj. "might wanna wipe the lipstick off better next time," you motioned to his jawline with a teasing smile. jj rolled his eyes, wiping the back of his hand along his jawline. "you idiot," kie moved around you, smacking his hand off his face to help him wipe the lipstick off. "have fun," you quipped as you made your way around people to look for john b.

rafecameron

liked by sarahcam, youruser, popeh and 1.3 million others

rafecameron life.

user the scream i scrumpt

sarahcam the way u copied my caption and im not on here..🙄

user TWO pictures of her? on purpose? very rare.

user let me B A N G BABY.

youruser well someone did me wrong

user he has a kid?

➯ user yes

➯ user no thats sarah and jbs daughter

user THEE james bond?

jbr get a load of this bald specimen

➯ rafecameron thats it im shaving your hair off

➯ sarahcam please do.

➯ jbr hello?

user we got family drama going on guys!

barrylyman i get a feat? sick.

*liked by creator*

user the way shes FIRST? the arm? someone pinch me

user WHO took my clothes

popeh im insulted

➯ rafecameron you know i love you bae

user help hes so girl dad

user rafe! ass or tits?

➯ user BRO WHAT?? LMAO

➯ lmaowhatt hes an ass man for sure

user help y/n is so unproblematic.

your phone

sarahs phone

a/n: sigh. also, according to chat gpt barrys last name is lyman, it doesnt really fit him but im running with it. we all know hes practically married to rafe canonically so its okay. a/n pt.2: next post might be on christmas day because i want to spend time with my family and friends tomorrow and i hope you all do as well! a/n pt.3: i also wrote the interview questions and answers myslef. ill let you know i was very proud of myself😭

[noihavenosanitythanksforasking]

idk if someone talked ab this before but is anyone else really bothered when mike calls el eleven??? like pretty much no one else but Brenner or other ppl involved with the lab call her eleven and when they do its always because they are referring to her status as a lab kid. especially in s4 i just noticed that mike just keeps calling her eleven. which just feels weird in general but especially due to milevens whole theme in s4. saying el doesnt take as long as saying eleven and mike was the one who made the nickname in the first place. the whole issue between mike and el in s4 is that el feels unloved by mike when shes not a superhero. she feels like he only loves her powers. and yet he keeps calling her eleven? like the whole season almost?

like Michael. your gf is sobbing in front of you saying that she feels like you dont love HER and only love her because of what she was able to do. her powers. which came from her traumatic childhood. a childhood so dehumanizing that she didnt even have a name. just a number??? and your response is

"eleven youre being ridiculous"

sir?????? youre proving her point!!!

also tangent but why is it that everytime mike tends to get closer to will again, he starts calling her eleven more??? wack

get it together michael

[thefandomsfervent]

Hi, I hope you don't mind me asking about Personal Pigments because I am so confused and do not take my cues well (from text or speech). I hope you don't take this the wrong way.

In personal pigments, what happens to Jayce and Viktor if Viktor and Reader do end up in a relationship? Because it's heavily implied (at least from what I understood) is that there's a romantic subtext between Jayce and Viktor that even the Y/N notices.

Is it platonic with romance mixed in with extreme respect for each other ++ their work and admiration?

What happens to the trio's relationship with each other? Do they all end up with each other if that was the case?

For other people reading this, there will be spoilers for personal pigments (a vik x reader soon to be jayvikxreader fic) so if you're not caught up to chapter 17 don't read this yet!

Hi anon! No worries, somethings aren't going to be clear to everyone because we all communicate differently, I appreciate the ask! I'll explain my intent more clearly with chapter examples and also answer your questions. I hope the word vomit isn't too bad lol.

You are correct that reader can tell that Jayce and Viktor are romantically involved! In Ch. 10 reader teases/asks them about their "partnership"and Jayce confirms that they are "not, not together". It's meant to be vague in the sense that J and V don't really know either but that they don't care at that moment to define it, they just know that they like each other without having to do anything about it because they are always together anyways. A closeness that didn't need a label because they both saw other people (flings) prior to and during their time as Hextech partners.

For J and V is been an undefined romantic but not yet sexual/physical situationship this whole time, where reader admires them and their work. In turn, J and V start to notice and admire reader. Since it started out as a non-poly fic/ V x reader fic we're seeing more from his POV so far about his feelings for reader. We will see more from Jayce's POV soon but some hints to it are in Chs 10(him noticing V admiring reader) and 12 (saying he missed reader and teasing V for missing reader). These are meant to be read as either platonic or romantic. Things move to a more romantic/ sexual turn when J notices reader watching his moments with V a bit closely in Ch13 and teases reader. We also see J think of reader's words as an innuendo and teasing V.

Ch 14 is where JayVik really comes to fruition as a J and V teeter the edge over a physical/sexual boundary with teasing. They've teased each other before as seen in previous chapters (descriptors or allusions to) but this time it's done with explicit intent to rile up. This chapter ends with Jayce saying "audiences are important" while looking at reader because that's where V is looking. This is meant to imply that J knows that V is interested in reader, and that J himself is also interested. Reader starts Ch 15 seeing the teasing and finding themself wanting to know more but staying away as the JayVik relationship is undefined but present. In Ch 16 while reader is gone on a walk with Mel, Jayce and Viktor finally define their relationship (albeit murkily) as something that is open and they kiss and celebrate. Getting drunk and leading to chapter 17 where Vik masturbates to the idea of both reader and Jayce. In this chapter we also see Reader becoming more aware of JayVik as a potential (since reader doesnt know for certain yet) to be relationship. At this point reader is still dense and likes both of them as friends while finding Viktor to be the most occupying of readers thoughts.

Reader is a bit slow on the uptake. And Jayce is loverboy who can and will love everyone. Since he enjoys reader as a friend, and enjoy V as something more, he likes that V enjoys reader as something more and wouldn't mind developing it with the three on them together. Canonically he has an undefined but very bf/gf like relationship with Mel that I do want to include.

So your questions: what happens to J and V if V and reader start dating? They stay together!

Is it platonic with romance mixed in with their extreme respect for each other ++ their work and admiration? Yes. It started as platonic for J and V that quickly grew to an undefined more before reader was ever present. Now that reader is there J and V admire each other and both admire reader. The two of them (i imagine anyway) respect and are drawn to people with drive. And reader admires their work for Hextech but also J and V's relationship as friends/more than friends because of their inherent trust and kindess for each other. For J and V it became romantic before reader but is defined now with reader because they both want to openly pursue her and potentially others (Mel in the case of Jayce).

What happens to the trio's relationship together? Do they all end up together if that's the case? I fully intend for this to be a slowburn on reader's part specifically. The short of it is all three of them together with potential for Mel to join as a fourth. She may remain as a hinge partner for Jayce that reader crushes on, just depends on how things develop as I keep writing.

Thank you so much for reading and asking, I hope this clarified things. Feel free to ask more questions, I may or may not answer them if the answerscwould reveal too much of the story I have planned. I do want to stick very closely to the canon though. Currently we are inbetween Act 1 and 2 of Season 1 during the 7 year timeskip.

[izzystradlingirl]

𝑰𝒔 𝒊𝒕 𝒐𝒗𝒆𝒓 ?

request: Izzy and reader (doesnt matter gender u pick) are married or gf/bf and they started to drift away from each other. They realized later on with an argument or not(lol)and make up for it. U can end it any way u want! @kay-random

A request from august I’m so sorry it took so long but after reading it again I found it pretty good and not as bad as I thought when I first wrote it. Not saying it’s that good cause I’m never satisfied with what I write but I hope you’ll enjoy it !! <3

Warnings : a little angsty, crying, grammar and conjugation

It’s been now almost a year that Izzy and I were married. At first everything was all roses and love. A young lovely and fresh couple. I’m wondering if all the excitement didn’t rush us and made us make a mistake.

I’m in the bathroom to change after coming back from work. I look at my ring on my finger. A beautiful ring, from a beautiful love… But does it still have the same meaning as the first day I had the honor to wear it? Thinking about it and my eyes got blurry and a tear slowly rolled down my face. Something is off. I can tell something is off between us. The most frustrating part is that I can’t tell what or why. Izzy and I are living together but it almost like we’re not, we barely talk. Don’t get me wrong he’s not a very talkative person but Izzy being dead silent like this is not okay. At first, when something was wrong, we were telling each other. We were having something called “a conversation". Now I feel like we’re strangers.

I live with a stranger I barely see, I barely talk to, I barely know… I can only imagine the worse but I’m trying to not. Maybe it’s just a down in our relationship that every average fresh couple have.

I have to admit it’s a strange life I chose to live here. Marrying a guy from one of the most popular band. A guy who was having all the girls he wanted (and probably still do at this point). We were probably blinded by love, I was probably blinded and didn’t see the problem who was probably there since the very first day.

I don’t know who I’m living with but it’s not the Izzy I know. As surprising as it could be, the Izzy I know is the sweetest person. Always supportive and caring, protecting you and wiping your tears for you when you cry.

I was wiping my own tears since a month now and today wasn’t an exception.

So, I wiped my tears away, refreshed my face with water and went down the stairs to the kitchen. Izzy was sat on a chair zoned out. I didn’t know if this view was sad, annoying, or whatever it could be it was for sure torturing. As I stop at the door frame, I look at him and he lift his head to look at me with his painted blank face. I felt weak after crying for half an hour, but I had to take all my courage in my hands.

“Can we talk?” I quietly ask.

He nods and looks down at the table. I walk to a chair, sit in front of him and look at him again. The silence was so heavy it could dig a hole in the floor for both our graves.

We kept staring at each other in the eyes without any emotions for a moment.

I take a deep breath and open my mouth to talk but nothing comes out. I was trying to find how to start

“I don’t know…” Izzy suddenly mutters cutting my thoughts.

I slightly frown my eyebrows, shake my head a bit and shrug. “You don’t know?” I mutter too, what does that mean? He shakes his head too.

I felt my tears coming back and Izzy avoiding eye contact was not helping. I tried not to cry in front of him but, some threatening tears found their way down my cheeks. The silence and the tension were pressuring me.

“Izzy… you know we can talk… you know we can trust each other… what’s going on?” I ask almost desperately. He nods and I see him try to smile at me but, it looked more like a painful move than anything else. “Please say something…” I need him to talk even if it’s to tell me to fuck off. It would be the longest sentence I would have had in a month.

“What do you want me to say?” He shakes his head almost pissed. “I don’t know, anything. What’s wrong?” He’s looking at me with a frown. Don’t tell me he didn’t notice something was wrong.

I think he just scoffed and now he shrugs “There’s nothing wrong…” he denied. I look at his face like he’s mad. “Are you kidding me? There’s clearly something wrong Izzy don’t try to deny it.” I tell him firmly. He shrugs again and say nothing. I scoff not believing the situation. “Seriously? Are you just going to deny it and wait for a miracle? We need to talk Izzy, really.”

“And about what?” No way he dares to ask and in a pissed tone to complete it. He absolutely knows about what.

“Don’t know maybe the weather and the sun?? Izzy.” I look at him startled. “We didn’t have a conversation this month! We barely talk or see each other.”

“Yeah, what do you want we’re both busy…” wow. Worst answer. Ever. “Busy? I wake up at 7, work from 9am to 8pm. You’re never around when I’m home! And don’t try to tell me you’re at the studio cause I’m waiting for you every night until I fall dead asleep at 2 or 3 in the morning. You’re yeah obviously very busy. You were never staying this late at the studio before it must be a very big project.”

He looks at me, narrow his eyes and brush his chin with his fingers. He nods and it’s so silent I can hear him gulp. I didn’t yell at him or anything. I just explained. I’m just worried right now. Worried about him, about us. What about us?

I keep looking at him waiting for an answer. After like a minute, he remains silent looking at the table. I sigh and look at the ceiling. I then lean my head in my hand, my elbow on the table, and I look at him again.

We look at each other’s eyes for a moment and suddenly he decides to mutter “I’m sorry…” sorry? “Why?” I whisper pleading.

He only shakes his head and looks like he’s trying to say something.

“We should take a break…” he finally says after a moment. My head snap at him and I’m hoping I heard it wrong. “What?” I ask in an almost inaudible whisper.

“We’re not… we’re just…” he sighs not finishing his sentence.

A break ? So no talking ? Just… a break ?

“Wow… okay…” I say fighting my tears back “yeah okay…” I repeat not finding anything else to say. I take a deep breath before getting up and going to our bedroom, I close the door and cry and sob silently. Again. I go to the closet and take a suitcase and start to pack some stuffs.

And with only a shared look I open the front door and walk out, to the nearest bus stop. When the bus arrives I get in and head to my parents.

a/n : I have a part 2 going on if anyone is interested :D

[flo-zoinks]

do you think Dutch every truly cared about Arthur, John, oe any of the gang members? Or he only cared about how useful they were to him? How loyal they were to him?

I think he cared genuinely to an extent, especially when it came to Arthur, he just ultimately cared about himself more and his own ego. Just my take tho, it's a bit more complex than that but I really don't know how to word it :")

Good take!! Thanks for asking me ♡

In short (if possible), I think Dutch cared, but other factors were a lot more dominating than that love.

To Dutch, I believe his biggest goal in life was his image. Dutch's idea of a perfect person was someone who took in and protected the rejected and weak around him, who didn't follow and submit to the society around him, who longed for freedom and spoke wise words about not conforming. Whilst this idea of a perfect person might not be what everyone else thinks at all, it's what he does. Arthur and John fell into that image - the people someone perfect would protect and care for, and teach his own ways. So Dutch believed he cared for them, being that perfect person, and acted as someone who would. That's why I think he did things that looked like caring, (what he believed was), but when it came to things that werent obvious, or took too much work he deemed necessary, he allowed other factors to dominate that caring feature of a person to mentally ignore them whilst still feeling good about himself.

That's why I think he was so easily able not to save Arthur, his son, in chapter 6. A Father, or a Mother who truly loves their child as they should wouldn't give up that love so easily, as Dutch did. No matter the current issues, they would save their child, at the risk of their own life easily. Dutch allowed that judgement and voices to enter his head so quickly, and used it to allow himself to abandon his child, telling himself it fit the criteria of a perfect person as "they deserved that." It was easier to do that, then to have to make a decision that could possibly harm his own idea of himself.

Take for instance, Dutch's jailbreaks. If Arthur goes to jail for a prolonged time, theres a good chance Dutch will break him out in the game. However when Arthur gets kidnapped by the O'Driscolls, I dont think Dutch went to look for him past the jails and saloons. A caring person would search where he thought would fit, like those jails and saloons. Someone who loved further and actually cared like a Father would search and put in countless hours to retrieve their loved one, but once he'd finished feeling like a good person didn't care to look further.

So generally because I'm so close to going off topic lmfao, I think his belief that he cared manifested into a little actual care, however wasn't as big as he pretended. He saw them as assets, as parts that existed to him to help him feel good about himself, as tools. The people around him, Reverend, Molly and so on exist to stroke his ego and tell him he's a saviour, he's so smart and perfect. But when Arthur and John begin to openly doubt and judge him whilst Micah doesn't, he sees it easier to believe Micah's words and follows the route that reminds him hes perfect, meaning he doesnt need to care for Arthur and so on to feel good about himself. Their purpose doesn't work anymore, their used up and broken, so that care disappears.

That's also how I view the American Venom scene, when Dutch shoots Micah. At that point, Dutch sees the full maliciousness and "evil" in Micah's words, and realises his mind will never be able to twist things and his own views to justify their actions anymore. So to still feel well about himself, he shoots Micah. Besides, 'that's what a good person would do, right?' He still doesn't need John, still sees him as someone who will damage his self-image, so therefore not worth his attention and a traitor to him, but is perhaps a little less hostile to him. He's reminded a good person should still care for him, and Arthur, so treats it as his final act of 'love' he can perform. His final moment of 'caring'.

Am I yapping any sense ? Not really. Am I tired? Ya! But this is just my personal view! I agree with u fo sho so thanks for the ask!! I'm so grateful I love these so much. I'd also love to see other opinions or views on this❤❤🌟

[distinguisheddetectivechild-blog]

I 100% agree !

I think its telling that the audience in 2x07 laughs at Louis when it is mentioned that he doesnt hunt human and Claudia then defends that choice despite not even agreeing with it (it felt like the show was addressing its audience).

I think, regardless of whatever underlying motivations or personal biases led Louis to that decision, it it still a core struggle for his character and one that has stayed with him for decades (even while he deviated from it : 1x06, San Fran 1973) and that he eventually found a way to honor in Dubai (he views not having killed a human since 2000 as an accomplishment).

I also hated that he felt pressured to hunt human in 1x06 just to keep the peace.

I personally cannot read fics that have him killing again just to feed after 2x08 and framing it as a liberation from Armand or as a post 2x08 apology mindset shift (because he thanks Lestat for the gift) because...not killing was a Louis rule that Armand never once factored into, and Louis thanking Lestat for the gift was about thanking him for the gift of "time" in my opinion not the vampirism itself so it doesnt work either. Especially since time is what allowed him to find a viable way to feed enough without killing !!

Obviously this is a show about monsters who crave human blood, so if the writing changes in that regard at any point i wouldnt so much mind because I place Louis on a moral high ground, but it would have to make sense for his character. And to me his refusal to kill senselessly just to feed himself is a core part of his character that sets him apart and also informs how other vampires might react to him. He's very in tune with his guilt, the consequences of his actions, he's also very repressed and craves control over his life and i personally think his ability to control his thirst is important to him and is an extension of his greater desire to have control over himself and his life (one could argue that his withholding from Lestat, his maker/lover is also largely about feeling powerless and needing to maintain a sense or illusion of control, almost like giving that one last inch by saying i love you would make him lose himself).

All this to say, i think Louis' veganism so to speak, especially in the modern day is a much more advanced and logical way for a vampire to live (and it doesnt hurt that he has the means to source his blood safely). And i think it enriches the iwtv discourse and the lore in a 2024 context.

You know I do think that the fandom does at times give Louis a little too much flack for the whole not wanting to kill people thing. Like yeah he can be self righteous, he can be hypocritical, he can sometimes seem more concerned with being perceived as a good person than actually being one. But objectively "oh fuck I wasn't given a full understanding of what exactly it was I was signing up for here and now I have to spend eternity killing people to survive and I don't think I'm actually on board with that so I'm going to try to come up with ways to, like, not have to do that" is kind of an extremely normal and reasonable reaction lol. And also (hopefully) the one the vast majority of us would realistically actually have. Like the sheer amount of "ugh Louis stop being so pretentious and judgy about murder 🙄" takes do sometimes feel a little bit silly

[daisybell-on-a-carousel]

Being someone who read Under The Red Hood and came out with the firm belief that, for Jason, it's not about killing Joker, it's about Jason wanting proof Batman would choose him over the Joker (bc shelia chose the joker). Makes seeing any other media where it's all about just wanting the Joker dead is a teeny bit frustrating. to be honest

Jason could've killed the Joker himself, really, really easily. Jason kidnaps the Joker before the confrontation. I can't open my comic for a reference right now, but it felt like he had the Joker for quite a bit before the confrontation. He had him. He beat him up with a crowbar. He had every single opportunity to kill the Joker himself, but he didn't because that wasn't his goal. Make no mistake, he did plan for the Joker to be dead by the end of it, but do you see what im trying to say here

Edit: If I knew this post was gonna get 1000+ notes I would've tried to word it better or something, this was a rant I made on the way to the grocery store 😭

It's not about making Batman kill either. When Batman says he won't kill, Jason adjusts and goes, 'Let ME kill the Joker or kill me to stop me' instead. The test is all about Batman choosing him. The whole final confrontation is Jason's first death again. The parent, The Joker, and the explosives. It even ends with Jason unable to move as a bomb goes off right next to him again because the parent didn't choose Jason. And instead tried finding an option that'd benefit them and (consequencely) letting the Joker walk, again, lol, lmao <-in agony

[casualavocados]

Learn from who? Learn from you?

Chen Bowen as CHEN YI & Chiang Tien as AI DI KISEKI: DEAR TO ME (2023)

[usercelestial]

okay but literally what if buck and tommy end up together? like what if we get to see them moving in together or saying i love you for the first time or getting engaged or getting married? what if we get to see buck having a husband? literally what then...

[ravensmadreads]

Taylor I'm- 😭😭😭

in another life . . .

rating: explicit, 18+

pairing: frankie morales x f!reader

word count: 7K

summary: Partner. That word had been jammed up inside his brain for as long as he could remember. Gym-class partner, lab partner, work-out partner, partner-in-training, partner in this fucking life or death situation where we’re only going to get out alive if we trust each other more than I trust myself. And then he met you and the definition changed again.

warnings: domestic!frankie, marriage kink (if that’s a thing), oral (f receiving) but i think that’s an expectation from every frankie fic, improper use of a kitchen table, unprotected piv, no use of y/n, brief mentions of PTSD, improper use of Spanish, eating in bed 

a/n: requested for my 100 followers event! Anon: hiiii firstly! congrats on the big one hundo you totally deserve it 🥂‼️ secondly wondering if I could rq a Pedro boy drabble with prompt number 12... I wanna do laundry for Frankie Morales :D “did you just wash these sheets?” “I did.” “they smell nice. and they’re still warm.”

🤍Masterlist

. . . I would have really liked just doing laundry and taxes with you.

Frankie fills the silence of the house without you in it with music. This house, it had been your choice, even though he never expressly made you choose, or even presented the dichotomy. This house, with its leaky faucet and janky AC unit and finicky pilot light, was what you wanted instead of a diamond ring, and so he gave it to you. First down payment, along with every other red cent you and he had both saved up, went into buying your first home together. This wasn’t forever, you both agreed (with only two bedrooms it wasn’t enough room for a baby, he often thought) but even as the real estate agent glanced around with disdain for the house and your budget, one look from you and it was settled. 

“It has good bones,” you said, standing out on the concrete deck overlooking a postage-stamp-sized backyard. There were weeds in the corners and holes from some unknown animal but he could see the wheels in your head turning, imagining how you, like everything else you did, planned to tackle and wrestle control over it with your bare hands. “It needs work, but I think there’s something special here.” 

“Yeah?” he asked, threading his fingers through yours, the real estate agent no doubt off somewhere inspecting the drains. “Is there something here?”

You grinned and shoved your nose then a soft press of your lips into his denim-shoulder. 

“I’m sure of it.”

All his life, Frankie worked best in a unit. As children, his older brother, his younger brother, and him were practically inseparable, their physical similarities almost presenting as the same person but at different ages, and when that group disbanded because Oscar left for college, he went on to find another one. First, his army unit, then the boys. His boys. Left to his own devices, Frankie was terrible at remembering to eat, sleep regularly – focus on anything other than fixing cars and planes, really – but he’d do it for them. He hated to see that worried crease show up on Will’s brow when Frankie admitted he hadn’t eaten since breakfast. He hated that Benny had to show up at his apartment to drag his ass outta bed to get him into the sunlight. And he hated when Pope felt obligated to take him out to bars to try and meet women.

“I’m not dating someone just so they can be my mother,” Frankie muttered into the lip of his beer bottle. “I don’t need anyone thinking I need to rely on them like that.” 

“Yeah, but you do better when you have people relying on you.” Pope’s dark eyes flitted from a woman at the bar top to him, with intention and full of force. “And I’m not saying I’m trying to get you to fuck your mother, but you need a partner.” 

Partner. 

That word had been jammed up inside his brain for as long as he could remember. Gym-class partner, lab partner, work-out partner, partner-in-training, partner in this fucking life or death situation where we’re only going to get out alive if we trust each other more than I trust myself. 

And then he met you and the definition changed again. 

You are his best friend. You are the woman he wants to fuck every day for the rest of his life. You are the first person he wants to tell good news to and the first person he wants to talk to when he’s had a shitty day. Your voice quiets something inside him that has been far too loud for far too long. You are a relief and a refuge. For all his faults, you love him and sometimes he can’t fathom why. 

You are his partner – in life, in marriage (one day), and forever (he hopes).

“I might not always like you, Catfish,” you said to him in Will’s backyard for Benny’s birthday party. You had been drinking and every sip seems to bring you closer and closer to him. With your face tucked up into his neck, arms up under his flannel and hugging his waist, the only way he could be physically closer to you was if he was inside you – which he was about two seconds away from suggestion when you leaned in close. “‘M not always going to like you, but ‘m always going love you.”

And love him you did. You loved him when he decided to go back to school to get some additional certifications so he could maybe teach flight school. The army would pay for most of it, was a fucking relief to your shared thread-bare, cartoon-spider-web empty savings account. But what the army would not pay for was for you to go to nursing school. You worked in hotels for the events services branch, coordinating everything from weddings to conferences, walking (mostly running) from one end of the hotel to the next. Your sister got you a Fitbit for Christmas one year and after the holiday rush, you walked twenty miles in two days. 

“After that, this nursing stuff should be a breeze,” you said flippantly as you signed your paperwork for admissions. 

Of course you got accepted at one of the better hospitals in the city – he never doubted for a second you would – and as the fresh-faced trainee, you got stuck with most of the night shifts. 

Which meant his days looked a lot like this: wake up at 6AM, drive an hour to the helicopter tour building on the coast, fly rich idiots around all day, eat the lunch you had prepped for the both of you on Sunday night, continue flying rich idiots around, drive home in two-hour traffic, change into his work overalls, go work on some cars Benny’s buddy had at the local garage for some extra cash, then go home, heat up dinner you also made Sunday night, and then attend to the most pressing thing you or the house needed. 

Which could be:

Fixing the AC unit, resealing the back door so it would close properly, re-caulking the shower, building more attic space, repainting the back fence, or replacing the hand towel holder.

Frankie didn’t mind the hard work. It kept his mind and his hands busy. What he did mind was the house silent and eerily empty without you here. 

He didn’t mind the hard work because even for a few hours, he got to hold you while you slept. He got to eat with you at 10:30 at night and it was the highlight of his day.

Pay your surgeon very well to break the spell of aging

Sicker than the rest, there is no test, but this is what you're craving?

Frankie bobs his head, his earphones carefully tucked up under his shirt to prevent the laundry from tangling up in them. He hauls out the latest load and moves onto the washer, fishing out one more sock when suddenly the lights go off. All of them. Total darkness.

And then light and he’s staring down the bottom of the drum.

Then dark. And light.

You. Your code. One you designed when you read that PTSD victims are often triggered into a fight-or-flight response when startled. You, who knew before he did, how to manage the symptoms, create workarounds, and find a pathway through, instead of not at all. 

He takes out one of the earbuds and smiles.

“Hey, you’re home.” 

You lean against the doorway, smiling that smile that is reserved for him and him alone. Sometimes he’s selfish and wants everything of yours to be only for him – all your smiles, your laughter, your sighs – but that’s like trying to capture sunlight in a butterfly net: too focused on the impossible and you end up missing the daytime. 

“How goes this fucking Sysphian task?” You nod at the baskets of laundry at his feet, referring to how you’d often rant and rave about how laundry, the dishes, and grocery shopping were never tasks that could simply be done. He knows how much you hate being unable to cross things off your to-do lists, so he holds your hand during all of these rantings and kisses your knuckles when you take a breath. 

“Good,” he shrugs. “‘Bout to fold your scrubs for tomorrow.”

“Ah, have I told you lately that I love you?” You swing into the room and kiss him on his cheek, on the division where his patchy beard meets his skin – the place that you most often claimed on him. Your fingers squeeze around his bicep as you pull away and your eyes fall to the basket behind him. You gasp with glee. 

“Did you just wash these sheets?” You ask like you’d just uncovered buried gold. 

He smirks, propping his hip up against the dryer. “I did.” 

Without another word, you scoop them up in your arms and inhale sharply.

“Mhmm, they smell nice.” You bury your head in deep. “And they’re still warm.”

In the rare moments when you’re both home and going through laundry together, he never fails to scoop up a load of hot towels and dump them over your head, relishing in the girlish giggle from beneath the clean laundry. “It’s so toasty,” you whimper with glee. 

“They’re not gonna be if you get your hospital gunk all over them,” Frankie tuts, going back to add a new load into the washer as you glare at him over the lump of sheets. 

“Ha, ha. Move over, Mr. Morales, and watch a master at work.” 

“Yes, Mrs. Morales.” It’s stupid but his heart always fumbles when he calls you that. It started as a joke, one that you initiated, but now it’s like berry jam on his tongue, sweet and sugary. He’s thought about calling you that while he’s inside you but figures he should save something for the wedding night. 

He sidles back, giving you space near the dryer as you pick up a basket of t-shirts.

“You know there’s dinner waiting for you in the kitchen.” He shakes his head as you begin to fold the shirts with lightning speed and precision – a side effect of being the oldest daughter in a family of five kids. 

“Yeah, but you’re in here,” you say and bump his hip. He bumps you back and helps with the load. “Besides, it’ll get done faster with two people.”

He can’t exactly argue with that, so he lets the silence grow. But it’s not silence, not really. In the distance, dogs bark. Outside the room, the temperamental AC grumbles, a sound he never thought he’d come to appreciate. Inside the room, fingers tug at fabric, the soft thump as the shirts grow into a continuous pile. Then there’s you, breathing in the lilac-scented air, the scent of his deodorant and sweat and something entirely unique to him– his Frankie-ness as you’ve called it many times without elaborating. I’d bottle it if I could, you told him, bathe in it. You’re kinda weird, he told you, and you know he likes it. 

Every once in a while, his elbow brushes up against yours, yours skirting around his, but never colliding, an awareness of the other always present and attended to, a flow of familiarity and recognition he’s never felt before or known since. 

Bit by bit, you’ve taken pieces of him into you, picked them up, held them to the light and found them beautiful, until a second bit of his soul lives outside of his body. He knows every inch of you, how every atom calls out to him, begs to be close to him, and held tight. It’s not sunlight he’s trying to keep safe, it’s your heart. Your precious, wonderful heart that is somehow so full, it was enough to fill him up too. Gold filling in the cracks. 

Kintsugi, Benny called it, when he got obsessed with anime for three months that one time two years ago. Frankie never could remember the actual name, and maybe that wasn’t the point and maybe it was a little ridiculous, especially when it was explained by a deliriously drunk and bleary-eyed Ben Miller at one in the morning on his brother’s lawn chair. 

Maybe a better way of thinking about it was how separate, disparate, jagged and raw edges came to fit together. How someone like him got a do-over, another chance to be remade in the kiln, and how someone like you was allowed to love unselfishly, to ask for things and never be threatened with reparations of some kind – as if loving you deserved some sort of compensation. 

Pieces, broken and scattered – he looked up and saw you carrying yours, and you witnessed the scars and blood dripping from the shards of his own past, his life, his love, and despite how slippery his pieces were, how dried and empty and wanting yours were, something pulled them together and made them stay. 

Something stronger than light.

Stronger than gold. 

You shook his hand and looked at what you built together, the pieces that came together, and in the end, that was your partnership. A creation of something greater – home, family, love. 

So much fucking love.

In the end, Frankie Morales used love to build his life, not death, and you’re the one who gave it to him.

He drops the last shirt on the stack and he turns, his fingers seeking the drawstring of your pants. 

You know what he wants. You want it too. A singular desire in two separate bodies.

The inherent closeness of domesticity draws you into him, closing the already limited space as hands find waists and lips find skin. He drags his nose against your jaw, somehow already shaking, his teeth grazing your throat, unwilling and unable to press his lips to you, wanting to drag this out as much as possible. He squeezes your hips, thumbs flipping under your shirt to touch, touch, touch, until his fingers wrap around your ribs and you make your first sound of the night. It snags at his restraint, pulling it threadbare. 

“Frankie,” you sigh and he cannot fight the cataclysmic pull towards you – he stumbles, pinning you to the laundry room wall, his tongue cupping your earlobe into his mouth and he sucks. The next noise you make is high and keening and it turns his touch frantic.

Caught between the wall and his broad shoulders, he does with you what he wants. He nips at your cheek, your neck, the dip of your clavicle, as his thumb presses up each knot of your spine, drawing out the tension from your body like draining poisoned blood, and by the time he pinches off your bra, you’re all but hanging onto him. 

“Baby–,” 

He can hear you say, it’s late, we have work in the morning, you don’t have to do this,

I’m not worth this 

With a low growl that is all possession, all anger that someone ever made you feel like your love was too much, he tugs your shirt off, knocking his hat off as he goes. In the drift, he sees your eyes flutter, mouth twisted in pleasure and guilt – you don’t want to be asking for things like this – and so he silences every doubt, every worry that he’s tired or it’s too late or his knees are aching too much to make you feel the way you deserve – he kisses you with enough force to knock out every unpleasant thought you’ve ever had about yourself and flattens you against the wall. 

You let him pry you open, his touch fervent and insistent, tasting of iced coffee and gum. He licks into you, telling you things with his tongue, the way he tugs your bottom lip between his teeth, in the soft puff of breath that escapes him when you cup the back of his neck. Closer, he begs, closer. 

His wide palm arching your lower back into him, he squeezes your ribs, up under your breast, before finally taking your nipple between his thumb and the meat of his hand and twists, just enough to make you break apart from his demanding mouth, gasping as if tapped by a live wire. But it’s him who is electrocuted, who catches fire, who wants to be chewed down and swallowed up. He shuffles and pulls you into him, the throbbing in his pants bordering on painful. He rubs himself against you once and you sigh like you know he hurts. You nod.

Your fingers peel your shirt up and over your head as he cups one thigh then the other until your hips hug his waist, smearing the hem of his shirt up over his skin. He feels the heat coming from between your legs, the slight dampness, against his lower belly and he groans, low, right near that source of warmth he wants to die in. 

You curl above him, tipping his head back, as you dive into his mouth again, fingers twisting into his hair, thumbs brushing his temple right where you know he tends to get headaches. Your tongue brushes against his upper lip, tasting his mustache, and his knees threaten to buckle. 

“You’re gonna fucking kill me,” he laments, he praises, into the supple wetness of your tongue. You nod, pleased, and press your chest into him. He cannot fucking wait to get his mouth around your tits.

Mouth sealed to yours, hands cupping the meat of your ass, Frankie works entirely on sense memory to carry you into the kitchen, to a long wooden table beneath a wide window, white curtains closed and blinds shut. 

This table had been one of the first purchases for the new house. Tan cedar boards with white knobby legs, it instantly reminded him of the one in his own childhood home, where he and his brothers fought over meals and did homework together. Where he held his mom after his father died and where he dropped his bag after coming home from a life too long spent fighting other people’s wars. 

This table mattered to him and he’d be damned if it wouldn’t mean something to his own child one day. 

That was something you too wanted to give your child, never having a table like this in your own life. You loved the stories he told about the table in his kitchen. How much it meant to him.

And now he was going to fuck you on it, this symbol of stability.

He just wonders how stable it really is. 

His fingers clutching the back of your neck, arm running in tandem with your spine, he lowers you down, shifting your weight onto his arm so you don’t bump your head against the wood. He releases you but you protest, a muffled uh-uh, as he tries retreating. You loop your arms around his neck, tugging him flat against you and he feels your breasts mold against his chest, nipples already tight.

“Baby,” he breathes, sucking up and out of your mouth, “let me make you feel good.”

Behind him, he hears your sneakers clatter to the floor, your heels digging into his back as you toe off your shoes, and you shake your head. 

“I am.” Kiss. A thumb under his bottom lip. “You do.” Breathless, reverent, grateful. 

Grateful.

Grateful that he is kissing you. 

Not good enough. God, he’s going to eat that self-loathing right out of you. 

You whine, frustrated and hot, as he pulls back. He wants to go right for your pussy, but stutters at the sight of your unmarked tits. Smooth, flushed, heaving. There is no part of you he does not love, does not feel the need to worship on his knees. 

But suddenly sour shame strikes him as he realizes enough time has passed since the last time you’d had sex for the hickeys to heal. He intends to amend that right now. 

His thumbs rubbing soothing circles into your hips, to calm himself, he folds himself over you, dribbling kisses along your throat, over the wings of your clavicle, at the barest incline at the top of your breast, and then to the meat of your tit, the heaviness, the sway, and he bites down. Predictably, you yelp, nails scratching roughly into his scalp and that only makes him suck harder. You have very strict rules around where he can mark you, but on the places he can – oh, you beg him for it. 

He palms your other tit, just to feel the goosebumps break out across your skin, to roll your nipple with the calluses on his palm. His teeth release, his tongue laving over that already pink and swollen skin, and he glances up, his other thumb coming to massage that fragile patch. 

Being a pilot, a soldier, a brother, a son, those are the things he is. But Frankie lives – aches, pines, desires – to watch you come apart. 

The purple bruise on your tit shining like a luxurious necklace, your eyes flutter open when you feel him pull up. Your fingers around his ears, your chest wet with his spit, you let him take you in. You give him this, because you know you’re about to get so much more. With your legs still wrapped around his waist, he can feel the soft cant of your hips, the quiet, patient begging, as you thought he needed reminding that you needed this. You rub up him, knees pinned to his ribs, and he lets you pull him into your mouth, grounding him. This kiss is brief, soft, a far cry from the tearing and biting that got you onto the table. Knowing exactly the state you need to be in to ask for what you want, he holds your jaw, thumb against the apple of your cheek and he slips his tongue out of your mouth. Again a protest, an instinctual reaction to the repeated pattern of abandonment, but like all cries for help, he quiets your squirming by sliding his thumb between your lips. 

“Suck,” he murmurs gently. Your eyes flutter shut, your nails carving half moons into his forearm, lips creating a vacuum seal around his knuckle and you obey – you suck – and he rewards you with a trail of kisses across your sternum, over your breasts, to the soft swell of your stomach. He nuzzles your belly button and you groan, eyes still shut and his thumb still in your mouth. He bites, softer than before, just above the thatch of hair and you whine around his finger, body going supple for him. He slides his thumb out, dragging a shiny string of spit over your plush lips, down your chin, joining his other hand at the waist band of both your panties and your scrubs. 

Any fast movement will awaken that anxious, overthinking, beautiful brain of yours, now that he has it fuzzy and unfocused, so he keeps kissing, keeps sucking and biting, that spot just above your curls. He tongues your hip, and then the other side, your bottom half wonderfully bare before you can open your eyes. 

His shoulder bumps the back of your thigh as he stands up right, inhaling the sweat behind your knee, the pungent tang of your glistening curls, your almond butter body lotion. It’s hunger, he feels, but not a tangible hunger, one that can be so easily satiated. It’s not painful, or weakening – no, he is made stronger by it. He feels your blood pulse beneath his hand on your inner thigh as he opens you up and he’s made better by it. 

He kneels, a holy servant before the divine meal of their goddess, on shitty linoleum beneath harsh lights in a kitchen he can barely afford. 

Frankie takes your hand, kisses your knuckles, and slides your grip into his hair. 

“Recuérdame cómo te gusta, nena.” 

He eats. He consumes. He licks. He sucks. He slurps.

He tastes your dripping wetness on the seam of your cunt, before his tongue ever gets the chance to explore, to open, to divulge. He licks until he feels your breath hitch – a curse in the shape of his name, as if he needs scolding for making you feel so good – and then he opens his jaw and tongues your hole. 

In a lust-drunk haze you once told him he has something better than DSL – he has a pussy-eating nose. He prods you with that nose you can’t seem to get enough of, licking in as far as he can, coating himself in everything as it leaks out of you, and he moans as he can feel it on his chin. You vibrate with the sound and above him, your fingers clench down into his hair. 

“Oh, fuck, holy – fuck, Frankie–,” your trembling shakes the bowl of your hips, spilling his meal, so he sucks your clit in a way that makes your body freeze and then melt. You go limp, pliable, and gushing. He gets a few more moments of twisting and sucking and swallowing, until by the third time he puts his lips around your clit, you open-mouth whine and it’s like his body violently remembers he has a cock. He is seized with such a need to fuck you in this warm, wet place he’s dug out with his tongue, he doubles over and rests his teeth against your thigh. 

“Frankie, I’m so close,” you writhe, chest flushed and brow sweaty. 

Before you, he never knew sex could feel like this, could do this. Sure, he used sex to keep away those circling, vulture-like thoughts from time to time. But this, this drawing out and unthreading, unspooling, of himself and someone else, tearing at ego-drenched threads until all that was left was a being of pure want and desire – he didn’t know this was possible. 

He didn’t know he could feel like this.

One more broad lick, coating everything in what he hope fucking smells like him, and you arch, thighs shaking, his hair in danger of being ripped from his scalp. You gasp as you flatten, the first orgasm of the night rolling through you, sweat making your skin salty, as though you had been breached by the ocean. 

He laps you through it, of course, a nascent smirk on his face. 

You open your eyes to this self-satisfied Frankie, eyes only visible over the top of your cunt, and you whine. 

You reach for him and he goes, smearing your slick over your face, offering it to you in supplication on his tongue. He tastes your rising desperation, the way you sharpen your teeth against his lips, batter his tongue into the corner of his mouth, try to claim what your cunt already has. His hunger is an infection and your fever has reached a boiling point. 

Your trembling fingers curl his shirt up his back, passing over the ruddy scar on his shoulder where he got hit with a stray bullet, the jagged white line over his ribs where a knife nearly split him open. He used to only fuck with his shirt on. He doesn’t now. 

His shirt crumples to the floor as he sits up, you following, eyes dark, and you bite his pec muscle, your love for him twisting you into an anthropophagist. You want to consume him, like your pussy swallows his cock. Having him impale you is not enough; you want intercourse with him on a subatomic level. 

You inch back to give yourself enough space to unbutton his jeans and he sees the wet slick left behind on the table. The heat behind his groin shoots up his spine and he grunts, burying his face into your neck where he tugs on your earlobe with his teeth, hands planted on either side of you.

“Hurry, baby, I gotta fuck this pussy,” he whispers against the curve of your jaw. He wants to leave a giant purple bruise there, this instinct to claim, to mark, stoking the roiling heat at the base of his spine and drawing up his balls. 

But his attention snaps back to your hands when he hears a click, the release of his zipper is almost euphoric. He moans in relief, unable to see through his half-lidded eyes the explosion of goosebumps over your skin as his breath tumbles over your back and down your chest. 

His urgent hands overwhelm yours, one pushing his jeans down his hips, the other palming your stomach, pushing you back and you go willingly, but seemingly mesmerized by the sight of his aching, flushed cock springing up against his stomach. You lie down, but only barely, still on your elbows, as he tugs you by your ankles to the edge of the table. 

Your uneven breathing could mean a lot of things. He thought you were being complementary the first time you told him he was too big, but your eyes always widened at the sight of his cock. 

“Do you need to be opened up some more, cariño?” 

At his rawest, Spanish came out of him like a spilled bottle of molasses, sweet, slow, rich. 

“Hmm? Tell me what you need. Hable mas alto por favor.” He rubs your knees, your thighs, hoping you’ll ask for what he wants.

“F-fingers, Frankie,” you swallow, eyes still latched on to his now weeping cock. You glance up at him, face open and full of trust, and he feels his dick pulse. “Please, Frankie, put your fingers in me.” 

“Fucking anything.” He plants one hand and cups your mound, lost for a moment in the soaked curls, before pushing two fingers inside and thrusting. “I’ll fucking give you anything you want.” 

His hips jerking slightly in tandem with the pulse of his fingers, his slacked mouth an indication of how unconscious his humping has become, as he watches you dissolve with every stroke of his hand. God, he didn’t know they made things this pretty. His hand pushes your knee up and back, finding room for three fingers and your eyes roll back in your head. You scrabble for anything to hold onto, fingers searching for the ghosts of your bedsheets, but finding none, your arms curl over your head and latch onto the other edge of the table. You present your fucking tits to him like you’re letting him admire artwork. 

It almost brings him to his knees.

“Oh, I’m coming, oh, Frankie, I’m gonna –,”

He pulls out his fingers just enough to let you gush down his palm, his wrist, and he licks it up like a glutton. It drips a bit onto the linoleum and he smears it with his bare feet.

Frankie slides two fingers back in, his brain going fuzzy at being away from the clutch of your cunt for too long, when you grab his wrist. 

You can barely breathe, your skin a pale pink, your cunt no doubt must be sore, but your eyes are as hard as diamonds in your skull. He swallows the flush of spit in his mouth.  

“Now, Frankie,” you plead, fingers tight around his wet wrist, the hairs on his arm standing up at the sound of your commanding voice. “Fuck me, now, I need you inside of me.”

It always makes him a bit dumbstruck, the way you beg, the way you let him and only him see this side of you – this side of you that is sick with wanting.

His hand squeezes the base of his cock once, eyes fluttering, to remind himself he cannot blow his fucking load the instant the tip of him is inside you. He taps your clit, once, twice, lubing himself up as if he hadn’t moved around internal organs to make way for himself. He notches, then slides, white-knuckling his impending orgasm in favor of making this good for you. He steps farther between your legs, hands sliding from your thighs, up to your waist. He thumbs your nipple and your pussy twitches around him. He swears his heart flat out stops for a concerning length of time.

“How is a pussy this good all mine? All fucking mine?” He rolls his hips, pushing deeper, movements marionetted by the high-pitched whimpers and moans of your mouth. He could catalog every single one of them, has done so in the deep recesses of his brain, and it takes just a second to know when it switches from pleasure to pain. 

He bends over you, you choking on his dick, and kisses you hard, shattering the tense look on your face.  

“I love you,” he tells you, a secret that despite being well-known to anyone who sees him look at you, still feels precious and fragile. His hand plasters your hair to your sweaty neck as he kisses you desperately, speaking a language only you understand. “I love you so fucking much.” 

You sigh into his open mouth. “I wanna marry you, Fransisco Morales.” 

He is covered in gold. Dripping with it. 

His nails at your hip dig into your skin and you know exactly what you’ve done. 

“Say it. Say it louder, nena,” he snarls, face pressed into your cheek, and he thrusts forward with enough force to rock the table. The table legs squeak as you pin him to you one more time and nip at his ear. The last drop in the well, the rope slipping over the edge, the coil locked into place.

“I wanna fucking marry you.” 

With a breathy grunt, he yanks you down onto his cock by your waist and slaps your ass with his balls. It’s been a while since your cunt has taken a beating like this. You clutch at the edge of the table again, mouth torn open.

He knows you like it when he plays with your clit, and he will, but he needs to get this out of him. 

“Yeah? You’re gonna marry the guy who’s fucking your pussy so good right now?” It’s amazing that words escape at all through his gritted teeth, jaw taut. He watches as he disappears and reappears in you, your lips puffy and pink already but he needs more. He doesn’t want you to be able to walk out of bed tomorrow. 

“Yes, Frankie – oh, god, there, right there – yes, I’m gonna marry you.” He tips your hips up as he pounds down and you arch, crying out at the angle, the depth, how full you feel. He fucks like he’s trying to bruise your ribcage through your pussy. 

The thoughts in his head collide with the others, knotting together, blurring, until the only noise he can make, the only thing he can verbalize is the tight grunts, the hm, hm, hm, as he focuses on chasing this fire. 

He feels it approach so fast, he’s nearly taken under by the intensity of his orgasm so he slows, grinds instead, and with his eyes on your face, he cups himself around where he’s split you open, feeling your lips suck in and out with every thrust. 

He closes his eyes briefly, helpless against the waves of arousal that coat his fingers. He smears your clit with his thumb and his name is a split, jagged thing that burns your tongue. He wants that taste on his tongue again. 

You throb once, a sharp climax warming your pussy, and he backs out, drops to his knees, and licks you up again. He can taste his sweat there this time and he groans. His hands slip over your skin from the sweat in the crease of your thigh.

The cries from your mouth are wet now, on the curve of a salty tongue. You tremble like your orgasm is a physical thing, thrumming under your skin, warming your blood and you claw at his forearm. 

“B-baby, please–,” 

Wiping his mouth on your inner thigh, then licking up the mess he made, Frankie stands. He swats your bottom lightly, tutting. He’s a mad man, he knows it, he can’t tell if it's delirium from the rough ache of his balls or masochistic joy in hearing you beg, but again he rubs himself through your folds. It’s not the same, not nearly enough, but it helps last just a bit longer. 

“No crying until after I’ve made you come.” 

“I’ve already come twice,” you whine as you buck your hips, trying to take him in deeper. “You said I can have anything I want.” 

“And what does princesa want?” Yeah, there’s definitely something wrong with him. 

Your eyes flash as your nails dig into his shoulders, that fire he so loves to stoke flaring out.

“I want to come on your cock, Mr. Morales.”

And he unravels, divinity calling his name. 

His pace is slow, then rough, then deep. 

The table is just the right height. He balances on knee on the lip, bending your knees over his shoulders, and fucking down into you. He’s going to snap you in fucking half and maybe he does but he’ll be there to seal you back up again. 

Pour himself into you. Fill you. Make you whole once more. 

Baby, please.

The first drip of tears starts out the corner of your eyes as you come, open-mouthed, throat exposed, a cry loud and in the shape of his name tearing from your lips, your body locking up, cunt squeezing him until he feels himself burst. 

With a shudder and a groan, he spills, hot and flush into you. He comes, and comes, and comes, until his gooey spend is forced out of you and down the crack of your ass. He can’t see anything past the white spark in his eyes, feel anything but you and the tingle of his limbs. 

The excess of you and him is everywhere, leaking out onto the kitchen table, soaking the wood. There’s a ringing in his ears he can’t quiet. 

Your breath is hot on his neck, sweaty skin stuck tightly against his, he knows he’s crushing you, his arms given out at some point, but he really doesn’t think he can stand up right. He kisses your cheek by way of apology and thanks but you don’t seem to mind, your own gaze unfocused on the ceiling. 

“Fuck, Frankie . . .”

He laughs, realizes his legs aren’t working, so trembling and uneasy, he slides out of you and manages to make it to the floor. He blames the sudden dizziness on a lack of food and then blames the dizziness for lying down on the floor. 

His eyes flutter and somehow you’re suddenly curled up next to him, your palm resting over his pounding heart. His fingers find their way up into your sweat-damp hair, thumb gently rubbing against the knot at the base of your skull. 

“Your back is gonna be killing you in about fifteen minutes, sweetheart,” you grumble sleepily into his chest, a grin on your face. 

“I can’t feel anything below my waist right now.” He yawns. “So, we’ve got some time.” 

You nod, absentmindedly stroking the dark hair on his chest. 

“We need to talk about Pope’s birthday party this weekend. Will put us on drink duty . . . but I can’t really focus on anything right now.”

“Good,” he smirks with his eyes shut. “That was some of my best work.” And then he frowns. “You need to eat.” He pokes your side and you huff.

“Okay, if you’re awake enough to berate me, we can at least go to bed.” 

Groaning, you pull him up and he threatens to stumble you both into the wall, but he kisses your cheek and swats your ass, before snagging a tub of ice cream and a spoon. He meets you in the bedroom with the cap off and a smear of chocolate around his lips. 

You’ve got one of his shirts, grinning up at him from the center of the bed, and he’s torn about whether he likes you in his boxers, or nothing at all. 

You take the ice cream from him before he has a chance to flop down on the bed. 

“Not exactly a nutritious meal,” you mutter around the spoon and he turns his face from the pillow to glare at you. 

“That’s the other dinner I made for you, so eat.” 

Your giggle is all you can give to show your thanks.

He rolls onto his back, groaning theatrically, before tucking his hand behind his head, and his fingers coming to rest on his stomach. 

Behind the lids of his eyes, he can feel you watching him.

“What?” He grumbles, feeling around for your foot to pinch your ankle. He hears you move so he knows he’s close. “Not the right flavor, princesa?”

“No,” you laugh and prod his hip with your toe. “It’s just . . .”

His eyes open, finding yours in the half-lit gloom. You’re grinning the spoon in your mouth, eyes bright with something unnameable. You shrug, eying his hand between you both.

“I just never knew Fransisco Morales could be domesticated.” 

He wipes the chocolate off your chin with his thumb.

Yeah, who knew?

[thethespacecoyote]

contemplating what exactly it was about ford that made bill feel important now

[blueskittlesart]

deeply refreshing to see someone critical of Swift who also like, genuinely likes her. Like i'm neutral to positive on her, but the online discourse has been absolutely rancid. flipping between "Taylor Swift has never done anything wrong ever and she's a fucking genius" and "Taylor Swift is the worst lyricist of all time and also a bad person" is exhausting, so thank you for like. nuance or something lmao

not to make it serious for a sec but i genuinely think that being able to like things that are bad is really important. like I think that it's an important skill to be able to look at something and see what you personally enjoy about it and then take a step back and acknowledge that objectively it's flawed. and to also be able to acknowledge that liking something isn't necessarily an identity or a moral stance. and i think that fandom space in general could really benefit from more people taking the time to learn how to do that. it's okay to like things that are bad

[lunarharp]

played dragon age 2...just simple scribbles

[puppyeared]

i feel like im not making any sense but does anyone else feel like there are stories that let u run with them and ones that spell everything out for you