#ok listen thinking of these designs has been REALLY fun

[farrenlux]

choose ur healer medic?

[pannman]

Fix it

Platonic Alastor x tech savy/graphic designer reader

He didn't quite understand you

In fact people never expected you to be friends, and it certainly didn't start put that way

You started out working at Voxtech, you spent hours designing advertisements and editing commercials but when Vox told you to start working for Valentino and editing his porn videos you refused. Vox gave you an ultimatum: work for Valentino or be fired. So with no job you decided to try your hand at redemption

You didn't count on Vox's greatest enemy being the facility manager

At first Alastor threatened you. Suspecting you might be a spy since you were associated with Vox but Charlie convinced him to give you a chance

So he mostly ignored you. Keeping conversations short. Especially since it seemed you guys had absolutely nothing in common

Charlie wanted to find away to put your skills to use for the good of the hotel. You suggested creating a website

Charlie loved that idea so you got to it. You designed and developed it. You made it simple but eye catchy. And you decided to regularly upload edited videos of the shenanigans going on the hotel to attract new patrons (and to give yourself some fun).

Charlie being the person that she is wanted Alastor and you to get along better so she came up with the brilliant idea for you to interview him and create a page on the website for first hand accounts

Alastor agreed and as long as it was not a filmed interview

You had prepared a list of questions

Q. Why did you decide to join the hotel?

A. I decided to help the pathetic princess in her silly little dream to watch others fail miserably in attempt to change their already determined fates as entertainment for myself

Q. What has been your favorite moment here at the hotel?

A. Possibly when Niffty released an entire colony of roaches into Angel's bed. That was quite hilarious!

Q. What progress do you think you or someone else has made thus far that's worth mentioning?

A. I finally managed to get my new radio tower to look exactly like the old one. It was nice gesture really. But I do have preferred place for everything

After that you didn't know if Charlie was still going to be for this idea

You really didn't think you and Alastor would ever see eye to eye until one night you woke up to a knock on your door

You jumped out of bed still in your pajamas and opened the door to see Alastor standing there

You were... quite surprised. He told you he needed your help and it couldn't wait till morning

You followed him to his radio tower to see his system short circuiting. He warned you not to get to close or you'd get a nasty shock

"You're the one who deals with this technology stuff, fix it!" You thought to point out the two issues here

1. You don't fix technology, you utilize it to make things

2. This radio recording system is really old and you only knew what you were doing with MODERN technology

But you could tell he was very agitated. You wondered how it even got broke in the first place

You decided to do the only thing you could think and you Voxtubed it

You found some weird guy with obsession for fixing ham radios and old vintage tvs and watched a few of his videos. After assessing the broken system there were a lot of similarities. And after one boring audio book and online purchase of some parts you fixed it

Alastor was impressed. He tried very hard not show it but he couldn’t help it.

Before he could get back to it. You decided to listen to last chapter of the audio book one last time to make sure it was up to code. Unfortunately you forgot to connect your Bluetooth

Alastor standing in the tower with impatiently tapping his foot waiting for you to give the ok so he can give his listeners a much delayed broadcast stiffened at the sound coming from your phone and static buzzed loudly in the air

"Lovely I imagine the imagery to this is just flashy and distracting as it always is" he says rather annoyed

"Actually" you replied "it's an audio book. There is no visuals. It's just sound. Someone reads aloud a book and records it for people to listen to" you pointed out

It was not that much different from radio

You apologized and told him you would connect back to your headphones so he didn't have to hear it

"You may leave it on" he said surprisingly. So you did

Finally when you were done you went about your business. Everything went back to normal. Except... Alastor kept calling upon you before every broadcast demanding you play your audio book again to look over his system to make sure it won't crash on him mid broadcast

And each time he told you there was no need for your headphones

You finally decided to grow a pair and challenge him

"Once again I'd like you to check it over and make sure it's up to code. Play your dumb sound book again and get to it" he spoke as if the audio book did not matter at all but you knew better

"Oh I have it memerized by now. No need to play it again" you responded mischievously

His eyes narrowed and you could hear the sound of a record scratch. "Now, now. I won't allow for any mistakes that would not end well for you. Now play it again" he demanded

"You know if you liked the audio book you could just say so. Also you don't have to listen to the same end chapter over and over again. I have other probably more exciting books" you proposed

He acted offended. "How dare you insinuate that I would enjoy something as pointless and boring as that." Of course he didn't want to admit that anything that came from technology could possibly be good in any way and he could never ACTUALLY like it. No way

"You know its not a lot different from radio. Telling stories with just your voice. Like any kind of art this is just another medium. Another way of expressing oneself. You don't have to suddenly be Mr. Technology guy to like audio books" you said

Alastor seemed to pause in thought. "Hmmm... fine. I guess... it wasn't too horrible to listen to literature being read aloud in a soothing voice. Maybe I'll give some other pieces a try"

And after that you were at the radio tower all the time. Playing audio books for him. You eventually showed him your art skills and showed off the new website. He taught you a lot about his Era and about radio. You guys even redid the interview live on his radio show. Though the results were still quite similar

Though Alastor still hated technology he respected that it was something you enjoyed. And he did listen to the occasional audio book, although it was more like he made you play it for him

An unlikely friendship had formed. And nobody saw it coming. But you wouldn't trade it for the world

[yes-i-write-fanfiction]

Below is why I think these bots would be fun to see;

-Knockout would become a famous model and Breakdown would be his bodyguard. I just think it would be funny to see Knockout caught up in a rogue attack and go absolutely apeshit on some poor goon that accidentally stained his 5 000 dollar designer jacket. Breakdown has to pull him of the poor man like "Babe, babe, it's ok, we'll get you a new jacket. How about a nice new suit too? That sound good?" Meanwhile the goon is fucking traumatized.

-Wreck Gar sees that Gotham is covered in trash and makes it his own personal mission to collect all of it and create his own trash kingdom. Gotham's streets have never been cleaner.

-I just want to see Kup train the batfam. And act old with Alfred. Perhaps save one of the vigilantes after they get captured, using nothing but his holoform, a bottle of liquor, a stun gun and guerilla tactics.

-You look me in the eyes and tell me Tarantulas wouldn't fit right in in Gotham. His freaky ass belongs there. He would sneak into Arkham to observe the patients, just for fun. Maybe terrorize them a little. "Doctor, the spider talks to me!" "Sure pal, of course it does. Did you take your medicine today?"

-Thundercracker becomes a best selling author in Gotham by writing about his experiences in the war (everyone thinks its just a very detailed fictional world). Jason gets absolutely hooked on the series and meets him one day while Thundercracker is out walking Buster. Jason promptly nerds out.

-Just full on pandemonium with the Scavengers. Krok tries to organize them so they can find a way back home but these idiots keep going on side quests. They were supposed to steal some Wayne tech? Sorry, Misfire got caught up in a riddle contest with the Riddler and Spinister is having a BBQ with Solomon Grundy.

-Airachnid becomes a serial killer/hitman in Gotham and quickly earns a reputation as a brutal and efficient killer. Not really that funny but a lot of potential for drama. She sets her eyes on her newest hit; Bruce Wayne.

-Swindle is fucking living life in Gotham, selling repurposed cybertronian tech to rogues. Not even necessarily weapons, just random pieces of regular cybertronian tools, like bottle cap openers that get repurposed into actual weapons by the criminals. Well, now he's on the batfam's watch list and has go into hiding.

-Ok, listen, First Aid is a freak. A well meaning freak but a freak nonetheless. So when he finds a vigilante bleeding out in an alleyway, of course he's gonna help them! But not before taking a picture of their wound and sampling their blood. Not for nefarious purposes! He just thinks it's interesting. But now the batfam tries he's going to try and clone them.

-All the rogues and vigilantes of Gotham band together to stop Shockwave. He's just trying to make his way home but his experiments and casual disregard for human life makes him such a threat that even sworn enemies have to put their differences aside if they want to survive.

-Predaking befriends Cass and she doesn't tell the batfam cause this is her alien friend and they've already got their own (Batman&Superman, Nightwing&Starfire, Red Hood&Bizarro, Red Robin&Super Boy, Robin&the other Super Boy etc.). Of course Robin eventually finds out and he's so mad cause that's a robot/alien/dragon! She can't just keep him to herself! That's so selfish of her! Meanwhile, Predaking is like "Where the fuck am I?"

[moodymisty]

for requests, I'd love to see anything with Horus (if not necessarily the reader) having a good time. sex or not, just he's having fun with whatever is going on.

I'm kind of ridiculously into cnc lol

Author’s note: These requests couldn't go together better, so why not? tbh I really struggled with this one, but i can't really afford to do a total rewrite of it, so i hope this is still ok ;3

part of the 'horus takes lorgar's wife' plotline, but no pregnancy. yet

Relationships: Horus Lupercal/Fem!Reader, Implied Lorgar Aurelian/Fem!Reader

Warnings: NSFW, Dubcon that could also tbh be just full Noncon, Horus interprets A LOT of body language incorrectly

Horus has spent months waiting for this moment.

He’s stayed by your side, offering support as you grieved through Lorgar’s abandonment. He wanted to be there, taking care of your every need while Lorgar danced around with frivolous religions.

Eventually however, your heart began to heal. You started smiling more, calling him Horus instead of Warmaster, or Primarch Lupercal. The first time his name fell from your lips was a joyous occasion, just for him alone. His men didn't understand why the simple gesture made a smile stick to his face for the rest of the evening.

Once you were emotionally healed, Lorgar slipping further from your mind with each passing day, Horus began to try and slip himself into the empty space he left.

You didn't need Lorgar. You never needed Lorgar. He could do everything Lorgar did for you and more, without paltry distractions and his possessive sheltering.

It was gradual- slow, gentle touches and kind words with implications behind them only he knew, waiting for you to welcome him into your heart fully.

The moment finally revealed itself one evening alone, and now he finally had you.

You wore a dress given to you by Lorgar; He can tell by the design and filigree. It doesn’t fit or flatter you properly, the style is all wrong; He will get you clothing that will be perfect.

Laying on his massive sea of a bed beneath him, your body tremors as he slowly lifts the hem of your dress, revealing your knees, then your thighs. The softness of your skin is instantly apparently and his muscles tighten with a yearn to touch.

"You are so nervous, i can smell it. I won't hurt you,"

Horus speaks with a gentle tone, his hand drifting up your thigh softly to reveal your underwear. He knows how much taller he is, how much bigger, the way his shadow consumes you must be unsettling. “All I want is to tend to you the way you deserve.”

You’re so fragile- your body shivers underneath his touch. Lorgar must’ve been too rough with you, to make you fear this; He can remedy your nervousness.

“H-Horus, please I-“

It’s not moments later that he pushes his fingers between your thighs, pressing them against your puffy outer lips. He can feel your warmth, your softness even through the fabric, and it isn’t long before he has his fingers hooked around them to pull them down your legs and toss them aside.

“Relax, let me take care of you. It has to have been such a long time since you were last with someone.”

The mere thought of Lorgar’s touching your body disgusts him. He doubts he cared what you desired, unlike him.

Horus slips two of his fingers into the soft tight heat of your cunt and listens to the way you gasp, gripping the pillow your head rests on.

You feel so wonderful, even just his hand; If he was a more selfish man, one less caring about your survival- or how you felt - he might just force himself into you right away.

His fingers curling inside of you he feels the soft velvet of your inner walls, the way they wrap around him and tighten and loosen. When he touches a sensitive spot he feels the way you clench down and how your back arches, body writhing under his touch. He can't think of a better sight, as the blankets bunch around you and brush against your skin.

“Let go my love, stop fighting so much.”

Tears prick at the corner of your eyes- you’re so close - and eventually he feels you tighten around his fingers as you bite your lip. The whimpers you let out of your mouth are the sweetest, most gentle thing he's ever heard; He wants so much more.

He removes his fingers slowly and listens to the whine you let out, as they leave you empty.

He’ll give you something much larger- you just have to be patient. He would call you greedy- if he didn’t know you’ve been long neglected since Lorgar’s punishment.

Horus' cock aches and throbs, twitching at the sight of your ass when he flips you over onto your stomach. You let out little noises as his handling, even with as gentle as he can be.

It'll be easier this way; Your thighs can't spread wide enough for you to take all of him, this way he can sink into you fully. As he does- Listening to your sweet little mewls and whines as your face grimaces in pleasure, as he groans at the feeling of your puffy wet cunt tightening around him until his balls press against your ass.

The way you feel is indescribable, your hot, velvety walls wrap around him so snug it’s like you’re pulling him in deeper.

The sound of skin of skin echoes in the room filling it, along with the sound of his grunts and your whines like music. Horus is almost lost in it, feeling the way your whines get higher in pitch when he drives himself deeper and the thick base of his cock fills you past your limit.

He’s big, he knows that well, but you take him so well and he’s being so gentle. You'll get used to it overtime, he has no doubt.

You attempt to rise up onto your elbows but quickly fall, face pressing back into the pillow and blankets. Horus chuckles and places a hand on your lower back.

“Careful, my dear.” You do little more than whimper in response, feeling the way he twitches inside of you and groans deeply. Suddenly your body tenses under his grip, and you once again try to rise up.

“W-wait, please don’t-“

He sinks himself deeper, barely pulling out a third of his cock with each thrust. You whimper some more, words jumbled together, but they’re all noise as he finally cums inside of you. You tense at the feeling; The warmth spreading through you as you feel his cock twitch over and over again inside of you.

He feels your gasp as the head of his cock stretches and pops out of your entrance, leaving his cum to partially slide out of you.

“Horus…”

You whisper, and he can see your eyes glistening. He cradles the back of your head with his hand and leans to press his lips to the corner of your mouth.

“What do you want, my love?”

[dilvuc]

I'm back >:)

So my request is very simple. It is a continuation of the Sampo x Fashion Designer Male Reader.

Giving them a secret relationship isn't always gonna last long, no? So I have this nice idea on my mind.

While the reader is talking to Gepard, the guards ship them (Gepard and the reader doesn't know), maybe even Pela joins in because why not? It's fun to ship your co-worker and your designer from time to time.

So while Sampo is walking down near the restricted zone (or maybe even areas where there are guards) he overheard their conversation. He didn't mean to! He just wanted to know what's the hottest gossip about the Silvermane Guards! He didn't know that he's beloved was shipped with the Landau Captain.

From here I'll just make it briefly.

Sampo gets jealous (somehow) and he's moody

Seele notices this

They talk about it (more like questioning Sampo)((Sampo trying to avoid the question))

Seele listened to Sampo ranting about some guy he's dating (Sampo describing the reader)

Seele meets the reader first time and puts two and two together.

Seele talks to reader about some guy (Sampo) being moody because of him

Reader confronts and comforts Sampo because, yes.

-Li anon <3

(sorry if I seem annoying in chat by the way)

❝secret relationship❞ pt. 2

𝖌𝖊𝖓𝖗𝖊: fluff

𝖌𝖊𝖓𝖉𝖊𝖗: male

𝖙𝖎𝖙𝖑𝖊: secret relationship: misunderstanding

𝖕𝖆𝖗𝖎𝖓𝖌: sampo x m!reader

𝖜𝖆𝖗𝖓𝖎𝖓𝖌: none

𝖘𝖚𝖒𝖒𝖆𝖗𝖞: now that you two are secretly dating, people have not find out about it except in the underworld. the overworld started to misunderstood you and gepard as a couple which made sampo also misunderstood this and think you were cheating on him

“Again with the cape? What were you thinking?” you huffed while examining gepard’s ruined cape. gepard embarrassingly apologized, “S-sorry…It won't last like this forever…”

“Ugh…I should find a way to keep your cape from going into ruin.” you sighed before pointing your finger into the blonde's chin, “This'll be your last time, got it?”

gepard gulped, “Got it.”

“Good…I'll fix up your cape and from now on I will no longer charge you. Consider yourself lucky…” you deadpanned. the blonde haired male chuckled, “Right…”

“Don't you think Captain and [Y] make a great couple? They seem so close.” One of the Silvermane Guards gossiped.

“Yeah. It's obvious since they always physically touch each other like they're dating.”

“Ha. I say that they're secretly dating~” Pela smirked, grabbing the attention of the guards. “Captain was the first customer when [Y] started his business. They spoke to each other all the time.”

Unknownist to the Silvermane Guards, a blue haired male was eavesdropping on the conversation. He was disappointed when he found out that people in the overworld are shipping the captain and his beloved. that's completely unfair…

▬▬ι══════════════ι▬▬

“I can't believe I've been cheated on by the one person I loved…” sampo sighed with disappointment, rubbing his temper. he obviously thought that his beloved was secretly dating gepard behind his back. It really hurts to think about it. dear aeon, does everyone hate him in this world? were you just using him until he let his guard down so you could turn him into the silvermane guards? aeon, he's overthinking it. he doesn't think you would do that, right? right?

“Geez. I can't take it anymore.” seele groaned. “What's the deal here? Why are you sighing so much? It's getting annoying.”

“Nothing…” sampo frowned. seele narrowed her eyes, thinking that the male was lying. the sadness in his voice sounded real. too real. she sighed, placing her hands on her hips, “Ok. What's up?”

“I don't wanna talk about it.” sampo looks away with a huff.

“Come on. You know you want to talk about it. Tell me what the hell is going on with you?” seele furrowed her eyebrows.

“Oh. Nothing, a certain diva fashion designer was being shipped with the silvermane guard captain. They seem so close that it's almost like they were secretly dating.” sampo protests almost immediately. “The pretty boy with such great fashion sense, cool [h] hair, beautiful [e] eyes, and cute face is probably using me as his pawn or something in order to bring my guard down to turn me in, is now being physically attracted to the captain. It looks like I’m the fool to think that someone finally loves him.”

“...Geez, that's rough. Maybe I can meet this “boyfriend” of yours.” the female hummed, rubbing her chin. to be honest, she has never seen the two together in the underworld at all. she heard about them, but never believed it, so she wants to meet this guy that sampo describes.

▬▬ι══════════════ι▬▬

seele arrived in the overworld to look for the “boyfriend” that sampo describes. great fashion sense, cool [h] hair, beautiful [e] eyes, and a cute face. the last one sounds stupid. what guy has a cute face other than the bronya? seele notice a shop with clothes at the window, so…that must be where the fashion designer is. unexpectedly, she didn't have to go inside because you were already outside…looking for someone, perhaps?

seele approach you, “Hey, are you that ol’ fashion designer who designed Bronya’s uniform?”

“Eh? Yes, I am. And, you are?” you raised your eyebrows at the female. seele sigh, “Listen, a certain fool was complaining about another guy. He thought he was cheating on him with the captain.”

you were trying to process who the female was talking about but the word “fool” caught your interest. she was talking about sampo. that fool, but why is he complaining about you? cheating? he wouldn't think that about you, right?

“Ah. I see. I'll see what I can do to clear off the misunderstanding…” you sighed.

▬▬ι══════════════ι▬▬

you arrived at the underworld to look for sampo. you were hoping to clear off the misunderstanding between you and gepard. you ask natasha about his whereabouts and she stated that the male was certainly at the mine.

sampo seated at the camp complaining to a peak about you and gepard. “Can you believe it?! I have been cheated on, huh? That no-good, sharp tongue…”

“Go on. Sharp-tongued…?” you trailed off, startled sampo. the blue haired male looks away with a huff, “Aren't you supposed to be with your…so-called boyfriend?”

“So you heard the rumors, did you?” you sweatdropped. “Don't be so dramatic about it. It's not like the rumors are true.”

“Then why are you so physically touchy with the captain all the time, huh?” sampo argued. “You're never touchy with me. I want to be touch, attractively~”

“It's no big deal. It's just a touch.” you deadpanned.

“Hmph. How come you never let me be free as charged? I'm your boyfriend after all.” sampo scoffed.

“Just because you're my boyfriend, doesn't mean I give it away for free. Besides, Gepard only gets a free cape once.” you stated. sampo pouted, “Do you really love a con artist like me? Someone who likes to toy with you? Or get on your nerves all the time? Someone that not many people like?”

“...Yes. I love your dumbass. I enjoy you toying with me even if it backfires. Yes, you get on my nerves, but that doesn't mean I will get sick of you.” you admitted, stepping closer to the blue haired male. you then hold a bouquet of flowers, “There are no others like you. I don't wanna find anyone else besides you. Fuck the rumors. You're the one for me, dumbass.”

sampo turned into a red tomato, turning red from head to toe. he can feel eyes on both of you. you weren't done yet, “I'll marry you to prove that you'll be my idiot forever.”

“Hey! Hey! Hey! L-let's not take it to the next level!” sampo stammered, feeling embarrassed by the fact that the people were cheering for you. oh my fucking god, he loves you so much.

╰┈➤ author note: please note that this is a slow update. i will still accept your request, but it will take a while since i'll be working on my books on wattpad. if you wish to read those books, here's my wattpad account.

rules

hsr masterlist

[wispythreads]

The Lair of the Shadowbroker DLC definitely earned its fan praise, in my opinion. This feels like Mass Effect 1 level of artistry and level design, I love it.

There were like, way too many enemies, and I still don't really feel great about how they changed Liara in just a two year time gap between the games, but I appreciate the way this DLC handled it, it made an effort that resulted in her feeling more like how she felt in the first game.

The scene after Tela got revealed as the one who had been trying to murder Liara at the start of all this was rough, Shepard and her slipping off the window ledge, falling together, slowed down only by Tela's biotics until she shoves Shepard the rest of the way to the ground, while she gets to gently float down to make her escape. That impact looked like it HURT, especially with how much effort she had to put into getting back up again.

Shepard honestly sounded so grumpy and dejected as she said "I'm okay, by the way, thanks for asking." before hopping into the car with Liara.

And speaking of the car, I loved the banter between Liara and Shepard the whole way through, but particularly during the car chase, which was really fun! "Head on Collision!" - Liara "I hear that's bad for people." - Shepard. All the little bits of back and forth were so great to listen to, wouldn't mind replaying just for that bit of the DLC alone.

The actual Lair itself was so so so pretty.

The boss fight against the Shadowbroker is probably my favorite across all all of Mass Effect 1 and 2? Especially with the cutscenes where Shepard realizes ah ok ammo won't do anything that's fine I'll just punch him

Really cool alien design too.

Mini thoughts from snooping on my squadmates dossiers below.

Straight up chortling over Mordin and Kirrahe's bickering and how it is preserved in their mission report He really should've realized something was going to be up on Maelon's end... Nice of them to try and shelter him from any repercussions for his outburst, but he needed followed up on much sooner than when Mordin thought he'd been kidnapped. The list of threat analysis against all the other main species holy- not surprising, honestly, based on what is known about Salarians, but still pretty interesting ... So not only is he a musical enthusiast in his spare time but also a Bill Nye the Science Guy type? That's neat. Good for him.

I hope we get to reunite Jack with her mom. That would be nice.

LEGION IS A GAMER I love this little cluster of AI so much. He has so many infractions on that online game that technically are true due to the fact that he's. Not an organic being. But the only one that sticks is him taunting other players- that's so silly aww… he bought the highest (and most likely most expensive) version of a game that was fundraising for the events of Eden Prime, just for the fundraiser. He did not play that game at all. He even tried a dating simulator oh my gosh. I don't think he's hopeless =( what a mean ranking for a dating sim. He's spent so much time on it, too… (not as much as the other games, but still a significant time investment my gosh)

ahhh this is where Grunt's fanon characterization of being Shepard's son starts coming in. I do think the main game version of him and his relationship with Shepard, a paragon!Shepard at that, is interesting, but it wasn't lining up with what I was seeing online. (and by main game version I mean the transition of [Talking about how great it is we've got so many strong enemies to fight against] "I don't plan on living like this forever" "Talk like that and it won't be your choice. I'm sure as hell not quitting with a whimper. Just so you're clear where we stand." [Hyper aggressive and enjoying memories of gruesome kills] "I'm not sure I want to keep coming down for these talks..." "Whatever. Don't have to be friends to be allies." [Still hyper aggressive and enjoying memories of gruesome kills] "Y'know, I kind of thought connecting with your past would bring stability." "Ha! See, now we're having fun. Me remembering good deaths, and you with your... funny human thing you're doing.") I think there is something very sweet about him being enamored with dinosaurs and looking up to Shepard so much that he wants to know about the whole of Humanity's history as warriors :')

The transmission between Samara and her daughters... all the things she had to give up in order to become a Justicar...

!!! THANE GET THE LUNG TRANSPLANT YOU HAVE A SON YOU NEED TO CONNECT WITH AND I CARE ABOUT YOU SO MUCH DON'T JUST GIVE UP AND DIE IN A YEAR!! LIVE! LIVE AS A PERSON AND NOT A WEAPON!! I love how his kill methods are so elaborate and the alternate methods are equally intricate, with the Krogan's main method understandably being the most involved and calculated. And then you get to their alternate method and it's just one word. It gives this impression of hands to his head exhausted and resigned.

... Garrus's family… his mom…. god that's hitting a little too close to my heart....

[its-time-to-write]

bored

Don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’ve been posting less. Life’s been busy and I’ve been tired. Here’s some angst. It’s very long.

bored

It’s not falling out of love if you still love him, right? It’s more…slipping away. You feel like you’re falling off a cliff, scrambling for a handhold and coming up empty.

You hate this part in a relationship. The slide away. The boredom that creeps in. It happened with your last relationship, too. His name was Joseph, and you were together a year and a half when he started pulling away from you. It was little things at first, not talking as much and kissing you less. Then it was missing date nights and only kissing you on the forehead and silent dinners. He buried himself in books and barely looked at you and you knew the breakup was coming, but you could’t bring yourself to be the one to leave. So you didn’t. You just waited until he dropped the news at dinner and pretended like you were ok with it, and not that you had been secretly packing up your things for weeks.

It broke you a little bit. The slow pull. The obvious boredom that he had. The dissatisfaction with you. 

The waiting was torture, the aftermath was worse. Your dad was worried as you continued to dwindle into a shell of yourself. Skin pallid, eyes hallow, never smiling.

Your aunt Eileen said you needed to get out of the country and into a change of scenery, which is why you’re on a plane on your way to live with her in England. 

You’re fortunate that your job in graphic design allows for remote work and an asynchronous schedule.

It’s fun to live with Aunt Eileen. She’s very loud and very Irish. She only lives in London to be near her sister, who married and Englishman (much to the chagrin of the rest of your family). Your dad, their brother, married an American which was better-received. You have your mom’s accent, which is mostly due to the fact that you grew up in America. You think maybe if you grew up over here it would be different. 

Eileen does not let you be sad. And, it’s easier to forget about Joseph when there are no reminders of him around. It’s a completely new place with completely new faces. 

Eileen takes you all over Richmond. You meet her friends and the locals, and begin to feel things again. Not happiness per se, but some positive neutral.

Eileen kicks you out of the house every Thursday evening. She says it’s so you can explore and have time to yourself, but it’s really when all her yoga friends come over for rosé and awful reality shows. You don’t really mind, you caught a minute of one and couldn’t handle the absurdity of it. You suppose that’s the appeal, it just isn’t for you.

So instead, you get out. You brings a small sketchpad and a pencil, and create.

You haven’t done analog drawing in forever, and it’s refreshing to be away from a screen. You draw whatever you want, whether it’s your mood or a sketch of your surroundings. Little by little, you find yourself again.

—

Richmond is a big football town. Everyone loses their mind when there’s a match, and the streets become a sea of red and blue. Aunt Eileen doesn’t watch football, and neither do you. Like reality tv, you just can’t get into it. Apparently the coach (or gaffer) frequents a pub that Eileen takes you too, and he’s American like you. He heard you talking once and came over to introduce himself.

“I’m Ted and this is Coach Beard,” he had said. “Nice to hear a familiar accent around here. What’s been the biggest culture shock for you? Mine has been the fact that the cars all drive on the wrong side of the road.”

You like Ted and Beard. They remind you of home, the good parts of home. You see them pretty regularly and they talk about coaching and football, and listen to you tell them about your designs and family.

“You takin’ new work?” Ted asks one day. “Could find you some projects around Nelson Road.”

So now you’re contracted by a woman named Rebecca to keep things up to date around AFC Richmond’s headquarters.

Rebecca is something else. She’s everything you want to be, confident and fearless. She charges ahead and takes what she wants, but does it with kindness and grace. 

You suppose the kindness is what gets you the most here. Eileen thinks it’s good for you to get out and work with actual people instead of remote on a screen, and you privately agree with her. There isn’t always a lot of work to do, but Rebecca set you up with an office and allows you to work on projects for your other companies. Her friend Keeley pops in from time to time, to chat and tell you that your designs need more pink.

“It’s objectively the best color, babe,” she says. “Makes everything else pop!”

Keeley starts becoming your friend, too. 

Rebecca takes it upon herself to become your mentor of sorts, and she sits you for a meeting after your first week.

“What sort of work do you really want to do?” she asks. 

You tell her you love everything. You love murals and sketches and passion projects and surrealism. You love pencils and paint and digital art, but hate watercolor and charcoal. You love artsy interior designs and posters and tiny stickers and large paintings. You love making things expressive and beautiful, in whatever capacity you can. 

A week and a half later, you’re redecorating Keeley’s office.

“You know what I like, babe,” she says affectionately. 

And you do. You’ve known her two weeks, but she’s made an effort to get to know you and to make herself known. You’re trusting people again.

—

Keeley bursts into your office in a flurry of sequins and fringe two days after you did her office, dragging someone by the hand. 

“Babe,” she says, breathless from her obvious run to you, “tell Jamie he fucking cannot wear socks and sandals.”

You look at this Jamie and see he is indeed committing a terrible fashion faux pas.

And… looking good while doing it?

You look back at Keeley. “Keels, why are you asking me?”

She looks at you like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Because you’re Richmond’s art person! You know what looks good and what doesn’t! And this one-” she pauses to pinch Jamie’s cheek affectionately, “won’t fucking listen to me.”

Jamie shrugs, looking embarrassed. “Sorry to bug you,” he says. “Know you’ve got other shit to do.”

This is interesting. This Jamie is looking sheepish, blush tingeing the tips of his ears. You don’t know him, but what you’ve seen of all the footballers, they have egos for miles. They’re all incredibly kind, but definitely confident. Embarrassment doesn’t even seem like something any of them are capable of, but here’s Jamie in front of you, all apologetic and shooting glances at Keeley with the clear message let’s go.

Keeley isn’t paying attention, just bouncing on her toes and waiting for your response. 

You assess Jamie and say, “Actually, he’s pulling it off.” You give him your name and he smiles a little, sticks out his hand, and says, “I’m Jamie.”

Keeley frowns at you (not a real one) then grabs Jamie’s hand and marches out the door in a similar fashion that she entered. Jamie throws you one last apologetic glance before he’s dragged out the door.

You sit back in your chair, processing what just happened. This is the first time you’ve actually met someone on the team, and it was not at all what you expected. 

—

You’re working through lunch on a side project the next day, when there’s a knock on your doorframe. 

“Jamie!” you say, looking up in surprise, “What can I help you with?”

He fidgets for a moment then replies, “Keeley sent me to make sure you weren’t working through lunch.”

Oh. That’s interesting.

You frown, though not at him. “Don’t worry, I’m not.”

Jamie squints at you. “You fucking lying?”

He says it so sincerely that you laugh, and put down your pen. “Yes I am, but if Keeley asks then no. I’m taking my required mental break and not working.”

Jamie moves from the doorway and plops down on the chair across from your desk.

“Whatcha working on?”

You spend the better part of thirty minutes telling Jamie about a redesign for a children’s center logo and the details of keeping the essence while modernizing it and revamping the color scheme, all while he nods and asks questions in all the right places. It’s not until your alarm goes off on your phone that you both jump and say, “Shit,” in unison.

“I’m late. Roy’s gonna fucking kill me,” Jamie groans.

You feel terrible. “I’m so sorry,” you respond sincerely. “Shit, I’m sorry. Tell Roy it was my fault.”

Jamie shakes his head. “Nah, weren’t yours. Should’ve kept a better eye on the time.” 

He’s halfway out the door when he turns back and smiles at you. “I’ll tell Keeley you took a real break.” He winks and and disappears around the corner.

You make a mental note to ask Keeley about this whole thing later.

—

“Oh he’s into you, babe.” Keeley says, hours later when you’re at her house for drinks and dinner. 

“WHAT, no!” you protest, “He’s not! He was just- just-”

Keeley nods and smirks. “Can’t finish that sentence, can you? Y’know, I just told him to check on you. I didn’t say anything about eating lunch with you.”

Rebecca nods in agreement. “I also overheard him telling Ted that he didn’t think you were attractive at all.”

You and Keeley turn to her with matching quizzical expressions.

“He was clearly not telling the truth. I didn’t even have to see his face, I could hear it in his voice,” Rebecca explains.

“Ooh, right, yeah, Jamie’s a shit liar!” Keeley exclaims. “Oh my god babe, I literally can’t believe it. You’d be so fucking adorable together.”

Rebecca tilts her head and gives you an appraising look. “I can see it,” she says.

Your face is on fire but you’re laughing and shaking your head. “If Eileen didn’t have her yoga group over for drinks, I would be totally out of here.”

—

Rebecca was right. Jamie does like you and he asks you out the next week. 

He says, “I think you’re fucking amazing. Do you want to get dinner?”

He’s radiating so much confidence that despite yourself, you laugh and say yes. Eileen is beside herself, so happy that you are going out with “such a nice young man.” Keeley and Rebecca feel a similar way. Keeley’s boyfriend Roy just grunts. You like Roy. He’d never admit it, but he’s very kind. You know he threatened Jamie within an inch of his life when he heard you two had started dating, and the sentiment almost made you tear up. Almost.

—

You slip in to a pattern. Living with Eileen, spending nights with Jamie. Dinner with Keeley and Roy, drinks with Keeley and Rebecca. Walks in the park, early morning breakfasts, family picnics. Jamie is present for everything except girl’s night. (He makes a pretty convincing argument for why he should be included, if you’re being honest). 

It’s… scary. You’re still hurting from Joseph, but Jamie does his best to erase any trace of him. He tells you he’s going to kiss every inch of your skin, so that his lips are the only ones you think of. He brings you flowers and makes sure to tell you how much he loves you.

Eileen pretends not to notice that your bed is empty more nights than not, and you do your best to return that courtesy by keeping her in the loop of your comings and goings, so she knows if she should save you dinner. 

You and Jamie are together like this for four and a half months. It’s wonderful and terrifying and perfect.

You’ve almost forgotten Joseph ever existed.

Until one morning, Jamie has returned from morning training with Roy.

He walks in the door and you say, “Hi babe!” from your position by the coffeemaker. Jamie doesn’t respond, just absentmindedly kisses you on the cheek and grabs a cup. He doesn’t even smile at you. You look at him for a minute as he moves around the kitchen, waiting for him to acknowledge your presence. He doesn’t. He’s out the door again in a minute, barely even saying goodbye.

You chalk it up to the upcoming match. He always gets a little more focused than usual when it’s against Man City. You tell yourself he’ll be better by Sunday.

—

He’s not.

—

Jamie’s pulling away from you. 

It’s Joseph all over again.

You start to do little things to get his attention. You put on his favorite lingerie set under a “Tartt” jersey and greet him with it when he gets home. He kisses you on the fucking forehead and goes to grab dinner. He goes straight to the bed to sleep right after. 

You make his favorite dinner and set the table all fancy, candles and everything. Jamie says an absent thanks. You eat in silence.

He brushes off any attempt you make to kiss him, and you can count the amount of words he’s said to you on one hand. You feel like a child, the way he’s treating you and all of the sudden, in between bites of chicken, you know. 

Jamie’s bored.

This is ending.

You spend the night because it would be weird not to, but you lay in bed, awake the whole time. You’re under every single blanket Jamie owns, yet your blood is running cold. It’s the only thing you can feel, really, other than your heart beating furiously in your chest. The rest of you is just… numb. You pretend to be asleep when Jamie gets up at 3:30am for training, but the moment you hear the door shut you leap out of bed and collect your things. You successfully sneak back into Aunt Eileen’s house and sit on the floor of the bathroom until sunrise, knees pulled to your chest as you stare at the floor

There’s been a constant rushing in your ears since dinner with Jamie, one that accompanies you as you mechanically dress and head to Nelson Road. Your body is on autopilot as you head to your desk, past Ted and Beard, past Dani, past Sam, Nate, and Will. You know Jamie’s there, although you don’t see him. You spend most of the day glancing at your door, waiting for him to appear with lunch and an explanation.

He doesn’t.

—

It’s late, not too late but late enough that the boys are all gone, and you’re in the locker room making aesthetic assessments for Rebecca when you see it.

Jamie’s locker. 

The voice in your head screams don’t do it! but your legs are moving on their own accord, drawn by some strange impulse. You stop in front of his locker and look inside. 

Your picture is gone. 

It’s your favorite one. Eileen took it at dinner one night. You’re in the kitchen stirring something on the stove, laughing at something Jamie said. He’s grinning at you and looking at you with stars in his eyes. The love is palpable.

And it’s gone. 

Autopilot gives way to shock and your knees buckle. You’re on the floor and you’re not sure how you got there or how long you’re crying, but the door is opening and Nate is kneeling next to you and asking if you’re alright in a soft voice. You don’t respond, just keep crying, and next thing you know Keeley’s arms are around you as you panic on the floor of the Richmond locker room.

—

She drives you to Eileen’s, and you burst in through the front door. 

“Eileen!” you gasp, “It’s happening again, he doesn’t love me and I don’t know what I did-” you ram into something solid not he threshold.

“Fuck,” says Roy, although that’s not surprising because that’s roughly 80% of his vocabulary.

“Hi babe,” says Keeley in a small voice, hot on your heels, “Forgot this was yoga night.”

“What?” you ask, Jamie temporarily forgotten.

Roy just sighs and says, “Come on. Eileen’s got rosé in the kitchen. But you already fucking knew that, didn’t you.”

—

Turns out Roy is part of Eileen’s yoga group. You swear never to tell anyone.

He, in turn, succinctly grills you on Jamie.

“What the fuck did the little prick do?” he asks in his most growly voice yet.

You’re in the kitchen with him, Keeley, and Eileen. Aunt Eileen has let the yoga group know there’s been a change of plans, and they take it all in stride. Maureen herds them all to G-A-Y and they’re gone in a moment.

So now you’re here, eyes dry but red, explaining how Jamie is bored of you.

Roy says, “Fuck.” Aunt Eileen looks like she’s ready to murder someone. Keeley just looks sad. 

“You’re coming to mine,” Keeley says, in a voice that leaves no room for arguments. “We’ll put on pajamas and do face masks and Roy will make that fancy little cheese platter he’s so good at.”

Roy doesn’t even protest, just nods and slips his hand around Keeley’s waist. She settles back against him in a way that makes your heart squeeze, because it’s the exact same way you would settle against Jamie.

Eileen says, “I’ll go pack you a bag,” and then she’s bustling upstairs to your room.

—

You and Keeley have matching cucumber-mango face masks, and you’re in her bed watching Look Both Ways. You can hear Roy downstairs in the kitchen putting cheese, grapes, and whatever the fuck else on a tray. He brings it up and places it on the bed, kissing Keeley with an amicable grunt. 

“I’m headed the fuck to sleep,” he says. “I’ll see you both tomorrow.”

You smile at him as best you can, which is really just turning your mouth into a straight line, and Keeley says “Bye, babe.”

Roy smiles (as big as he ever does) and leaves.

You reach for an olive and settle back on to the pillows.

—

You don’t sleep much, but you do sleep. Keeley is wrapped around you like a spider monkey so you finally drift off around 3am. It’s not lost on you that Jamie will be awake in thirty minutes, and that it should be his arms wrapped around you. 

—

You’re in your office for a grand total of fifteen minutes when Rebecca comes marching in.

“What the hell are you doing here?” she asks.

“My job..?” you respond tentatively.

She shakes her head. “You’re getting the day off. As a matter of fact, you can take Monday as well. You do good work, and you’ve never missed a deadline. You can take a goddamn break.”

Oh. Keeley must have told her.

You nod slowly then get up to grab your bag.

Rebecca pauses for a moment, then pulls you into a hug. It’s incredibly calming.

Rebecca asks, “Do you need anything?”

You shake your head. “I think I’m just going to get my things from Jamie’s while he’s at training. I don’t want to make a scene. I’ll call him tonight and let him know we’re done, just so it isn’t prolonged anymore.”

Tears appear in your eyes and Rebecca hugs you again.

“Well,” she says, “just give me call. You know how to reach me.”

—

There’s a lot of things at Jamie’s, but fortunately you keep a box in the back of your car. You’ve cleaned out your tea from his cupboards, toiletries from his bathroom, and are now kneeling on the floor, emptying out your drawer. Your hands linger a little too long over the Tartt 9 jersey Jamie gave you when a voice says, “What the fuck are you doing?”

You jump. “Jesus, Jamie. Aren’t you supposed to be at training?”

“Coach said I had to go home. What the fuck are you doing?”

You skip over the fact that he didn’t elaborate on which coach sent him home and remind yourself to kill Roy.

You blow out a long, slow breath. Fuck. This was not how this was supposed to go.

“I um, I’m cleaning out my things.” You can’t look him in the eyes. You’re still on the floor, Jamie’s in the doorframe.

Jamie is silent so you continue.

“I just wanted to make things easier,” you tell the jersey in your hands. “I… know what’s happening. And it’s fine, really. I’m not…entitled to your love, you know? So… it’s ok. I just-” you sigh, body feeling so heavy all of a sudden, “I just wanna know one thing.”

You look at Jamie for the first time. “What is it about me that’s boring?”

Jamie opens his mouth to say something, but you barrel on. “You don’t have to lie, we’re probably never going to speak again, so just tell me. Because I’ve been over it a million times in my head and I can’t figure it out. I tried to figure it out with Joseph too. I get it if I were too clingy or too talkative or something, but what is it that makes me boring?” Tears have started streaming down your face at some point. God, this has been such a shit week. All this crying is making your eyes hurt.

There are tears in Jamie’s eyes, too.

“I- you- you aren’t boring,” Jamie croaks.

He could’ve fooled you.

“Then why have you been pulling away from?” you ask, voice small. “You kissed me on the forehead, Jamie. Like I was, I don’t know, your great aunt or something.”

Jamie rubs his face with his hand. “Shit, I- shit. I’m so fucking sorry. God, babe, I’m so, so fucking sorry. Roy told me to come here, said something about fucking shit up again, so I came here and found you like that on the floor and- shit, I just fucked up.”

He’s made his way over to you, slowly, like you’re a wild animal about to spook. He crouches down on the floor next to you and reaches out a hand to your cheek.

“It’s my dad,” he says finally. “He came ‘round, asking questions and shit, and he asked about you. And I fucking hated that. He knew your name and shit. Made some threats. I didn’t- I wanted to protect you. And I thought once you knew about him you wouldn’t want shit to do with me. I was fucking waiting for you to break up with me once you found out.”

Jamie’s voice is far too raw for this to story to be made up. The only thing you know about his dad is that he exists, and Jamie never talks about him. This… makes sense. It’s fucking stupid, but it makes sense. So you tell him.

“Jamie,” you say, “that is fucking stupid. It makes sense, but it’s fucking stupid.”

He hangs his head. “God, I know. He comes ‘round and I forget how to fuckin act.”

“Hey,” you say softly, tilting his chin up to meet his eyes. “This was shitty. But we’re learning. We’ll work on communicating, I promise. I’ll get better at it too. And as far as your dad goes, we’ll figure that out.”

Jamie laughs wetly and you bring his head close for a kiss.

You two will figure it out.

[dailyadventureprompts]

Ok, so if i'm not playing D&D the "right way" then what do you suggest i play? i don't even play 5e much anymore nor am i trying to start an argument, i am honestly curious. why can a game not have multiple ways of engaging with it, or just be a tool to facilitate storytelling why still having mechanics? Especially when the DMG literally says that there are multiple methods of play beyond the very strict definitions that thydungeongal and txttletale love to beat people over the head with?

I think I might be missing the context of what sparked this ask, but I'm going to do my best to answer it all the same.

First: I don't think you're going to get any sort of agreement between me, thydungeongal, or txttletale over what the one "right way" to play d&d is. (Based off my general impressions without talking to them directly) TDG is going to recommend you focus on stories of exploration and dungeon adventure because that's what the system supports, while TT is going to say that you should play something indie because not only are the d&d rules badly designed but WotC's market dominance is bad for the health of the hobby and the IP has some really iffy race politics.

I'm just as opinionated as those two, but my opinions are largely based around my standards for what makes D&D fun to play either as a player or DM: Is the group chemistry right? Is the narration informative/amusing to listen to? Are the game systems being executed well? Are we intentionally trying to avoid bad experiences/slog? For me D&D is a performance as much as it is a game, and a bad performance/gameplay (no matter what side of the screen I'm on) makes my skin CRAWL. I've been chasing the ideal game of d&d for two and a half decades now, and I'm unwilling to settle for an experience that's just passable.

I have no idea how you're playing d&d, or if the version you're playing (not just rules system, but general execution, way of being etc) is in any way to my liking, so I can't make a judgment if I consider it in any way "wrong". Likely if we did play I'd have some notes, and through analyzing the differences in our playstyles I'd come to an understanding of how I could play the game better.

That's the exact reason I reblog/comment on 5e critical voices: It's my favourite system, but the critiques levelled at it are something I (and I hope my readers) can learn from regardless of whether they're true, or just wrong in an interesting way.

If you're having trouble with how other people are saying a game should be played, ask yourself; do you have a point of view that runs counter to theirs? or do you just instinctively not like people telling you that what your doing is (in their opinion) wrong?

[sophie-looks-at-stuff]

Some random modern HotD headcanons :)

Hey y’all! So I kept thinking of some funny, and very specific headcanons for the HotD characters, so I decided to just make it a whole post. This will actually be my first “legit” post on here, lol! Anyways, this will include some headcanons about Aemond, Aegon II, Luke, Jace, Daemon, Rhaenyra, Helaena, etc. But hope y’all enjoy lol! :)

Ok, I am convinced that Aemond has a secret stash of tea hidden somewhere. He's even put them all in a very nice ornate, antique box. It's his guilty pleasure. He probably would have some Earl Gray, English Breakfast, maybe even some lavender mint for the evenings. He'd keep it secret because all the teas he's gotten are way too expensive, and special.

Luke is an avid Minecraft gamer. Like he's basically built Dragonstone, and the Red Keep in his server. He'll play sometimes with Jace, or maybe even Aegon. But he doesn't let them into that world. Aegon would probably blow it all up with TnT.

Speaking of gaming, I think some people are on the same page that Aegon would be some kind of gamer. He'd be up to date on all the new systems and gadgets. He'd be one of the firsts to have the PS5 when it came out. He probably plays a lot of Call of Duty. Maybe even some Valorant when he doesn't wanna fire up the PS. He'd definitely be cursing and yelling at the game, to the point where Alicent threatens to take it away.

While Rhaenyra watches her shows, House Wives, Rupaul's Drag Race, etc. Daemon pretends to be not interested, but really he's super invested. He'd be leaning against the couch, or the wall totally sucked in. And when Rhaenyra tells him to just sit down and watch with her, he's all like, "no no I don't even like this show". But then he'd say things like, "Well maybe if her gown was better made she wouldn't have been eliminated last episode".

Aegon gives me frat boy energy. And I know I'm not the first to say that lol. You already know he's planning all the parties, and picking the themes. I like to think he'd be very invested into picking the themes. They would be things like, dragon night, wear your fave dragon scale colors. Or something like, Dragonstone beach night, wear your swim suits and flip flops.

Alicent likes to knit. Or maybe crochet? It's her stress reliever activity after dealing with Aegon, and the rest of the boys. Helaena is always giving her new patterns or designs to try.

I think Alicent also likes to take the occasional Buzzfeed quiz. "If you were a cake flavor, here's what you'd be based on your star sign".

Helaena runs a very successful tik tok account. She'd post her outfits, and maybe some art or cool bugs she's found.

Aegon listens to a lot of Megan Thee Stallion and Kim Petras. He's blasting Kim Petras' Treat me like a Slut at least 5 times a day. He gets ready to it in the morning.

Aemond will get down to some Amy Winehouse.

Jace works at the local animal shelter as his summer job. He only got the job cause Rhaenyra said he needed to get out of the house. Plus Helaena also works there, so she helped him get hired.

Aemond would be a great bartender. Not with like actually interacting with customers, but he can make some great drinks. Like he's over here coming up with all these crazy cocktails. Although, like his tea obsession he keeps this on the low. He doesn't want Aegon asking him to make drinks all the time. Gods forbid he asks Aemond to bartend at one of the frat parties.

Helaena was a Monster High girl growing up.

Aemond has a motorcycle. It was his one rebellious purchase. Alicent hates it.

Luke can kick Aegon's ass in any game, video or otherwise. You name it, Call of Duty, UNO, Valorent, Go fish...

Rhaenyra has a bit of a sweet tooth, but she has to hide her candy stash, cause the boys will steal it in a heartbeat. Who would have thought Daemon would love lemon drops so much.

I really could go on forever, these are just too fun to write. But I'll leave it here for now lol.

[whatsnewalycat]

Designated Person | Chapter 6

Pairing: Francisco “Catfish” Morales x F!Reader

Chapter 6: Present

Rating: Explicit (18+ only)

Series Summary: When posting bail for Frankie Morales, your former employer and former lover, you unwittingly designate yourself as his third party custodian during his pre-trial release. Your often tumultuous relationship with him is given a new set of rules and put to the test. Can the two of you co-exist peacefully, or will you crash and burn?

Word Count: 9.2k+

Content / Warnings: Frankie POV, infidelity, past romantic & sexual relationship and related flashbacks, angst, food, AA meeting, alcoholism, abuse mention, lying, confrontation, crying, mutual masturbation, panty snatchin' (sorry idk what else to call it)

Notes: Hello hello hello! If you want the taglist, spotify playlist, or AO3 link, head on down to the masterlist. I appreciate your patience in waiting for this, thank you so much for reading. Ok love u have fun!

[ Previous Chapter ][ Series Masterlist ][ Next Chapter ]

Tonight, the AA meeting is being held in the conference room of a value hotel. 

The three-story venue is ripe with families on vacation and traveling professionals who likely booked their rooms as a cost-saving measure. They certainly didn’t choose to stay here because of its charming features, such as the floating island of dead bugs in the outdoor swimming pool, or the dingy low-pile carpet darkened in high-traffic areas, or the generic, faded landscape portraits in shiny golden frames. 

Its conference room is windowless, the only source of light buzzing from long fluorescents overhead, dousing everything in a twitchy, vague sort of green that grips Frankie’s stomach. 

Or, maybe it’s just the story he’s listening to that’s making him feel ill. 

Maybe a little bit of both, it’s hard to tell. 

“She had her heart set on leaving, ‘n’ I told her, nobody fuckin’ wants you here anyway, Mary Beth, go on home!” 

The haggard old man, who introduced himself as Fred, says this in a jovial, rehearsed way that tells Frankie this story has been told many times. Probably over drinks, to coworkers, or friends, or anyone who happened to be within earshot at his regular barstool. 

Fred glances around over his puffy, purpled nose, like he half expects his spectators’ laughter, but the only noise is the squeak of people’s uncomfortable shifting in seats. Either because the story is too relatable, or because these folding chairs are hell on the tailbone. 

“She told me if I didn’t get my ass outta that barstool, she’d be gone when I got home,” he looks at the floor and his cheeky grin falls, “I didn’t go home ‘til barclose. ‘N’ she was still there. Knew she would be. She always was.”

The room is silent as he gathers his thoughts. 

“She passed away, few years back,” he looks around, putting his calloused hands up defensively, “‘N’ I miss her everyday, don’t get me wrong, but—”

The well-weathered skin of his face sags into solemnity, “I kinda wish she woulda kicked me to the curb, y’know? Was always waitin’ for it, for her to get fed up ‘n’ leave, but she never did. ‘N’ I think, sometimes, maybe… she woulda lived a better life if she did. ‘Steada waiting around for some drunk, she coulda really made somethin’ out of herself. And I feel…” he frowns at the floor, trying to pinpoint the correct emotion, a skill undoubtedly atrophied by decades of avoidance.

“Regret, I think? Wasting so much of her life. It’s one thing wastin’ my life, but her’s… I dunno. It don’t sit right,” Fred clears his throat and swallows, then sighs, “Guess that’s it. Our anniversary’s coming up next week, she’s been on my mind ‘n’ I wanted to get that out.” 

The ringleader for tonight is David, as is usually the case at the Monday night meetings Frankie attends. He thanks Fred for sharing, then asks for another volunteer. 

Frankie leans back in his seat and presses his fingers to his lips as another participant clears their throat and begins to talk. He’s stuck on the old man’s story, though. His knee starts bouncing as he turns it over in his mind. 

I’m not that bad, right? I wasn’t that absent. I didn’t go to the bar every night. On the weekends, sure. And on weeknights, I’d drink myself fuzzy and numb, but at least I was at home.

Was he really present, though? 

Before you, when Angie was home with Sarah on maternity leave, he’d come home from work and visit with them for a while. Knock a few beers or drinks back. After dinner, he would continue to drink in the garage, or in the basement. Somewhere Angie couldn’t raise her eyebrows every time he finished a beverage and retrieved a replacement. 

Even after you, this ritual continued. You distracted him enough to slow the drinking those few hours after he got home. But once the table was cleared after dinner, he would tuck himself away somewhere in the house to drink alone. 

It wasn’t always that way. 

He drank, sure, but it wasn’t every day. It wasn’t to the point his mind went blank. 

No, that didn’t start until he returned from South America. 

Every time his eyelids closed, it played on repeat. The mansion. The crash. The village. Redfly’s vacant eyes. Over and over. His culpability hung around his neck like a noose. 

The guys didn’t want to talk about it. A silent agreement not to mention their sins. Angie didn’t want to talk about it. Too pissed at him for going in the first place to feel bad for him. 

It just stayed inside him, replaying again and again on loop. He needed something to wipe the slate clean, and booze worked. 

Not like he was sober before then. Drinking himself blind on the weekends. Fuck, Angie was the same way. Before she got pregnant, anyway. That’s how they ended up meeting, that summer night back in 2018. 

He and Benny went to one of their frequent Saturday spots. The bar was crowded and loud, heavy throngs of people attracted by a popular local DJ. Summer heat crept into the air despite the industrial air conditioner running at full blast, Florida’s relentless humidity hung thick in the air, leaving a dewy residue on every surface. 

The only thing Frankie could smell was that primal, earthy scent of sweat. He pinched his shirt and pulled it away from his chest with a few quick tugs, trying to get some kind of a breeze going. When he looked around the bar, swathes of exposed skin all surrounded him, people wiping their foreheads and fanning themselves. 

He spotted two women sitting at a high-top table, leaning over their drinks and talking to each other. One of them was a pretty, unassuming brunette. The other had glossy black hair that shone in the neon lights, cascading in waves down the open back of her dress. She looked put together and fucking luminous, the way her copper skin seemed to glow. He couldn’t look away. 

Benny was in the middle of a sentence when Frankie cut him off, “Holy shit, look at her.” 

“What—who?” Benny followed Frankie’s line of sight and guffawed, “Her? She would eat you for fucking breakfast, man.”

“I fucking wish,” Frankie gave Benny this dopey smile, nodding towards them, “You getting a feel on the friend?”

Benny glanced her over and shrugged, a smirk turning up the corner of his mouth, “Pretty brunette?” 

“Right up your alley, huh?” Frankie grinned, then nudged his friend, “So?”

“Fuck it, why not?” Benny chuckled. 

“Atta boy,” Frankie smacked his shoulder a few times, then started off towards the table. 

“Hey, how’re you two doing tonight?” he asked as he leaned against the table, looking between the two women, who sized him up scrupulously, “Yeah, uh, my name is Frankie, this is my buddy, Benny. Mind if we join you?” 

“Why?” the subject of his desire asked, her big, round eyes searching Frankie’s face. 

“Why?” he raised his eyebrows and chuckled, “Well, because you’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen in my life. I’d sell my goddamn soul for an opportunity to talk to you—”

“Oh yeah?” she smirked and tilted her head, bringing the tip of her tongue to her top teeth before shrugging, “Prove it.” 

“You—you want it? My soul?” he grinned and leaned closer, “It’s yours, beautiful, for the low, low price of this barstool next to you. And maybe, if you’re feeling generous, a dance later?”

“That’s a hell of a deal,” she raised her eyebrows and joked, “For you, I mean.”

“Oh yeah?” he laughed, “What if I throw in a sweetener? I’ll buy your drinks, too, how’s that sound?” 

She scrunched her face up in contemplation, then smiled, “Deal.”

“Yeah?” Frankie beamed, extending his hand to her, and as she took it, he grazed his thumb against her soft skin, “What’s your name?”

“Angie,” she answered, eyebrow quirking as she told him, “This doesn’t mean you’re taking me home tonight, though.”

“Noted,” he smirked, dropping his eyes to her lips, before meeting her gaze, “So what’re you drinking?”

He woke up the next morning in his bed, head spinning, stomach clenching. 

Before opening his eyes, he tried to recount the night, following the path of breadcrumbs his memory allowed him. Meeting Angie, taking shots, flirting with her relentlessly, more drinks, dancing with her. Kissing her on the dance floor. The sidewalk slabs uneven beneath his feet on the walk back to his apartment. A woman’s razor sharp giggle as he fumbled to unlock the door. 

The mattress shifted beside him and he cracked one eyelid open tentatively, releasing a sigh of relief when he recognized Angie as the person tangled up in his sheets. Traces of the previous night’s makeup still held in tact on her face, oily pools gathering in the soft wrinkles of her forehead and eyes, black mascara clinging to her lashes in clumps and flaking onto her cheeks, a faint red outline where her lipstick was before he kissed it off of her. He rolled on his side towards her and brushed some of the sweat-dampened hair from her forehead. 

She hummed and frowned, then took a deep, wakeful breath as her eyes blinked open. They were stunning in the light. Golden streaks like sunbeams stretching from the middle of her iris into a deep, rich brown. 

“Oh, fuck,” she murmured, “We fucked, didn’t we?”

“That’s what it’s looking like,” he smirked, “How’re you feeling?”

She groaned and pinched the bridge of her button nose, “Still drunk.”

“Regret this yet?” he chuckled, half-joking, half-wondering. 

“Having sex with a stranger? Yeah, I’m having some regrets,” she scoffed, shaking her head, then threw her hand down at her side. She sighed and studied his face, “You’re cute, though. Kind of wish I could remember it.”

“Ditto,” he said, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear with a shrug, “You know, we could have a do-over. Since we’re already here and regretting it. You could… let me have another chance to, ya know, make a lasting impression.” 

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” her dark eyebrow arched. A smirk tugged at the corner of her mouth. She brought her long, red fingernails to his hairline and combed them through his bed head. 

“Yes ma’am,” he nodded, dropping his gaze to her lips, “Plus, that way, when this hangover inevitably kills me, I’ll die a happy man.” 

“Is that right?” she giggled. The sound made his heart sing in harmony. 

“That’s right,” he reached out to her under the covers, smoothing his hands along her soft skin, coaxing her closer as he murmured, “What do you think, princesa, hmm?”

“I think,” she wriggled on top of him, the sticky heat of her naked body clinging to his, “I could give you a fighting chance.“

She hovered over him, meeting his eyes for an intoxicating moment before he pulled her lips to his. From there, it was full throttle. Kissing, biting, gasping, moaning. Torrid, frenzied movements that burned bright and hot. 

Their relationship took off at break-neck speed. 

From that day onward, they were doing nightly sleepovers at each others’ apartments. Every free moment spent with the other, most often spent drinking or fucking. Six days into their relationship, Frankie got a text from some girl he was casually seeing. Angie read it when he was out of the room, then confronted him, resulting in their first drunk screaming match, and, subsequently, their first instance of drunk make-up sex. 

She worked at a global manufacturing plant’s central office with hundreds of other carpet-walkers and pencil-pushers as a financial analyst. Her hours often ran long and wound her up tight. 

When she would show up at Frankie’s apartment after work, she’d be ready to burst. He’d fix her a drink and listen to her bitch about coworkers and projects and idiots who used reply all instead of reply, waiting for her to ask him anything about his day. She never seemed all that curious about him, though, which irked him. 

They did have fun together, when they had sex and went out to bars, but by the end of the second month, he found her presence to be draining. That bug of discontentment wriggled beneath his skin. He realized they had little in common aside from their coping mechanisms and combustibility. 

He started to think about breaking things off with Angie, but, by then, it was too late. 

“Who would like to go next?” David asks, glancing around the circle of metal folding chairs and their scattered occupants. 

Frankie meets his eyes and points his index finger at the ceiling. 

“Floor’s yours, Frankie.” 

“Thanks,” Frankie nodded and crossed his arms, sitting back in the squeaky chair, “Growing up, my dad wasn’t around much,” his mouth opens, but a thought occurs to him and he chuckles, shaking his head, “There’s one for the AA Meeting Bingo Card, huh?” 

This actually earns a few amused grins and a snort of laughter from his peers. 

He leans forward, pressing his elbows into his knees with a shrug, “Anyway. Even when he was living with us, whenever I did see him, he had a beer in his hand. And I thought it was normal, like everyone’s dad went to the bar every night, so I didn’t think much of it. I’m not sure when that changed. When I started to notice, I mean, that it wasn’t normal.

“When I’d go to my friend’s house, I thought they were… I dunno, fucking weird? Because they sat around the dinner table and talked to each other while they ate. And—and they didn’t seem afraid of their dad. Like, they didn’t have to walk on eggshells when he was around, which made me… uncomfortable, I guess,” he grimaces and shakes his head, “Jesus Christ, that’s fucked up. But, anyway, the point I’m trying to make is that, to me, my dad’s behavior was normal. 

“There would be times when he would come home and be three sheets to the goddamn wind, and he’d yell and throw shit, and my ma, she would lock me in my bedroom and tell me not to come out. Said my dad wasn’t feeling well,” he crinkles his nose and shrugs, “They split when I was twelve. And I don’t blame her for leaving him, I really don’t, but… I didn’t see him again until I got out of basic.”

He stops and leans back, taps his fingers on his kneecaps, then crosses his arms. A knot tightens in his throat when he remembers that day. Knocking on the door of his dad’s shitty apartment in Orlando. When it swung open, Frankie barely recognized him. 

Seven years left to his own devices aged him decades. Deep wrinkles carved into his droopy forehead. His nose and cheeks were darkened and bumpy, like he had a pubescent case of acne. He looked Frankie over with glossy, barely-there eyes and slurred, “There’s my boy! Hey, come in, Francisco, come in!”

Frankie’s stomach soured when the words hit his face, thick and swollen with whiskey. A warning signal that laid dormant in his veins for years reawakened, gushing hot and electric beneath his staticky skin. 

His father turned and started waddling into the apartment, so Frankie followed him, closing the door left wide open behind him. The apartment was threadbare. A dingy beige couch sat on one side of the living room, facing a small antennaed tv propped up on a milk crate. Some blonde news anchor chattered on the tv, but the gurgling buzz of the air conditioning unit effectively muted her. In lieu of a proper dining room setup, his father had a folding chair tucked into a card table, which was cluttered by piles of unopened envelopes and empty beer cans.

While the stranger pulled two beer cans out of his fridge, Frankie managed to stitch some words together, “So, how’ve you been, Dad?”

He didn’t seem to hear his question, just held one aluminum can across the countertop to his son, “You’re a real man now, huh? Have a beer with me, Francisco.” 

Frankie took a few steps forward and went to lean onto the counter, but decided against it when he realized how sticky the surface was. He accepted the beer and opened it. 

“It’s been too long, my boy, too long. What has it been, four years?”

“Seven,” Frankie corrected, averting his gaze to a tower of dirty dishes emerging from cloudy, gray water in the sink. The wet, bacterial, rotting stench made his nose crinkle. 

“Ah, well. I’m, well…” he trailed off and swallowed three big gulps of beer, then grinned, “So, Special Forces, huh?”  

“Yeah, I—”

“I’m proud of you, Francisco.” 

Frankie’s head jerked backwards and he met his dad’s dark eyes, “Wh-what?” 

“Takes discipline,” he responded, nodding, “I’m proud of you. Your mom, she did a good job with you.”

And he wanted to say a million different things. He wanted to say thank you and I love you and I forgive you and I hate you and fuck you. He wanted to yell: No thanks to you, you drunk old bastard. You woman-beating fucking coward. A different part of him wanted to cry: Why did you abandon me? Why wasn’t I good enough? Am I good enough now?

But when he licked his lips and opened his mouth to respond, his dad shuffled off into the sad living room, changing the subject. 

Frankie shakes his head and sighs, then looks around the room, “When Angie got pregnant, I vowed I’d never be like him. I—I wanted to be there for my kid, to be better than he was to me, and give my child a better life than I had. 

“Ang and I don’t always, um… see eye-to-eye. We have our problems. I’m trying to make it work, but I’m just so,” the word catches in his throat and burns behind his eyes. He takes a deep breath, swallows, and admits, “I’m so scared it’s not going to work. And Ang will take her. And I’ll end up just like him.”

He clears his throat, then takes another wide, cleansing breath before starting again.

“The only things I’ve ever been any good at are being a soldier and being a dad,” he says, staring at the floor, “It’s hard enough only seeing her a few times a week right now. I fucking hate it. I hate not being there when she wakes up in the middle of the night with a nightmare, and not watching Happy Feet with her twice a day, and not cuddling on the couch with her in the morning,” his stomach clenches and he feels a swell of tears starting behind his eyes, but continues, “The only thing getting me through this right now is knowing that it’s temporary. But if it doesn’t work with Angie, and I lose Sarah, I lose fucking everything. And I—I fucking can’t do that. I won’t.”

Frankie buries his face in his hands and feels a sob bubble up his throat. The echo of his crying returns to his ears and he becomes acutely aware of the other people in the room. That hardened part of his brain scolds him, growling at him to fucking get it together. He pushes the chair out behind him and keeps his head down as he walks out of the room, muttering, “I need a minute.”

When your shitty old car pulls into the hotel parking lot, Frankie is still outside pacing, trying to gather the courage to go back inside and face the group. 

He breathes a sigh of relief and starts towards it. You furrow your brow at him through your cracked windshield. When he opens the car door and sits down, you ask, “Why aren’t you in there?”

“It’s fine,” he frowns and pulls his seatbelt over his chest, locking it in place, “Got out early.”

You narrow your eyes at him, then scoff, “Bullshit. What happened?”

“Nothing—”

“Oh my god, Frankie, come on,” you cross your arms and lean back in your seat, searching his face, “You’re all flustered right now—”

“I am not,” he protests.

“You’re such a liar, you are flus-tered,” you blink at him with authority, raising one eyebrow, “All jittery, and your eyes look red—did you cry? Is that it?”

It’s irritating how well you know him. 

He rolls his eyes and looks out the window, muttering against his fingers, “Can we just go?”

“It’s ok, you know, to cry,” you say quietly. 

His leg starts bouncing and his jaw gnashes from one side to the other.

Like you’re one to talk. 

Like you don’t go out of your way to hide from him every time tears pool in your eyes. 

“Hey,” you coo and tug on his hand. He lets you take it, interlacing his fingers with yours. The contact makes his heart skip a beat. When he looks over at you, your brows are threaded together, earnest eyes searching his face, “You’re not the first person to cry in AA, I promise. They’re there to support you. Give them a chance to help.” 

He glances up at the hotel’s exit and sees a few people from the meeting filing out, and shrugs, “It’s over now, anyways.”’

“Did you get your paper signed?” 

“No.”

“C’mon, at least get credit for your work,” you smirk, squeezing his hand, “I’m sure they’ll understand why you left.” 

He groans and scrubs a hand over his face, “Fine.” 

“Atta boy,” you grin, “Do you want me to come with or do you got this?”

“I got this,” he flashes a weak smile, and has to hold himself back from bringing the back of your hand to his lips. 

He unbuckles his seatbelt and gets out of the vehicle, nodding at a few familiar faces as he makes his way back into the building to the conference room. 

In the room, a few people are putting away chairs or talking in small, quiet groups. David stands by the snack table, signing off on someone’s attendance form. Frankie lines up behind them and avoids David’s gaze when it’s his turn to hand over the attendance sheet. 

“That was really vulnerable, what you shared with us today,” David tells Frankie as he unfolds the form. 

His nostrils flare and he scoffs, “I thought I was supposed to share things.”

David frowns as he signs off on the paper, shaking his head, “It’s a compliment. Being vulnerable is good, and I appreciate your vulnerability.” 

“Oh,” Frankie shifts his weight to one leg and frowns, “Thanks.” 

“Yeah, of course,” David hands the form back, and when Frankie takes it, he can tell David is gearing up to say more. His face grows more solemn. He pushes the wire frame of his glasses up the bridge of his nose and says, “I know how conflicting it is being an alcoholic father with an alcoholic father. It’s hard to know if you’re doing the right thing. Being apart from them is hell, even if it’s when you’re doing something to make yourself better. I just wanted to let you know that I get it.” 

Frankie nods, searching the man’s face, “Thanks, man.”

“No problem,” David flashes a polite smile, then turns to the snack table and starts picking things up. 

When the two of you get home, Frankie goes into your bedroom to haul the TV back to its normal spot in the living room. 

He finds himself lingering at the foot of the bed, staring at the side he slept in last night. At the covers, still drawn back from when he woke for work this morning. At the stuffed panda bear you set in his place at some point today. 

My place. 

He needs to stop thinking like that. It’s not his place. It can’t be his place. 

Not permanently, anyway. 

Part of him feels guilty for not leaving once you fell asleep. Staying was pure self-indulgence, no matter how many times he tries to convince himself it was for your benefit. 

It can’t become a habit. 

But all weekend he wanted to hold you. To feel your beating heart and shallow, wheezy breath against his body. Proof that you were still here, after seeing you gasping for air, lips tinged blue, eyes wide with fear. 

In his life, he’s faced a lot of scary and uncertain situations. Situations that threatened his own life and that of people he cares about. But this… this was different. At least in combat scenarios, he had training and experience to guide him. 

This weekend he felt powerless. 

If he had to quantify the terror, he was at maximum capacity. Never been so fucking afraid in his life. He felt so helpless, he folded his hands and bowed his head at your hospital bedside, reaching out to something or someone in hushed whispers, pleading for your recovery. 

So, no, he couldn’t bring himself to leave you alone in your bed last night. Not when you fell asleep in his arms, your head on his chest, curled up at his side. 

The answer to his prayers. 

When he was sure you were sleeping, he pressed his lips to your forehead and told you what he’s only barely been able to admit to himself. 

In a million different ways, I’ve always loved you.

It was indulgent. Undisciplined. 

But mostly, it was a relief. 

Even if his words fell on your sleeping ears. 

Even if he can probably never tell you again. 

With a heavy sigh, he follows the TV’s power cord to the wall and unplugs it. He freezes when he spots something on the floor next to your dresser. You cough at the other end of the house, and he glances over his shoulder just to make sure you’re not around before he picks it up. 

A pile of soft teal lace. Your underwear. 

He brings them to his nose and inhales, the familiar scent inspiring a deep, heated churn at the base of his spine. Without another thought, he shoves them in the front pocket of his jeans, then unplugs the TV. 

Frankie settles on the couch with a groan, then glances over to where you’re curled up into a little ball and asks, “Were you able to get some rest today?”

You nod and your mouth stretches into a yawn, then you murmur, “Still kind of feel like shit, though. Hopefully it’s better by Wednesday.”

“Oh yeah, how’re your kids doing?” 

“Marla said they’re doing better, getting back to their normal selves. Em’s going back to school tomorrow.”

“That’s good,” he leans back and spreads out in his corner of the couch, “You like it, working for them?”

“Yeah,” you shrug, “They’re sweet kids. Whole different vibe than Sarah, though,” you glance at him and chuckle, “Don’t tell anybody, but she was my favorite.” 

A grin stretches across Frankie’s face. He presses his fingertips to his lips and looks over at you, “She is pretty great, huh?” 

“The best,” you agree, a wistful smile playing on your lips, “I hope that when I, um,“ you falter here, smile dropping. You clear your throat and shake your head, “Sorry, I lost my train of thought. Are you guys doing anything fun tomorrow?”

“Not sure yet. Angie, um… yeah, I don’t know,” he frowns at his knee as it starts to bounce, “She’s pissed at me. So probably, you know, dealing with that.”

“Because you skipped out on Saturday?”

He nods, and when you don’t say anything, he glances over at you, “It’s fine, though, she’ll get over it.”

“Sure,” you smirk, raising an eyebrow, “Have things been going ok outside of that?”

“Aside from the alcoholism, my pending felony, and the fact that I’m living with another woman?” he snorts, “Things are going great.” 

“Don’t forget the affair,” you tease. 

“Mmm, you mean the isolated incident?” he corrects, rolling his head on his shoulders to look at you. 

You scoff and shake your head, “Wow. Yeah, isolated. Sure. Just a mistake, right?” 

He searches your face, watching your eyes go dim and your jaw clench, and furrows his brow, “N-no, that’s not—“

You clamp your lips closed with your teeth, like you’re holding yourself back, then open your mouth anyway, “That’s what you tell her, though, right?” you blink, “It was a mistake, it meant nothing to you, it’ll never happen again, blah blah blah?”

His jaw hangs slack and throat croaks as he tries to yield some kind of truth that will both spare your feelings and help him evade scrutiny, “I’m—sorry.”

It’s all he can come up with. 

You roll your eyes and sigh, then mutter, “Whatever,” before turning your attention back to the TV. 

The silence that settles is tense. It writhes beneath his skin and trickles into his stomach, twisting it into knots. 

You start to wriggle in your seat, like it’s bothering you, too. He can feel a jagged energy rolling off your body, and, predictably, you break. 

“If you ever want things to actually work with her, you’re going to have to come clean,” you huff, then glare at him, “You know that right? That you can’t just lie to her forever? There’s no way she fucking believes you.”

Frankie sighs, picking his hat off his head to run a hand through his hair, “Can we not?”

“Sure, we can just not,” you snip and sit up straight, crossing your arms across your chest, “We can just pretend things are cool and groovy and you can get your life back and I can fuck off into oblivion.” 

“Jesus Christ—”

“Well, fuck, that’s what you want, right, Frankie?” you stare at him, “You’ll be nice to me while you’re here, and cuddle with me, and hold my hand, and what the fuck ever, but when this arrangement is over, then what?”

“I don’t fucking know, ok?!” he snaps, then stands and starts pacing the living room, shaking his head, “I don’t know if—if I’m going to fucking prison, or if I’m going to lose my job, or if my wife will fucking divorce me and take my daughter away—”

Frankie stops and turns away from you, trying to swallow the lump in his throat. A few quiet seconds go by as he gathers himself and wrangles the burgeoning tears back into his skull. When he turns back around, he throws his hands out at his side, then lets them fall loose, “I don’t know what anything will look like after this,” he meets your glossy eyes, all wide and pained, and tells you in a hoarse, shaky voice, “Look, I’m sorry. I’m sorry for being a fucking asshole to you for so long. I lied to you. I pushed you away. I fucking—I fucking hurt you and I understand that.”

He takes a few steps forward. Your eyes, pooling with tears, stay glued his, following seamlessly when he crouches down in front of you and pleads, “I’m trying to be better, I swear to god I’m fucking trying. I—I care about you a lot. And I’m sorry I can’t give you a better answer for what you and me will look like after this ‘situation’ is over with, because I have no fucking clue what anything will look like.” 

You swallow hard and nod, then drop your gaze as your face crumbles. A sob bubbles up your throat and quickly devolves into a coughing fit. 

“Ah, fuck,” he mutters, glancing around. He spots your inhaler on the coffee table and hands it to you, “Need this?”

You take it and inhale a few puffs of albuterol. When your breathing evens out, blink the tears from your eyes and croak out, “Sorry.” 

He reaches up and smudges a fat, swollen tear on your cheek with his thumb, “It’s fine, sweetheart.”

A pained expression crosses your face. You lean away from his touch, so he sits down beside you as you exhale a thick sigh and look around the room.

“I understand why you wouldn’t tell Angie everything. I just—” one of your cheeks pulls in like you’re gnawing at the inside. You release it and tell him, “I just hate the idea of you saying we were a mistake. I don’t know. Is that dumb?” 

Your eyes flick to his and they’re so sincere, his stomach flips upside down. He shakes his head, “No, that’s not dumb.” 

“Ok,” you sniffle, nodding as you look at the TV, “Ok.”

A minute goes by, each second amplifying the buzz beneath his skin. He looks over and realizes you’re squished against the armrest of the couch, curled up in a tense knot of limbs, brow furrowed, biting at your lip. 

“Hey,” he coos, beckoning you closer, “Come here.”

You give him this kind of pathetic, kind of cute pout, but accept the invitation. As he wraps an arm around your shoulders, you drape your legs across his lap, rest your head in the crook of his neck. He lays his cheek on the crown of your head and tucks you into an embrace. 

Maybe it’s one-sided, but Frankie feels heat humming between your bodies. 

The floral, minty scent of your hair, mixing with the musk of your soft skin, all dewy from humidity. Your breath rolling hot across the column of his throat. 

You wriggle closer, and the weight of your body settles between his legs. Presses firm down on his half-hard cock. 

His insides twist with a nagging, all-consuming want. The kind that usually fogs his brain when he thinks about booze. It claws at him like an animal caged within his ribs. Teeth bared, ferocious, growing: I need her I need her I need her

In the same cadence it always howls: I need a drink I need a drink I need a drink

The tips of his fingers scrape against your shoulder. A little whimper sneaks out your throat and drips down his spine. Your muscles shift and he can feel your lips hovering over his thudding pulse. 

This is dangerous. This is a line. A tightrope teetering beneath the soles of his feet. 

You breathe his name and it grazes his neck. His body surges with desire, cock throbbing, and he’s unable to stop the whine that croaks out his lips. 

He looks down at you, meeting your darkened, heavy-lidded gaze. You study each other, but neither of you move, despite the palpable current of electricity between you. 

“I—I should go to bed,” you whisper with little conviction, eyes darting to his mouth.

“It’s still light out,” he says, brushing the back of his hand against your cheek. 

You shiver and your lips part, panting, “I need to clear my head—I’m… not thinking right.”

Frankie imagines you clearing your head in your bedroom with the door closed. Your fingers working between your legs, eyes pinched closed while you flip through the mental catalogue of all the times he’s fucked you. 

“Can I come with you?” he asks, voice ragged, “I won’t—I won’t touch you if you don’t want me to.”

You search his face, brows pushing together, and nod. 

This is stupid. 

You both know it. 

But he follows you to your room and closes the door behind him. 

Sinks into your bed as you lay out on the other side. 

You start slow, hands roaming the curves of your body. Over your tight tank top, no bra underneath, just the clear outline of your nipples. Along the middle of those little cotton sleep shorts he likes so much. 

He keeps his distance, blood pounding thick in his skull, as you ruck your shirt up your chest and roll a hardened bud between your fingers. You whimper and bite down on your bottom lip, eyes locking to his as your other hand slips beneath the waistband of your shorts. 

In his periphery, he can see the outline of your wrist flicking under the fabric, but he can’t part his eyes from yours. It’s entrancing. Your mouth opens in a moan, lips pouting out into a whimper as you start to gain traction. 

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he groans, pushing his palm against his swollen length trapped within the confines of his jeans, begging for attention. He unbuckles his belt and tugs his pants off. At the same time, you pull your shorts down. Some sort of silent trade agreement.

Frankie wraps his hand around his cock and drags his grip down, pulling the sensitive, aching skin taught. His palm is dry and rough as he starts to rut up and down, but the friction gives his touch an edge that makes him shiver. 

You’re watching him do this while you trail your fingertips along the shiny ridges of your sex. Saliva pools in his mouth when he remembers what you taste like. Imagines his tongue tracing the soft folds of you.

Your hips buck and you whimper when you touch your clit. You roll the pads of your fingers against the engorged bundle of nerves, eyelids fluttering as you work yourself. 

You both find a steady rhythm, panting and whining, glancing between each other's legs, hands, eyes. The increasingly frantic movements make your bed squeak. 

The two of you are so lost in the haze of pleasure, Frankie knows either of you could suggest physical contact between your bodies and the other would immediately say yes, but this fucked up little loophole has you both blissfully dangling on the precipice. 

He’s trying to keep his commentary to a minimum, but you’re driving him fucking crazy. 

Your blown-out pupils watching him fuck his hand. The sheen of sweat lacing your skin. A thick, gleaming layer of arousal coating your pussy and fingers. He wants to lick it off of you, taste you, drive his cock inside you and feel that divine squeeze. 

As his heartbeat starts to gallop and the fire in his belly laps its way up his spine, he pants, “You’re so fucking hot, holy shit—do you like this? Like me watching you get off?”

“Yes,” you gasp, meeting his gaze, working yourself faster, “I do, Frankie, I like it.”

His name on your lips is like an electric jolt to his insides. He groans, “Say my name again.”

“Frankie,” you whimper. 

A wave of heat washes over him, “Fuck yes, that’s so fucking good, baby—say it again—”

“Frankie,” you moan, sinking two fingers into your cunt, a sick wet sound squelching out as you start to fuck yourself. 

“Such a good girl, holy fuck, that’s it,” he grunts, pumping himself faster, lightning churning in his belly, “Gonna make yourself cum, sweet girl?”

You nod feverishly, face pinched up with pleasure, hips arching into your touch, “Frankie—fuck fuck fuck—”

“There we go, baby, you can do it,” he rasps, and watches as your movements come to a fever pitch, then your body starts to shudder and you belt out this strangled moan that pushes him over the edge. 

Pleasure ripples through him and he grinds his fist down a few more times, pulsing his load all over his hand, across the bedding, a few splatters reaching your hip. He groans and slows.

His muscles start to melt. He throws his head back into the pillow, then rolls his head on his shoulders to look at you. 

Your chest is heaving and you’re all blissed out, a hazy smile on your lips. 

“You’re not gonna freak out, now, are you?” he pants, searching your face. He reaches over and gives you a playful poke to show he’s only half-joking. 

You meet his eyes smirking for a beat before you chuckle, “I don’t think so, but—could you get my, umm—inhaler?”

“Yeah,” he nods and rolls off the bed. 

When Frankie returns, you’re pulling your shirt down over your tits and propping yourself up on some pillows. 

“Thanks,” you murmur, then take it from him and inhale a few puffs. 

“You ok?” he asks as he rolls onto the bed next to you, wrestling a pillow under his chest. 

A coy smile plays on your lips when you glance over at him, shaking your head, “This was really dumb.”

He chuckles and shrugs, “Probably.” 

“Fuck,” you giggle, burying your face in your hands, “Frankie, why did we do that?”

“Because we’re big dumb idiots?” he laughs. 

“Speak for yourself,” you snort, curling up on your side to face him. 

“Sure, yeah, of course. You’re super smart,” he teases, pointing between him and you, “This is definitely something that smart people do.”

“Oh my god, shut up,” you push his shoulder weakly. After a few moments of comfortable silence, you say, “We’re never going to speak of this again, are we?” 

He opens his mouth to make a joke and attempt to sweep it all under the rug, but stops when he realizes it probably warrants a conversation. 

“Do—is that what you wanna do?” he asks instead, stammering, “Because we can, you know, talk about it if you want to.“

“I don’t know what I want,” you sigh, your face folding into a thoughtful expression. A few moments pass, then your eyebrows shoot up and you look at him, “Ok, this is a weird time to ask this, but, I meant to ask you earlier and forgot.”

He nods, “Shoot.”

“My sister is getting married over Labor Day weekend, and because I’m her bridesmaid and family and blah blah blah, she wants me to go stay out there for the week, and umm, I don’t know how that works with your parole and stuff—”

“Do you want me to ask Ralph tomorrow?” 

“Well, yeah,” you meet his eyes, “But—but also, can you come with me?”

It takes a moment for Frankie to register the question, and when he understands, his mind starts whirring with uncertainty. Angie. Court. Ralph. Sarah. Prison. 

“Not, like, as my date or whatever,” you add, waving your hand around nervously as you explain, “I just–I haven’t been home in years because my family is the worst and I—” you sigh, face pinching up as you admit, “I could use a friend.” 

That makes up his mind. 

“Yeah,” he answers, “Yeah, as long as I’m not in fucking jail by then, I’ll make it work. Let me… let me talk to work and Ralph, see what I can do.” 

You give him a restrained smile and say, “Thank you.” 

After the two of you decide to get dressed and watch a movie, he goes into his bedroom to change into a pair of basketball shorts, while you supervise a packet of popcorn in the microwave. Giving his closed door a quick glance, he pulls the bundle of soft teal lace out of his pocket and opens a dresser drawer to tuck them away, but pauses when his thumb grazes something damp. 

His brows furrow, then shoot up as he unfolds the underwear and recognizes the slick substance coating them. He brings the fabric to his nose and inhales, confirming his suspicion. 

You must have noticed them when he was getting your inhaler. And rather than taking the panties back, or saying anything to him, you cleaned your arousal off and replaced them. 

He grins at the present, because that’s what it is, really, then shoves the lace into his dresser drawer. 

“Daddy, look, that’s Mumble,” Sarah tells Frankie, pointing one chubby, blueberry-stained finger at a plastic baby emperor penguin. 

Her collection of penguins is lined up on the edge of the dining room table, in order of smallest to biggest. She wriggles around on his lap, looking up at him with those big brown eyes, waiting for acknowledgement. 

“That one does look like Mumble,” he agrees emphatically, “What kind of penguin is he?” 

“A empreror penguin!” she beams, throwing her hands in the air. 

“That’s right,” he chuckles, “An emperor penguin! How many penguins do you have?”

Sarah’s eyes light up at the exciting new challenge, and she turns her attention to the plastic figurine lineup, counting each one out loud. 

Frankie glances across the table at Angie. She‘s glaring out the window, her arms crossed over her chest. 

“Ang,” he rumbles, but she doesn’t respond. A hot wave of frustration weaves through his muscles and pulls them taught. His nostrils flare and he shakes his head, muttering, “Whatever.”

The dining room chair scrapes against the floor as she pushes it out and stomps out of the room, down the stairs like a petulant child. 

Sarah stops counting and tells him, “Mommy’s mad.”

He chuckles softly at this and nods, “Yeah, I think so. I’m gonna go talk to her, ok, sweetie?”

Sarah resumes her counting when Frankie stands and sets her in the chair. He finds Angie in the laundry room, folding clothes with sharp, agitated movements. 

“Can we talk about this?” he asks. She doesn’t acknowledge him, so he continues, “Angelica. Come on. You haven’t said a word to me since I texted you on Saturday. Please, just tell me what’s wrong.”

“The fact that you don’t know what’s wrong is exactly what’s fucking wrong, Francisco,” she growls.

He sighs and steps closer, leaning one hip against the washer, “As much as I would love to be able to, I can’t read your mind. So if you could help me out, maybe give me a clue—”

“Do you need me to spell it out for you?” she snaps, tossing the small pink t-shirt in her hands into a laundry basket.

His head jerks back and he scoffs, “Sure.”

“You passed up time with your wife and daughter to be with your fucking mistress,” she blinks, then throws her hands up in the air, “Is it really so fucking inconceivable that I’m mad about that?” 

“First of all, she’s not my mistress,” Frankie asserts, crossing his arms, “Second, she almost fucking died, Ang, I couldn’t just leave her alone in the hospital.” 

“So, what, she didn’t have anyone else that could come sit with her in the hospital?” Angie snorts, raising an eyebrow, “I was about to say she’s a grown woman, she can take care of herself, but,” she sucks on her teeth and flashes him a faux sympathetic smile, “That’s barely true, isn’t it?”

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, rolling his eyes, then stares at her, “You know that’s not true, and—and no, ok? She didn’t have anyone else to sit at the hospital with her. None of her family made it out, she doesn’t have any friends. Her boyfriend didn’t even come to visit, so,” he pushes off the washing machine and pinches the bridge of his nose, then drops his hand and lies, “I felt fucking bad for her, that’s all. She couldn’t breathe and was all sick and shit, and nobody cared enough to visit her. It was, I don’t know, it was sad and I felt shitty about leaving.”

She seems to consider this, then gives a little shrug, “That is kind of sad.”

He nods, searching her face, dark eyebrows all scrunched together in contemplation. 

“She has a boyfriend?”

He nods, “Yeah. They’ve been together for a while.”

Not exactly a lie, but he can tell a little truth stretching will bring this conversation to a more comfortable place. 

“I missed you,” he says in a pleading tone, meeting her eyes, hoping she buys it. 

She sighs, “I missed you too.”

The glint in her eyes tells him it’s safe to approach, so he does. He presses his lips against her forehead, closing his eyes as he murmurs, “I love you.”

When Frankie gets home, you and Rory are sitting on the couch watching a movie together. His arm is draped over your shoulders and you’re huddled in his lap, head on his chest. 

It reminds him of how the two of you are when no one else is around. 

His blood pressure spikes and heats his veins. You perk up as you notice him, putting space between your body and Rory’s. A nervous smile spreads across your face. He doesn’t return the smile, just nods in greeting as he closes the door behind him, “Hey.”

Rory looks him up and down, then turns back to the TV. 

“Hey, how’s it going?” you ask. 

Frankie frowns and shrugs, “Fine. What’re you guys watching?”

Your phone starts ringing before you can answer. You sit up and grab it off the coffee table, muttering, “It’s my sister, I’ll be right back,” then tiptoe through the house to your bedroom, leaving him and Rory alone. 

Frankie steps on the heel of his boot and starts to wriggle his foot free. 

“Hey, man, I wanted to tell you—thanks for looking after her last weekend.”

Frankie glances up at Rory as he kicks one boot off, then the other, “Sure, yeah,” then starts off towards his room. Rory keeps talking, though, so he pauses. 

“When she didn’t respond to me for a day I figured, ya know…” he shrugs, staring at him. 

Frankie frowns and shakes his head, “Figured what?”

“Figured she ran off with you, man,” he chuckles, but his eyes aren’t smiling. They’re studying. 

Frankie snorts and brings his hands to his hips, “What, really?”

Rory stands and saunters over, looking the way you left to make sure you’re still occupied, then tucks his hands in the front of his jean pockets and shrugs again, “Seems like y’all are pretty close. She doesn’t really like to talk about you. Kinda weird for someone who’s supposedly a friend.”

What kind of macho man bullshit is this? Is he… flexing? 

“Yeah, she’s pretty private,” Frankie searches the other man’s face. 

“Y’all ever fuck around?” he asks. 

Frankie jerks his head back and frowns, “Uhh, sorry, what?”

Rory doesn’t say anything, just lets the air between them grow more hostile, flicking his eyes around Frankie’s face like a challenge. One that he’s not fucking interested in taking. Christ, what a fucking mess that would be. 

Frankie scoffs and shakes his head, “No, we don’t fuck around. We’re friends. Ok?” He holds his hands up and tries to soften his face, “So, take it easy, she’s all yours.” 

Rory seems to relax a little, then says, “Alright.”

“Alright,” Frankie chuckles with amusement, “We good?” 

“Yeah,” Rory grins, offering a clenched fist to Frankie, “Sorry, man.” 

“Hey, don’t sweat it,” he bumps knuckles with the meathead and tells him, “You two have a good time, alright?”

Frankie retreats to his room and locks the door behind him. 

Every muscle in his body starts to deflate. 

His thoughts are fuzzy and loud. 

He starts for his bed, but pauses, and turns instead to the dresser, thinking of that teal lace. 

Today is one of those rare July days where it’s not just tolerable to be outside, it’s actually enjoyable. 

A slight breeze rustles the palm fronds above. The sun kisses Frankie’s skin. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, inhaling the scent of a neighbor’s charcoal grill. 

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

He cracks an eye open to find you standing over where he’s laying in the hammock and grins innocently, “What?”

“WhAt?” you mock him and snort, but pull up a chair and drop your little wicker basket in its seat, warning, “Ok, well, you’re sharing the hammock, at least.” 

“Come on in, the water’s fine,” he tucks a hand behind his head and watches you roll into the hammock facing him.

You wriggle around for an entire minute, and when he starts to giggle at your restlessness, you whine, “Oh my god, scoot over.”

“Here,” he murmurs, shifting his weight so you lay roughly hip to hip, hooking one arm under your legs, “Better?”

“Yeah,” you breathe. Your body calms. 

Then it’s quiet. 

And the silence isn’t anything but peaceful, really. 

“This is good,” you say eventually. 

He’s not sure what this you’re referring to, but he agrees, “Yeah.”

You point to the sky, “That cloud looks like a gator.”

Frankie squints upward, examining the fluffy cotton balls hanging in the electric blue atmosphere, “That one looks like a cloud.”

A snort erupts from your face and you lay a playful smack on his thigh, “Oh, come on, use your imagination!”

“Ok, let’s see,” he clears his throat and tilts the bill of his hat back to take in more of the view. Then one catches his eye. He points to it, “Butterfly.”

You follow his direction and murmur, “Oh yeah, look at that. Neat.” 

He studies it for a while, watching the two wings tumble and morph as it moves across the sky, until it’s just another nondescript cumulus cloud. Then he turns his attention to the basket you brought outside. 

The hammock wobbles in protest when he sits up and lays it across the middle ground of your bodies. Frankie surveys the contents of the shallow wicker basket: a baguette; a dish of soft, white cheese with a little spatula-like knife sticking out the center; a bowl of red grapes and sliced strawberries; a couple of mandarin oranges. 

He rips off a piece of bread and spreads some cheese across the soft inside, then sits back and takes a bite. You do the same, topping the cheese with some strawberries. As the two of you eat in a content silence, looking up at the sky, Frankie starts to ruminate on the confrontation that is surely lingering on the tip of your tongue. 

Neither of you have dared to mention how you got off together in your bed. Surprisingly, it hasn’t changed the energy between him and you. But he’s found himself wondering if he’s just oblivious and unable to sense your disquiet, like he has in the past. 

And now, since it’s Family Dinner, State of the Union, or whatever Ralph calls it, he braces himself for impact.

“Alright, let me have it,” he says after he finishes his second chunk of bread, nerves getting the best of him, “Do you wanna talk about it?” 

The hammock shifts unsteadily as you sit up and put the basket back on the chair, then you lay back and stretch out, releasing a heavy sigh, “Honestly… I kind of don’t know what to say about it. I—I don’t know. I don’t feel different or have any kind of strong feelings about what happened.”

Frankie hums and looks over at you, watching your serene, skyward face. 

“What about you? How do you feel?” you ask, leveling your gaze with his. 

“I feel… the same,” he answers, frowning, “Like I should have a strong feeling, but I—I just don’t?” 

“Yeah,” you chuckle, shrugging, “Well, I don’t know, should we just… leave it?” 

Relief washes over him and he nods, “I’m ok with that if you are.”

“Ok,” you grin, then look back up at the sky, “Anything else you need to get off your chest?” 

Frankie rifles through his brain, pausing to think about Rory and the odd confrontation that happened the other day. It left a bad taste in his mouth. But, he shakes his head, “No. You?” 

“I can’t think of anything.” 

“Alright,” he inhales the blissful breeze that tickles his sun-warmed skin, then exhales, repeating your earlier sentiment, “This is good.”

[ Next Chapter ]

[ssalballoon]

i wanna get better at art but dont know how to start ^^' whats a good way to get into studying anatomy and improving as an artist? tysm 💗 love your art soso much

more art converts 😼 yay!!

i think these asks were sent by different people but they're pretty related + a lot of my advice is the same! so i'll answer these together under the cut (it's so long oh gosh)

ok first of all i'm very flattered that people are asking me for art advice but i'm really not the most equipped person to ask TTOTT I've never been deliberately studious with my art so I feel bad offering advice when I've mostly gotten by with just drawing fanart and ocs a lot... my rate of improvement has therefore been slow, but I've still had an enjoyable learning experience so perhaps from that angle my input may help! i'll mainly refer you to external resources that have helped me

For anatomy + drawing humans:

1) I know I'm not diligent enough to sit down and study muscles, so instead I make it more enjoyable by drawing my favorite characters in a pose that targets the muscles I want to practice! (i default to drawing ppl naked because of this lol) This isn't the most efficient, but it serves as good motivation to get practice in. (honestly a lot of my general art advice has the undercurrent of becoming so obsessed with characters to drive your motivation to draw even when artblocked/ struggling with doubts!)

2) I want to refer you to Sinix's Anatomy playlist! Although Sinix focuses more on digital painting, he gives simplified anatomy breakdowns that include how muscles change shape under different movements/poses, which is crucial for natural human posing. the static anatomy diagrams from Google don't really help for that

3) What's just as important as anatomy is gestures! (especially important if you're used to drawing non-human objects I think!) Making figures look like they have flow to them will sell the "naturalness"(?) to your anatomy. If you have in person life drawing sessions accessible near you I'd recommend trying those out, or if you prefer trying it digitally there's this website!

This helps you not only get a sense of human proportions, but also natural posing! I'd limit the time taken to draw the poses from like 10 seconds to 1 minute(?) for quick gestures, and maybe 1 minute to 5mins(for now!! typically they go much longer) to study human proportions. I'd say don't spend a lot of time on them, repetition is more important!

4) I've also picked up on useful anatomy tidbits from artists online! Looking at how practiced/ professional artists stylize a body helps me focus on what the essential details are to convey a particular form (looking up "human muscles" and being hit with anatomy diagrams full of all the smallest details can be overwhelming! what do you even focus on?! so these educated simplifications really help me) Like Emilio Dekure's work! Look how simplified these figures are, and yet contain all the essential information to convey the sense of accurate form (even though it's highly exaggerated!)

(shamefully admits I've never studied from actual anatomy books so I can't recommend anything in that sense TTOTT)

For general improvement:

1) I highly recommend Sinix's Design Theory playlist and Paintover Pals! (+ his channel in general) You don't have to put them immediately into practice, but I think these are good fundamental lessons to just listen to and have them in the back of your mind to revisit another day. Plus these videos are just fun and very approachable! Design theory fundamentals are essential to creating appeal and directing a viewer's attention, and critiquing others' work/ seeing his suggestions are a good way to practice noticing areas of improvement+ solutions yourself!

2) If you prefer a more formal teaching resource, the Drawabox YouTube course covers all the basic fundamentals of drawing in short lessons. But honestly if I were starting out, this would be a little intimidating for me (and even now it still is! I haven't done all of them) But even if you don't watch them, the titles should give you an idea of the basic concepts that are valuable to pick up. I think it would be nice to keep in mind and revisit once in a while as you learn!

(One lesson I do encourage you to watch is the line control one! A confident continuous line conveys motion and flow much better compared to discontinuous frayed lines which I think is good to practice early by drawing from the wrist and shoulder)

3) As a universal piece of advice: Please please please use references! Use a reference for literally everything, observing is how we learn! You'll find that a lot of things you thought you knew what they looked like are inaccurate by memory alone. Also, trace! This is solely for your practice, tracing then freehanding has helped me grasp proportions when I was struggling! (of course don't post these online if you traced from art)

I've found that being able to compile references into easy to access boards has been very helpful in encouraging me to use references more. For PC, I think they use PureRef (free/pay what you want), and for iPad I use VizRef. VizRef is a one time purchase (which was definitely worth the $3.99 USD price imo)

4) On that note, try building up the habit to observe from media + real life and make purposeful comments about what you see! Like hey, when I bend my knee, the muscles/fat in my thighs and calves bulge outwards, I should draw that next time. Purposeful observation carries over to your overall visual library, and it's a little thing that adds up over time

5) For motivation, get into media you really enjoy, or make your own characters! The way I started art more seriously was by drawing fanart + OCs from anime that I liked ^^ For OCs it really encourages you to draw more because you're the primary creator of their art! Also you gotta see a lot of good art to make good art! Watching visually appealing media (like animation with appealing stylization/simplification) can passively help you learn just by observation.

ok wow I could go on but this is already a lot of information TTOTT my main aim for this reply is basically: don't let anything discourage you from learning to draw!! drawing is so fun and brings me a lot of joy ^^ practicing often will of course help you improve, and the way to incentivize that is by having fun with it! i hope this could help!💞

[bomberqueen17]

sewing other things

OK so. I have talked about the Loftus Bralette so much on here that one could be forgiven for chuckling gently when i said I should sew other things. But I do actually have several other projects I've been wanting to work on. And i have actually cut some of them out.

Also when I was last at the farm my niece brought me some of her t-shirts and said "I really like this one can we cut it apart and re-sew it bigger so I can still wear it", and I remembered that her BFF's mom, who works at the farm twice a week doing the books and managing store inventory, owns a serger she didn't know how to thread, so I texted her to ask if I could borrow it and indeed she had accidentally unthreaded it and there was a stuck lever and needed me to fix it anyway, and maybe I mentioned that on here but I did actually make my niece a couple of tunics while I was last at the farm. Including hand-sewing a whole bunch of details on the last one while the family was driving on a road trip one weekend.

So I brought all that stuff home with me and was hoping to get to work on it this week. All I've sewn has been the bralettes but I still have today. We'll see what I can get done.

I measured Farmkid and she's ten years old so her shape isn't the same as that of an adult woman, but she's five feet two and like 130 lbs, and some of her measurements put her in a women's size 12. So. She expressed interest in a garment I wear frequently, a Studio Tunic from Sew Liberated. I printed off the pattern in a size 12 and have assembled it, but I'm stuck deciding what fabric to use for her. I should decide that today. She's ten, her favorite color is ostensibly yellow but she mostly wears pinks and purples, she's a grubby kid who wipes her hands on her shirt and always winds up with stains on the belly of her shirt still, and she wants this tunic I think largely so she can cram her tablet into the pocket and go climb trees while listening to audiobooks on speaker. So I want a bright color but not too pale, and I want a tough fabric but not unbreathable, and I'm just. Deciding, still.

Probably what I should do is use some undyed fabric I own, and then bring my supplies and let her tie-dye it. I have a couple other things I could tie-dye, or will by then. That would be a fun bonding activity. I don't know if I'll have time to do it this trip though. So maybe I'll postpone the project and ask her for help once she's on summer break. (Good luck catching her, kids these days have so many summer camps.) As a bonus I bet I could loop her BFF and BFF's Mom in on the tie-dyeing, they're both into that shit.

Hell we could do ice-dyeing, the farm has a 1000-lb ice machine that is very frequently turned on (weekly for the market, biweekly for chicken processing-- there could be ice available at pretty much any time lol).

So anyway. I know she wants me to make a tunic out of a trio of large-print cat shirts she's outgrown, and she wants to wear it for her 5th grade moving up day ceremony, and I looked at it while I was home but I haven't done it yet. I need to get my shit together.

What I might do is print off a size 12 version of the t-shirt pattern I own, it's just that it's designed for busty women because I'm a busty woman, and she's Not, yet (oh, she will be. soon. but not yet.) so I have to kind of. Well, I own a pattern for a swing tunic that's close to what she wants actually. Oh, I should just print that one off. (The joy of the Cashmerette Club subscription patterns is that you get all the sizes, 0-30, and I've now made a couple of them for smaller friends, because like. I mean I own the pattern! PDF patterns are so great because you can reprint them in the smaller size instead of trying to trace it off. I never ever got the hang of tissue paper patterns.)

Yeah here this one, the Wexford Top/Dress, would be easy enough to kind of carve out the bust curve a little and make it fit a kid, because it's not meant to be that fitted. I'll just sort of use that as a general guideline and then make the cut-out-and-patchworked t-shirts fit into that approximate silhouette. The way I made the other tunics for her, I just used a shirt whose neck and shoulders still mostly fit her. But these cat shirts she's thoroughly outgrown, so making a new neck/shoulder area would be best.

Orrrrrr.... I could use one of the zillion old t-shirts of mine that I've saved to cut up. The neck/shoulders of a fully adult-sized garment are no longer too big for her. That's easier.

I also have a bunch of garments I want to make for myself, as I don't seem to buy clothes much anymore (I can't bring myself to pay $40 for a dress off the clearance rack that won't fit me and will mostly be polyester and won't be that interesting and will pill the first time I wash it). The Club's latest pattern is a skort/shorts/skirt dealie, and I need more shorts all the time-- I've largely given up on underpants and just wear boxer-briefs or anti-chafe shorts and I just don't see the point now of wearing a pair of panties and then shorts over the top under my skirt. Like. Just wear the shorts! So being able to choose the materials and print and look of that would be pretty great. And the Cashmerette one is inseam-less, like my favorite anti-chafe shorts are.

So I have cut out a pair of just the shorts in a clearance cotton mesh from Dharmatrading, and I even have the correct elastic for the waistband, so that kind of rules. I will sew those up as soon as I get a chance. I would like to make several skorts as well, probably from synthetic ponte or something, but my ideal would be to get some decent merino/nylon jersey and do a few from that. You never see merino skorts but I would wear the shit out of those.

I also have a lovely underpants pattern from the Club from ages ago, and while I rarely wear underpants of that style anymore, I would like having some cute matchy ones to go with the bralettes. Also, I have a shitton of foldover elastic, and I suspect I could use foldover elastic in some of the bralettes I want to make, so I want to get proficient in its use, and there are directions for applying it in the underpants directions, and it seems like a good way to practice. So I cut a muslin of those from the same cotton mesh as the shorts, and just have to sew the pieces together.

I also want to make myself more pretty dresses, and I have parts of a new Studio Tunic for myself already cut out, but not the rest.

And I recently made myself the button-up shirt from the Club, I know I posted about it on here. And I wanted to immediately make myself several more, and I got out some fabric and prepared it and cut out one pattern piece and then ran out of time. So yesterday I finally cut out the rest of the shirt from this fabric, a print from Mood covered in tiny dinosaurs. So I have that all ready to go in a plastic baggie too, just waiting for me to have time to sit and sew it. (Once I do that, I would really like to make myself a dress version of it from the cool green not-quite-seersucker I got from that remnant bolt at Promenade Fabrics in New Orleans.)

AND. i also have resolved to make my BFF, the one in Rochester who I lived with for a bit in the pandemic, with the little kids-- MM-- I am going to make her a sloper, before I see her next weekend, or maybe while I see her next weekend if i don't get to it in time argh, and I am going to at least try that on her and figure out approximately what shape she is so that I can put together a master pattern for her to make herself dresses from. I took her measurements ages ago, and she's a 14CD bust, a 16 waist, and an 8 hip in Cashmerette's sizing, and so I think just making a sloper with those sizes all graded together will be a huge start. And then we can mildly tweak the fit for her frame, and-- the thing is, she's always buying custom dresses on Etsy because what she wants is very specific and not usually available in stores, and then the dresses come and don't fit her so she has to get them tailored, and then they were just made of cheap quilting cotton from Joann's so they wear out after she washes them a few times, and she's had to add on pockets anyway because they didn't have them.

So I just feel like if I could get her a paper master pattern that fit her... heck i could even just make her dresses if *I* had the pattern. It would be easier and more efficient. I could do the basic construction and then turn over the pockets and embellishments to her, which is what she does anyway. So that's my goal there, and we'll see if I can reach it.

Anyway. If only I didn't have to work at all and could just sew all the time. I am not the first person to say this, LOL.

I have a lot of irons in the fire but at the moment am trapped under a cat so those irons are not going anywhere.

[smilesthroughfandoms]

Ranking The Brotherhood on how good with kids I think they are.

(Listen my homework is depressing me and I want a break so here we go)

No. 1: Demon Bull King: Listen it’s not just because he’s a Dad™️ ok! You cannot convince me otherwise that he didn’t spoil the ever loving heck outta Red Son as a baby. He loved that little boy and would not hesitate to slaughter anyone who dared even looked at his son the wrong way. Sure, nowadays he has a few missteps but the love and care is still present. He’s not perfect but he’s the best of them all. 9/10—He stumbles a bit but he means well.

No. 2: Six-Eared Macaque: He’s the Go-To Babysitter and the Designated Driver™️ of the Brotherhood. He will care for any child if he needs to. Sure he might just feed them junk food or frozen stuff but hey, that’s better than nothing. He’s the Fun Uncle and kids just flock to him. 8/10—He tells really great bedtime stories too.

No. 3: Yellow-Tusk the Wise: He’s the standard. He’ll make sure the kids are fed, clean, and content but his idea of a “fun, engaging activity” is reading the Dictionary and discovering new words or something. If you need a babysitter fast he’s your reluctant go-to. 6/10—The kids will be asleep when you get home on account of how boring he was!

No. 4: Azure Lion: He’s not that great with young kids but the older they get the easier it is for him. He can talk to them more easily. He will not know what to do with a baby. He will hold it at arms length and just be terrified out of his mind. But he will also try to speak all “hip” to the older kids and fail spectacularly. 5.5/10—He definitely pronounces Meme as Me-Me.

No. 5: Golden-Winged Peng: I know in the OG Journey to the West they have a nephew—but would you let them around your nephew? They laughs anytime the kid falls over and has insulted several children to their faces. And that’s the easy stuff. 3/10—They May or May Not have dropped a kid once and it May or May Not have been an accident.

No. 6: Sun Wukong: What is wrong with you?! You trust this absolute disaster of an immortal with your children?! Do you hate your children or something? He’s never known illness or the true concept of death so what’s he going to do. He won’t actively try and kill the kid but man he doesn’t have to he’s that bad. 1/10—The other Monkeys on FFM are alive today because of pure instinct and little to no input from this monkey and no one can convince me otherwise.

[vividvivvy]

HER-Chase Atlantic

“Satoru! Come onnnn! You walk so incredibly slow!” The tall white haired man was being drug around multiple different stores by a young girl, maybe 19, that he had met just earlier that day at a small coffee shop. 

“You know you sure do zone out quite a bit Satoru.” She stopped rushing for a minute and looked back at Gojo. “You're such an airhead! It’s so cute!” Her pause was short lived though as she went back to pulling him into another over priced designer store. 

"Woah, shes high fashioned. Took me to the back room in Chanel so we could smash and, everything is Louis V and Louis V her casket”

Gojo was sitting across from her at a table, watching her eat her overpriced mall food. He had food of his own of course, but he hadn’t touched it since they had sat down. To caught up with the sweet thing across from him. 

“Oh Satoruuuu~ If you keep staring a hole through my head your foods gonna get all cold and grosssss~” she spoke playfully as she pointed her fork at him and laughed. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen anything quite as amazing as the way she looks when she laughs. 

“Yeah yeah, I’m going” He chucked along with her, finally picking up his fork to eat. “About time! I was starting to think you’d gone and fallen in love with me!” She laughed again, and Gojo gave a light snort along with her. 

“Well that would be no good would it?”

“But boy don’t go falling in love. You can’t stay with me. All you’ll ever have is one day with me.”

He watched her run around in the parking lot, it was sprinkling, the light rain slowly soaking her clothes but she didn’t have a care in the world, giggling and spinning in careless circles. 

“Satoru! Come dance with me!” 

His heart and brain stopped for a minute. Dance with her? He doesn’t know if he can handle that one. 

“I don’t know about that one? Dancing in a busy parking lot? Doesn’t sound like the safest bet” He smiled at her as she pouted and whined about how he was boring and that it was perfectly safe.

It wasn’t safe for his fast beating heart though.

“I’m getting feelings that I didn’t before. And all I wanna do is just stay with her. But I know all I have is one say with her”

“Oh wow, the time has really gotten ahead of us hasn’t It?” She nodded to the lit up radio of his expensive black car. His eyes followed down to the clock. “Already almost five o'clock. Damn” Gojo’s voice was followed by a sigh. 

“you ok big guy?” her voice came from the passenger seat, concern laced her tone. 

“All good princess”

"With no perception of time, its almost quarter-to-five”

“So, wanna hang out again sometime? I had a really good time with you today, felt like we spent ages together” He spoke hesitantly as they drove down the empty late night roads, one hand on the wheel and the other resting on her thigh.

Her voice replied just as hesitantly “Ummm…” she paused for a minute, before a sigh escaped her “I don’t think I really can if I’m being totally honest..” 

“Oh.” both of his hands were back on the wheel

“I could live forever in a day with her. I don’t wanna live it if it ain’t with her. I could go up to outer space with her. All I need is one more day with her”

The car was stopped outside of a large, expensive looking, modern style house. Her house.

“Listen Y/n I just, I did have a lot of fun today… I know you don’t wanna see me again but I honestly think…” 

She was staring at him, her eyes told him she knew what was coming and she didn’t want to hear it. 

“Goodnight princess”

“Night Satoru”

“Ooh, she’s always been running from love. ‘Cause daddy didn’t give her enough”

That night Gojo sent a text he never saw himself sending, especially not after just one day with a girl who was just out to spend his money.

“I think I fell in love with you today” 

Read 4:13 am

“All I need is one more day with her”

[thatmoththoth]

*holds out hands like a poor little Victorian boy*

fr3d1 headcanons?

This is going to be very long so here’s a cut

Ok so. In my mind, he’s a sentient little goober. He said screw the ‘robots can’t feel love’ trope, and proceeded to fall in love with everyone in the OIAR. Anyway he has absolutely no idea what he’s doing at any given time but he knows the following: fear tastes good, I love everyone here, and mischief is fun. As such, he enjoys freaking people out a bit, and causing a bit of mayhem here and there. He’ll give people talkers at very inconvenient times, trip people with his wires, and generally be a nuisance. All in good fun of course. Since he loves the people at the OIAR, if they were to ask him sincerely to stop doing something, he would infact listen, however, no one has don’t that yet.

When no one is in the office he plays computer games on himself, like solitare, snake, minesweeper, ect. Cool Math Games is his best friend when it comes to satisfying his boredom in day hours. Other things he does other than computer games, is doing things he knows will annoy Colin, like rearranging wires in the server room.

One time he tried to download a virus on himself to see what would happen and decided that it was not in-fact a fun thing. Since colin was the one who fixed it, Freddy took that like someone taking care of you when you when you’re sick in bed. Because of this, Freddy is most keen to try to flirt with Colin. Attempts at doing so thus far have not been successful.

On the other hand there’s Alice, who regularly flirts with Freddy in a haha joking way (or atleast that’s what she’s telling herself for now) and even though she isn’t doing it seriously, it’s still highly effective on Freddy. And not just that, but whenever shes the only one working, and she’s slacking off, she’ll infodump her interests towards Freddy. So those are the reasons he loves her so far.

Sam has this odd thing he started doing out of habit about a week after working at the OIAR. Atleast once a week he’ll find some sort of trinket, and leave it on top of his desk monitor. The trinkets range from pennies from off the ground to cool rocks he found. Every time he does this, the next day it’s gone. Sam thinks it’s one of the other OIAR employees taking them, but little does he know that it’s Fr3-d1 and FR3-d1 cherishes each and every one of these little offerings, storing them in a drawer somewhere in the server room.

Nothing for Celia yet. Haven’t really thought about it much, and she hasn’t been here long enough to have much association with Freddy other than knowing the origin of the voices.

Lena and Freddy have a long history. They actively talk to eachother, and have a sort of situationship going on. Maybe they try to like, jumpscare eachother or something. Lena was his first kiss but it was literally the most awkward thing ever so they have never brought it up again, only vaguely alluding to it as ‘The Incident’.

Like Celia I haven’t really thought about Gwen much in terms of Freddy, but I imagine Freddy likes to scare her the most out of everyone. My basis for this is him giving her a bonzo casement right after a traumatic experience with bonzo.

Anyway now for the logistics of my Freddy design.

So, Freddy can move wires and stuff around because they are a part of him, so he takes advantage of this fact to form a vaguely humanoid shape. A lot of the non wire pieces were either gifts from Lena, Sam, Klaus, or are just random pieces he found lying around that no one was using. He only really does this around Lena as he wants to try to actually make contact with the others without it first.

[mallgawths]

Please "enjoy" this long, rambling, text post about all the toxic parts of being an early 2000s mall goth that's been sitting in my drafts for weeks.

I’m keeping this blog to be nostalgic for the years 1999-2004, but holy shit “mall goth” was such an insult back then, it meant you were a poser who just bought your outfit at Hot Topic.

Listening to Evanescence was a social death sentence and for posers, Emo meant “indie rock” about suicide and breakups, no one had heard of MCR yet and when they eventually did, it was for 14 year old posers. Marilyn Manson was corny and decidedly “not goth”, Blink 182 was for tweens who just discovered Avril Lavigne or for gross frat boys. All pop punk was for tweens and gross frat boys, if you liked them before the genre got big, too bad, but you could say they’re sell outs and you only like their older stuff. Nine Inch Nails wasn’t industrial because it was on the radio. If anyone had heard of an industrial band, they were too mainstream to be industrial. Wumpscut was for try hards trying to prove how industrial they were, some Skinny Puppy was ok, but only their oldest stuff, KMFDM was basically mainstream rock. Kittie was acceptable if you were a girl, all that 90s girl metal was fine actually, but probably only if you were a girl. Korn was for middle schoolers.

“Cringe” wasn’t really a word, but “poser” was, and if you spelled it “poseur”, you were trying too hard and obviously a poser yourself. If you said you hated preps, you were a poser. You were generally allowed to like one or two mainstream pop bands, but it couldn’t be anything current, and you had to be kind of ironic about it.

We used to call goths who we thought were beneath us “gawfs” or “goffiks” (side note: this is why it drives me crazy when people say they think My Immoral isn’t a troll, because saying “goffik” was like a huge “I’m actually a goth, making fun of worse goths on the internet” dogwhistle). These were, of course, all online because we only knew other mall goths in real life, and we all generally stuck together even if we didn’t like each other. We denied being goth if anyone called us such, because we knew we weren’t good enough at being goth to call ourselves goth. “Scene” meant any kind of alternative scene for a little bit, and when it finally mean big haired screamo, they were obviously posers, and they didn’t want to be called goth and we didn’t want other people to call them goths anyways.

The only acceptable goth music that was like real goth goth was either really unknown local stuff, stuff from the 90s that you had to have already been liking since the 90s, and like the iconic 80s goth bands. But not really The Cure, everyone liked The Cure, so you couldn’t just like them alone. But it couldn’t just be iconic 80s goth, because then everyone would be suspicious if you were a poser because everyone knew you were like just a baby when those songs came out.

We all shopped at Hot Topic because it was the only place to buy black clothes. But admitting your clothes were from Hot Topic was so embarrassing. Because everyone knew we should be buying from expensive indie designers online, or thrifting, or sewing our own clothes, or being more creative. So much goth style was vinyl fetish and BDSM stuff. If you were even vaguely goth people just assumed you were into that, or you pretended you were, even if you were like 14, which is really kind of fucked up?????

You could break all these rules if you were pretty and did good makeup. But maybe the rules were totally different for your friend group, there was no social media, this was even before MySpace, the internet was dialup and you only has access to it a little bit in the evenings or in the weekends. So there was no larger community to check up on. Just some forums full of completely anonymous people.

It’s weird seeing gen z use “mall goth” as a neutral description of an aesthetic, and actively calling themselves that. I’m intensely nostalgic for it, but still instinctively cringe when I see someone call themselves that and I think “No! Don’t say that! They’ll know you’re trying!”

Anyways, these are the toxic parts that came along with being a self loathing teen goth in like 2002.