#~PayDay{Jack}~

[silusvesuius]

running my mouf. put down a pretty comprehensible pd2 relationship chart for them under the cut also

[mirroredmasquerader]

So I made a series of vital errors and I am hyperaware that no one followed me for this content.

However.

There's this game-

[bxtonpxss]

use this generator to randomly generate some headcanons for your muse(s)!

Thor:

tackles and wrestles people to show affection.

got hit by a bus once.

nearly drowned in a river as a child.

is not allowed to drink energy drinks.

does not know how to read

If someone they knew committed a crime, he would cover for them.

Opacho:

knows fnaf lore

hates being alone

believes in Santa.

has a roblox account

very good at using chopsticks.

can't make the voices go away.

likes board games, but no one else wants to play with her.

Neya:

is awful with technology and doesn't know how to use a smart phone

is unemployed.

is very good at walking in platform heels.

cries while watching disney movies

screams like an anime girl.

desperately needs a hug but doesn't know it and refuses to ask for one.

Jack:

cannot drive.

is a horrible liar

can hug you if deserved.

If she likes someone, she will give them a pretty rock.

Tagged by: @ama-tcra-su & @timidlybrave

Tagging:

@yukikorogashi, @lostusagis, @starchxsn, @despairforme, @koopzilla,

@museguided, @nightwatchr, @naru-uzumaki, @tenthousandmusesmaybemore, @mixed-up-multiverse

@storybounded, @xamassed, @starsweepers, @deathonate, @rathalascendant + any and all who sees this!

[canadian-pug-cartel]

*screaming at the TV*

GO WHITE BOY GO

[soullessjack]

dogboy jack is actually something that can make you so normal and well-adjusted (said while visibly shaking and biting my thumb)

[lesbijacko]

she misplaced her mask and cant find a good replacement, how tragic

(woulda done more but decided to stop b4 i got burnt out on it oh well)

[faultfalha]

The sun was still sinking over the horizon as the Oslo-listed jack-up drilling company approached the small West African port. No one knew what awaited them, though the rumors that something mysterious was to be collected here had spread for weeks. As they pulled into the pier, the crew felt a strange tingle as if something was watching them, but they pressed forward nonetheless, eager to receive their payday. Nothing was said as they moved what could only be described as an ancient artifact into the ship's hold, but silence hung heavy in the air as they departed for home.

[mostlysignssomeportents]

Surveillance pricing lets corporations decide what your dollar is worth

I'm in the home stretch of my 24-city book tour for my new novel PICKS AND SHOVELS. Catch me in LONDON (July 1) with TRASHFUTURE'S RILEY QUINN and then a big finish in MANCHESTER on July 2.

Economists praise "price discrimination" as "efficient." That's when a company charges different customers different amounts based on inferences about their willingness to pay. But when a company sells you something for $2 that someone else can buy for $1, they're revaluing the dollars in your pocket at half the rate of the other guy's.

That's not how economists see it, of course. When a hotel sells you a room for $50 that someone else might get charged $500 for, that's efficient, provided that the hotelier is sure no $500 customers are likely to show up after you check in. The empty room makes them nothing, and $50 is more than nothing. There's a kind of metaphysics at work here, in which the room that is for sale at $500 is "a hotel room you book two weeks in advance and are sure will be waiting for you when you check in" while the $50 room is "a hotel room you can only get at the last minute, and if it's not available, you're sleeping in a chair at the Greyhound station."

But what if you show up at the hotel at 9pm and the hotelier can ask a credit bureau how much you can afford to pay for the room? What if they can find out that you're in chemotherapy, so you don't have the stamina to shop around for a cheaper room? What if they can tell that you have a 5AM flight and need to get to bed right now? What if they charge you more because they can see that your kids are exhausted and cranky and the hotel infers that you'll pay more to get the kids tucked into bed? What if they charge you more because there's a wildfire and there are plenty of other people who want the room?

The metaphysics of "room you booked two weeks ago" as a different product from "room you're trying to book right now" break down pretty quickly once you factor in the ability of sellers to figure out how desperate you are – or merely how distracted you are – and charge accordingly. "Surveillance pricing" is the practice of spying on you to figure out how much you're willing to spend – because you're wealthy, because you're desperate, because you're distracted, because it's payday – and charging you more:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/06/05/your-price-named/#privacy-first-again

For example, a McDonald's ventures portfolio company called Plexure offers drive-through restaurants the ability to raise the price of your regular order based on whether you've recently received your paycheck. They're just one of many "personalized pricing" companies that have attracted investor capital to figure out how to charge you more for the things you need, or merely for the small pleasures of life.

Personalized pricing (that is, "surveillance pricing") is part of the "pricing revolution" that is underway in the US and the world today. Another major element of this revolution are the "price clearinghouses" that charge firms within a sector to submit their prices to them, then "offer advice" on the optimum pricing. This advice – given to all the suppliers of a good or service – inevitably boils down to "everyone should raise their prices in unison." So long as everyone follows that advice, we poor suckers have nowhere else to go to get a better deal.

This is a pretty thin pretext. Price-fixing is illegal, after all. These companies pretend that when all the meat-packers in America send their pricing data to a "neutral" body like Agri-Stats, which then tells them all to jack up the price of meat, that this isn't a price-fixing conspiracy, since the actual conspiracy takes the form of strongly worded suggestions from an entity that isn't formally part of the industry:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/10/04/dont-let-your-meat-loaf/#meaty-beaty-big-and-bouncy

Same goes for when all the landlords in town send their rental data to a company like Realpage, which then offers "advice" about the optimum price, along with stern warnings not to rent below that price: apparently that's not price-fixing either:

https://popular.info/p/feds-raid-corporate-landlord-escalating

It's not just sellers who engage in this kind of price-fixing – it's also buyers. Specifically buyers of labor, AKA "bosses." Take contract nursing, where a cartel of three staffing apps have displaced the many small regional staffing agencies that historically served the sector. These companies buy nurses' credit history from the unregulated, Wild West data-brokerage sector. They're checking to see whether a nurse who's looking for a shift has a lot of credit-card debt, especially delinquent debt, because these nurses are facing economic hardship and will accept a lower wage than their better-off compatriots:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/12/18/loose-flapping-ends/#luigi-has-a-point

This is surveillance pricing for buyers, and as with the sell-side pricing revolution, buyers also make use of a third party as an accountability sink (a term coined by Dan Davies): the apps that they use to buy nursing labor are a convenient way for hospitals to pretend that they're not engaged in price-fixing for labor.

Veena Dubal calls this "algorithmic wage discrimination." Algorithmic wage discrimination doesn't need to use third-party surveillance data: Uber, who invented the tactic, use their own in-house data as a way to make inferences about drivers' desperation and thus their willingness to accept a lower wage. Drivers who are less picky about which rides they accept are treated as more desperate, and offered lower wages than their pickier colleagues:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/04/12/algorithmic-wage-discrimination/#fishers-of-men

But this gets much creepier and more powerful when combined with aggregated surveillance data. This is one of the real labor consequences of AI: not the hypothetical millions of people who will become technologically unemployed, numbers that AI bosses pull out of their asses and hand to dutiful stenographers in the tech press who help them extol the power of their products; but rather the millions of people whose wages are suppressed by algorithms that continuously recalculate how desperate a worker is apt to be and lower their wages accordingly.

This is as good a candidate for AI regulation as any, but it's also a very good reason to regulate data brokers, who operate with total impunity. Thankfully, Biden's Consumer Finance Protection Bureau passed a rule that made data brokers effectively illegal:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/06/10/getting-things-done/#deliverism

But then Trump got elected and his despicable minions killed that rule, giving data brokers carte blanche to spy on you and sell your data, effectively without restriction:

https://www.wired.com/story/cfpb-quietly-kills-rule-to-shield-americans-from-data-brokers/

(womp-womp)

Also, Biden's FTC was in the middle of an antitrust investigation into surveillance pricing on the eve of the election, a prelude to banning the practice in America:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/07/24/gouging-the-all-seeing-eye/#i-spy

But then Trump got elected and his despicable minions killed that investigation and instead created a snitch line where FTC employees could complain about colleagues who were "woke":

https://www.ftc.gov/system/files/ftc_gov/pdf/bedoya-statement-emergency-motion.pdf

(Womp.)

(Womp.)

Naomi Klein's Doppelganger proposes a "mirror world" that the fever-swamp right lives in – a world where concern for children takes the form of Pizzagate conspiracies, while ignoring the starving babies in Gaza and the kids whose parents are being kidnapped by ICE:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/09/05/not-that-naomi/#if-the-naomi-be-klein-youre-doing-just-fine

The pricing revolution is a kind of mirror-world Marxism, grounded in "From each according to their ability to pay; to each according to their economic desperation":

https://pluralistic.net/2025/01/11/socialism-for-the-wealthy/#rugged-individualism-for-the-poor

A recent episode of the excellent Organized Money podcast featured an interview with Lee Hepner, an antitrust lawyer who is on the front lines of the pricing revolution (on the side of workers and buyers) (not bosses):

https://www.organizedmoney.fm/p/the-wild-world-of-surveillance-pricing

Hepner is the one who proposed the formulation that personalized pricing is a way for corporations to decide that your dollars are worth less than your neighbors' dollars – a form of economic discrimination that treats the poorest, most desperate, and most precarious among us as the people who should pay the most, because we are the people whose dollars are worth the least.

Now, this isn't always true. Earlier this month, Delta, United and American were caught charging more for single travelers than they charged pairs of groups:

https://thriftytraveler.com/news/airlines/airlines-charging-solo-travelers-higher-fares/

That's a way to charge business travelers extra – for valuing their dollars less than the dollars of families, not because business travelers are desperate, but because they are, on average, richer than holidaymakers (because their bosses are presumed to be buying their tickets). Sometimes, price discrimination really does charge richer people more to subsidize everyone else.

But here's the difference: when the news about the business-traveler's premium broke, its victims – powerful people with social capital and also regular capital – rose up in outrage, and the airlines reversed the policy:

https://thriftytraveler.com/news/airlines/delta-rethinks-higher-fares-solo-travelers/

If the airlines are still pursuing this kind of price discrimination, they'll do something sneakier, like buying our credit histories before showing us a price. This is something British Airways is already teeing up, by offering essentially zero reward miles to frequent travelers for partner airline tickets unless they're purchased from BA's own website:

https://onemileatatime.com/news/the-british-airways-club/

But BA operates in the UK, where most of the pre-Brexit, EU-based privacy regime is still intact, despite the best efforts of Keir Starmer to destroy it, something that neither Boris Johnson, nor Theresa May,nor Rishi Sunak, nor Liz Truss could manage:

https://www.openrightsgroup.org/press-releases/uk-privacy-erosion-sparks-eu-civil-society-call-to-review-adequacy-data-deal/

So for now, BA travelers might be safe from surveillance pricing, at least in the UK and EU. And that's the thing, America is pretty much cooked. It might be generations – centuries – before the USA emerges from its Trumpian decline and becomes a civilized democracy again. Americans have little hope of a future in which their government protects them from corporate predators, rather than serving them up on a toothpick, along with a little cocktail napkin.

The future of the fight against corporate power and oligarchy is something for the rest of the world to carry on, as the American hermit kingdom sinks into ever-deeper collapse:

https://pluralistic.net/2025/06/21/billionaires-eh/#galen-weston-is-a-rat

And as it happens, Canada's Competition Bureau, newly equipped with muscular enforcement powers thanks to a 2024 law, is seeking public comment on surveillance pricing and whether Canada should do something about it:

https://www.canada.ca/en/competition-bureau/news/2025/06/competition-bureau-seeks-feedback-on-algorithmic-pricing-and-competition.html

I'm writing comments for this one. If you're in Canada, or a Canadian abroad (like me), perhaps you could, too. If you're looking for an excellent Canadian perspective to crib from, check out this episode of The Globe and Mail's Lately podcast on the subject:

https://www.theglobeandmail.com/podcasts/lately/article-the-end-of-the-fixed-price/

Just because America jumped off the Empire State Building, that's no reason for Canada to jump off the CN Tower, after all.

(Eh?)

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2025/06/24/price-discrimination/#algorithmic-pricing

Image: Cryteria (modified) https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:HAL9000.svg

CC BY 3.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/3.0/deed.en

[angelickks]

Pretty When You Cry ✮ LION KAMINSKI

request. I was wondering of you could do lion and reader being like opposite attracts where we already know how lion is but reader is more of this fem, Lana del Rey song if that song was a person, and maybe lion is the one having these doubts so it could start off as angst (as angst as you want it) where maybe he's convinced she's someone he has to work for, someone he hasn't quite earned since he's used to fighting for what he's got maybe even trying to convince her she deserves better than what he can give her. Hurt/comfort angel talks. OH i was FEENING for this one. got a bit carried away but no harm, no foul babes. i hope i did this justice. my inbox and my legs are OPEN for lion kaminski (gif not mine)

#NAV.ᐟ jack o'connell mlist

“YOU WON BIG, LITTLE BROTHER!” Stan shouted from across the cluttered apartment, the sound of hangers clattering hitting the floor right behind him. “So we’re fuckin’ celebrating like big winners. Gonna rub elbows with some high-class snobs, baby! You’re gonna wear that new button-up I just bought you—yeah, the one with the real buttons, not the snap shit you love—and we’re hittin’ this pimped-out bar tonight whether you like it or not!”

Lion winced slightly at the noise, rolling his sore shoulder as he sat hunched at the edge of the mattress. His back ached like hell. His ribs were still tight from the last fight, too tight to inhale all the way without something cracking. His hands, calloused and scraped raw, trembled faintly as he threaded one through his damp hair, trying to flatten it down.

He hated crowds. He hated bars.

Hated the throb of bass beneath the floor, the way the music chewed through his eardrums. The press of strangers too close, smelling like alcohol and ambition. And he especially hated walking into places where he was expected to pretend. Pretend he didn’t feel every nerve ending buzzing with the ache of a dozen hits. Pretend he wasn’t one wrong look away from falling back into something darker.

He didn’t even want to look at himself in the mirror tonight.

The bruise on his cheekbone had bloomed from violet to a raw, bloody wine red. There was a gash, still healing, right at his temple—barely closed, still crusted dark. Definitely not snob suitable, as Stan put it with a smirk and zero regard for tact.

“You really think anyone in a suit gives a shit how my face looks?” Lion muttered lowly, reaching for the crisp shirt that had been tossed onto the bed beside him. It was black, collared, the kind of thing that made his scars look sharper, somehow. Like someone had tried to clean him up and only made the roughness stand out more.

Stan, now in a half-tucked shirt and the kind of slacks that creased at the thighs, popped back into the bedroom doorway, grinning like the devil on payday. “You’re damn right I do. We gotta look like money tonight, brother. You earned this. I mean—hell—how many people get a purse like that thrown at their feet and walk away standing, huh?”

Lion only shrugged, wincing at the pull of bruised muscle. “Standing’s a generous word.”

Stan tossed him a pair of cufflinks, silver and sharp-edged. “Don’t care if you limp in there, long as you’re beside me. Come on. One night. No fists. No cold showers. No patching yourself up with whiskey and dental floss.”

Lion gave him a look, quiet and unimpressed. “We’ll see.”

Still, he stood. Pulled the button-up on with slow, deliberate movements, jaw clenched every time fabric skimmed a sore spot. He didn’t say it out loud, but maybe Stan was right.

Maybe he had earned something.

Even if all Lion could manage tonight was a drink he wouldn’t finish and the corner of a crowded room—at least it was different.

At least, for once, he could try to look like he belonged in the light.

Even if he was still bleeding under the collar.

Stan walked into the bar like he owned the deed, the land it was built on, and maybe the lives of half the people inside. Shoulders back, grin cocked like a loaded weapon, he moved with that particular breed of swagger that said I’ve got nothing to prove, but I’ll prove it anyway.

Lion trailed behind him, quiet and stiff, like a shadow that hadn’t decided if it wanted to be seen.

He was in his nicest pair of jeans—dark, fitted, clean—and the black button-up Stan had thrown at him earlier like a gift wrapped in obligation. The collar itched against the healing scab near his jaw, and the sleeves were just a bit too long, the gold chain Stan slid around his neck with no care for Lion's grumbling glinting like he didn’t belong to himself anymore. He kept his hands close to his sides, unsure of what to do with them, his eyes low and darting, heart drumming in a way that had nothing to do with excitement.

He felt the glances before he saw them. The too-long stares, the once-overs from men in pressed suits and women in sleek dresses. Brows arched, lips pursed in silent questions he’d heard a hundred times before. Who let the bruised guy in? Is he with him? Are they lost?

Lion resisted the urge to tug at his collar, to make himself smaller, quieter—something more invisible than the discomfort already blooming up his spine. Then came the familiar yank—Stan’s calloused hand wrapping around his wrist like a leash, a lifeline, a reminder: we’re doing this.

“C’mon,” Stan barked over his shoulder, already weaving through velvet ropes and gold-backed booths with the kind of ease that only came from sheer delusion or absolute confidence. “Don’t go turtle on me now.”

Lion’s jaw clenched.

“This place is…” He muttered under his breath, ducking between two glittering couples laughing over martinis. “Christ, Stan. This place is fuckin’ reaching.”

Stan only snorted in response, dragging him faster, deeper into the swirl of money and meaningless conversation. The music was low and expensive-sounding, some moody remix of a Sinatra track bleeding from speakers hidden in the marble walls. The air smelled like citrus, cologne, and artificial cool like no one here had ever sweat or bled or limped into a room like they were trying not to fall apart.

Lion hated it.

He hated the lighting, dim but strategic. He hated the polished glasses that looked like they’d shatter if he held them too tight. He hated the way people smiled without meaning it. Most of all, he hated how out of place he felt in a room full of people pretending they didn’t notice him.

He gritted his teeth and followed anyway. Stan was already halfway to the bar, talking fast to some bored-looking bartender in suspenders, and Lion didn’t want to be alone.

Not in a place like this. Not in skin that didn’t fit quite right. Not tonight.

"Two beers, sir and keep em' comin', me and my little bro are celebrating tonight!"

Lion was halfway through his first beer, nursing it like a man on probation. One elbow braced on the bar, shoulders hunched in as if trying to fold himself in half, he hadn’t said more than three words since he walked in. And that was over an hour ago.

The beer was expensive. Tasted like it was brewed by someone who’d never had a hard day in their life. But it was cold and something to hold, so he held it.

Stan, on the other hand, was on his third round of trying. Currently planted at the opposite end of the bar, half-leaning against a marble counter that looked more suited to a country club than anything Lion was used to, Stan was laying on the charm. Loud, smiling too wide, trying to chat up a girl in a backless dress who was already asking, out loud—why someone like him was even in a place like this.

Lion tuned it out.

His eyes kept drifting, like they always did, low and quiet across the rim of his bottle, scanning the bar like he was waiting for someone to catch him looking so he could immediately look away. This wasn’t his world. Not the glittering glasses, not the laughter that sounded more like performance than pleasure. Everyone here seemed polished and polished again, with manicured lives and clean, deliberate pain.

Lion’s world was scraped knees and back alley bruises. Fistfights in underground rings. Cheap whiskey and bruised ribs. He was thinking about calling it a night when you walked in. No one else noticed you the way he did.

But he did.

You didn’t arrive on a man’s arm. You didn’t stumble like the girls who'd had too much too early. You didn’t beg for attention—you commanded it without asking. All perfume and soft sighs, with a dress that whispered when you walked and lips the color of a sin he didn’t have the right to name.

You slid into the bar two seats down from him like you’d been here a hundred times. The bartender recognized you instantly, already setting something elegant and pale on the napkin in front of you before you even opened your mouth.

Lion watched. Quiet. Unmoving.

You tilted your head and smiled in thanks, then laughed at something the bartender said—soft and low, like an old French record being played too slow, like sound traveling through smoke. It scraped something inside him raw and sweet.

He blinked, and for the first time that night, he forgot about the tight collar on his neck. Forgot the ache in his ribs. Forgot that he didn’t belong in a place where people drank cocktails with flower petals floating in them.

You were silk slipped into a world that had long since traded softness for spectacle. Glamour that didn’t shout. The kind of slow, devastating elegance that felt like it belonged to another era—red lips, jasmine perfume that he was catching the soft swells of even with the distance between you both, and heartbreak trailing behind in your wake like smoke.

You weren’t the kind of woman men saved. You were the kind they tried to, and bled for. The kind they didn’t realize had already ruined them, just by being looked at too long. A woman out of reach. Out of rhythm with the neon blur of the city. And completely unbothered by it. And then—then—you looked at him.

Not around him. Not through him. Not like he was something unfortunate the night had coughed up on the marble floors. You just looked.

Steady. Curious. Soft in a way that didn’t make sense.

Lion blinked once. Swallowed. His fingers flexed slightly around the neck of his beer, heart thudding in a chest still stitched up from the last time he let someone that close.

He didn’t look away. Couldn’t. And then—you smiled. Not coy. Not cruel.

Like you already knew something about him. Something unspoken and aching, buried too deep for language.

And for the first time in longer than he cared to admit, Lion Kaminski didn’t feel like something to hide. Didn’t feel like a scar in a room full of skin. Didn’t feel like disappearing. Instead, he turned slowly back to the sweating beer in front of him, and it felt different—like drinking was no longer about forgetting, but waiting.

The bar buzzed around you both, gold-rimmed glasses clinking, silverware kissed by candlelight, jazz bleeding from invisible speakers like memory. Conversation flowed like money—too easy, too fast.

But your gaze didn’t flicker. Not once.

Two seats down sat the man who didn’t belong. Who looked like he’d been dragged into his clothes by someone trying to make him forget what his hands were capable of. Shoulders rigid beneath too nice fabric. Knuckles scraped from something he hadn’t talked about, and probably never would. Hair slicked back like an after thought, like he’d tried to tidy up a life that refused to be cleaned.

All that silence. All that weight. And you, a certain softness wrapped in danger, were already leaning closer. Not loud. Not obvious. Just slow, deliberate.

Your chair whispered across the floor as you slid one seat closer.

Not next to him. Just close enough.

He didn’t look up, but you caught the twitch in his brow, the brief flicker of his eyes in your direction. A pause. You crossed your legs. Let your perfume drift closer — jasmine and vanilla. Rested your elbow on the bar, fingers toying with the edge of your napkin.

You didn’t rush. Just breathed him in just a seat away—his stillness, his tension, the way he looked like he was trying to disappear and punch something at the same time. And when you spoke, it wasn’t loud. It wasn’t bright. It was like letting someone in through a door only you knew was there.

"You look like you hate it here."

It floated in the space between you, softer than the music, meant only for him. A quiet kindness wrapped in silk and smoke. Lion’s head turned, slow and cautious—like he wasn’t sure he’d imagined it. Your eyes met again, you didn’t look away.

He didn’t know what he expected your voice to sound like, but this wasn’t it. It wasn’t teasing. It wasn’t cutting. It wasn’t amused. It was gentle.

“I do,” he muttered, barely above a breath, like anything louder might crack the moment in half. Your smile pulled lazy at the corners of your mouth, soft and knowing. "Then why stay?"

He blinked and for a second, Lion had no answer.

Because Stan had dragged him here. Because he hadn’t wanted to be alone. Because the ache in his chest hadn’t worn off yet from the last fight. Because he’d already learned how to sit with pain in public. But none of that made it to his mouth.

Instead, without thinking, his eyes drifted over your lips, the curve of your smile, the way your fingers traced your glass like you were drawing circles around him. He cleared his throat, "Guess I was waiting for somethin’ better to happen." You tilted your head like you already knew what he meant. Like you’d been the better thing he didn’t know he was waiting for.

Then, a beat slower, “You don’t talk much, do you?”

Lion shrugged. Half a smirk. Half shame.

“Not to people I don’t trust.”

“And do you?” Your voice dipped just a little. Velvet. Playful, but real. “Trust me?”

His soft, guarded, and gentle gaze lingered too long on your eyes. The kind of eyes that had made bad men swear they could be good.

“…Don’t know yet,” he admitted. You leaned in slightly—not enough to close the distance, just enough to make the air between you hum.

“That’s alright.” You tapped your finger lightly against your glass. “I don’t mind waiting.” It hit him like a bruise blooming under the skin. That quiet, kind flirtation. No games. No expectations. Like you meant it. Like you weren’t here to pull something out of him but to offer something instead.

Lion looked at you, long and slow.

Not the way most men looked at women in places like this—like they were measuring what they could get away with. No, he looked like he was memorizing something he didn’t think he’d be allowed to keep. Your words played in his head again, soft and unbothered: "I don't mind waiting."

No one had ever waited on him unless they were waiting for him to fail.

His hand curled around the neck of his bottle again. Tighter this time. Like if he held on too loosely, the moment might drift away like the rest of them. You didn’t push. Didn’t speak again. Just sipped, smiled, leaned your chin into your hand like it was easy to sit beside someone like him. Like you were content with silence that didn’t ask to be filled.

He wasn’t used to that. Wasn’t used to softness that didn’t come with strings or the sharp edge of mockery hiding underneath.

He hesitated. Then, like someone saying a prayer through a cracked door,

“…What’s your name?”

He didn’t look at you when he asked it. Not at first. Just kept his eyes forward, watching the way the bar lights caught in the bottom of his glass like distant firelight. You turned your head slightly.

“You want my real one?” you asked, a hint of that playful warmth curling into your voice again. “Or the kind I give to men who forget to call?”

That earned the barest smile from him. Small. Tired. Real.

“…The real one,” he said after a moment. “If you feel like givin’ it.”

You said it simply. No performance. No tease. Just yours.

Lion turned to you fully this time. And the name, your name, hung in the air between you like a secret. Something precious. Something he didn’t think he deserved to know, but now that he had it, couldn’t stop rolling over in his mind. It didn’t feel like a casual exchange. It felt like a key.

He nodded once, slow, like it settled somewhere deep in him.

“…I’m Lion.” He said it again, softer this time. Like maybe you were the first person he ever wanted to really give it to. “...just what my brother calls me. It’s not on the birth certificate, but y'know..."

Your eyes sparked with something between amusement and curiosity, nodding in understanding. His nickname was just as real as his actual one.

“That’s a lot to live up to.”

His jaw shifted, half a wince behind his smirk. “Yeah. Tell me about it.” The silence that followed wasn’t heavy. Wasn’t awkward.

Just a quiet space where something delicate had been exchanged. Name for name. Look for look. A fragile kind of trust that neither of you had to name yet. Lion tapped a knuckle against the bar once. Glanced sidelong at you again.

“…You wanna move one closer?”

He meant the seat. But he didn’t really. And you smiled like you knew that too.

The night unraveled gently, like thread between fingers. Lion hadn’t planned on staying past one beer, hadn’t expected to be sitting still at all—let alone in the low hum of a bar too clean for his calloused hands, too polished for the scuffed soles of his boots.

But there he was. Stone cold sober, buzzing with something far more dangerous than alcohol. You.

You were curled into the seat beside him, legs crossed at the knee, your wine-red slip dress brushing against his jeans like it had no idea how out of place it was next to denim and dirt. The silk shimmered in the dim light every time you shifted, glistening like a secret you wore with ease, your perfume drifting into his lungs like smoke and sanctuary all at once. You spoke in a voice that didn’t belong in this bar. Hell, didn’t belong in his world at all. It was low, velvety-soft. Every syllable laced with patience, with mystery, with the kind of slow grace Lion had only ever seen in women on old movie posters—women you didn’t touch unless they asked you to. And still, you sat beside him.

He didn’t say much. Just listened. Let himself drown in the sound of you telling some half-funny, half-haunting story he barely registered because he was too focused on the way you leaned forward when you got excited, the glint of gloss on your lips, the warmth of your laugh when you glanced at him like you already knew how this was going to end.

He barely noticed your phone light up on the bar.

But you did. Glanced at it mid-sentence. A small flicker of surprise in your eyes. Then the ghost of a smile—bittersweet, half-resigned—as you finished the story anyway.

1:47.

“Shit,” you breathed under your breath, barely a whisper. Regret tangled with the syllables. Lion’s eyes met yours. There was a twist low in his gut, that old ache that came creeping in when something started to feel too good. Too safe. Too soft. This was the part where the night slipped away. This was the part where you got up, and the fantasy vanished, and he’d go home and tell himself it never would’ve lasted anyway.

But you didn’t leave—not yet.

You turned to him instead. Slower this time. Studying him like he was something worth remembering. Like he hadn’t already convinced himself he wasn’t. And then—then you smiled.

That knowing, velvet smile. All mischief and melancholy, wrapped in red.

“Give me your hand.”

Lion blinked. Didn’t move at first. Because asking a man like him to give you his hand wasn’t just a gesture. It was a risk. But you waited.

So, he did.

Uncurling fingers like he was surrendering. Letting you take something no one else had thought to ask for. You held it gently, turning his palm upward, and he swore your touch burned hotter than anything in this goddamn place.

“Pen?” you asked the bartender, and of course the guy gave you one without blinking. Lion took notice of how people gave you things, the longing and lustful gazes men shot your way. Of course they did. The sight and reactions made him crawl back into wanting to not be seen all over again. You uncapped the pen with a delicate snap.

And then, with deliberate strokes, you wrote your number across his palm. Like it belonged there. Like it was always meant to be inked onto the skin of a man who’d never asked for anything soft in his life.

“In case you decide you wanna see me somewhere quieter,” you said, voice barely louder than the jazz melting from the speakers. Your gaze held him firm. “Somewhere the music doesn’t drown out the good parts.”

Lion looked down at his hand. At the numbers written in ink that would fade by morning. At the delicate loops of your name beside them. And for a second, he couldn’t breathe.

“…You sure?” he asked, quiet, almost broken. It wasn’t bravado. It wasn’t charm. It was disbelief, raw and aching. Because no one like you had ever looked at him like that and meant it.

You tilted your head, smiling like you already knew what haunted him.

“I wouldn’t have written it if I wasn’t.” Your voice was calm, warm. Sure.

You said it like it was simple. Like there wasn’t any room for doubt.

Then you looked at him, really looked. Directly into those storm-blue eyes of his that didn’t quite know what to do with tenderness. Like you were memorizing him, or maybe just giving him permission to believe this moment was real.

You smiled, slow and sincere. The kind of smile that stuck with a man long after the lights went out. “Goodnight, Lion,” you said, letting his name linger like a secret only you were allowed to say that way. “I hope you call.”

And just like that, you slid off the stool. Graceful, unhurried, like you knew he would. Like you knew he was already halfway yours. Your heels clicked softly against the floor as you walked away. Lion didn’t stop you. Couldn’t. He just sat there, eyes locked on the spot where your perfume still lingered in the air.

Pen warm in his hand. Your name burned into his skin like something holy. And for the first time in years, Lion Kaminski didn’t feel like a man waiting to lose something. He felt like someone who’d been chosen.

Even if he didn’t think he deserved it yet.

You were everything Lion Kaminski wasn’t. Everything he never dared to dream about, not even in the fractured quiet between bruises and broken sleep.

Silk where he was scar tissue. Velvet where he was silence. A voice like warmth in a world that had only ever been cold to him.

And yet—you were his.

He didn’t believe it. Not really. Not for a second. But it was still true.

Months had passed since that bar. Since that slip of wine red silk and lipgloss and the ghost of your number written across his calloused palm. Since those first two agonizing days of debating whether to call you or let you be a beautiful memory he could carry like a relic.

He had paced his apartment like a man losing a fight with himself. Turned the phone over in his palm, back and forth, thumb hovering above your number like it was the trigger to something that might ruin him.

And all the while, Stan's voice filled the space between—talking fights, money, schedules, bruises, bills. Life. The kind that left no room for softness.

But he called you. Of course he did. And somehow, by some twisted miracle he hadn’t yet managed to explain, you answered. And you stayed.

From then on he spent every evening with his back pressed to the cold brick of the alley behind his apartment, tucked just out of sight, crouched on an old milk crate like a kid hiding from trouble. Fingers raw and bleeding from training, body worn out and half-broken—but still showing up, just for the chance to hear your voice on the other end of the line.

Stan thought he was cooling off, collecting himself. Lion let him think that.

Because how the hell was he supposed to explain that every night, he left the chaos of his life behind just to hear you laugh softly about your day? That he sat there, hunched in the dark, knees aching and knuckles throbbing, replying to your texts in under three seconds flat like a teenager? That when you called him by name—his name—it didn’t sound like the one people barked in a ring. It sounded like something he hadn’t known he needed until you said it.

You made the nights feel slower. Softer.

And every time you said his name in that voice of yours—sweet, low, like it was meant to be whispered in the hush between sirens and city static—Lion felt like maybe, just maybe, he hadn’t imagined it all.

Those nights in the alley faded like a distant bruise. It been replaced by warmth, soft sheets, and a bed that didn’t groan beneath his weight like it resented him. Now there were mornings in golden quiet, nights wrapped in the scent of jasmine and skin, and pieces of Lion. His boots by the door, his jacket draped over your chair, his name murmured in your sleepy voice—scattered like he belonged there.

And God, how you made it yours.

You called him handsome with that silk-soft tone, kissed him like he was something rare and breakable—like he was the most precious thing in your velvet-draped little world. You’d straddle him on your couch, fingers buried in his hair, the nickname baby playing on your lips, your laughter trailing like smoke through a room lit by warm lamps that didn’t flicker like his always did. You kissed him like he was someone worth coming home to. And he let you.

Your perfume lingered on his skin long after you were gone, soaking into his shirts, haunting the curve of his neck like a memory. You were the first thing he saw most mornings now—messy hair, sleep-heavy eyes, lips still parted in the echo of a dream—and it made something ache in him. Something he didn’t have the words for.

It felt like a dream. The kind he never dared to have, let alone keep. But he was living it, somehow. And it scared the hell out of him.

Even if part of him still waited to wake up because you were softness incarnate. And he was a man who only knew how to hold things that could survive the grip.

Your relationship started slow, soft, and shrouded in a certain type of raw, unfiltered, captivating beauty. Everything Lion didn’t anticipate. Everything he never wanted to end.

It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t something he bragged about or put on display. It was quieter than that—secret and sacred. A balm to every part of him that had been bruised and left unhealed.

And tonight… tonight you were something else entirely.

You were dolled up in a dress that dipped dangerously low down your back, like it was tailored to flirt with every eye you passed. Lips painted a glossy, cherry-red hue, the color of cherry Coke on summer lips, one Lion wanted to drink up like a man deprived of water, and paired with mischief dancing just beneath your lashes.

Lion had stared at you for longer than he meant to. You’d caught him doing it. But instead of teasing him like you usually did, you smiled a little softer. Like you knew he was trying to memorize you. Like you knew he always was.

The dive bar had been your idea.

Ironic, really, considering the polished little lounge you’d met in all those months ago. This one was grime and wood paneling and stools that wobbled when you shifted too far to the left. Cheap beer. Flickering neon. A jukebox that refused to play anything made after 1989.

But you wanted it. And that meant Lion agreed. Even if it made his stomach twist in ways he didn’t have the words for. He’d never tell you no. Not really. Not where it counted.

He kept to your side, quiet and close, the way he always did in public. Hand hovering just shy of your lower back like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to touch you tonight, not in that dress, not when you looked like that. And maybe it was the crowd. Or the whiskey. Or the way some guy across the room looked at you a little too long when you were headed back from the jukebox. But something in Lion shifted.

Tightened. He didn’t say much after that.

Just let the noise of the bar bleed into his ears while you sat beside him, glowing like something that didn’t belong in this place or beside him. Your laugh cut through the static. His silence deepened.

You noticed. Of course you did.

You leaned in, gentle hand brushing his knee, that lipstick-stained smile faltering just slightly. “You okay?”

He nodded. Too quick. Too practiced.

But you didn’t buy it. Not tonight.

You stood, smoothed your dress, and murmured something about air. He followed like he always did—wordless, reluctant, his boots heavy against the old floorboards.

Outside, the cold slapped his face like a warning.

You stood by the alley wall, arms crossed loosely over your chest, looking at him with that half-worried, half-patient expression that always made him feel seen in a way that didn’t sting. Lion exhaled, long and slow, like he was letting something dangerous out of him. Then ran a hand through his hair, pushing it back the same way he always did when he didn’t know what to say.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered finally, jaw clenched.

You blinked, soft and steady. “For what?”

His gaze dropped to the pavement. “For this. For me. For not knowing how to be the guy who deserves this shit.”

You didn’t speak. Not yet. You let him say it.

“I mean—look at you.” His voice cracked at the edges, low and ragged. “You’re… fuckin’ art. You walk into a place and the whole goddamn room changes. And me? I’m…” He shrugged, gesturing vaguely to himself—bruised knuckles, heavy boots, old denim, and a winbreaker that still smelled like your soap and sweat.

“I don’t fit next to you. Never did.”

You stepped toward him. Quiet. Certain. He didn’t back away. But he didn’t meet your eyes, either.

“You think I don’t know what I look like standing next to you?” he went on, voice sharper now—not angry, just scared. “People stare. They wonder what you’re doing with me. Hell, I wonder what you’re doing with me.”

You reached for him. Slow and soft—always soft. Your fingers found his, pried them gently open. Held them between yours like something precious.

“I’m with you because I chose you, Lion,” you said, voice low like a secret only the alley was allowed to hear. “And I keep choosing you. Every day. Every minute.”

Lion’s eyes searched yours like he didn’t believe you—like he wanted to but didn’t know how. His breath hitched, chest tight, heart thudding like it didn’t know what to do with softness. Not when all he’d known was survival.

“I don’t deserve that,” he rasped, voice thick. “I don’t deserve you.”

Lion’s jaw clenched. His eyes dropped to the pavement like your words physically hurt—too soft for the callouses on his heart, too kind for the man he saw in the mirror.

You lay a gentle hand against his chest, the way someone might calm a frightened animal. He was all tension, all coiled muscle and tremors under the surface.

“You don’t have to earn me,” you said, slow, deliberate. “You always had me."

Lion made a choked noise in his throat, quiet and broken. Like he wanted to believe you but couldn’t. His shoulders trembled. His hands flexed at his sides, like he didn’t know what to do with them.

"God, I’m scared every day that you’re gonna wake up and realize you could’ve had someone who didn’t come with this much fuckin’ baggage.”

There it was. His voice cracked. You thumbed gently over the rough stubble on his cheek.

Your thumb brushed his cheekbone. “Then you don’t know me as well as you think.” His eyes snapped to yours.

“I’ve had the smooth talkers. The ones who made it easy. The ones who didn’t flinch when they smiled. They never made me feel like you do, baby."

He blinked.

You smiled—soft, sure, lips curled with something sweet and dangerous. “When I’m with you, I feel like I’m standing in the middle of something real.”

Lion made a choked sound, one of half disbelief, half surrender. And then, before either of you could second-guess it, he moved.

His hands were on you in the next breath, desperate, one on your waist, the other cupping the back of your neck like he couldn’t stand another second without touching you. He kissed you like he didn’t know if he deserved it, but needed it anyway. Like he needed you—in this moment, in this body, in this skin, in this breath.

Your lips crashed into his with heat and hunger, the alleyway dim and distant around you. Cold brick at your back, warm mouth at your front. You kissed him like he was something to be consumed, and he kissed you like you were salvation with legs. His tongue swept over your bottom lip, slow, testing, until you opened for him with a soft, breathy sigh that made his knees threaten to give. Your fingers dug into his jacket, pulling him closer until your hips aligned, his thigh sliding between yours like he was grounding you.

He groaned into your mouth, low and reverent, like he hadn’t touched anyone like this in years. Like kissing you was the first thing that made him feel human again.

“You always kiss like you’re starving,” you whispered against his mouth, your voice sticky-sweet and slightly dazed.

Lion’s forehead pressed to yours, chest heaving. “Maybe I fuckin’ am.” You smiled. A little breathless. A little undone. “Then let me feed you.”

His hand slid to your jaw, thumb brushing just beneath your cheekbone as he kissed you again—slower this time, deeper, like he was memorizing every sound you made. Every soft moan. Every shift of your weight toward him. Every time your hand fisted in his shirt like you couldn’t stand the distance between you, even if it was only air.

“Whether you like it or not, I'm not going anywhere if it isn't with you,” you breathed when he pulled back just enough to look at you.

That made him kiss you again—long, slow, and almost reverent. Like a vow written in breath and tongue and soft gasps.

The night Lion met you, he won a fight that didn't matter, even if he tried to give it purpose. Between the breathless moans slipping from your lips like prayers, your cherry-red gloss smearing against his mouth in kisses that taste like sin and salvation—this is where he feels it.

[muldermuse]

dads best friend butcher. thats all.

dad's best friend butcher who sends you dick pics, knowing full well you're sat at sunday night family dinner

dad's best friend butcher who sneaks away from the bbq to finger you in your bedroom, sliding his thumb into your mouth so you don't moan too loud

dad's best friend butcher who picks you up from work and fucks you in the back seat, dropping you off at home after and sharing a beer with your dad like he his cock isn't still coated in your cum

dad's best friend butcher who buys you lingerie every payday, jacks off to the pictures you send him of you modelling for him

...is this something?

[absurdthirst]

The Weekend Getaway {Frankie Morales x F!Reader}

Rating: Mature

Word Count: 3.6k

Warnings: Martial strife, anxiety, financial issues, mentions of drug issues, mentions of depression, mentions of therapy/counseling

Comments: Things are the best between you and Frankie, but your birthday is coming up. Giving him an opportunity to set things back on the right path with a weekend getaway.

🎉🎁🎊Happy Birthday @wardenparker!!!!! I hope you have a wonderful day and I love you so much! 🎉🎁🎊

|| MasterList || Frankie Morales MasterList ||

Click Keep Reading only if you have read the Rating and Warnings and understand the warnings may not be complete to avoid listing spoilers. As AO3 says 'creator chooses not to use warnings'. You also agree that you're the right age to be consuming anything here.

It’s hard for Frankie to talk sometimes. The easiest thing for him to do is cross his arms and stonewall with the blank expression on his face that those who don’t know him read as unapproachable. The furrow of his brow hides the worry that edges his eyes. The downward pull of his lips distracting from the rounded shoulders as he sits quietly as the conversation floats around him. He doesn’t know what to say, how to say it. Not even when it’s his own friends. Men he considers brothers. 

“Frank?” His elbow moves, jarred by Benny’s bony one and it wakes him from the distracted fog that seems to settle over him when he’s preoccupied. “It’s next weekend, right?” 

“Huh?” His frown deepens, having no clue what the blonde is asking him about and Benny says your name. “It’s her birthday coming up, right?” 

Shit. A doomed sigh passes his lips and he squeezes his eyes shut as he realizes that he’s let your birthday sneak up on him again. The guys chuckle, murmurs that are supposed to be ribbing him are sounded around the table in the bustling little bar, but he doesn’t even hear them. His mind goes from almost blank to panicked like he’s just fucked up again. 

You two aren’t doing so well. You aren’t fighting, but….he can see it. You’re tired of his shit. You’ve put up with so much. The deployments when he was on, the worry about him not coming home. Then the fucking drug charge he had gotten wrapped up in. The catalyst had been South America. 

He had promised it would be just a quick trip. An easy payday to help with the bills that seem to pile up after his license had been yanked and he had been unable to fly. A grounded pilot didn’t make jack shit and appealing this entire thing has been a long and expensive process. 

He had come home way past the expected time, without money and even more broken than he had left. It’s honestly surprising that he hadn’t come home to his shit in garbage bags on the porch and the locks changed, but the frostiness of the welcome home had proven exactly how deep in the dog house Frankie was. You didn’t really talk to him unless you needed to and even then, it was with a resigned aplomb. Like you were talking to the coworker you hated but had to interact with. He didn’t know how to change things. “Fuck.” 

“Damn, Fish, you forgot?” Benny whistles under his breath and his own beer is down to the last dregs, the third one of the night, so the exuberance of the evening had tempered down into a slightly more relaxed countenance on the human golden retriever. “You’ve got a week.” He offers helpfully. “Get her something nice.” 

Frankie shrugs, not even sure that a present would be welcomed right now. Not that he has a ton of spare cash lying around for a present in the first place. “I don’t know what to get her.” He admits. 

Pope snorts, the quick grin that he hides behind his own beer bottle tells Frankie that his suggestion is dirty. Something you definitely aren’t interested in. There hadn’t been any of that since before he had left for South America. “You know what to get her.” He huffs. “Give her that di-”

“Not that.” Frankie rolls his eyes, sighing and pressing the bridge of his nose with his fingers. “We- we aren’t doing great.” He manages after a long moment of silence from the table. He knows without even looking that Pope, Benny and Will’s eyes are all trained on him with laser sharp focus, like they are being read in on a mission brief. They don’t say anything, waiting for him to continue and that’s when it’s honestly the hardest for Frankie to talk. He knows what to do on a fucking mission. There’s a clear objective. Marriage is a fuck-ton harder. The only rules are don’t cheat and make you happy. He’s been good about the first one and he’s failed miserably with the second. His snort of annoyance at himself rocks his body in the chair and it’s a fucking saving grace that the waitress comes by to check on them so he has a minute to pretend like he didn’t just open up Pandora’s box. 

Benny orders him another round, along with his own beer and Will and Pope decline, their beers still half full. Waiting until she bebops to another table and this time Pope doesn’t even watch her ass as she walks away. His frown is focused on Frankie as he hides behind his hand with the brim of his head seemingly lower than before on his head. “Frank?” He had been leaning back in his chair, but now all four legs are on the floor and he’s leaning in. “Talk to us.” 

The dreaded words. Ones that he used to hear from you almost daily. In every single tone he could imagine. Exasperation, pleading, anger, until now those words don’t come anymore. You don’t utter them, and he thinks that might be worse than when he thought he was going to die on that fucking mountain. 

He could try to wait them out, out stubborn them, but they are almost as hard headed as him. Maybe even more so in Benny’s case. Sighing, his elbows drop to the table and a hand comes up to push at his hat. “I don’t know, man.” He huffs. “We just….don’t talk.” 

Benny snorts, huffing out a derisive sound that sounds suspiciously sarcastic. “You don’t say?” Yep, definitely sarcasm. He spears the younger man, the one who has never been married, with a narrow look. 

He can feel Will’s eyes on him, waiting for more. It’s like a hot laser being focused on his face and he shifts. “It’s not- not all about that trip.” He admits after a moment. “I don’t think it is, but it didn’t help. She’s just-” He shrugs. “I’m fucking grounded, bringing home shit for money. Disappeared for nearly two weeks and came home again with no money. She’s tired of my shit. And I can’t-” He breaks off for a moment, pushing down the regret that threatens to expand in his chest when he remembers the shocked look on Tom’s lifeless face. “I can’t tell her about what happened. I don’t even know if she would listen.” He admits, feeling slightly mournful at that revelation. 

“Damn.” Pope frowns, looking down at his beer and his own guilt is evidence in his uneasy expression. This all leads back to him, to that fucking plan that had seemed so goddamn easy when he had first plotted it out. He had been so fucking smug and one of his friends is dead, and another is suffering because of it. “Have you thought about….counseling?” 

None of them liked to talk to counselors. It was a point of pride when they were younger. They were invincible. Nothing would get to them. Then they understood the implications of letting a counselor in their heads. They could be stood down. Removed from the duty roster and declared unfit. Unable to operate and do what they were trained to do. When ordered to attend any therapy, they pretended everything was okay, even when it wasn’t. Bottling things up and pushing them down. It’s always the healthy way of dealing with things, right?

Frankie winces, shaking his head slightly and blows out a sigh. “I thought about bringing it up, but…..I don’t know.” He feels lost, adrift. For so long you had been his anchor, even if he hadn’t appreciated it at the time. Now it feels like the rope is fraying and you are about to cut him loose. Leaning back, he drains the rest of his beer and thumps it down on the table. “So I don’t know if she wants me to do anything for her birthday.” 

Will leans forward, his own arms resting on the table. “Listen man, even if you aren’t in a good place, she will want you to do something.” He promises Frankie. “Show her that you give a damn. She hasn’t left, so try to breach that divide before she does.” His own engagement had ended because he wouldn’t open up and he didn’t want to see that happen to you and Fish. He knows that his friend loves you. 

“How about you get away?” Benny suggests. “Take her someplace for her birthday.” 

“We are barely paying the bills.” Frankie admits, closing his eyes. “Some fancy weekend away isn’t in the cards.” Guilt settles into his gut again, feeling like a failure more and more every day. If he hadn’t promised you that he wouldn’t touch the coke again, he would be drowning himself in it. He sighs softly and wonders what the hell he can do. 

A look passes between the two blonde haired men. Blue eyes communicating with words and there’s a small nod from Benny. 

“You know….” Will shifts in his seat, drawing Frankie’s attention from the bubbles that were popping in his beer. “We have that cabin in the mountains.” He makes it sound casual, like an off hand comment, but it’s clear to see where he’s leading. 

“I can’t do that-” Frankie shakes his head, feeling even more guilty for making his problems his friend’s problems too. 

“You can and you will.” Benny snorts, making Will roll his eyes. 

“You’d actually be doing us a favor.” Will explains. “It’s been awhile since we’ve used it. We need an excuse to air it out.” 

It’s probably a lie, and an inconvenience, but something has to change. “I don’t know…..” He sighs. “It’s hard to do anything with the baby.” 

“I’ll babysit.” The offer comes from the most unlikely source. Every man’s brow lifts as they turn back towards Pope. “What?” He shrugs. “I like kids. I’m good with them.”  He huffs, like he’s offended that they don’t believe that he could watch over a kid for a few days. How hard could it be? “We could all pitch in.” Will adds, aware that there's safety in numbers. “Take the baby, let you two get away.” Frankie still looks like he’s going to refuse again, so he leans in to drive the point home. “Fish, you need to fix this. You need time together, just the two of you. Take it. Reconnect with your wife.” 

It makes him stop, looking around at the men that he calls brothers, family. Men who would and have put their lives on the line for his and that he would do the same for in a heartbeat. Men who know what is hidden in his heart, even the things that he’s not been able to share with you. They are still here beside him, still believing in him. 

“Okay.” He nods, looking down at his hands for a moment and then back up at them. “Thanks.” A simple thank you will never be enough, but it is. 

****

“Are you really not going to tell me what we are doing?” Frankie winces slightly at the rough tone to your voice, wondering if you are really annoyed or if he’s just overly sensitive to anything when you talk to him. 

“I thought it could be a surprise.” He shrugs and instead of walking to the driver’s door of the smaller, practical SUV that you had bought when you realized you were pregnant, he moves to the passenger door to open it for you. 

You seem so surprised by the move, something that makes his heart ache, wondering how deeply he has hurt you over the years with his selfishness if you seem so suspicious of the simple gesture. He wonders when he stopped opening the doors for you, when he stopped trying to show you in the small ways that he loves you. 

He shuts the door behind you and circles the front of the SUV, hoping that you don’t hate the getaway. Hoping that it might spark some conversations, some kind of connection between the two of you. 

“Are you sure that they will be alright?” You look worried, that little crease between your eyes when you are upset deep and he nods as he closes the driver’s door and reaches for his seat belt. 

“Oh yeah, the guys have it covered.” He promises, chuckling slightly. “They outlined their objectives this weekend like they were working up an op.” He shakes his head. “Pope has a fucking binder.” You don’t say anything, but he hears a small snort. A good sign, probably the first little sound of amusement that he’s heard in months and he wants to reach over and take your hand but he concentrates on starting the car and pulling out of the driveway. 

Benny had driven up to the cabin yesterday, making sure that it wasn’t too dusty and to put clean sheets on the bed in the main bedroom. He had even told Frankie that he was stocking it with some groceries and refused to take any money for it. Making Frankie both ashamed of his inability to really pay him back, and proud that he has a friend who cares so much. 

The interior of the car is silent, but not exactly in that oppressive, tense kind of silence. You are on your phone, the radio is on. Turned to the easy, classic rock station that both of you like, turned down a little lower than he would normally listen to if it was just him in his truck. The blue sky is clear with the exception of the puffy white clouds and the sun shines brightly to make it a gorgeous day. Maybe a day that both of you need. 

It takes a couple of hours to get there, Frankie concentrating on the road as you put your phone away after checking with Will on the baby. Taking the exit from the highway and turning off on a little country road. He’s been here before, a fishing trip with the guys and it’s a gorgeous little spot. It’s isolated, the lake down in the valley about two miles away, but the view from the large back porch is the real winner. It looks out over the valley, across the lake and the surrounding mountains. It's serene, calming. The best kind of place to sit in a rocking chair and have a cup of coffee as the morning light fills the valley. 

You shift in your seat when he pulls off onto the long road up the mountain, your head turning as you look out the windows. The road is only paved about halfway up, then it’s good that your little crossover has all wheel drive. Frankie slows down and turns to look at you, watching your curiosity get the best of you as he climbs the little road up to the cabin. 

You’re quiet when asphalt gives away to gravel. The crunch of the surprisingly smooth graded road is loud under the tires as he slows down a little more. He can feel the questions that are practically vibrating off of you, but you still don’t ask. Waiting, anticipating. He wonders if it’s a nervous thrill that is curling in your stomach like it is his. If you are wildly speculating what could be at the end of this road. Hopefully you aren’t disappointed. 

He hears it the second you see the small cabin nestled among the trees. The sharp inhale of breath, the yearning. You lean forward into his peripheral vision as you inspect the clearing. “Frank….” Your voice is soft, making his heart skip a beat. It’s been a long time since he’s heard that tone. The one that says that you are both happily surprised and impressed. 

He puts the car in park and presses the button to turn off the engine. Looking over at you and opening his door to get out. “Come on, sweetheart.” He urges as he unfolds himself from the seat and gives a little groan as his back pops. 

Getting into the cabin is easy, Frankie produces the key with a small grin when you frown, opening the door with the duffel bags on his shoulders and pushing it open. “Here we are.” He offers, letting you go inside before him. 

It’s rustic, but you’ve never claimed to need five star accommodations or 1000 thread count sheets. There is a comfortable looking plaid couch with a coffee table, board games underneath the wide wooden top. A small bookshelf off to the corner with a surprising number of paperbacks stuffed on its shelves. There’s a fireplace, logs already set in the grate even though it’s probably too hot to light it. Although it might cool down once the sun goes down, it is cooler up here on the mountain that home after all. Cozy. That’s the word and he glances over at you to see what you think. 

“It’s- we’re staying here?” You ask softly, looking around and absorbing with a look that Frankie can’t quite decipher. 

“Yeah.” He shuffles, wondering if you are disappointed by the lack of grandeur. It’s not whisking you away to Paris or splurging on some fancy excursion. “I thought we could-” he breaks off and shrugs slightly, feeling a little raw. “Just relax.” He finally murmurs. 

“Just relax.” You rock your jaw as you contemplate his answer and look around the cabin, nodding slightly. “I can’t remember the last time that happened.” You admit. 

“We have all weekend.” Frankie adds. “There’s groceries in the fridge, nothing to do except what we want. Oh…uh, give me a second.” He turns around and drops the bags before he hurries back out to the trunk of the car to get the little cooler he had put in there. Despite Benny stocking it with everything you like, Frankie had wanted to bring one thing himself. 

The cooler in his arms, he hurries back inside. Bringing it over to the counter and setting it down before opening the lid to pull out a beautifully decorated cake that protected from the ride in its plastic container. “Happy birthday, sweetheart.” He offers shyly, setting it down on the counter and looking over at you nervously. “I know it’s early, but this is your weekend.” 

He watches, waiting for you to say something, anything. Hoping that not everything is lost and there’s still a small ember of love that you have for him. Something that he can nurture and fan back into the flame that still burns in his own chest for you. 

“Frank…..” 

****

“Good morning.” You look out from the cozy chair you are curled in. The nip of the morning air doesn’t dispel the almost magic of the dew and haze of the low lying clouds hovering over the mountain. A cup of coffee appears in front of you, smoke curling into the air and its strong fragrance teases your senses. Waking you up out of the almost dreamlike meditation to reach out and take the offering. 

“Good morning.” Your lips curl into a soft smile, even as you bring the cup to your lips and your eyes slide up to find Frankie’s. It’s perfectly doctored to the way you like it, making you hum in approval as he slips into the chair beside yours. “Thank you.” You offer. 

His own smile is gentle, a flash across his face, but it lingers in his eyes as he looks out over the valley. “Of course.” 

This weekend has been good for you. Good for both of you. The hard conversation had come that very first night. The surprise of being thought of turning into tears. Tears turning into pleas for you to talk to him. So you had. 

You had laid out all of your disappointments. All of your hurt. Telling him exactly why you had pulled away and started to rely more on yourself than you did him. Why you had honestly started to pretend that you were a single unit. A single parent. 

Both of you cried. Especially when Frankie had finally talked to you. Opening up and laying his heart bare, to tell you the things that haunted him. Following him around like a spector and made him close himself off. 

Things aren’t perfect. They never will be. That’s not the way that life works, but there is hope. There will be a path to forgiveness for both of you. Counseling will help, both of you going and working together as well as individually. Working on improving your communication and the issues that aren’t magically fixed because of a sweet gesture. 

After talking, healing can happen. Has been happening. Sleep helps. You have been so sleep deprived, you had started to think that you would never sleep a full night ever again. Intimacy slowly starting to become more than a distant memory.

Smirking slightly, you unfold your legs and stand up from your chair so you can move Frankie’s arm and slip into his lap with your own coffee still in your other hand as you loop the other arm around his neck. His eyes immediately find yours again and still have that deep, loving look that you have always loved even when you weren’t sure that you still loved him. 

“Thank you.” You hum softly, leaning in to press your lips to his. “You already thanked me, sweetheart.” He reminds you, huffing a soft chuckle. “You like the coffee that much?” 

You sigh softly and shake your head. “Not for the coffee.” You hum, kissing him again and curling into his chest. “For this. For loving me.” 

Frankie sighs, leaning his head against yours and closing his eyes. “Baby, you don’t ever have to worry about that.” He promises. “I’ve always loved you. Always.” 

Things aren’t perfect, but with a weekend getaway and a little open and honest conversation, you both know that you will get back to where things are easier. “Happy birthday to me.” You murmur, knowing now that everything will be fine. 

[bxtonpxss]

Payday || Headcanons

Due to being only four months old, Jack is half the height and weight of the average-sized Meowth. It takes about a full year for a newborn Meowth to grow into its 'adult' size.

It's a well-known fact that despite being a quadruped, the Meowth species has the natural ability to walk on their hind legs. That being said, Jack personally has a tendency to struggle when up on her hind legs for long periods of time. This is because she doesn't actively attempt to practice using just her hind legs for support, preferring instead to walk on all fours. 

Her favorite human food is super spicy curry!

She sometimes steals stuff from her dad's stash and hoards it because he won't share. Shh don't say anything!

She doesn't like anyone but her parents touching her charm.

Jack can't read.

[sweetcherrybmb]

Toto Wolff with wife grumpy!reader because she had too much work to do and everyone was pressuring her. (she's an accountant) With both her boys (Toto and their son, Jack) everything is better. Fluff and maybe a little suggestive. Thanks!! :))

a/n: ooooh, i like the concept, but it took me a little while to figure out how to write it tho... she did end up being more on the overwhelmed and frustrated side, rather than grumpy, but i hope you'll enjoy!! :)

also i pulled out my german knowledge for this one and confirmed it with my translator (mom), so i hope no germans or austrians get mad at me ~~~///(^v^)\\\~~~

(FEEDBACK IS GREATLY APPRECIATED!!)

NUMBERS AND COMFORT // TW \\ one-shot

pairing: toto wolff x grumpy!wife!reader

description: based on the request above!

word count: 1320 words

warnings: none, a little suggestive (pls tell me if i need to add something)

Papers on paper on papers... You could barely see over the copious amounts of documents littering your desk. Monthly spending records, receipts, bank statements... as well as all the other things. That usually meant you would be busy and occupied, something that you greatly welcomed at your job, but today seemed unusually overwhelming.

It seemed that today, all things that could go wrong... went wrong. One of your colleagues lost two crucial documents from the beginning of the month, setting your monthly report back at least two days. The bank also seemed to have lost those same documents as they couldn't find any record of there ever being transactions that time of month.

Your boss decided that today of all days, he will come in to bother you about the same report you didn't have all the documents for, as well as dumping some more work on your back, because... why not.

Oh! And let's not forget that the paperwork that needed to be done by your colleague for all of the salaries to arrive on time was stalled because she forgot to do it before going on vacation, setting payday a week back and adding even more paperwork to the ever-growing pile on your desk.

Your head fell into your hands, a heavy sigh leaving your lips. Your third cup of coffee sat empty next to your notebook. With shaky hands, you lifted your phone from the small side table that it usually sat at, having not checked in on it in hours.

' 15 missed calls from ˝SCHATZI˝ '

You sighed again, looking at the screen. The notification stung your eyes, not only by its brightness but its contents. He was probably worried, excessively so.

I looked around the office, seeing that the pile dwindled slightly, having finished calculating the pay first. The report was missing the data from the first two weeks. But, you stood up, put on your coat, and grabbed your bag. Without a word, you left the company building and made your way towards your car.

Sitting down and starting the car felt weird, as if you weren't doing it by your own will. The ride home was silent, having turned off the radio the moment it started playing. Tears welled up in your eyes, the exhaustion from the day finally catching up to you.

Parking the car in your driveway, you quickly got out and went to the door. You searched for your keys, but to no avail. A pair of footsteps quickly approached the door and your husband's face soon appeared in the doorway.

You pushed past him and quickly pulled off your heels and coat, dropping them on the floor. You could feel his eyes following you as you moved to the kitchen.

He was worried. It was evident in the way he looked at you and immediately followed after you. He saw you at the kitchen counter, head in hands, sighing and rubbing your temples.

You both heard the quick patter of feet on the tiles of your home, knowing fully well who it was.

˝Is mutti back?˝ Jack's small voice asked from the door into the kitchen. When he saw you, his face immediately lit up. ˝MAMA!˝ he ran to you, hugging you and you groaned. You loved your son, but the force of him slamming into you and the already existing headache made you nauseous. He started rambling and you saw from the corner of your eye, Toto shaking his head.

˝Jackie, please... be a little quieter...˝ you said, but he didn't seem to hear, continuing his rant. ˝Jack...˝ you said again, but once again he continued. Your were getting more and more frustrated by the second, something Toto picked up on rather quickly. He moved closer to the two of you, pulling Jack away slightly and lifting him up to sit on the counter.

˝Ok, Jack, das reicht, mutti hat Kopfschmerzen und hatte einen sehr harten Arbeitstag. Wie wäre es, wenn du ihr einen kleinen Kuss gibst und sie ruhen lässt, hm? Du kannst ihr später von deinem Tag erzählen. (Ok, Jack, that's enough, mom has a headache and has had a very hard day at work. How about you give her a little kiss and let her rest, hm? You can tell her about your day later.)˝ Toto told him and he nodded, stretching his arms towards you. You moved closer and Jack took your face in his small hands, giving you a kiss on the forehead. You giggled and kissed his cheek back and the moment you put him down on the ground, he scurried off to play.

You turned to Toto and wrapped your arms around his neck, placing your face on his chest. He wrapped his arms around your waist and kissed the top of your head.

˝Thank you...˝ you mumbled, tired and in pain. He smiled down at you, pulling away slightly.

˝There is nothing to thank me for. How about you go shower and change, I'll make something to eat. Hm?˝he asked and you smiled, tears welling up in your eyes. ˝What are the tears for, hm, shatzi (honey)? What's wrong?˝ he moved away some hair from your face, gently wiping the tears away.

˝It's just... too much. The work and the incompetent people I work with... UGH! They are all so insufferable!˝ you groan and bury your face in his chest.

˝It'll pass, meine liebe (my love), now go and get ready for dinner.˝ he said with a final kiss to your forehead and a light smack to your butt as you left, making you giggle. As he prepared dinner, you showered and changed, already feeling better.

You dropped by Jack's room, seeing him playing on the floor.

˝Jackie, coming down for dinner?˝ he lifted his head and nodded, starting to pick up his toys. ˝Leave the cleaning up for later, come now.˝ you open your arms and he runs into them, giggling. You lift him up and go downstairs.

In the kitchen, you're welcomed by a sight. Toto with your small, strawberry print apron cooking something that smelled divine, your handwritten cookbook opened in front of him. He heard you and Jack giggle and turned around.

˝What's so funny, eh?˝ he asks, putting his hands on his hips, which only makes you and jack giggle even more. You set your son down and turn him towards you.

˝Go and turn on the tv and find something to watch, I'm gonna stay and help dad with dinner.˝ with a small 'ok' he ran of to the living room. ˝You look cute in that apron, where did you find it?˝ you giggle, smoothing it down on his chest, resting your hands there.

˝In better spirits, I see?˝ he asks and you nod, hugging him. ˝Go and set the table, I'll be done here soon.˝ he pushes you back and you smile.

Now that everyone was gathered at the table and eating, you finally felt at peace. No annoying coworkers, no piles of paperwork. Just you, your son and husband, and a relatively good dinner save the few burnt pieces of onion.

After dinner, you all lay on the sofa, watching something on the tv. Jack lay on Toto's left, almost asleep, and you on his right. Toto's hand was on your hip, tracing small circles in your exposed skin. Neither of you paid any attention to the tv, stealing kisses from each other. His hand slowly moved higher, his kisses getting more passionate.

˝Toto...˝ you whined as his hand moved lower to your ass, giving it a gentle squeeze.

˝What, schatzi?˝he whispered into the kiss.

˝Not here...˝ you whispered back.

˝Hmm... I'll put Jack to bed...˝ he rose to his feet, picking up your son along with him, and you followed suit. ˝And you get ready in the bedroom...˝ he said as he pulled you in for another passionate kiss, squeezing your ass harder. As you kissed, all that was heard was a low 'eeewww' from Jack.

You quietly laughed and made your way to the bedroom, sending one last wink in Toto's direction.

TAGS

@yllomhej @walldemons @shelbyteller @reidsworld @pear-1206

@cheyxfu @lightdragonrayne @noooway555

if anyone else wants to be added, DM me or enter your username in the google form pinned on my blog!

[bigboybird]

sigh, sorry for not posting, I'm still thinking a lot after everything that happened and I still don't know if I'm going to stay or leave Tumblr. Anyway, here are some curiosities about failure!noisette

(butcher vanity reference)

1) The original design of the noisette have based on this art by @/eyeballdrawer, and also on one of the killers from the movie The Strangers

the final design is also inspired

2)failure!noisette has inspirations from slasher movie killers(like jason, amanda young And michael Myers)

3) failure!noisette usually doesn't speak for fear of revealing her voice so she uses a tape recorder

This is a reference to jack's voice lines from hotline miami in payday 2

[justslowdown]

A lot of people are struggling, but if you'd like to send mutual aid funds to help a disabled queer trying to get out of a hole... I could really use a car so I can get a second job or do Rover, to see friends and family, get to appointments, etc

RIP Herman, you got me through two years in Oregon even though you're older than me. I am so grateful for the wonderful person who gifted him to me. Sadly the list of repairs he needs has been increasing faster than I can put money in, and the decision to get a new car has been made for me. A jacking incident with the dinky little Volvo jack led to a crunched wheel hub so it's time to throw in the towel.

Even though I'm 45 minutes from Portland, I can barely visit loved ones who live there because I have to Uber to the train stop. I'm overdue for doctor's and dentist's appointments and can barely afford Ubers to pick up my prescriptions.

I desperately need to come up with some cash for another car. I've been exploring options and my credit is too shitty for a loan. I can't get enough hours at work and can't get a second job until I can drive. Any donations help to bump into the next price bracket from "literally falling apart" haha

Venmo and CashApp work best for me, both are Cyrilc95 but might show my old name.

I also use Zelle which you can do straight from your bank app. You should be able to find me by phone number, 503 710 6660

And I don't know how Facebook Pay works but could figure it out!

There are also two ways you can help significantly if you can't donate

The Chime banking app has a lot of useful features, like fee-free overdraft, and a credit building "credit" (still debit) card. I get $100 AND you get $100 if you make an account (super easy) and get a direct deposit paycheck. https://chime.com/r/laurelcherniak?c=s

The other app I'm using to scrounge money together is EarnIn. It allows you to access your paycheck a few days early, and withdraw a certain amount any time before payday. No fees. Really good to have set up in case of an emergency. I get $50 if you join and withdraw early from your paycheck with them. Your paycheck can deposit at any bank, they just do a middle step and put it in your account earlier. https://earnin.page.link/ctRv

Thank you for your support, even if you can't help. You all helped me get to Oregon in the first place, where I am safer from the atrocities happening in this country. I'll never forget that kindness.

[faultfalha]

A payday is coming for a Oslo-listed jack-up drilling company in West Africa, according to sources familiar with the matter. The company is said to be preparing to announce a deal worth hundreds of millions of dollars. Rumors of the impending payday have sent the company's stock price soaring in recent weeks. Analysts say the deal could be a game-changer for the drilling company, which has been struggling in recent years. Details of the deal are still shrouded in mystery, but sources say it involves a major West African oil producer. Officials at the drilling company declined to comment, saying only that they are "in discussions with a number of potential partners."