#(if youre seeing this HI PO i was one of the people who bought one of your prints from school lmao) | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

luxurychristmaspudding · 4 months

Text

Pickup Truck

summary: frankie hates your boyfriend. in fact, everybody does. but he’s willing to give him a chance. you’re his best friend, after all.

until frankie discovers something he can never forgive.

pairing: frankie morales x f!reader

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

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

wc: 9.8k

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

Frankie really doesn’t like your boyfriend.

Scratch that. Nobody does.

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

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

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

Not until last week, anyway.

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

And how do you get out?

Walk you home to see

Where you're livin' around

And I know this place

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

It’s his favourite moment of the night.

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

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

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

Frankie loves you.

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

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

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

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

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

And then you’d met Tanner.

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

‘This is me.’ You say.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Pour yourself on me

And you know I'm the one

That you won't forget

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Boyfriend. Boyfriend.

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

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

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

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

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

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

And in your denim eyes

I see that something's awry

And I see you’re weak

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Yeah,’ you say, ‘He’s okay.’

Frankie’s jaw twitches, his stomach clenching uncomfortably.

‘Just okay?’ He asks.

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

‘Yeah,’ you shrug. ‘He’s good.’

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

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

And he hates himself for it.

When he comes around

I see you're fixin' to shine

And my face won't speak

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

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

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

Over your shoulder, Frankie exchanges a look with Santi.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But Frankie knows Jessa won’t take you shopping.

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

So worried, they tell you.

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

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

‘You’re right. You’re right.’

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

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

Hate to be so emotional

I didn't aim to get physical

But when he pulled in and revved it up

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

And in the moonlight I throwed him down

Kickin', screamin' and rollin' around

A little piece of a bloody tooth

Just so you know I was thinking of you

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He whirls around to the other man and spits -

‘Who the fuck are you?’

Frankie almost laughs, too. Almost.

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

‘Santi’s one of my friends.’

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

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

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

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

‘Pope.’

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

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

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

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

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

‘Boy, fun bunch you are.’

You look at him through your eyelashes.

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

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

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

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

‘Well, well, well.’

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

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

Tanner hasn’t noticed, but everyone else has.

The awful unveiling of your last secret.

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

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

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

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

Frankie gets to his feet, slowly.

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

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

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

He expected the wrong war from a soldier.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Trembling misery

And as cold as a hole

I hug your bones and skin

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Please stop apologising.’ You whisper.

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

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

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

He closes his eyes.

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

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

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

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

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

‘You think I love him?’ You croak.

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

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

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

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

You blink up at him through red, swollen eyes.

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

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

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

Crackling wood’s gone white

And my eye swole up now

I can see the light

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And finally, he begins to cry.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You’re here.

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

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

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

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

You look up at him through gorgeous, glazed eyes.

‘I want to,’ you say, ‘Do you?’

Dangerous, dangerous question.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘I love you,’ he says.

‘I love you, too,’ you giggle.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Pinky promise.’ You say.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Good?’ He asks, quirking an eyebrow.

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

And Frankie does not need to be told twice.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You manage a nod, a broken whine escaping you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You smile lazily at him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

A little piece of a bloody tooth

Just so you know I was thinking of you

#pedro pascal fanfiction #frankie morales #frankie morales x reader #triple frontier #pickup truck #kings of leon #Spotify #pedro pascal x reader

2K notes · View notes

calxide · 1 year

Text

⸻ 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐈𝐍𝐄𝐃 𝐔𝐏 | A MOUTHFUL (of love)

tighnari x gn!reader | 0.8k+ words ; profanities, no pronouns used for reader, mentions of food, tighnari is very goofy(/pos), lmk if there's more

As you and Tighnari are both stuck together, his stomach growls in hunger. Being tied up together, you're forced to come with him and watch him consume his food with delight as the crocodile inside your stomach dares to speak.

chained up masterlist ✧ RTLB :: tartaglia

"I'm sorry, but you'll have to come with me."

"What?"

So, you're here, stuck with somebody. Not just any somebody, but this someone you're stuck with is none other than the boy you've been crushing on for the past few weeks (who also happened to be your classmate for a few classes), Tighnari.

The Student Council of Teyvat International decided to put up a booth called "CHAINED UP." Now, don't let the name of the booth deceive you. You might think that this contains such outrageous activities, but this is where you are wrong; as part of a reputable organization, it is simply an innocent thing you have suggested to the council — to handcuff/tie two people together for the cost of 100 mora for 10 minutes.

It was unbeknownst to you at that moment that it would immediately backfire back right on you. Needless to say, you should've known that this would happen, considering that you are friends with such teasing fellows.

"Do you really have to drag me with you?" You asked with a polite tone.

Tighnari laughs as he intertwines your fingers with him, kissing the back of your hand to taunt you. "Of course, it is with great pleasure that I shall accompany the Student Council's Vice President for a good ten minutes."

"You're lucky you're cute," you murmured under your breath — to which the corner of his lips twisted up to form a cute, captivating smile.

"You wouldn't want to waste the person who registered our names' 100 mora," Tighnari said, paying for the dish he bought.

You grumbled, "Oh, you wish I did."

Tighnari laughed at your grimace. "Besides, our booth will be able to earn more money if I do that," you added—to which he disagreed, saying that it isn't a good investment. You don't spend your money, and you get to be stuck with him for ten minutes — a pretty good deal, to be honest.

He gestured for you to sit beside him, so you both won't have a hard time moving. You watched him indulge himself on the Mushroom Hodgepodge he bought, mouth-watering. You recalled that this was his favorite food — his beautiful eyes sparkled as he savored every bite he took.

Noticing your hungry glare, Tighnari stifled a chuckle as he offered you a spoonful. The aroma was definitely trying to get you to eat the food. You shook your head as you didn't want to give in to temptation.

"You cannot refuse my offer. It would be disrespectful to the cook," Tighnari gave you a smile that made you want to scrape it off his beautiful face.

"I know. But you bought that for yourself." Tighnari shook his head and sighed at your stubbornness.

"And I'm not really hungry."

But you are. And your stomach betrayed you as soon as you said those words. The grumbling of the crocodile existing in your stomach loudly echoed amid the noisy crowd.

Tighnari suppressed his laughter, humming in response to the loud growl. "Mhm. This Mushroom Hodgepodge is really good. I might need to buy another one to satisfy my hunger."

Without warning, you grabbed the spoon from his hand using your free hand and ate the delicious food. You don't know whether it's incredibly delectable or you're just hungry because you feel like you ascended to Celestia and met the Gods and Goddesses.

"See? Tasty, right?" You nodded at Tighnari's question, still munching on the food.

"Really, really good," your voice was muffled, making Tighnari laugh.

"Well, then, have some more."

He offered you the plate, but you had a hard time picking up the utensils with your free hand as it wasn't your dominant hand. Having noticed this, he took the spoon from you.

Tighnari did the airplane thing people do with kids, making you frown. "I am not a kid," you said with a frown.

Tighnari pretended to be thinking of something, "Should I do the... what's that called again? Bing... Bing Chilling?"

You shook your head, pretending to give it a thought, "I think it doesn't work well with foods that are not ice creams," you gave him a fake pout.

"Don't be such a pouty baby. You look like a duck," he teased.

"There's nothing wrong with ducks! They're cute."

"Like you."

You were flabbergasted. You could feel the tips of your ears burning — whether it's from the heat or whatever, you don't know.

"I hate you," you said, attempting to stand up.

Tighnari immediately pulled you down again beside him, "Oh, no, no, no, no. You can't do that. That would be painful for both of us."

"But you know what hurts more?" He continued.

"Yeah?"

"You not eating the food I offer you."

You opened your mouth to say something, only to close it again as Tighnari shoved a spoonful of the food inside your mouth.

"What the hell," you exclaimed after chewing the food.

Tighnari gave you a funny smile. "We could do this for the rest of the day."

"Oh?"

Tighnari nodded, "Mhm. I could feed you all day long. Or, even for a lifetime."

And so, you did.

NOTE ang ganda ko HAHAHA CHOS HII, i hope u enjoyed tighnari's one-shot T__T im not exactly glad on how it turned out but it is what it is! i love tighnari so much ksbfksnsodn i genuinely dont know if i give his character enough justice and im probably high rn bc it's nighttime... i was supposed to post this at an earlier time but got too busy :')) idk when im going to post the next one cause i'm busy with life 😢 and im just rambling atp so gbye

TAGLIST @annoyinglyboredpoet @bluebelony @kithewanderingme @reverse-iak @randomnatics @joantheunicorn5 @i-x4o @wlellsl @ireallylikehamsters

#lf: tagasubo (na puno) ng pagmamahal #genshin imagines #genshin x reader #genshin x y/n #genshin x you #genshin fluff #tighnari x gn reader #tighnari x you #tighnari x reader #genshin impact x gender neutral reader #genshin impact x you #genshin impact x reader #genshin x gn reader #genshin x gender neutral reader #CHAINED UP.CALX ⛓

314 notes · View notes

kairiscorner · 9 months

Note

Hello po! Can I request Bodyguard! Noir with a famous cosplayer s/o? The s/o is doing a fan signing and theres this one fan whos acting pretty creepy and starts flirting with em. The thing is, their relationship with Noir is private and the media hasn't found out.

HELLO PO :DD OH SURE !!! i hope you like this >:))

respectfully, back off. – bodyguard!spider noir x cosplayer!gn!reader

(reblogs are greatly appreciated, it helps get my content out there! if you guys like what you see, please reblog it too <:D)

peter loved everything about your dimension, earth-1218–it was so full of color and was so vivacious; especially during events that you frequented, such as the very one you brought him to, a cosplay convention where you were going to do a fan signing. peter wasn't very familiar with this whole 'cosplaying' gig you had going on–he didn't understand what all the hype was about, but if it made you happy, he'd support you a 110%.

he was taken aback by all the colorful and lively people and merchandise there was everywhere, the lights were his favorite part because they were all of different colors. he got a little giddy inside but was also super confuses when a bunch of people in both costumes, casual attire, and uniforms all stared at him and took their phones out. some asked for pictures with him, and you encouraged him to do it, but he was disoriented after the first few picture takings that you had to sit him down behind your booth for the fan signing.

though when he came back out, he was greeted to the sight of this... creepy person smiling a little too eagerly at the sight of you. you laughed at their 'jokes', but peter could tell that you were extremely uncomfortable. he came out from the back of the booth and confronted the person, towering over them and glaring down at them. "this guy bothering you, dearest?" he asked you with a low voice, and as you tried telling peter no so the situation could de-escalate, the creepy person smiled up at peter. "woah... no way, awesome spider noir cosplay, man!" they exclaimed as they pointed out all the little details he had on his costume.

the creepy guy's attention shifted from peter to you, however, as he tried grabbing both of your hands–begging you to go out and get some dinner with them. they told you they bought all your merch, liked and shared all your posts–the least they deserve is your affection in return, right...? of course not, you aren't indebted to their feelings–you didn't even know their name! as you backed away from them, they got frustrated with you and tried lunging at you to get you to come with them–but peter beat them to it and clutched their hands with his own and clenched them. hard.

"ow! what the hell? now... i-i don't care if you look awesome or sound like... like nick cage, you gotta let g- ah!" they exclaimed in pain as peter ball his fist up, with the creepy person's hand in his own. a series of pops and crunches were heard coming from the person's hand, and peter let go after they were wailing in pain. "i don't know who your 'nick cage' is, but i'm not that guy–i'm not just somebody to them." he said as he gently wrapped his arm around your shoulders, surprising you and your fans.

tags !! @thecoolerdor @miguelswifey04 @sabcandoit @binibinileonara @luvstarrstruck @maxoloqy @k4tsu3 @thee-fantastic-mrfox @arachnoia @ophanimgold

peter looked at them all as some of your fans were snapping photos and filming this very moment, with them all asking themselves: who the he was this guy and what was his relationship with you? you got all embarrassed and a little frightened because you knew some of your fans were a bit... extreme like that stalker guy, whose hand peter crushed earlier. as you tried explaining yourself and apologizing for peter's actions, security was soon coming and were going to see the wailing stalker with their swollen, broken hand.

you took peter by the hand and ran off with him, hurriedly announcing your fan signing was now over, much to your fans' dismay. they tried chasing you down, and so did security after they hurried over to the stalker and asked what happened, who hurt them. as you and peter ran down the halls and stairs of the convention, peter was more than satisfied at having made his statement clear earlier: nobody was allowed to mess with you... not when he's with you.

#spider noir #spider noir x reader #spider noir x you #spider noir x y/n #spider noir fluff #spider noir fanfiction #atsv #atsv fluff #atsv imagines #atsv x reader #atsv x you #atsv x y/n #spiderverse #across the spiderverse #into the spiderverse #spiderman across the spiderverse #spiderman across the spiderverse x reader #spiderman into the spiderverse #spiderman into the spiderverse x reader

98 notes · View notes

ccrisntok · 10 months

Text

requests 2: electric boogalo

(sure wonder whos hand that is...) I forgot to screenshot this request before deleting it from my inbox. I think @sunriseindigo requested their fav lil guy Min, but if it wasn't you uh. Hope whoever did request it sees this! I went kinda hard on this bc I have posted Min on this blog ONE time. and that's a crime.

forgot to screenshot this one to, but an anon suggested: Hu patching up Ace after he falls off of a horse. I feel like even if Hu and Ace don't get along, she'd try to come to his games to support him once in a while as the mom of the group! (even if Ace is her least favorite child.) In like 90 degree heat she'd pull up, with enough sunscreen and waterbottles to keep everyone in a 70 mile radius hydrated and safe from skin cancer. And she wouldn't hesitate to help Ace if he gets hurt, ofc!

...

I really fucked up with forgetting to screenshot a good amount of these. whoever needed a pic of Nico beating Ace in a fight, I delivered! The tone in which you asked wasn't too serious, so i hope a shitpost is sufficient for your needs.

(someone requested sora and yuki from sdra2 in drdt and im gonna make that its own post. so just know u were seen anon. also person who asked for more ace and eden, same thing.)

i can always draw Whace. they are my everything.

mans even singing it wrong 💀 (thanks for the request i love whace sm im glad they remind you of u and ur bf :D)

in a better world, Arei is talking to her therapist about Hopes Peak drama rn. (i love drawing arei thank you anon)

honestly this ship had never crossed my mind. i couldn't rlly think up anything too cute for it so i went silly instead kjfaljdf (thanks for the request @weightedblankettt, I LOVE THAT ONE FIC YOU WROTE WITH LIKE THE NICO AND ACE SWAP THING. i literally went "OH MY GOD???" when i saw you sent in a request fkhfla /pos)

Hello again @xmicrophonyx :)) thanks for another request

I feel like Xander would buy a skirt to wear to a protest or something and then he'd go "wait but it matches my hair..." and then wear it like just out and about sometimes. Whit would just have one I think. Just randomly bought it and wears it. And Levi literally makes clothes, so I'm sure hes made a few dresses for himself just to test techniques and such. Ik you didn't ask but I felt like explaining my choices for who I drew 🫶🏽🫶🏽

Ur so right actually. I feel like Veronika would be like "Ohhh weird morally gray old man??? ILY." and he would actively detest her. thank you anon i haven't drawn a soy-bean (syobai) in a loonggg time lmao

Ajhskjfafksaflsga gay peiple. i love them. i really do. thank you anon. gay oepeple. aughgshah. /POS

(people who follow the despair time art tag rn ^^^^^)

Thats it for now!

still doin these so send in some more requests if you feel like it fellas <333

#drdt #drdt fanart #ace markey #whit young #drdt spoilers #bc evil david #david cheim #j moreno #jarei #i dont talk abt how much i love arei x eden and arei x j like fr #syobai hashimoto #veronika grebenshchikova #xander matthews #a lil bit a xander and Levi <3 #levi fontana #min jeung #nico hakobyan

83 notes · View notes

to-the-stars8 · 1 year

Text

Learning to Love Slowly

Jason Todd x Reader All Chapters AO3

37-Charles Dickens and Approved Transactions

“What do you think of it, babe?” You asked, putting down the book. “I thought it would be an interesting plot, but it turned out to be pretty dry.”

When you turned to look at Jason he was long gone, already halfway across the store to look at a book that had caught his eye. Sighing, you walked over to him to see what it was exactly that he was venturing over to. When you got to him, he reached out for your hand without looking at you, too intent on reading the summary on the back of a book. Smiling, you wrapped your hand around his. For once, his hands were warm and yours were cold.

When Jason noticed, he looked at you. “I thought I was the one with the cold heart?”

You would never be amused by that joke, but it was the little smirk on his face that got you smiling. Jason was never the one for public displays of affection, but you could tell when his eyes flickered down to your lips he wanted to kiss you. A bit too shy yourself, you couldn’t muster the courage to kiss him in front of other people, either.

“What book is that?” You asked to shake off the thought of kissing him.

He flipped it over to show you the title. “It is getting closer to Christmas and I realized I’ve never read Charles Dickens.”

You were surprised. “Really?”

“I know,” He said, sounding a bit ashamed. “I meant to when I was younger then…”

“I see,” You said then picked up the book. “I guess you’ll have to read it to me because I haven’t read it either.”

Jason smiled, already insisting that he pay for your books and his, the one habit you could not break of his.

It was the perfect evening. Gotham winter was wet and cold, leaving little desire to go out at all. All was quiet except for the lowness of Jason’s voice and the pitter-patter of rain outside. Under the yellow hue of fairy lights, you were warm with that one fuzzy holiday blanket you owned wrapped around you with your head on Jason’s lap. His feet were propped up on the footrest as he leaned back against the couch with the book you had bought earlier in one hand and the other massaging your head.

“‘I am the Ghost of Christmas Present,’ said the Spirit. ‘Look upon me!’” Jason read aloud.

You reached up to grab his hand, bring it over to your lips, then let him trace a line from your chin, over your jaw, then back up to your hair. He kept on reading without missing a beat, his voice providing a kind of comfort that you could only get from someone who read evenly and well.

“Jason,” You said. He stopped reading and looked down at you. “You have a lovely voice.”

He chuckled then looked away, a blush finding its way to his cheeks. “Thank you, sweetheart.”

“You’re welcome, Jaybeans.”

Jason started to read again, but this time was more conscious of his voice. He couldn’t judge correctly what it really sounded like and hadn’t thought much of it. So, he stopped reading again to ask, “You really like my voice?”

You giggled. “Of course. I was just thinking that I should have you read to me more often. It’s better than buying one of those audiobook subscriptions.”

Jason cocked an eyebrow. “So is my voice you like, or the free services I’m providing?”

“Free?” You asked, your smile turning into a sly smirk. “I plan on paying you back, honeybee, just not with cash.”

“I’m sorry,” Jason said, snapping the book shut. “But I can’t continue without payment first.”

You shot up from your spot, pressing kisses all over his cheeks, lips, and the rest of his face. The two of you giggled between kisses, and you managed a grunt from him when you sucked a hickey into the nape of his neck.

When you pulled away, flushed and still giggling, you asked, “Transaction approved?”

Jason pretended to think before answering. “I think that earned you about another hour of reading.”

You put your head back down onto his lap. “I’ll take it, but I bet next time I can get it up to two.”

“How’s that?” Jason asked, his heart pounding in his chest.

You put a finger up to your lips, shushing him. “Just keep reading, and, while you’re at it, think of my pretty lips on you. You’ll know in an hour.”

Jason, in fact, did not know what you would do in an hour because within thirty minutes you were dead asleep.

#jason todd headcanon #robin jason todd #jason todd fanfiction #jason todd fic #jason todd x female reader #jason todd x y/n #jason todd #jason todd x reader #jason todd x you #red hood x reader #red hood fanfiction #red hood #batman #batfamily

181 notes · View notes

violetsdaisy · 8 months

Text

Plus One just broke over 100 kudos and I’m crying. I just don’t even know what to say. I didn’t see this happening in such a short amount of time. It has truly blown my mind.

I worked so hard on this story and put a lot of emotions into it. So I just want to say thank you to everyone who has read it. When you post a fic online, you’re allowing a part of yourself to be free into the world and depths of the internet, and when other people like or appreciate what you’ve put out there, it is always such a special thing.

So just… thank you so much. I am still getting ready for my move, but I’ve begun the epilogue of PO. It’s still at a rough draft stage, so it’s pretty bare and just word vomit at this point.

However, I wanted to share a little bit of it for now. As a way of saying thank you. 🧡

Excerpt of PO Epilogue…

“I’ve had other things on my mind.”

Yugi rolled his eyes and moved around the counter. “And would these other things be why you were two hours late to the store today? Should I fire you?”

Atem laughed and leaned his back against the counter as Yugi approached. “You wouldn’t do that to me, sweetheart. I’m your business partner.”

“Just my business partner?” Yugi asked, raising his eyebrows with a tilt of his lips.

Atem’s smile loosened and he reached over with a hand, pulling Yugi by the waist until they collided against each other. Yugi gave him a breathless grin.

“You’re my everything.” He raised his other hand, sliding something into Yugi’s hair, behind his ear.

“Wha..?” He lifted a hand and felt soft, smooth petals. “A flower?”

Atem’s dark eyes softened and he let his fingers brush the soft skin of Yugi’s cheek. “Heather. The florist I bought it from said that it meant ‘protection’.”

“Protection?” His eyes darted away with anxiety, unsure of how he should take that.

Atem chuckled and twirled a strand of hair by Yugi’s cheek, eyes adoring. “The fact that you’re giving me this second chance to love you really shows the bravery and inner strength you possess. I didn’t deserve any of what you’ve given me, sweetheart, but you have been gently allowing me back into your heart and so… this is my way of reminding you that I intend to always protect it.” Yugi’s eyes grew warm and Atem’s throat bobbed, adjusting his hand to properly cradle Yugi’s face, their eyes locked. “That I will never harm it again.”

#violetsdaisy #plus one #puzzleshipping fanfiction #puzzleshipping

22 notes · View notes

finniestoncrane · 2 years

Note

How do the riddlers feel about wearing lingerie?

Riddlers & Lingerie

Riddler Headcanons gosh i am so glad two people were thirsty for this because then i could justify moving it up the queue lmao, thank you for requesting and thank you anon for being so sweet and nice and thank you both for letting me spend my time thinking about these idiots in tiny pieces of clothing ;-; 💚 request info • prompt list • send me a request • kofi minors DNI!! 🔞 cw for nsfw stuff: suggestive stuff, lingerie etc.

telltale

ok i see him going all out on a rocky horror inspired outfit, basque, fishnets, heels. he's a jazzy guy, i don't see him shying away from feeling his absolute sexiest and he's exactly the kind of freak (pos.) who loved rhps when it came out and goes to see it all the time when it comes around, theatre and cinema, and he dresses up for that so he already has the outfit (plus frank's wig) ready to go in that box up the back of the cupboard that he won't let you look in

unburied

there is only one specific circumstance that he'll wear lingerie. if you promise to be nice and promise to be gentle, he will absolutely wear some stockings and suspenders provided that he is going to be bent over and absolutely railed with them on. rip them, pull at them, make him feel so pretty while you use him

capullo

i don't see him willing to wear any kind of "female" underwear, because his ego and masculinity are too fragile for that BUT he wears thongs on a daily basis. like not just teeny tiny "male" underwear, full on thongs because they make his butt look better in his suit pants. his favourite ones are the silk purple ones and the neon green leopard print ones he bought as a "joke"

young justice

ok so while i don't see him going out of his way to wear lingerie, i don't think he'd be adverse to it either. especially not if his s/o was asking him to. but also, sometimes, if he gets bored of his modern interpretation of the classic riddler getup, he does don some bright green or purple tights just to see how it would feel if he went for a more 'campy' and classic look. and he likes how they feel against his skin

gotham

i will scream this from the high heavens over and over again but he freakin loves leather, latex, pvc all those textures. a dress, shorts, a vest, a jumpsuit, gloves, stockings, boots, panties, whatever you name if it's in one of the above textures he'll put it on and he'll get just as hard feeling it against his own skin as he does watching someone else wear it

arkham

yeah not going to happen. mostly because he 100% just doesn't wear underwear? it's pointless. you just end up with more to wash. better to hang free for the ease of movement and swift access for...other reasons. if he was going to pick anything, he could swap his vest out for a fishnet one, but only if you do a good job convincing him

dano

absolutely game for it, loves it, wants it more than you do because he knows how cute he looks in it. babydolls always, especially if they're silky and have fluff on the bottom. and he is down for a corset, fishnets and animal ears. he can be a little bunny or a dreamy catboy whatever you want, just let him know, seriously

twojar

he's more into the 'completely naked' look if he's going to pick anything, what's the point in putting something on that he's just going to take off? he will wear your underwear though if you want, including lacier ones or thongs. only if you swap and wear his though. and only if you don't wash yours first

84 notes · View notes

kirchefuchs · 11 months

Note

(I had to scroll down far and wide for this photo lmfao ☠️)

HELLO CERESS

if you were to rate how your current TSP brainrot is going, how would you go about yours (mine is still 1000000/10 because this game has me on chokehold at all times istg /silly)

MORE IMPORTANTLY THO, how has thou been a-doing :]

life has been quite the jerk to you, huh? I'll beat its ass– I mean what who said that damn hahbshsgsyshs /pos

BUT ON A REAL NOTE, eat water and drink food cuz TAKING CARE OF YOURSELF IS IMPORTANT 💯

— 🅰️non (heh, missed me?) || 07/02/2023

Yes I missed you a lot 🥺

As for my TSP brainrot......

It's being drowned out by my Wolfwood Trigun brainrot quite a bit right now, but that's not to say I don't still have TSP brainrot.

I'm still very receptacle to drawing TSP art since I did so just yesterday. Though with both brainrots I'm finding it difficult to use my brain at all, so there is that.

I still absolutely adore TSP and want to draw and make more content ofc. You don't have to worry about that.

As for my general life..... eh. I'll separate things into good, bad, and neutral feelings about the things.

Good: I got to have a sleepover with @dime-smothied (it was her first one ever, which was super crazy, lol). Also I bought I trigun print along with some stickers and a hoodie from my favorite artist ABDIllustraits (I would tag him bit I don't wanna bother him. He is on here though, and I adore his YouTube videos. The way he does them is just ♡♡♡♡♡)!!!! And earlier I got some TSP keychains and and acrylic standee in the mail, so I'm super happy about those!!! I love them a lot and I'm so excited to get the stuff from ABD!

Neutral: I've been temporarily back at work this week since they were severely understaffed due to people vacationing and such, so I'm making money again. So that's nice. I have a pretty set plan for moving out of my parent house, I just need to buy my own car, make doubly sure I have plenty of money saved up so I have time to find a job after I move, and then just get everything packed and double check my housing situation. So pretty soon I'll be able to move out and I'm excited about it, just gotta get all that stuff done.

Bad: Um. My pet snake Theo died two days ago........ I don't know what else I can say right now about it. I hurts and it's frustrating to say the very least. I loved him a lot and I miss him. So, I'm dealing with those emotions right now. I'm doing my best to cope, but we'll see as time passes how I do. Distractions are appreciated.

So yeah. That's pretty much everything I think. Honestly, I'm so happy to be getting asks from you again, you really help brighten my day 🅰️non, so thank you ♡ Right now I think I just need things to draw and fun drawings or rambles to look at. I'm always sad when I can't bring myself to draw or make anything so any ideas or suggestions mean the world to me.

And dont you worry about my health, I've been eating and drinking plenty of water I think. My friends are usually pretty good about making sure I keep up on that. I appreciate the concern though ♡♡♡

#ask #only on the cries discord #kirche rambles #🅰️non #i dont think i'll tag tsp or trigun with this cuz i dont wanna clog those tags

15 notes · View notes

squish--squash · 11 months

Note

Yes yes, a Ramen restaurant, but see my vision here:

-Scar is the one who actually own the restaurant (a small one)

-Scar is the one who know how to make hand made noodle and it's the only cook, it's actually damn good at cooking

-The shop is open to the kitchen so he can make trick while cooking and show off (does it goes well all the time? It's Scar)

- unfortunately he can't for the love of god manage with other stuff like: insect, and has the habit of offering food to the client, and chatting too much,

-Grian actually just wanted a job for a bit, but at this point he feels bad leaving Scar on his own (wait how was the line in the series? "Now i don't feel good leaving him alone")

-Grian gets a lot of money out of this job actually

-Grian does scare and mess with Scar, the client do know that and keep quiet when something is up

-this only brings Scar to joke and mess with Grian back

-one more thing one time Scar bought the wrong beer brand and it tastes like shit but decided to sell it at an higher price, and pretend it's a special beer. Grian try to warning his friends form the terrible tasting beer but every time Scar menage to sell it. (Put here a clip of Grian telling people not to trust Scar)

Also, picture late night end shift after closing the shop, hanging out, and been too loud on the street, because they have one brain cell and not realizing the volume of their voices, and they are so tired, drinking together, and going home together. Maybe they don't live together but live close to each other, and have this moment of "WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU LIVE HERE?"

Hope I'm writing well, anyway, if you write a fic of this, i would fucking jump on the walls.

the end bit reminds of smth I have actually:

I have a coffee shop au where grian, pearl, mumbo, and impulse all live in an apartment together (tight squeeze, but they make it work) and grian, pearl, and mumbo work at a little café called the happy hermit (which pays very well; impulse is also a mechanic) where the three have the opening shift of around 6am-2pm; impulse has a normal 9am-5pm workshift tho

scar is a high school art teacher and loves his job and upon a recommendation of a student, tries the happy hermit one morning and the first thing he does walking in is slip because mumbo spilled his coffee in the doorway and pearl was mopping it up for him. he takes the fall and embarrassing moment with kind humility and grian, the jaded af cashier/barista is like "what."

kinda your regular coffee shop au after that, with a bunch of nonsense, but the plot twist is this:

impulse has an off day and decides to tag along to help open the happy hermit and snag a fresh coffee, and upon watching scar walk in, greets him with, "Oh! Howdy neighbor!"

scar replies "Oh hey neighbor! What are you doing here?" while grian, pearl, and mumbo are too stunned to speak.

turns out scar actually lives in the apartment across from hall from them, but the trio's chaotic work schedule prevented them from running into scar leaving/coming back; impulse, on the other hand, runs into scar a lot, and even witnessed him fall halfway down a flight of stairs one morning and stand up unscathed.

anyways your au is funky /pos, but I'm not gonna take your idea alsdkgh I have enough ideas floating in my head as is!

6 notes · View notes

immagoudaboi · 1 year

Note

What are your thoughts on Kung Fu Panda?

PS MWAH

MWAH MWAH smooches and more smooches!!!

I was putting off answering this because I wanted to fully communicate to you how much I LOVE KUNG FU PANDA!!!!

I have absolutely no training in any form of martial arts except for that one camp I went to for a week, where my instructor told me if we knocked down a cylindrical punching structure he’d pay for a trip to Disney world, and I almost! ALMOST knocked it down!!! So for a few years I thought I’d squandered a trip to Disney world but came to the sorrowing conclusion that he would’ve never bought me a ticket to Disney world even if I had indeed knocked it over— ANYWAY TANGENT ASIDE, I can’t answer to the accuracy of any techniques these plushy anthropomorphic animals use hehe

Kung fu panda (and How to train your dragon) are some of my FAVORITE tween classics. If I have kids, they will watch these trilogies, and they WILL love them as much as I do >:)

This may be a hot take, but my fav of the 3 movies is the 2nd one….

SPOILERS FOR ALL 3 KUNG FU PANDA MOVIES! (Haven’t watched any of the shows so I can’t comment on them)

1st movie: absolute cinematic master piece. Loved the animation, loved the story, adored the music/score, loved everything about it. I’ve watched dozens of analysis videos on this trilogy, and I can say with the greatest of confidence that it was phenomenal. It asked a great question (one I did not pick up for about a decade lol) . Who am I? (As Po)

As a child I never put 2 and 2 together to figure out that Ping the goose, adopted Po LOL I just thought yup this goose materialized this panda yup that’s natural.

Tai Lung is one of my favorite villains of all time and his connection with Shifu is so crucial and heartbreaking. Loved how Po learned about discipline yet never lost what made him special and unique. The designs are great and Ping is the best father up there with STOICK THE VAST 💪

2nd movie: great example of growing with the audience— it takes a much darker tone to the first one. Hans Zimmer is a literal music genius and his scores are just MNGH. This movie forces Po to confront his tragic past, and asks him who he was. Personally very touching, as the lesson was that your past is a part of you but does not solely define you. Watching Po come to terms with the death of his people was harrowing, yet satisfying as he finds his inner piece. The entire color palette changes to red, black, white, and gold and it’s absolutely gorgeous.

Love Po and Tigris’ relationship and seeing how the furious 5 come to accept him and trust him as their new leader and friend. Also Ping is the best.

3rd movie: haven’t watched it in a while, and definitely the weakest of the 3, but wow it’s still amazing. I don’t have many thoughts since I’ve watched this only 2 or 3 times, but I love all the pandas 🐼 loved dim and sum and all the food names pandas. A very slight nitpick was how Po’s bio father was depicted in the flashback of the 2nd movie vs how he is in the 3rd movie, but all can be forgiven. The animation is stellar in this movie tho and the color palette is such a vibrant green and fresh feel! Ugh loved these all. I was absolutely mortified when the ox did villain (I forgot his name) destroyed Oogway’s statue. Oh, man, I was HOT with FURY!

General thoughts:

I think I like the 2nd movie better is because of the personal connection Shen has with Po.

Tai lung was connected to Shifu and the ox dude was connected to Oogway, but Shen was the direct reason why Po’s mother was killed and why his village was destroyed. Also. GARY OLDMAN. EXCUSE ME! The animation of the Shen as the peacock is just. I cannot take my eyes off the screen. The voice acting is everything.

I’m definitely forgetting things but this is all I can remember right now. UGH I LOVE THESE MOVIES!

#GIB ME YOUR THOTS #I LOVE TALKING ABOUT MY BOI PO THE PADA #UH also there’s probably a lot of incorrect spelling in this hehehe but anyway #cashew talks nuts #asks #mello-jello #jello my bRO

6 notes · View notes

nerdyenby · 1 year

Text

Cyan time :D I’m watching Ranboo

Pre-game

They look so silly /pos

“This is the first MCC in like 12 of them that I’ve been wearing pants” are you wearing pants under the dress sir???

That crown is straight up floating, I know it’s on a headband but it is just not touching his head

Y’all did you know that Ranboo has a show???

Is this Ranboo’s first repeat costume? Or have they not done Rosalina before? He said he bought the costume a couple days ago but I swear he’s been Rosalina before

“‘Men used to go to war’ I could go to war in this, it’s called psychological manipulation”

Do amab people get banned for being shirtless on twitch? I know hot tub streams are a thing so idk

Taylor Swift is an ARG, so true

STOP WITH THE RITTIES I CANT

I WILL GO WATCH OLI INSTEAD, DONT MAKE ME

I am so so SO ready for the Oli and Ranboo chemistry

WHO THE FUNK CALLED OLI TOMMY?!!? I WILL FIGHT YOU /j

Oli is an artist, don’t underestimate him

WHAT THE HELL OLI??????

Ran and Oli looking to Callum for igl and Callum just not even trying because he just knows Tommy’s gonna show up five minutes late with Starbucks and team leader energy

Oli is so out of the loop, Eloise just freaking fed him lies, as she should

I see this team placing between 2nd and 6th in every game, they’re so well rounded

Oli trying to get Ranboo to unlock their true potential and Callum’s just “This is gonna be a really special event” 😭

The way I only just remembered Oli’s reputation as cursebreaker and now I’m ready to actually believe in them winning

Ran and Aimsey barking and meowing at each other 😭

Ranboo is dying

“Considering earlier a week ago we were not discord friends, I now see you as a close one” this is everything I hoped for out of this matchup

More than half expecting tommy to be a no show tbh

How are they going to fit a fourth person into this call, it’s already so much energy and we gotta fit Tommy in here

PEER PRESSURE FOR THE WIN!!

Y’all 😭😭😭

I swear very rarely but this stream got me “wtf”-ing all over the place

“Bark at your therapist” will do, Tom o7

Aqua’s skins are so cool!!!

Tommy banned from mcc, real and true

The screen feels so empty without the vtuber

Grid Runners

BEST GAME TIME!!!

Why does everyone except Ranboo have garbage opinions today, grid runners my beloved

Wish it was later tbh but considering how abysmal these comms are about to be this might be for the best

WHY IS RANBOO DOING A BRITISH ACCENT????

THAT DUNK TANK RUN HOLY CRAP!!!

The way everyone but Ran fell 😭😭😭

Grid is not your worst game, y’all have energy and synergy

*Taking notes* 10th is sick and 3rd is hot

OLI WHY THE HELL WOULD YOU WANT TO SKIP SANDS???

We skip one of the parkour games or tgttosawaf, right? Right????

Top 3 things most wrong with the world according to Tommyinnit: climate change, men, and elevators

Parkour Warrior

The pkw logo 💕💗💕💗💗💕💗💕💗💕

Highkey thought they played this in the event Tommy and Oli won together but that was the other event Oli won, my bad

No one reacting to Ranboo screaming his lungs out is so real

Why is Tommy like this???

CALLUM MVP!!!

THOSE ARE MY BOIS!!!!!!!

Ran and Callum cheering for each other :(((

They got joint 2nd, I love this team so much you guys

Sands of Time

Tommy: “Tell me what to do” Oli: *tells him what to do* Tommy: “No, f*ck off”

This team’s energy oscillates like nothing else, I swear

A different word puzzle, thank god

Mmmm slippy bees

This is such a frantic sot, I think they’re good they just all sound so urgent it’s stressing me out

No one jailed, is that a first???

Ace Race

Ran pulling a Wilbur and tabbing out to adjust music mid ace race

“I’m losing it” sir, you lost it a while ago

Aimsey popping off!!!

Meltdown

“Who’s leading this? “I’m scared to say this, but I think Oli” CALLUM 😭 that is the most backhanded compliment I’ve ever heard, my goodness

I feel like it’s been so long since I’ve watched meltdown

I don’t know how to commentate meltdown, Al there is to say is that that was insane

Callum last man standing real

This bit is killing me

I’m losing it

Battle Box

“I hate battle box” “HEY, IF YOU GO INTO IT WITH A MINDSET OF HATE YOURE JUST GONNA INDERPERFORM, MAN! OK? YOU HAVE TO GO INTO IT WITH A POSITIVE MINDSET OR ELSE I’M GOING TO KILL YOU!” new tiktok audio just dropped, you guys

“Guys I really wanna win 🥺” “Do you? 🤨” the emojis are so necessary, you don’t understand

That round against orange was great

This is not going well lmao

Sky Battle

I believe

Heck yeah

Ran getting three kills!!

I love Ranboo’s skybattles because they never expect anything to go well so when it does he just gets so excited :))

This is exactly how skybattle should look after a round ends, look at that beautiful mess

They’re manifesting that hitw finale so hard, I believe (I also got spoiled but y’know)

Hole in the Wall

I’m just happy to be here, hitw is so fun

Ran top 5, as he should!!

“East, East, f*cking yellow, sorry” “Shut the f*ck up” ah yes, synergy

Everyone yelling at Tommy to shut up when he couldn’t hear them 😂

RAN TOP 5, AS HE SHOULD!!

Oli’s “I’m just- I’m glad you all went with my bit�� and Ranboo’s matching the faux emotions: “Of course, man”

“MCC in the 80s was just Scott in his basement playing tetris” there is so much wrong with that statement, including but not limited to A) the 80s were forty years ago, not thirty, B) Scott is neither thirty nor was he alive in the 80s, and C) Tetris was only made in the ‘85 and wasn’t released until ‘87

Dodgebolt

Casually discussing what irl names they think fit Shane better than “Shane” lol

Ayo wait the arena is nonbinary colors :)))

GUMI MY BELOVED <3333

Jimmy!!!! :D

GG, great vibes, great times everyone

#for those following along day of I’m watching the vod even as it’s live because I have a birthday party to go to and don’t want spoilers #just in case you were wondering #mcc 30 #mc championship #nerdy’s mcc reactions #ranboo #oli orionsound #seapeekay #tommyinnit #cw caps

2 notes · View notes

dynamoe · 2 years

Text

read on archive of our own | words: 7059+

SUMMARY: Billy has a new best friend. Pete has the ear of the nation. Both turn out to come with side benefits. TW: slurs, swearing, heartbreak, sexual refs.

(This draft is still missing a scene of Pete's radio show which I will add in a future update. I've been sitting on this chapter for months, want to get it out.)

"This entire decade…" Pete White declared into his microphone, "…was a mistake."

The trailer didn’t technically have an address so it couldn’t get mail. It wasn’t really a legal residence, just some unclaimed desert land near a disused highway. They had a PO Box at the post office in the nearest town. It provided a bit of legal insulation, since they bought dangerous chemicals, explosives, and bizarre medical equipment from mail order catalogs regularly. Billy felt relieved his mother didn’t know exactly where they lived to prevent any “pop in” visits. Picking up the mail was one of Pete's few chores; the PO box was way too high for Billy to open.

They informally divided their household labor without ever discussing it. Billy did most of the food shopping since White regularly forgot to eat if he wasn’t reminded. It meant most of their meals came from the bottom three shelves of the supermarket but Billy also bought produce from fruit vendors on sidewalks or brought restaurant leftovers from his dishwashing job. Pete’s tasks were driving the scooter and getting the mail; that was sort of the upper limit of responsibility he could be trusted with.

Pete didn’t even take off his crash helmet and goggles before entering the post office. This was a strictly get-in/get-the-stuff/get-out operation. Then he could go home to be with his records and his game consoles and his TV and not have to deal with sunlight or people.

↓ story gets more interesting below the fold ↓

PETE the WHITE HAS A POSSE (con't)

Going out in daylight was such a pain and nightlife in the suburbs was nonexistent. Pete hated leaving the trailer unless he absolutely had to. He went to work in the morning and came home in the evening if for no other reason that Billy demanded he be dropped off and picked up at his job on the way and he was the only one who could drive (or see over the handlebars of the scooter) so he ferried both of them around.

When did he become such a homebody? He used to be cool and party all night. Must be a sign of getting old. He was already 30. Gahd, when did that happen?

“Mr. White,” a hoarse voice said behind him.

White whipped around with his back to the boxes, eye to the exit if he had to make a quick escape.

“Mr. White. From the radio? White Nation?” a scrawny young guy with spiky hair asked, unsure of himself.

Pete nodded, he had his scarf wrapped tightly around his mouth. With the helmet, goggles, driving gloves and long-sleeved jacket, so little of him was exposed that he could have been anyone.

“We knew this was the PO Box you said on the air so we just waited until you came by so’s we could meet you in person.”

“We?” Pete asked.

“Hey, Martin. It’s really him. We got him.”

A much older man on a mobility scooter approached, long curly gray hair fell to his shoulders under a bucket hat and he was draped in a piano key scarf. He wore tinted glasses and had the down-turned rubbery lips of an irate trout demanding to speak to the manager.

“We did a stake out,“ the chicken-like man said proudly before realizing how that came-off, “But… but.. Not for bad reasons— we’re friends! Friends of the show. Friends of what you’re putting out there, right?”

The chicken-man turned to the man on the mobility scooter for confirmation. He grunted in affirmation.

“Oh, ok,” Pete lowered his guard slightly, “Glad you fellas like the show. Keep listening.”

“We support you.”

“Cool.”

“We like what you have to say.”

“Awesome..." Pete delicately tried to indicate this conversational exchange had run its course, "I’m gonna get my mail now.”

“We… we want to spread your message.”

His back to the fans, nose buried in the PO Box, “Always great to know people are still digging the music.”

The scrawny chicken man exchanged a glance with the old man on the mobility scooter.

“It’s garbage,” croaked the old man in a pompous voice, “Barely tolerable warbling of castrated effeminate half-men.”

“It’s not that bad," admonished the chicken-y man, “I mean, some of it’s ok, I guess. We listen for what you have to say more.”

Pete turned back with a puzzled look (not that the goggles revealed much of his expression), “You like what I have to say? Those bullshit rants?”

They nodded.

The chicken-y man approached him nervously as he reached into his fanny pack, “You don’t sell gold or survival food or have a place to pledge a donation like the other radio shows so we didn’t know how else to support the station.” He thrust a manila envelope and thrust it into Pete’s hand and then jumped back like he had lit a fuse, "Just… take it. Use it to reach more people. A lot of guys like us need someone to tell us what to do.”

Pete cautiously opened the envelope with one finger, peeked inside to see a stack of folded twenties. He looked up and the two were already gone.

He turned back to the PO Box and pushed Billy's boxes from eBay aside, pulling out a stack of envelopes addressed to WHITE NATION. He slit it open with his pinky nail and a crisp sawbuck fell out. The next one had five Lincolns. Tens and fives. One even had a 50. He never asked for money on air, just bitched about his lack of it but made it sound like a noble cause. Ever-popular again with dough to prove it.

YOUR STUPID MINDS! STUPID STUPID!

Billy did his usual post-work loop of Video Madness after work. He already knew what they had but he still liked to update his ‘to watch' list.

An old black and white movie was playing on the display monitors around the store but unusually Alison's attention seemed glued to it. She finally noticed Billy as he approached the check-out desk with his tapes.

"Hey, you're still wearing my glasses!" She looked happily surprised. She was donning some uncharacteristically understated wire-framed ovals herself.

"Yeah, I like them," Billy admitted, "I feel like some kind of cool jazz musician or 1950s intellectual like—"

"Allan Sherman?"

"I was thinking more like Dave Brubeck or Jean-Paul Sartre, not the singer of Hello Muddah Hello Faddah , but... sure."

The store was totally empty. Billy poked through the pile of returns on her desk but her gaze was already locked back on the store monitors.

"I recognize it now! Plan Nine from Outer Space!" Billy said, "The current holder of the ‘Worst Movie Ever Made' title."

"It's a pretty junior varsity pick from the cult cinema canon but I was just re-reading Nightmare of Ecstasy and felt like seeing it again, y'know,"

"Did you know Bela Lugosi died in the middle of filming? That's why he has his cape over his face the whole movie– it's a different guy."

"He died before filming even started," Alison corrected, "Ed Wood shot two reels in front of Tor Johnson's house to use for two future projects."

"I read that Tim Burton is making a biopic. We totally have to see it when it comes out," Billy said enthusiastically.

"Bela was replaced by Wood's girlfriend's chiropractor. Ed Wood claimed he had identical ears to Bela Lugosi. Never mind the guy was, like, a foot taller than him," She smiled at the shop TV, "the whole movie is just a compounding pile of bad ideas. "

She gazed up at the screen like anyone else would look at a newborn baby in an iron lung— simultaneously awestruck, protective and about to cry. Her pupils were wide but moved rapidly, studying the scene. Her guard was down, no smirking or sarcastic defense. She wasn't judging it or mocking it or feeling superior to what was universally agreed to be poorly-written, slapdash, boring, stupid movie, but loving it for its flaws.

"Did you know how Ed Wood got the money to make Plan 9 ?" Alison asked and then turned to Billy with a crooked smile, "He got The First Baptist Church of Beverly Hills to bankroll it for if the cast got baptized. Then they made him change the title from Graverobbers from Outer Space to Plan 9 from Outer Space. That's insane, right?"

Billy's heart nearly stopped as it dawned on him what she was doing.

"And this shower curtain on the alien ship here," she pointed at the screen, "It's in the movie two other places: once in front of a bomb and once, well, just in a shower."

A True Quizboy gives trivia not to show off but to show affection. He mines out interesting information and shares it to say "Look what I've found to entertain you. To out-quizboy a quizboy is to answer back in his own language of love. Billy couldn't deny it anymore. It wasn't just a friendship on his end. Even if it was illegal, immoral or just creepy, Billy was head over heels in love with the teenage girl who worked at the video store.

Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed he was staring at her. She looked over the edge of her glasses sternly and flipped him the bird before leaning forward to watch the rest of The Worst Movie Ever Made™.

Saturday morning, the Angel of Death Wagon pulled onto the gravel shoulder and honked twice.

"Billy's still in the shower," Pete White shouted while leaning out the door, holding a blanket over his head to deflect daylight. He waved her closer.

"We stayed up really late and he kinda overslept," White continued at a more civilized volume as Alison got out of the car. As she got closer she could see the hangover written all over his face as he held the door open for her.

"What a libertine," Alison muttered in monotone, stepping into the trailer for the first time. It felt like an intrusion and she was sure Billy would not be happy she was in his home, but the inside of her car was boiling. She wasn't waiting out in the desert sun.

"Want some coffee," White raised his mug, "Or, wait, do teenagers even drink coffee?"

"I'm good," she said, "Thanks... um... White."

"Call me ‘Pete,' please. ‘‘White' is Billy's thing. He couldn't clear the jump from ‘Mr. White' to ‘Pete' and got stuck halfway," White (or rather, Pete) explained.

Alison stepped further into the room, looking around. Her mouth seemed to be permanently set in an expression that read alternately as bored, annoyed or a sarcastic smile depending on the angle you saw her from. She pulled an asthma inhaler from her lunchbox purse, shook it and did a hit— a physical criticism of their slapdash house-cleaning skills.

"I don't like girls calling me by my last name. It feels too gym teacher-ish," Pete explained as he swallowed two aspirin with his coffee.

She wore spiked bracelets, a flowery mini-dress mostly covered in a ratty cardigan, and tights with runs under knee-high combat boots. Her patchy colored dye job was pulled up in pigtails with loose strands hanging over her eyes. Pete could dig the vibe, that whole "Tank Girl meets kinderwhore" look, but still gave her the hairy eyeball as the she-harpy destined to sooner-or-later break the heart his innocent best friend. But it's not like he wasn't going to be polite to a guest in his home.

"This is way nicer than I thought it would be," Alison without emotion, unclear whether she was speaking sarcastically, as she picked a pillow off the floor and placed it back on the plaid sofa. The room didn't smell too bad and was reasonably clean, but stuffed with far more random junk that the trailer was ever designed to hold.

"Yeah, it's not bad. Plus, no rent," Pete said while punching a Streets of Rage 3 cartridge into the Sega Genesis. He offered a controller to Alison, "Do you wanna beat up some bad dudes?"

She considered it while looking off to what she assumed was a bedroom door for any indication of Billy's time of arrival.

"Yeah, I guess," she said as sat on the built-in couch next to him and half-heartedly clicked the controller.

"Where are you kids off to?"

"Flea market," Alison said,"then a movie."

"Wicked. Ever find any records at the flea market?"

"Some, but it's mostly ‘80s garbage."

"Ouch. That's my era you're insultin' there, lady," White reacted, seizing his heart mock-wounded, "Back when I was still deejaying on the radio."

"On the radio, huh?"

"I started in college radio. Then I went pro out in Los Angeles spinning New Wave Synthpop. Late Glam through New Romantic."

"Lame," Alison dismissed, "John Hughes soft boy crap."

The door to the bedroom slid open. Billy walked out. "White? Have you seen where I left my Hush Puppies? I—" he noticed Alison and White side by side on the sofa.

"I dunno, pally. Did ya check—" Pete was cut off by Billy whizzing past to grab Alison by the arm to drag her back to the car.

"Nice meeting you... um... Pete," Alison managed to blurt out in the midst of being rushed out by a waist-high orange cyclone.

Buckling into the driver's seat, Alison paused and let out a breath, "Y'know, up close your roommate is really good-looking."

"If you're a sell out maybe," Billy snarled, fiddling with the car stereo and getting nothing, "If you're turned on by talcum powder and Reaganomics."

Alison teased, "Awww. The Little Mermaid is jealous."

"I mean, if you're shallow enough to be distracted by proportionate head-to-body-mass I can see ‘being into' someone like him, I guess," Billy spat with disgust.

Alison frowned, "Touchy touchy."

"Well, the joke's on you! He's probably gay. And he's, like, really, really old. He's basically as old as your dad," Billy pouted, "... and he does drugs."

Alison just snickered to herself and mumbled in her best stab at a Peteic accent, "Whatevah."

Billy's face felt hot; he didn't even know why he was so angry. He had never spoken ill of his best friend before but Alison wasn't allowed to like White. She was his friend. She definitely shouldn't like White more than she liked him.

Billy felt the pain of a thousand daggers stabbing his chest – The Ever-Popular Pete White, without even meaning to, had stolen the only girl he had ever loved.

JE POURRAIS ME PERDRE DANS CE BROUILLARD

Their end of Colorado had a couple of big sprawling multiplexes for all your big, loud, stupid action/dinosaur/superheroes-with-nipples needs but the arty indie films from New York and the film festivals never played there. There was an indie film revolution happening and suburban suckers like them still had to see fart comedies and thrillers than were 90% explosions; so unfair.

Alison got a tip from a customer that a couple from State University had opened an “art house screening room” for independent films that otherwise would be impossible to find, even on video. It was an long drive, but it seemed like an adventure.They drove on the highway past sandy nothingness heading for the northern suburbs. Just desert and scrub and rocks, sometimes going up, sometimes going down.The only excitement was when they passed a gas station once in a while.

“I’ve always wanted to go on a cross-country road trip,” Alison considered, “Drive from here to Graceland or something. Hit all the dumb roadside attractions like the biggest ball of twine in Minnesota.”

“Hmmm,” Billy mumbled noncommittally. He was sulking.

��Hey, let’s go on a road trip to Graceland and see the toilet Elvis died on,” Alison suggested, but Billy was lost in his own head.

The entire flea market trip was oddly tense, Billy’s mind kept creating images of his chalky roommate sweeping Alison off her feet. It looked like scenes from Labyrinth but with Pete in the David Bowie role, ballroom dancing in soft focus with Alison while he couldn't be anything but some ugly muppet wiggling his arms on the sidelines. Billy knew he was being paranoid but it gave him someone to be mad at instead of stewing in his own feelings. Despite the epic battle raging inside his mind, Alison remained oblivious.

“Great. Mom’s new billboard went up,” Alison finally broke the awkward silence as the giant sign appeared over the horizon and grew larger as they approached: a power-suited middle-aged woman holding up two thumbs and displaying a rictus grin that seemed more like an animal threat-display to the viewer than anything like a normal human expression of happiness.

"TWINKLE KAHAN, REALTOR. #1 Central Colorado Springs. I sell your house! You buy your dream! ” Billy read, unsure of the orthographic nightmare, “Your mother’s name is ‘Twinkle’ ?!”

“Her professional name. She thought it sounded ‘the most American,’” Alison said with an eye roll, “Colorado wasn’t ready for Bùi Thị Xuân Kahan to 'sell their house and buy their dream number one realtor' bla bla bla...”

“These ads are everywhere,” Billy said, “I never actually read the name before. Twinkle? Twinkle.”

“The billboards pretty bad but at least she stopped doing radio spots,” Alison said, “Every shithead at my school shouting their 'me-rikee G.I. suckee suckee' impression at me. Retards.”

“I can see that getting old fast,” Billy sympathized even if he was more ignored than bullied in high school. He was only nine as a Freshman. What psychopath would bully a nine-year-old? He got stepped on in the hallway a lot, though.

“I don’t need my own mother supplying ammunition for slope-browed shitheads to use against me. OF COURSE she didn’t care. She said that proved the ads were effective.”

She reached over to manually flip the cassette tape. The billboard disappeared behind them in the distance. She pulled another cigarette from her pocket.

“She doesn’t understand the American luxury of ‘embarrassment,’ Anything short of helicopters dropping napalm on your village can be walked off in her mind”

“DJ Jazzy Jeff and the Fresh Prince said it best: 'Parents just don’t understand.'”

The Angel of Death Wagon sputtered and coughed as they did a rolling stop in front of the address. It didn’t look like a movie theater, but after driving forever they had to go in.

Up two flights of stairs was a half-lit open lobby with a small hand-painted sign– CINEMA PURGATORIO. They walked down a short hallway lined with pinned posters for coming (or going?) attractions— Living in Oblivion, Spalding Gray’s Anatomy, Spanking the Monkey — to the single theater on the other side of a crushed velvet curtain.

“I think,” Alison muttered conspiratorially, “this might just be a person’s apartment that they’re pretending is a movie theater.”

“We’re dealing with..." Billy glanced around furtively, "zoning scofflaws?” Alison bit her lip to stifle the audible laugh and Billy melted internally. He was devolving into a big gooey pudding minute by minute but he had to keep it together. Stay cool and ironic, right? Alison pointed to a pair of seats in the middle of a row.

As cramped as the apartment-cum-screening room was, it was noticeably empty. One old man at the front. Another couple near the back. There couldn’t have been more than 50 seats in the room and not one matched any of the others. All of the furniture and decoration looked like it had been rescued from a dumpster or demolition site. Like a series of actual movie theaters had all exploded and the owners had squirreled away anything that wasn’t incinerated to ash to furnish this place. The room even smelled like smoke, but they both smoked a pack of cigarettes on the drive so everything smelled like smoke to them.

The room was quiet. You could hear a pin drop and they waited for the film to start.

“What’s that high-pitched whine,” Alison asked.

“What?”

“It’s like a tinny electronic buzz.”

“I can’t hear anything.”

“It sounds like someone zooming-in constantly with a camera.”

“Oh, I think that’s me,” Billy raised his mechanical hand, “I’m fidgeting.”

“Well, knock it off.”

“Sorry. Sorry. I’ll try.”

He was twitching his fingers even more now, but he put his sweater over his hand to muffle the gear noise. Why was he acting like a spazz all of a sudden? He didn’t have a reason to be nervous since nothing had changed between them, only what was going on inside his own cavernous head. Alison, again, remained oblivious.

The movie started. A low-budget French indie black-comedy that was already five or six years old now. Some ambiguously post-apocalypse Paris a building full of quirky weirdos was hiring unwary handymen to be murdered and butchered for their meat. But mostly it was disconnected moments of highly art-directed mayhem. Billy had no idea there were ugly people in France at all, based on their cultural output, but this movie seemed to corner the market on them.

Alison leaned over and whispered, “Do you know French too? You don’t need the subtitles I bet.”

“I can understand it better than I can be understood,” Billy whispered back, the same situation for any of the dozen languages he’d taught himself and then been totally unable to communicate for his slushy pronunciation.

“Why don’t you learn Japanese? There’s no ‘sssss’ sound in it, only ‘ssssh.’ So ‘city’ becomes ‘shitty,” Alison suggested quietly, “You’d be a natural.”

Billy nodded but kept his attention on the movie. It was ok, he thought. Alison seemed into it but Billy’s mind was drifting again. He was totally preoccupied with analyzing every conversational exchange for some clue that she liked him. Like, liked-him -liked-him and then double-checking his own behavior to make sure he wasn’t giving away his own feelings.

He was brought back to reality when Alison suddenly jumped and gasped next to him. On screen, the final confrontation— the cannibalistic butcher threw a knife that boomeranged back and the blade slammed into the middle of his forehead. She was fully buying into what was happening on screen, no ironic distance. Billy tried to look over subtly but she was on his blind side so he couldn’t see anything out of his peripheral vision and turning his head too much might break her out of the moment.

Denouement. Having escaped murder, the clownish hero and his bespectacled love interest played a duet on cello and singing saw on the roof of the apartment building. Billy heard quiet rustling, felt her lean in and brush against his arm. He was frozen, even though his heart was racing. He didn’t want to startle her as if she was some skittish animal he had spotted in a forest She reached out in the dark and found Billy’s hand, holding it. He opened his fingers and held it back. He could feel the pressure of the grasp but nothing else– she was on his right and got the metal one. He couldn’t feel anything at all.

Merde.

“White doesn’t want me seeing you. Do you think he’s jealous?”

“Jealous of you for having a girl to see a movie with or jealous of me for getting to spend time with you?” Alison asked between licks of her ice cream cone.

“Not sure. Kinda both?” Billy looked back at his paper cup of chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream, not really feeling hungry. His mouth felt fuzzy so he forced down a spoonful.

They sat at one of the few tables in the fluorescent-lit, candy-colored ice cream parlor for a post-movie ice cream break before getting back on the road.

“Your hands are different sizes,” Alison suddenly noticed.

Billy held up his hands. He pressed them palm to palm. The metal one was at least 10% larger.

“I guess they didn’t design hands any smaller than this when they put it on. Does it look weird?”

“It’s a robot hand. Of course it looks weird, Daphne."

Billy rolled his eyes and rested his hands back on the table. Alison leaned over his hand, poking the half-domes on his knuckles to see if anything happened, oblivious to the steady drip of melted Cool Britannia her cone was leaving all over him.

He obliged her by pulling back his sleeve, showing where the metal prosthetic ended at the wrist— a ball-joint recessed partly into a lighter metal cuff with a ridge on it, connecting to the arm. The edge overlapped the flesh – concealing and protecting the connection.

“Can you take your hand off?”

“I can take it off, yeah,” Billy explained, tapping the edge of the cuff, “But it takes a long time and it’s a massive pain in the ass to put it back on."

Her sudden fascination with his hand made him feel like he was doing show-and-tell to a kindergarten class. It was weirdly cute. Worth having to blast out his knuckle joints with a can of compressed air tomorrow to get all the rainbow sprinkles out.

"I only take the hand off when it’s malfunctioning so I can work on it. It’s not meant to be detachable, really," Billy explained.

“How much of this is still you?” she stroked his forearm just above the metal like it was a pet cat. Her fingertips felt warm. Billy’s ears blushed scarlet, but he tried to play it cool.

“Most of it. There are wires inside to make the hand work. The outside is still, uh, human.”

“Can you feel this?” She dragged her finger over the metal palm.

“Just pressure. Not anything more specific,” he said, “I could feel pain there, too, if you wanted to hurt me.”

“Technology can’t live up to the original model,” Alison pressed her palm against his human hand in a slow-motion high-five, lining up the fingers.

“Whoa, even your person-hand is bigger than mine,” she compared the two, “You have big hands for such a little guy, Josie.”

He entwined her fingers in his. She didn’t pull away. They were holding hands again but now I could feel it for real.

“Alischon, do you feel… I mean. With me, could you, um…” Billy struggled as he got too tongue-tied to finish the thought.

“Gross! Your fingertips feel like gummi bears,” she squealed, fully distracted by squeezing his silicone fingertips. She hadn't heard a word he said.

---

Back at home, he had to keep his hands busy and his mind occupied or the thoughts would consume him. He bought a whole chicken at the supermarket to practice his suturing with a needle and thread. Over-and-unders. Vertical mattress stitch. Subcutaneous. Under his hand the poor ten-pound roaster was looking fully Frankensteined or like a needlepoint sampler in flesh made by a serial killer granny.

Pete walked by the breakfast table, sorting the mail, "You're gonna get salmonella, pally. Wash your hands before you touch anything."

"Do you want me to practice on poultry or to do it for the first time sewing up your neck after I cut all the melanomas out?

"I have tumors. Jesus. Where?"

"Not yet. You will," Billy stated, "If there's any justice." "How was the movie," he asked neutrally.

Billy ignored him and stabbed his needle into the breast of the roaster more angrily than a medical professional should. Pete frowned, picking up on the subtext.

"Pally, I swear I have no interest in your girl."

"She's not ‘my girl,'" Billy hissed, "She likes YOU."

"She doesn't like me. She doesn't know me. Nobody likes me once they know me."

"She said you were so good-looking," Billy spat.

"I'm way too old for her," White sputtered back, "She talks like a robot. She's not even my type!”

"Because you're gay," Billy snapped, just to be hurtful even though it made no sense for his attack.

"I'm not gay," Pete repeated, just as he had a million times before in a million other arguments, "Look, pally, we just made small talk waiting for YOU, that's ALL."

When Pete "turned on the charm" he was revolting. Women were nauseated by him and men were moved to violence. But somehow an indifferent, distracted Pete White doing the bare minimum was irresistible. Pete himself never picked up on it.

"She told me my taste in music sucked. She basically called me old!" Pete threw up his arms for emphasis.

"If I find out you slept with her," Billy narrowed his eye and pointed with a scalpel, "I will literally, actually kill you."

"When would I have... Look, I met her this morning for the first time!" Pete argued, fully exasperated.

"I can forgive anything you've done to me but if I found out you're sleeping with her I will slit your throat myself without a moment's hesitation. I will slit your throat and sew it back up like it never happened just so I can slit it again."

Pete bit his lip. "So... you really like her then."

Ice-cold vengeance was too hard to keep up and Billy melted back into goo. He rubbed his free-range pullet patient and burbled, "It's killing me. I can't even tell how she feels. She'll be sweet to me one second and tells me to fuck off and die right after it! What should I do?"

"If I knew how love worked I wouldn't be sitting here with you. I'd be Mr. Mom-ing my own brood of perfect and exceptionally pale children while my bread-winning Mrs. — Steffi Graf— was off winning Wimbledon again."

"Steffi Graf?" Billy snapped, "Where the hell did that come from? You don't even like tennis."

"I dunno, it just seemed to make sense in my mind. So I said it," Pete shrugged, "I am dead set against any of this bullshit ON THE RECORD but... have you tried asking this chick to be your girlfriend?"

Billy looked puzzled, "I can just ask?"

"Yeah, just ask."

SERVING PETER FALK REALNESS

A few days later Billy jogged down the gravel path towards Alison's monstrous car as it pulled off the highway onto the shoulder in front of the trailer. She had climbed halfway out of the driver's side window and shouted to him, "Cosmic bowling!"

"I don't know what that is," he shouted back as he reached the passenger side door, "Should I? It's bowling, I assume."

"It's new. It's the newest. Bold wave of the future," Alison said deadpan, "It's bowling, but at night. With blacklight."

"Huh," Billy said noncommittally as he opened the car door.

"It's cosmic... but it's bowling," she shrugged as she slid back down into the driver seat and turned the ignition. The Angel of Death sputtered and whined.

"Wait, wait, wait, I have to show you something," Billy said, remembering what he had in his pocket. He palmed a curved white disk— a little smaller than a pog but bigger than a nickel. He checked his reflection in the car's side mirror and slipped it under his eyelid like a contact lens. He nudged it in place until it seemed like it was resting where it was supposed to be.

He took his seat on the passenger side and leaned toward Alison with his eyes bugged as open as he could make them.

"Check it out. It came in the mail today."

"A glass eye?"

"It's made of acrylic, but yeah," He tapped his right eye— a realistic but unmoving plastic prosthetic, like a doll's eye.

"Oh that is so amazingly creepy. I love it."

"I couldn't afford to get a permanent one put in— they're like 10 grand and you have to see an ophthalmologist to get those custom-fitted and I don't have the insurance to do that, but I found these temporary conformer shells from the medical supply catalog..."

Alison moved closer, staring into his functioning eye and then to the prosthetic, looking closely at the details. He could feel her breath on his eyelashes.

"...You're only supposed to wear the temporary ones right after surgery until you get a real implant so it doesn't move. The temporary shells don't move, I mean, like a real implant would because the temporary eye doesn't connect to any ocular muscles," Billy over-explained breathlessly as her staring directly into his eyes, even for a clinical purpose, was making his heart race.

She tilted her head, concluding her observation. "Hazel," she said, leaning back into the driver's seat.

"I guess? The catalog just said ‘Color HLC-49C.' It seemed like the closest match. Does it look normal?"

"No. Of course not," Alison laughed.

Billy slumped, discouraged.

"D'awww. You try so hard," Alison said mock-pityingly as the engine turned over, "My little Sammy Davis, Jr.”

"I'm not gonna show you my silicone skin hand cover now," Billy pouted, "You'll only dissch it."

"Dish it?"

"No dissssss. Like ‘disrespect.' Like I'm Biggie and you're Tupac. You diss my hand and then we got beef."

"Keep wearing the oven mitt with the tomatoes on it. I like that one," Alison said absentmindedly, pointing her land yacht towards the bowling lanes at the edge of town.

"I'll get some of those Freezie Freakies. They change color in the snow."

TAKE THE SKINHEADS BOWLING

They entered the dingy, mostly empty bowling alley at 11 PM.

"Oh. My. God," Alison's eyes sparkled with ironic appreciation, "This is even lamer than I was imagining."

"The Only Way Is Up" boomed from free standing giant-sized club speakers rented just for the occasion. A disco ball spun above, reflecting the strobing multicolored spotlights puncturing the dim alley. Black lights lined each lane making the pins and balls glow. The whole grandeur of the cosmos in miniature... with rented shoes.

"It seems alright, I guess," Billy stated but his sense of "camp"and "kitsch" was not nearly as honed. He couldn't even see the difference between the two without complex analysis.

They paid for a lane and were shuffled on to the shoe rental. She took off her platform combat boots and put them on the counter, losing about a half-foot of height in the dismount. She reached down for Billy's sneakers to trade in for rental shoes as well.

"Oh my god. These are the most adorable weenie-teenie baby Chuck Taylors I've ever seen," she cooed as she held them.

"Ugh, stop," Billy groaned.

The counter worker, grumpy and second-guessing the choices he made in life that lead to this moment of being forced by his boss to wear strings of UV-reactive candy beads and multiple glow-stick necklaces for "Cosmic" night, handed over their hideous two-tone lane shoes, "Nine for the lady and... a kid's size 3 for her baby brother."

Billy grumbled.

"At least he didn't call you my son," Alison offered as consolation, handing over his pair.

They claimed a lane with their coats and left to load up at the snack bar before diving into sporting pursuits.

"I haven't gone bowling since I was nine and since you have no depth perception, I'm going to assume we're both going to be terrible at this, right?" Alison asked.

"Probably," Billy shrugged, pulling on the rented shoes.

"Those are the teeny-tiniest, most adorable widdle twee bowling shoes I've ever seen."

"Shut up," Billy snapped, genuinely annoyed.

"So I propose we forget the scores," Alison tapped the lane scoring desk with the built in overhead projector, "And give each other points for style instead."

"You don't think I can't whup your ass in that category too?" Billy said, standing while stretching his arms and neck in anticipation of a dance battle.

Alison filled in the score sheet: Alison "Rolling Thunder" Kahan vs. "Baby Shoes" Whalen. She added some caricature doodles to the edge, making sure to highlight Billy's new glass eye with some sparkles and radiating lines.

He found a cotton work glove from the library in his pocket and slipped it over his mechanical hand. He wasn't sure if he was protecting his hand from the bowling ball or the bowling ball from his hand, but it seemed like a fair precaution. He approached the rack filled with special black-light reactive balls for the evening and tested some finger holes to pick one that would work.

Alison looked concerned, "Should I ask at the front if they have any, um, duck-pin sized balls for—"

Billy pulled an acid green ball from the topmost rack while standing on his tiptoes, "You don't think I can use a ten pound ball?" He held it up with one hand, using only his fingertips as he walked back to their lane.

"Do you know how much the Oxford English Dictionary weighs?" Billy asked, effortlessly spinning the ball in his hand, "Second edition, of course."

"Ok, fine. You're not as delicate as—"

"137.72 lbs. Twenty volumes. Our library system has two sets. I've carried those things— or books of a similar weight— up and down ladders and on and off carts for eight hours a day for four years. I can handle a fucking bowling ball," he stated as he whipped the the object in question down the lane in a perfect straight shot... directly into the gutter.

"Fuck me!" Billy sputtered, as his top-cool moment fizzled. Alison just howled with laughter.

"I'm stronger than I look is the point, ok," Billy said, defeated, "I could probably lift you."

"Lay one hand on me and you're riding home in the trunk, king of the beach," Alison shot back, drying her hands over the air vent on the ball return and selecting a hot pink-and-lavender marble swirled ball.

"No really. I can totally lift my roommate over my head!"

"Yeah, well, that guy has hollow bones and an eating disorder."

"I thought you said he was so handsome."

"Pretty face. No staying power," Alison shrugged as she hurled her pink ball down the lane carelessly, ricocheting off the side and knocking down three pins as The Pet Shop Boys cover of Go West bounced through the room.

"Woo! Ministry of Sound! MADchester! COSMIC!" Alison apathetically shouted in celebration, while performing a gyrating, arm-wiggling take on what she imagined a "rave dance" might look like despite having only read those words in SPIN so had no actual idea what a "rave" was.

She also wasn't dressed for a rave nor was dressed for bowling either. She wore a child's velvet party dress with a lace collar, picked up for a couple bucks at the Goodwill. It was probably once some little girl's holiday dress, but on the taller teenager the hem stopped only three inches below her Merry Christmas. Even with the height lost with the amputation of her platform boots, Billy still could see directly up her skirt without meaning to. She paired it with neon pink tights that glowed under the black light and a necklace made of plastic Halloween skulls. Her sweet spot was a perfect combination of stupid and hideous that dared anyone to find her attractive.

Despite her efforts, Billy did. Obsessively so.

He had to do it. He was going to ask, straight on: "Alischon, can I be your boyfriend?"

She snort-laughed before noticing he was just staring at her. The plastic sclera of the glass eye glowed under black light, making him look half-possessed.

"Oh shit, you weren't just being ironic."

"Scherious at a heart attack," he lisped stoically, his one good eye locked on hers. The fake eye looking blankly off at an angle.

She clamped her mouth to stop another torrent of uncontrolled laughter, "You're killing me, Pumpkinhead."

Billy looked at his feet. This wasn't going at all like the scenarios he had modeled mathematically.

"You're always flirting with me. Saying I'm cute or I'm sexy, it's..." Billy struggled for his tone, torn between rage and self-pity, "It's... fucking... fraudulent negligence.”

"I'm busting your chops to make your ears turn red," Alison said, as if it was obvious, "I've done it every day since I met you!"

"It's driving me bugfuck nuts!" Billy roared.

"Why the hell would you take anything I say seriously?" Alison tried to pull her bowling ball from her fingers, exasperated, "I'm a liar and an asshole and a jerk. Only a mental case would want to date me."

"I can't tell if you're just teasing me because you can tell I'm crazy about you or... or..." the words tumbled out, "Or you maybe, despite giving me the finger and acting too cool for school, you kind of, um, actually like me like I like you?"

He looked up expectantly while bracing for the worst. His good eye flinched from the strain. Alison tried to lower the tension.

"What do you care about dating? I thought boys your age were still all ‘girls are gross.'"

"I'm not a FUCKING KID!" Billy shouted far louder than he meant to.

Alison stooped down to drop the ball on the edge of the lane.

"Why do you always wear such goddamned short skirts?" Billy muttered, any filter he had left was blown off in the hurricane of emotion coursing through his oversized skull, "I gotta excuse myself to pound one out in the bathroom every time you lean over the ball return. Jesus."

"Is that why you keep going to the can? I thought the shitty nachos gave you the runs," Alison tilted her head to a paper tray of tortilla chips and neon orange ‘cheez.'

Billy slammed his forehead into the scoring desk.

"and I HAVE shorts under it. Thank you very much," Alison defended her virtue, pulling up the skirt hem to reveal bike shorts over her tights.

Billy just released a muffled irritated cry-moan. It wasn't getting through.

"With all these black lights in here you'd have to be extra careful with your aim..." Alison considered, miming a jerk-off gesture, "and you'd have to wash your hands really well."

"You're not even listening," Billy said pleadingly, "It's a joke to you,"

Alison finally took in how genuinely sad he looked, "I like hanging out with you. I like having a friend. Can't we just keep doing that?"

"We still could. We can. Everything stays the same..." Billy tried to sell her on the idea with forced enthusiasm, "...but with making out! Bonus!"

Alison went quiet and looked at the floor.

"We wouldn't have to do anything you didn't want to," Billy clarified quickly, spin-doctoring his pitch on the fly, "It's not a physical thing. I just wanted to..."

"But I don't feel that way about you," Alison blurted, "I don't feel that way about anybody. I can't."

No smirk. No joke. No sarcasm. Just honesty. She looked in pain to have to say something genuine. The words hung in the air. From another lane, the sound of ball hitting pins echoed. Sparkly disco lights strobed over their faces.

"...Plus, you're, like, really, really weird looking,"Alison kept going unable to stop talking like her words were careening down a steep hill, "Your head is gigantic and you have all kinds of medical shit wrong with you so I can't even imagine how bizarre you look naked—

"No, no. I get it," Billy shook the aforementioned huge head.

"— Like maybe you have like... I dunno... two dicks or nine balls or some even weirder—"

"Alischon. Seriously. It's fine. Forget I brought it up."

She plunked down next to him on the scoring bench, looking drained. They sat in silence as C + C Music Factory filled the room.

Guys grab a girl, don't wait, make her twirl It's your world and I'm just a squirrel Tryin' to get a nut to move your butt To the dance floor, so yo what's up...

"Still friends?" Alison asked softly.

"Yeah, friends," Billy agreed, tight-lipped.

It's not a failure if you learn something out of it. After he got home, Billy sat in the shower for an hour.

It was a learning experience. He found out he could still cry out of the eye he didn't have any more.

.... to be continued

**This draft is still missing a scene of Pete's radio show which I will add in a future update.

OBEY's Andre the Giant Has A Posse stickers and their endless bootlegs/parodies have been everywhere since 1989, peaking in national popularity by the mid '90s. Didn't wanna do height/weight so added his pirate radio wavelength and OCA-1 is medical /genetic shorthand for Oculocutaneous Albinism type I: total lack of melanin in skin and eyes (though I guess medicine didn't know the exact gene affected until after the Human Genome Project)

The playlist for Pete's radio show is on YouTube and Spotify. Updated continually.

I fudged the years on this. Ed Wood came out in fall of 1994 and I said this was taking place in 1995-96, but I couldn't think of a better movie for this scene than Plan 9. This anachronism is eating away at me.

I'll answer ASKS on the story but if you got beef and you wanna tell me I am racist/homophobic/hot garbage, send it as a DM so I can delete it in private.

+ More to be added if I think of anything else.

⟶ All Master Billy & Mr. White posts 2022

#fanfic #ao3 fanfic #ao3 #fiction #spec fiction #story #master billy quizboy #pete white #the venture brothers #the venture bros #vbros #backstory #flackback #1994 #1995 #awkward #love story

8 notes · View notes

kamreadsandrecs · 11 months

Text

By Noreen Malone

Bumblebee, left, and Optimus Prime stand outside a townhouse in the Washington neighborhood of Georgetown.Credit...Zak Arctander for The New York Times

The thing about putting a pair of 10-foot metal Transformers statues outside your townhouse in the most picturesque district of the nation’s capital is that the neighbors are going to have opinions.

And on Prospect Street in Georgetown, they were not pleased.

The statues — Bumblebee and Optimus Prime, two of the good guys from the long-running “Transformers” movie franchise — appeared in January 2021 outside the white-brick home of Newton Howard, a cognitive scientist and machine-learning expert with ties to the intelligence community.

He had ordered them from a factory in Taiwan to the tune of more than $25,000 each. Where large brick planters had once blended in with the local aesthetic, there was now something akin to outsider art by way of an anonymous welder and Hollywood’s reinterpretation of 1980s toys.

Plenty of people love the statues, which resemble invaders from the future, in a neighborhood that does its best to hang on to its cobblestone past. Students at nearby Georgetown University can’t get enough. Neither can tourists: The Transformers statues have their own entry on Google Maps as a place of interest, with 4.9 stars. “The best part of visiting Georgetown,” one reviewer declared.

“People are at my door every day,” Dr. Howard, 53, said at his home on a recent afternoon. “It doesn’t bother me. I find it to be beautiful that actually people are appreciating things.”

But some of his neighbors are less enthusiastic, and the critics of his notion of a Georgetown-appropriate sidewalk display have been trying to get rid of Bumblebee and Optimus Prime for more than two years.

Dr. Howard, a bald man with an unplaceable accent, wears dark round eyeglasses that come equipped with a camera and a microprocessor that allows him to translate languages on the spot, he said.

He paid $3.75 million for the townhouse and moved in during the pandemic. In 2021, he snapped up the one next door for $4.8 million. The homes lie close to his job at Georgetown University School of Medicine, where he is a research professor in the department of biochemistry and molecular and cellular biology. (He added to his real estate holdings in 2022, when he bought a $3.6 million home in Potomac, Md. It has 14 bathrooms and a bocce court.)

Dr. Howard greeting tourists who stopped by to see his Transformers sculptures.Credit...Zak Arctander for The New York Times

Putting up the Transformers wasn’t the only thing Dr. Howard did to irritate his Georgetown neighbors, who learned shortly after his arrival that he wasn’t some sort of shabby, retiring professor. He had flashy taste and he liked to show it off, parking a number of expensive cars on Prospect Street: a yellow McClaren 720S (new ones start at $310,000), a 2005 Porsche Carrera GT (which goes for $1.4 million and up), a Porsche 918 (fewer than 1000 were made, and they go for well over $1 million). Not to mention an MRAP truck and a small airplane from his collection that he once parked in front of his home. The car show came to a stop only after he received complaints.

A rich guy with loud cars is one thing, a known story. The Transformers were something else altogether. They quickly became a flashpoint in Georgetown, and on the internet, after the local news site DCist reported on the efforts of Dr. Howard’s neighbors to get the statues removed.

Sally Quinn, the author and longtime Georgetown resident, said she was firmly in the anti-Transformers camp. “I think they’re really ugly,” she said. “Some people may like them. You know, everybody’s taste in art is different. But that’s not the point.”

The point, she continued, was historical preservation: “People come toGeorgetown because it’s Georgetown. It’s a beautiful, quaint village.”

But the author Kitty Kelley, who said she has lived in the neighborhood for “two husbands,” or since 1977, sent Dr. Howard a handwritten card in support of his sidewalk flair.

“All you have to do is take a walk through Georgetown, and you’re going to see gnomes and wrought-iron benches,” said Ms. Kelley, who is known for her dishy biographies of Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis (“Jackie Oh!”), Oprah and Nancy Reagan. “You’ll see cement lions of all sizes. So why should this man be deprived of using the space right outside his front door?”

“Maybe it isn’t Picasso,” she continued. “It isn’t a sculpture by Degas, but I think he’s entitled.”

Ms. Kelley noted that her own outdoor decorations have included topiary monkeys, a seven-foot bird feeder and “an angel who’s shooting something across the yard.”

So: Was Dr. Howard a champion of free expression who found himself on a crusade against exclusionary zoning and “snooty neighbors,” as Slate cast him? Or was he an attention-seeking scofflaw with questionable taste?

Or maybe this was simply a case of an eccentric and mysteriously rich guy being eccentric and mysteriously rich.

Optimus Prime, a Transformers statue in front of Dr. Howard’s home, with flowers in its hand.Credit...Zak Arctander for The New York Times

Neighbors Weigh In

Georgetown is not the most futuristic place. Some of the streets still have cobblestone and the remains of streetcar tracks. The neighborhood is filled with pastel rowhouses from the 18th and 19th centuries and with newer homes meant to recall the older structures.

The area also has its share of stately brick mansions that make you wonder who lives there, or used to. Often, it’s someone well-off, but occasionally it’s a someone someone. Power players in media, politics and entertainment — like Madeleine Albright, Ben Bradlee, Katherine Graham, John Kerry, Joe Lieberman and Elizabeth Taylor — have called Georgetown home. But it wasn’t always Washington’s glamour spot.

“Georgetown was kind of a dump in the early 20th century,” said George Derek Musgrove, the co-author of the 2017 study “Chocolate City: A History of Race and Democracy in the Nation’s Capital.”

The old houses had largely fallen into disrepair, and the neighborhood was home to working-class Irish and African Americans. Then, with the explosion of government hiring during the New Deal, Ivy League graduates moved in. They fixed up their homes in an array of styles until the national craze for historical preservation took hold. In 1950, “Old Georgetown” was designated a federal historic district, with all the restrictions on home modification that entailed.

“By thetime you get to 1960, and John Kennedy leaves his Georgetown mansion on N Street for the White House, you just couldn’t afford to get in if you wanted to,” Mr. Musgrove said.

A lot of the residents support efforts to keep things more or less the same. Catherine Emmerson, whose family lives close to Dr. Howard, helped start the Prospect Street Citizens’ Association a few years ago to stop a condo conversion that would have blocked local residents’ views of the Potomac River.

When the Transformers arrived, the group had a new target.

It’s not that the association was against celebrating film history. In fact, its members argued that the condo conversion would have threatened something that ought to be a landmark (and now is): a set of steep steps on Prospect Street, built in 1895, that appeared in “The Exorcist.” (Think: tumbling priest.)

But that was “The Exorcist.” A film. (Maybe?) An old movie, at least. The “Transformers” franchise, which has grossed more than $5 billion across six films, was more like … I.P. (Michael Bay, the “Transformers” producer, declined to comment on Dr. Howard’s decorating choices or the neighbors’ reaction.)

And the Citizens’ Association had clear recourse. Before putting up the statues, Dr. Howard did not apply for any kind of permit, despite Georgetown’s historic status and the fact that the sidewalk is public space.

There is a process, a local official emphasized when he appeared in front of the Advisory Neighborhood Commission via video in March 2021, three months after Bumblebee and Optimus Prime had become part of the neighborhood. And he had bypassed it entirely.

The commission went on to inform him that, before gaining approval, he would have to apply to something else: the Old Georgetown Board, a federal body of three architects that ruled on any changes to the exteriors of properties.

Ms. Emmerson and another neighbor, the author and former television journalist Luke Russert, also weighed in. Ms. Emmerson argued that the statues represented a safety hazard and drew crowds of disruptive gawkers. (Dr. Howard later had his Transformers bolted in place.)

An Optimus Prime statue watches over the neighborhood from Dr. Howard’s rooftop.Credit...Zak Arctander for The New York Times

Mr. Russert was more blunt. “What’s to stop someone from putting up a statue of Joseph Stalin and saying, well, this is provocative, it’s art, it speaks to me?” he argued. “They are a nuisance, they are an eyesore, and they detract from the spirit of the neighborhood.”

As tensions continued, Dr. Howard said he started hearing two terms that he had never heard before — NIMBY and YIMBY. (“Not in my backyard” vs. “Yes in my backyard.”) The pro-development crowd wanted to claim him as a hero. He declined to ally himself, exactly. Instead, Dr. Howard argued, his statues were all about “the American idea,” because they welcomed visitors to a cloistered part of the city.

“You don’t want to just come up with ways to shut down your neighborhood so nobody comes into it,” he said.

His critics disputed the notion that he was motivated by an idea of civic good. “His repeated disregard for the law and procedure tells a story of someone who is not operating in good faith for the collective community,” Ms. Emmerson wrote in an email to The New York Times.

‘The Real Tony Stark’

There was no horde outside Dr. Howard’s townhouse on a recent Sunday afternoon. A young man paused to snap a photo of his 2-year-old son standing with the statues. The toddler’s blue and yellow shoes matched Optimus Prime’s color scheme.

From the rooftop, a six-foot Optimus Prime statue peeked down at the street. It had once stood at the front door, but after the initial controversy Dr. Howard commissioned a taller version for the sidewalk. (The colors on the new one aren’t quite true to the franchise’s rendering of Optimus Prime, but Dr. Howard insists it’s him.) Then he moved the original, perched as if part of some SWAT team on the lookout for any Decepticons.

The interior of Dr. Howard’s home, which he said he decorated himself, resembled a lair. The glassy back of the townhouse overlooks the Potomac, where the buzz of jets headed into and out of Reagan National Airport adds to the techno-paradise vibe. Motorcycles were parked in the living areas as objets, and five more Transformer statues stood guard. There was also a giant model of Iron Man, a Marvel superhero dear to Dr. Howard.

“A lot of people used to call me the real Tony Stark,” he said, referring to Iron Man’s alter ego.

The interior of Dr. Howard’s Georgetown home includes motorcycles and more Transformers sculptures.Credit...Zak Arctander for The New York Times

The memorabilia on display included his concealed carry permit, as well as framed photographs of him with Bill Clinton and Tim Tebow, the former N.F.L. quarterback who became known for kneeling in prayer on the field. Dr. Howard, who said he is a follower of Messianic Judaism, a religion sometimes referred to colloquially as Jews for Jesus, said that he and Mr. Tebow belong to the same fellowship group. (Mr. Tebow couldn’t be reached for comment.)

His home was fastidious, except for a half-built child’s toy in the living room. Dr. Howard has four children, ranging in age from 5 to 26, he said. (The older children are from a previous marriage.) He and his wife, Rebecca, are also fostering five Afghan refugees, he added.

Senator Markwayne Mullin, Republican of Oklahoma, became friends with Dr. Howard through a shared interest in Afghanistan.“I call him Tony Stark," he said. “I would have called him that without the statue.” (Senator Mullin made a splash in 2021 for personally trying to escort Americans out of Afghanistan after Kabul fell to the Taliban, against the explicit wishes of the State and Defense Departments. Dr. Howard was “very involved” in similar efforts, Senator Mullin said.)

The professor — who is, duh, a fan of the “Transformers” movies — said the sculptures had a deeper meaning for him. Not only did they represent machines and humans coexisting in harmony, he said, but the word “transform” had a great deal of personal significance.

“I like changing things when you’re in a status quo and they’re wrong,” he said. “When one looks at themselves and feels self-pity and falls into dwellings of darkness, you should transform.”

Dr. Howard has gone through several transformations himself. He was born in the Sinai Peninsula when Israel controlled it. His family — Egyptian Jews who ended up living in France, he said — moved to the United States when he was 11.

He said he joined the Army at 18, then worked as a linguist in Michigan “across various agencies,” specializing in Arabic, Farsi and Dari. He changed his name around that time because, he said, “it was offered by an agency.” He declined to provide more detail.

“There’s a lot of things during that phase of my career that should be kept secret,” he said.

Dr. Howard — whose doctorates include concentrations in mathematics and neuroscience, and who holds an appointment at the University of Oxford alongside the one at Georgetown — is a curious mix of limelight-seeking and discreet. After college, he said, he worked in military intelligence. He later did work for InQTel, which is functionally the C.I.A.’s venture capital fund.

What precisely he did to get rich is unclear. He said his wealth resulted from selling various businesses, some of which he could not talk about. The walls of his townhouse are filled with commemorative plaques of his patents, many of which have defense industry applications, including “Wireless Network for Routing a Signal Without Using a Tower” and “System and Method for Automated Detection of Situational Awareness.”

A tabletop Transformer in Dr. Howard’s townhouse beside a couple upright books.Credit...Zak Arctander for The New York Times

He said he suffered a traumatic brain injury in 2000 while delivering medical supplies, though he declined to offer more detail. After his recovery, he decided to focus on applying the principles of machine learning to the human brain, and turned to neuroscience. “I figured instead of sitting and getting my brain worked on, I would work on it myself by studying it,” he said.

His ventures include Aiberry, a start-up that tries to use A.I. analysis to improve on mental health screening. He said he hoped to help solve the problem of degenerative diseases like Parkinson’s and Alzheimer’s with a cloud-connected deviceimplanted in the brain, using A.I. to optimize the levels of deep brain stimulation.

In other words, he would like to help human beings preserve their humanity by becoming a little more machine.

The Ruling

The Old Georgetown Board seems to rule with an iron fist — just try putting up a neon sign in the neighborhood — but its power is advisory. The city of Washington, D.C., has the real authority to enforce decisions, but the influence of neighbors complaining in unison cannot be discounted.

Topher Mathews, a commissioner for Georgetown’s Advisory Neighborhood Commission, said that the Transformers mess wouldn’t even make his top five neighborhood dramas of the past 10 years. Easily outstripping it, for instance, was the agita caused over the opening on O Street of Call Your Mother Deli, which attracts long lines.

And locals love to bring up the Tree Incident of 2018, which involved a new homeowner’s decision to prune and cut down magnolia trees on his property, which happened to be the former home of Ms. Onassis. In response, a neighbor created a Halloween display with a mock tombstone reading, “Beloved magnolia 1840-2018 destroyed R.I.P.,” and a grim reaper that announced “Tree Killer Lives There.”

Dr. Howard has argued that his statues constitute meaningful public art. The “Transformers” movies follow a classic good-versus-evil struggle in which the Autobots (the good guys) work to save humanity from the Decepticons (the bad guys). Reviewing the first installment of the franchise in 2007, Manohla Dargis of The New York Times wrote that it was “part car commercial, part military recruitment ad, a bumper-to-bumper pileup of big cars, big guns and, as befits its recently weaned target demographic, big breasts.”

The Old Georgetown Board took up the matter of Dr. Howard’s statues in spring 2021, and the city gave him a six-month permit to keep them up. But well after the six months was up, Bumblebee and Optimus Prime were still in place.

Dr. Newton Howard shows off a device that he says will use A.I. to optimize and adjust the levels of deep brain stimulation.Credit...Zak Arctander for The New York Times

By the time the board met again, in April 2023, Dr. Howard claimed that he had spent tens of thousands of dollars fighting to keep his statues up, an amount that included legal and architect advisory fees and city fines.

This time, the board ordered him to take the statues down. Instead of complying, Dr. Howard appealed to the D.C. Public Space Committee. He also rebuffed offers from the Advisory Neighborhood Commission to help him find another place in the neighborhood to display his statues.

Dr. Howard seems to enjoy the attention that has come with the ongoing case. He has talked extensively with the press about his crusade. He was flattered that Paramount, the studio behind the Transformers movie, had invited him to the Washington premiere of the next installment, “Transformers: Rise of the Beasts,” which comes out June 9.

As DCist and The Washington Post chronicled the twists and turns of the neighborhood drama, sentiment online seemed to swing his way. A student at Georgetown University started a Change.org petition, signed by more than 900 people, to keep the statues up. “This is so dumb,” Hayden Gise, an Advisory Neighborhood Commission vice chair who lives in a neighborhood close to Georgetown, wrote on Twitter. “Let him live oh my god. Everyone loves property rights until some guy does something cool.”

On May 25, the statues’ fate went before the Public Space Committee. Dr. Howard had hired Paul Strauss, D.C.’s shadow senator, to represent him. Or, as Mr. Strauss put it, he was acting as counsel for Optimus Prime, while a colleague represented Bumblebee.

“People have misunderstood the issue,” Mr. Strauss said. “You talk about compatibility with a historic district? Technically, these guys are millennia old. I mean, they’re prehistoric.”

Mr. Strauss and Dr. Howard also persuaded Peter Cullen and Dan Gilvezan, actors who voiced Optimus Prime and Bumblebee on the 1980s cartoon series based on the toys, to attest at the hearing about the history and significance of the nearly 40-year franchise.

The entreaties didn’t work. The D.C. Public Space Committee denied Dr. Howard a permit, meaning that he would have to take the statues down himself, or the city would. It wasn’t a question of art; it was a question of following the rules.

Dr. Howard didn’t seem inclined to stand down. Before the meeting, he suggested that he would appeal a ruling against him on First Amendment grounds. His lawyer clarified that they saw the issue as one of equal protection: Plenty of people fill their sidewalk planters in Georgetown and never get dinged for it. Why is his client required to seek a permit for what is in his planter?

After the meeting, Dr. Howard said he thought he would apply for a new permit. But he seemed deflated.

“I’m sad,” he said in a text to a reporter, adding,“What do you think I should do?”

The victory that Dr. Howard said he was seeking was a moral one.

“I know what these Transformers mean to me,” he said. “What does it mean to them?”

As of June 1, the statues were still standing.

#fandom #transformers #politics #ethics

0 notes

kammartinez · 11 months

Text

By Noreen Malone

Bumblebee, left, and Optimus Prime stand outside a townhouse in the Washington neighborhood of Georgetown.Credit...Zak Arctander for The New York Times

And on Prospect Street in Georgetown, they were not pleased.

“People are at my door every day,” Dr. Howard, 53, said at his home on a recent afternoon. “It doesn’t bother me. I find it to be beautiful that actually people are appreciating things.”

Dr. Howard, a bald man with an unplaceable accent, wears dark round eyeglasses that come equipped with a camera and a microprocessor that allows him to translate languages on the spot, he said.

Dr. Howard greeting tourists who stopped by to see his Transformers sculptures.Credit...Zak Arctander for The New York Times

The point, she continued, was historical preservation: “People come toGeorgetown because it’s Georgetown. It’s a beautiful, quaint village.”

But the author Kitty Kelley, who said she has lived in the neighborhood for “two husbands,” or since 1977, sent Dr. Howard a handwritten card in support of his sidewalk flair.

“Maybe it isn’t Picasso,” she continued. “It isn’t a sculpture by Degas, but I think he’s entitled.”

Ms. Kelley noted that her own outdoor decorations have included topiary monkeys, a seven-foot bird feeder and “an angel who’s shooting something across the yard.”

Or maybe this was simply a case of an eccentric and mysteriously rich guy being eccentric and mysteriously rich.

Optimus Prime, a Transformers statue in front of Dr. Howard’s home, with flowers in its hand.Credit...Zak Arctander for The New York Times

Neighbors Weigh In

“By thetime you get to 1960, and John Kennedy leaves his Georgetown mansion on N Street for the White House, you just couldn’t afford to get in if you wanted to,” Mr. Musgrove said.

When the Transformers arrived, the group had a new target.

An Optimus Prime statue watches over the neighborhood from Dr. Howard’s rooftop.Credit...Zak Arctander for The New York Times

“You don’t want to just come up with ways to shut down your neighborhood so nobody comes into it,” he said.

‘The Real Tony Stark’

“A lot of people used to call me the real Tony Stark,” he said, referring to Iron Man’s alter ego.

The interior of Dr. Howard’s Georgetown home includes motorcycles and more Transformers sculptures.Credit...Zak Arctander for The New York Times

“There’s a lot of things during that phase of my career that should be kept secret,” he said.

A tabletop Transformer in Dr. Howard’s townhouse beside a couple upright books.Credit...Zak Arctander for The New York Times

In other words, he would like to help human beings preserve their humanity by becoming a little more machine.

The Ruling

Dr. Newton Howard shows off a device that he says will use A.I. to optimize and adjust the levels of deep brain stimulation.Credit...Zak Arctander for The New York Times

“People have misunderstood the issue,” Mr. Strauss said. “You talk about compatibility with a historic district? Technically, these guys are millennia old. I mean, they’re prehistoric.”

After the meeting, Dr. Howard said he thought he would apply for a new permit. But he seemed deflated.

“I’m sad,” he said in a text to a reporter, adding,“What do you think I should do?”

The victory that Dr. Howard said he was seeking was a moral one.

“I know what these Transformers mean to me,” he said. “What does it mean to them?”

As of June 1, the statues were still standing.

#fandom #politics #ethics #transformers

0 notes