#They're each others morality pet

[tails-boogie-board]

Tails' moral code when Sonic is there: :3

Tails' moral code when Sonic leaves for longer than 45 minutes: ;3

[starry-bi-sky]

I am absolutely loving your Danyal Al Ghul au. While I have a soft spot for the whole plotline of Danny becoming his canon personality almost right after breaking away from the LOA all because of Jazz, I'm just as much for your take in which he goes through the same character development as Damian.

Now I'm curious. You already tackled his relationship with Dani, will you eventually take a stab at when he, Sam, and Tucker meet Gregor? Given that it's one of my hated episodes as I couldn't stand Sam's infuriatingly hypocritical attitude to Danny's suspicions of him, I'd kill to see your spin on it.

Aw, thank you! Danyal Al Ghul aus are what got me into DPDC first, so I have a major soft spot for them. That being said, uh, its exactly that soft spot that causes me to have Many Opinions about the trope you just mentioned. Like the trope is all fine and dandy, i don't blindly hate it, my main issue with it is that most aus i've seen treat his backstory as an ex-assassin more like a pretty cosmetic accessory rather than something that actually should have had an impact on him. Especially if he remembers being in the league.

Like i cannot stress enough the fact that being in an ecofascist assassin cult (regardless of his standing in it) should've left him, in some way or another, screwed up morally and psychologically because that's just how development works. Nature vs. Nurture is like a game of tug-o-war that never ends, where they are constantly fighting against each other and one side usually has the upper hand or greater influence. Children model the behaviors of the adults around them (ex: bobo the clown doll experiment), and what impacts them in childhood can stick with them permanently.

Like how my psychology professor put it: a baby's brain is like wet cement; if you slap your hand on it, it leaves an imprint, and the cement dries that way. The same rings true for small children.

I could go on, but I frankly have so many thoughts on that alone that I would end up completely derailing from the second half of your ask, and I don't want to be more critical than I already have. Especially since you just mentioned you have a soft spot for the trope.

[Okay, hold onto your hats because this is long. Naturally lmao.]

Gregor! Man, I'll admit I last watched the show back in middle school on a dodgy illegal website (it had surprisingly good audio and visual graphics, and full episodes. But really annoying porn ads.) but I only made it to like season 1 before my hyperfixation faded and I lost interest. So I never actually saw the Gregor episode.

But... it is relatively easy to find free websites that stream Danny Phantom :), so finding the episode took me like. Thirty seconds. Plus the Tv.Tropes recap page because my damn earbuds just died and im out in public as of rn.

I'm not sure if I'll write something for the gregor episode like I did with Dani, since Dani's a bit of a special case in that she's a clone and tends to be a reoccurring presence in DPDC, and I thought the new dynamic with Danyal would be interesting.

Plus, I'm not a big amethyst ocean shipper for the pure reason of I'm just not all that interested in it; its kinda bland to me. I'll admit I've entertained the thought in this au due to the whole balcony scene i wrote, but I would've entertained the thought anyways if it was Tucker in that position instead. Big multishipper, me.

But, if I had to make it official? Danyal is not interested romantically in Sam when the Gregor episode happens, regardless of his relationship with Valerie. Who, speaking of I'm trying to think about how that would go, and I'm torn between including him almost-dating Valerie or not.

Because on one hand it helps point out Sam's hypocrisy (and i love her but i am always happy to point out her flaws and address them in au) in this episode in terms of Danny spying on them, but on the other hand I'll want to include a lot of set up in order to make Gray Ghost work in this au and wow will that take a while.

Especially with the Flirting with Disaster episode because it happens due to Technus' meddling, and Danny is, well, the son of the Batman? A trained assassin? An ex-assassin nonetheless, but still an assassin? A prodigy child in this au? He might not have needed to use most of his skills in the last few years, but like... there's just a bunch of 'what if' and 'well technically...' and 'would he? he could, but would he?' things that is getting in the way of my thought process and making my head spin.

.

Mmm. Okay. Flirting with Disaster occurs relatively the same as canon with a few exceptions; like Danyal noticing the strange coincidences, and he might take the idea into proper consideration because Sam has a point it is strange, especially out of nowhere.

However,,, he really enjoys Valerie's company, and he does really like her. He's been adjusting to civilian life for the last four years and while he's made a lot of progress, he's still. an ex-assassin child living like a wolf amongst sheep. This is normal, typical teenager stuff, and usually his friends like to encourage him doing normal teenager stuff.

So he's stubbornly holding out on the thought that this is normal, that ghost stuff isn't interfering here. He's a little hurt that his friends are discouraging this, he's not bothered by the fact that Valerie is a ghost hunter and he a ghost -- his mother is an assassin, and his father is Batman, and they still had a relationship. (Granted, he's not gonna tell them that)

If anything, being diametrically opposed to each other but still being in love is part of the family! Granted, usually both parties are aware of said opposition to each other, but he'll make a special exception this time around.

(And man now that i'm thinking about gray ghost, im now thinking about various like. scenes i could write between the two of them. maybe in a reblog.)

Anyways uhhh things relatively go the same as canon. Yeah. I think Sam still has a crush on Danny and still spies out of jealousy with Tucker.

.

Now, the Gregor episode! With that out of the way; the TVTropes recap for this episode isn't the best because it doesn't go into detail about the entire episode like it does with Flirting With Disaster and Shades of Gray.

(which i looked at earlier because I made a section of this post talking briefly about what changes I'd make to the Shades of Gray episode to help set up Gray Ghost, but ended up deleting because it was kinda irrelevant for the matter at hand.)

So I'm taking in bits of the episode clips at a time, I'll try not to get too nitpicky about how each scene goes because then it's gonna take me a longer time to write this.

But! First thing's first; since Danny is not romantically interested in Sam, he is also not jealous of Gregor. He is however, a bit eyebrow-raisey at him in their first introduction, but that's because Gregor is coming off as obnoxious.

Danny thinks he's kinda annoying, and it doesn't take a genius to see that Gregor is trying to impress Sam. But since they've only known him for five minutes he takes the good faith assumption and assumes that Gregor is genuinely trying to show interest in Sam's interests too because he likes her, so he keeps mum. The fake hungarian accent is weird, but it's overall harmless, so he doesn't point it out.

He does do the spying thing when he starts suspecting that Gregor might be working for the GIW. The episode only has this happen twice, but for the au this happens a handful of more times over the course of the week, with Danyal's suspicion steadily rising more and more each time.

Hah, when he brings up wanting to spy on Sam and Gregor because of this reason, Tucker still does his "woah! you wanna spy on Sam?" thing.

Danny immediately turns to him, completely unimpressed, and crosses his arms. "Tucker," he says, deadpan, "you and Sam spied on me and Valerie."

He uses a combination of his ghost powers and his regular stealth ability to spy on them. He's hiding in a tree when they're skipping rocks, close enough that he can use his powers to hear them talk but far enough away that he has a good view of their surroundings.

He's invisible in the cinema, but doesn't accidentally get in front of the projector. He checks the inside of the room for the GIW, and then waits outside the actual room itself, keeping an eye on the area and occasionally flying in to watch the movie out of boredom. It reminds him of being back on a recon mission with the League, but it doesn't end with him orchestrating someone's death.

Then when they're at the mall he stays in human form, blending in with the crowd. He runs into the GIW there, but realizes that they're not there because of Gregor; they're just shopping. They didn't show up at either of the last two locations, and he follows them to make sure they're not also trying to blend in. But they're literally just there for shopping.

Danny is rather pleased with this turnout; so far Gregor isn't a spy, he's just annoying. The next day at lunch he asks Sam how her date with Gregor went, and that's how she figures out he spied on them, because well, she didn't tell him that.

"Have you been spying on me?"

Danny messes with his food a little bit, and Tucker is sinking into his seat with embarrassment. He frowns, "Only last night. Those incompetent government dodos--"

His lip curls up; he gets all 'Shakespeare-y' (as Sam and Tucker put it) when he's insulting someone, "--kept appearing whenever Gregor did. I followed you and him last night to make sure he wasn't a spy."

A roundabout way of saying, "I was worried".

Sam is, as canon, furious. Danny understands why, he knows generally speaking that people don't like being spied on. But he's confused on just how angry she is, and is a little irritated by it.

"Why would you do that!" She exclaims, "That's way out of line, Danny."

"How? You spied on me when I was going on dates with Valerie." He narrows his eyes, and points his fork at her, "I'm not blind, I noticed."

"That's different, we told you why we were suspicious. And we don't have ghost powers like you do."

"I don't need ghost powers to sneak around, Sam, you've seen this firsthand. And I just told you why I followed you, I thought he was working with the guys in white--"

"So you think someone can only be interested in me if they're after you?" (this is a paraphrased quote, folks ;D)

"No! If that was the case I would have voiced my concern the moment I thought it. I don't get why you're so angry, you spied too."

Iiits.... a mess. Sam storms off with Gregor, Tucker tags along because okay, yeah, maybe Gregor isn't with the GIW, or maybe last night was a fluke. Either way he ends up tagging along. Danny overhears that conversation between the GIW and Mr. Lancer, and maybe he's right, maybe he's wrong; but something is up.

I've gotten to that scene in the locker room where Gregor tells Danny that he knows he doesn't like him, and I've paused at Danny's reply to say this: Danyal doesn't even bother trying to deny it.

"I know you do not like me."

"You're right; I don't."

"Ah, let me finish. I know you do not like me because you want to protect your friend, Sam, and I respect that."

"...That's correct."

"Good! Because I am going to ask her out."

"I had a feeling you'd say that," he stands up, claps his hand tight on Gregor's shoulder, and leans close to him with a threatening smile, "so you understand me when i say; if you break my best friend's heart, you're as good as dead, right?"

"Ah,, yes. I am so glad we got that cleared out of the way, and now I hope after we can.. how you Americans put it, hang out?"

In the episode he hugs Danny and gives him a la bise (which is that french greeting where you kiss someone on the cheek two or more times) after they end their conversation. But here, when he goes to do that to Danyal, Danny leans away, points an accusatory finger at him, and says; "Absolutely not; we are not close."

The next scene after that is like, end of day. Sam, Tucker, and Gregor walking away. Sam looks over her shoulder to glare at Danny, then gets forlorn. Tucker looks back and just looks forlorn.

(When did I start narrating each scene?? Eh, I'm writing this in brief spurts of time throughout the day. Don't fix what's not broke)

After that there's this whole scene with the two GIW agents that have been chasing Phantom all episode. They're there because they have Tucker's PDA that Skulker took, and it's got the information of their purple backed gorilla assignment on it. They've been going around seeing who Tucker associates with in hopes of catching Phantom.

Uhh ahaha and that is where this gets a little interesting imo, and also allows me to mention that im retconning Danyal's (already) redesigned ghost form. Which I've wanted to retcon even before this moment bc it was just too busy. I'll get to that in a moment.

The GIW suspect Gregor for being the Phantom because of his white hair and green eyes, which is all fine and dandy until you remember: Danyal (and by extension Phantom) has that very noticeable, rather identifiable facial scar that goes across the middle of his fucking face. The GIW could easily suspect that Phantom hides his scar with makeup if he's in disguise, but if they meet a kid with a seemingly identical facial scar and similar disposition? Hoo boy.

Solution? I've got two: Gregor is canonically a kid from Michigan who faked everything to impress Sam. Considering he knows she's gothic and knows that she's ultra-recyclo vegetarian? He probably watched her from afar or got information on her somehow. His hair is dyed, his eyes might just naturally be green, but if he notices that she's got a crush on either Danyal or Phantom? A little sfx makeup could help him recreate a similar looking scar.

My second solution that's gonna happen anyways bc its that suit redesign; Danyal does hide his face as Phantom. Ghosts are emotional creatures and its a popular headcanon that their interests, ambitions, etc, influence the way they look as a ghost, not just their death. A big reoccurring theme of my au is that Danyal did not leave the League unscathed, and that being an assassin is an important part of his identity.

So i'm discarding the hazmat suit look entirely and leaning into the 'assassin' thing. But the general (stylized) feel is like, white ribbon/cloth vambraces that he has used as a garrote at some point, a hood, a gaiter scarf-type thing. I'm keeping the cape. I did a doodle a few days back that's not the official redesign, but a redesign for Phantom. I may reblog this post with that attached because it's got the general feel down. There's very little white involved, but the inside of his cape flares out and looks like the night sky.

Now, the hood and gaiter scarf gets rid of most of the problem, but Danny's hood doesn't stay on all the time, so the GIW have likely seen the upper half of the scar. :] Gregor's own drawn-on scar doesn't have to be 1:1, but it looks close enough, right? A small scar cutting through the edge of his brow and ends right below the corner of his eye. A 'cool, badass' one opposed to Danny's 'garish' scar.

But! Back to the episode scene. Canon Danny gets written off as being 'too prepubescent' to be Phantom, and honestly it'd be hilarious if Danyal was written off for the same reason (he's calling them idiots in his head if they do). But instead -- leaning into the GIW's incompetence here -- he gets written off as being too mature or too talkative. Or something equally as absurd.

Sam breaks up with Gregor for canon reasons, but when Gregor does his "i really like you, but, come on-!" and gestures to tucker, he adds on "and that scary friend of yours too, seriously!"

Things go relatively the same as canon after that. Danny does end up apologizing for spying, however. Sam does it first. Sorrows, prayers, all that.

.

Things usually end up changed or different when I actually write it down, so I'd likely add more or adjust different scenes according to the flow of the oneshot. This is just like, a general vibe of how things would go, and where some of the more obvious changes would be if I did write this oneshot.

Hope you enjoyed! Thanks for the ask :]

[llycaons]

oh my god the end of this fic is so dumb. wwx survives everything in canon and then the fall off the cliff and lives as a rogue cultivator for over a decade then gets caught and ONE cut to his leg is what's going to kill him now? obvs it doesn't because there's going to be a happy ending but the kids have to save the day lmao. I'll believe one cut can be fatal but the leg just sounds nonvital (yea the femonal artery is there but its not the best choice imo wwx is a survivalist!). make it the stomach at least!!

also its really clear that the author didn't want to deal with any painful relationship drama in the finale so they rewrote the story so nobody has anything to be mad at each other for and it's all the Bad guys (xy, jgy, evil) and the Good guys (lwj, jc, wq, jyl, lsz x2, all aligned in everything and in total agreement and always getting along) it's SO boring. the only character dynamic thats unfriendly is lxc and lwj, and lxc isnt even THERE. I like when characters make up, but the drama is like 75% of the fun of the show and the camps are just split into 'generic bad guys' and 'generic heroes' and besides surface personality traits (jc yells, xy is mischievous, jyl is polite yet dangerous) they're all basically acting the same which is just bad writing! also the finale coming down to a physical overpowering of the villain is also kind of uninspired. the hours of emotional manipulation and breakdowns and betrayals and heavy conversations >>>>>>>>>

it doesn't feel like the canon characters' interaction with each other, it feels like a 4kids rewrite that renders everyone extremely simplistically for the sake of feel-good dynamics at the cost of everything the original story was about. this isn't inherently a bad thing, but it's an aspect for fanfic that annoys me because it's ultimately a story that is far inferior to the original work and erases so much that was meaningful and unique about it

[idiotmf]

Moving into a house infested by shadow demons

I may have this recent obsession with my newest creation for random blurbs I write, but... hear me out while I dump random information on you that you didn't ask for... (also NSFW, minors scram)

Shadow demons are beings made of, well, shadows. They can hide in yours or manifest as anything they want, shape-shifters if you will.

Since they are beings made of shadows, they cannot catch light, therefore they are a little hard to make out, often appearing more as a silhouette but they do have very distinctive, glowing eyes.

Very original, I know.

Now... They infest houses, apartments or just general areas. They're typically regarded as low level demons, as they are bound to the area they infest, feeding off of human emotions; specifically strong emotions like fear, hopelessness and, most importantly, lust.

I currently have two shadow demons that I adore writing about and they are... Well, I feel like they would hate each other.

× Aryllus

Aryllus is a sweetheart. He isn't interested in feeding off of emotions. He finds life fascinating, he loves spending his endless time reading, observing the animals and humans outside this old brick cottage that he can't leave.

He's very blunt and emotionally not the most intelligent but he makes up for it with his academic intellect. He's been trapped here for a century, maybe two. He doesn't know. Time is of no concept to demons, after all.

He's also shy at first. He doesn't want to be discovered by humans. He dislikes being treated like a pest or an inconvenience, so he would rather starve for all eternity than be viewed as a monster.

When you do discover him, and you don't seem afraid of him, he rejoices. He's patient and gentle in every interaction, thinking he has no morals as a demon but very clearly being a kind entity.

But... be careful, even if a shadow demon's primary food is emotions, Aryllus will probably steal your sandwich. And then try to eat the plastic it came in. (-_-')

And then there is...

× Oryllion

Oryllion is heartless, manipulative and possessive. His only interest lies in breaking the inhabitants of his infested house, making them his mindless little toys for his insatiable hunger.

His preferred method is keeping you in a constant state of arousal by any means necessary. You're working on something? Too bad, he's eating you out/ sucking you off under the table. You want to leave? No, he's tying you up with his tendrils and attaching little suckers to your nipples until you scream in agony and pleasure.

He's dominant and degrading, never once uttering your name. You're merely his pet or his toy. His eyes, while nothing more than glowing white orbs, show disgust with you. Even while he shapes his body into the most incomprehensible shape, writhing with obscene appendages and a sheer endless amount of limbs just to force you to orgasm for his next feast, he clearly looks down on you. Humiliation is a part of the fun for him.

But... As much as he wishes, even Oryllion can't fuck everyone into submission. Occasionally, families will move into his domain, much to his dismay.

But hey, at least he gets to traumatize children with his SFW Eldritch horror shapes for a quick snack.

[verosikastrikerstellaexcuser]

Soooo. The new Helluva Boss pride thing and that comment about Striker and Stella not being there. I am genuinely more and more irritated by this "Strikers Straight" horse shit as time goes on.

Really? This guy is your no-pride straight homophobe? -_-

How in any way was this scene not homosexual in nature. Like am I just stupid or what? Striker was specifically latching onto how Blitz is strong and impressive for making his own business and gassing him up over it even before there was a need to to still carry out his assassination "Not many imps start businesses on their own... thats pretty impressive sir". There's clear admiration there. He suggests Stolas dying would be good because it would end "the one who treats you like a plaything" he implies he'd like to see Stolas dead not only for his own sake and for his hate of royals, but for Blitz's sake too. Like, HELLO!?

I'm sorry but the more I look back on it, the whole Striker's straight thing does feel like a retcon. He wasn't originally. I believe that he was changed, because he's mean about Stolas and "good ones" rich people, and we can't have that. He's an antagonist to Stolitz AND a potential "shipped with Blitz" character so he's not a pet/favoured villain or morally grey character. No, instead hes just full on MEANIE BAD!!!! Who's only purpose is creating Stolitz drama. Making him straight is a way of trying to make him boring and more laughable to the yaoi obsessed audience (if you like gay male ships YOU ARE FINE I DO TOO I'm specifically talking about the ones who take it to a fetishistic degree and are raging misogynists). The less Striker is able to be paired up with other male characters in this show, the less value he has outside of being a joke and the less interest in exploring relationships with him there will be since so often do only gay male relationships get to have any interesting depth. Note how other male characters who aren't in gay relationships are treated by this show, COUGH MOXXIE.

And you know what the saddest part of this is to me? In this one single Striker and Blitz scene, they literally had more chemistry and were a more interesting dynamic than Stolitz despite several episodes of that god awful ship. Think about it. They both have clear admiration and respect for each other, interest in each other. They've both been mistreated by royals and had rough pasts so understand each other on that level. They've both had to claw their way to success at the cost of great struggle. So now, they're conflicted. Because they're both obstacles to each other as much as they are love interests. Striker does not want to compromise slaughtering royals and wants to do his job. Blitz wants to preserve his business. They are competing over their goals in life while also attracted to each other. They are a "toxic" or complicated ship without there having to be a creepy unaddressed power dynamic and without the empowered one constantly needing to be portrayed as victimized by the narrative to try and make the relationship seem more even and less creepy.

This is so much more interesting as a kind of "relationship that never could be", to me, than "OMG my daddy bought me that imp for a day as a child then he randomly reappeared into my life again and stole from me, so now I will hold his business over his head to get sex from him and constantly demean him. All while he clearly indicates that he is repulsed by me. Then I will proceed to cry he doesn't like me romantically!"

But no. Striker doesn't get to be bi or gay. However, pan IS slapped onto several female characters... THAT NEVER GET ANY SCENES WITH WOMEN LIKE STRIKER GOT WITH BLITZ. Good fucking God man! If you're gonna make all these supposed women that like women, WHY DO NONE OF THEM BARELY EVER EXPRESS INTEREST IN WOMEN THAT WE GET TO SEE!?

Only the men's sexualities are actively shown. The women, we need to be told what their sexuality is. Because Viv hardly ever bothers with pairing them with anyone or letting them express sexual behaviors. Tiring.

[meanbossart]

If DU Drow and Astarion eventually decided they wanted children, do you think Astarion would be the type of parent to be a little more distant and reserved, pamper until spoiled rotten, the type to feign like he doesn't care but then secretly do a lot of nice things for, or some other unique parenting style

As I Annoyingly always say, I think it would depend on what kind of path they went down in life. I have a vague idea what kinds of things those two will be doing within the next like, 20 years, but past that it's as much of a mystery to me as anyone else!

But assuming they continue on a similar pattern of being morally dubious individuals with a lot of willingness to grow as people (even if only for the sake of each other) I think Astarion would be the type of parent that treats their child kind of like a well-beloved pet up until a certain age, and tends pass the buck quickly onto his partner when his patience runs out. He'd also be a terrible influence and DEFINITELY use that kid for all kinds of fast-money cons when they're out and about LOL.

I think he's capable of loving a kid to bits as long as it's his own, but definitely more of a fair-weather parent for at least a couple of the earlier years 🤷 a lot of "I'm not doing that" and "you deal with this". Also, I think both himself and DU drow would equally prioritize raising a kid that can fend for themselves from a very early age, which would sacrifice some of aspects of one would consider a "wholesome family dynamic", but ultimately it would be something they care very much about given the lives they lived, and much more than playing house.

[captainjamster]

Price who returns home to his daughter less inhibited each time.

daddy kink, incest, use of she/her, girl and daughter - characters are very much adults, i always picture price at about 50-55 and reader at about 27-30

Price that slowly starts to come back worse and worse from his deployments.

There's nothing *wrong* with him - oh, for the first time, everything feels right. Nothing really matters anymore, in such a delicious way. John carves lines in the sand with his morals, so easy to wash away when the tide comes - he just redraws them wherever he needs. It's simple, really - honestly, he doesn't know why it was contained to his work life for so long.

His wife, your mother, left him. She saw what you can't - *won't* (maybe it's the naviety of a young adult, maybe it's how shielded you've been by his deployment and your adolecence). Something woven together with bits of a man, a shell for the brutality and hunger inside that consumes him. The ghosts that haunt behind his eyes, sex just a little too rough, sharpened claws and bite wounds smoothed over by his gruff tone and that charming attitude. She abandoned him. But you wouldn't abandon your Daddy, would you?

You coddle him, just like Daddy's little girl should; do anything to make him feel better. Keep the house spotless, wait for him with open arms, and eventually legs, when he comes back home.

Let him fall asleep on the plush fat of your thighs in his big, lonely bed that you just can't stand seeing him spread out and forlorn against. Stiffle your complaints as he ruts between your cheeks, breathing in deeply the scent of sweat and sleep against your neck, and let him fuck the cum back into you during the sleepy morning sex.

He knows, honey, it feels so weird, but Daddy just can't let his baby girl around these other men. You have no clue what they're capable of; the world is full of filthy, uncouth mutts, and John is keeping his prized pet clean. But he isn't cruel. Price knows what a growing girl like you needs, knows that he can't just leave you high and dry with no toys to play with. 

It's a mutual exchange, something to satisfy you both. Price uses each hole whenever he wants, and makes sure that you cum each time until you're a sobbing, writhing mess. I mean, what else is your poor Daddy meant to do? So pent up and needy, with his beautiful girl so close in reach. You'll just have to lay down and take every drop his thick cock can give you.

dividers and headers by saradika-graphics

[kairiscorner]

question of the day: who would fall the hardest if they ever fell in love?

well... i've got 4 candidates in mind, and i think... (1/4)

miles g. morales — guilty of falling hard for you.

summary: miles morales always struck you as an apathetic guy, one who wouldn't particularly take relationships too seriously; until you both fell for each other, you realized... he did indeed fall for you, but he fell hard, way, way too hard for you. pairing: miles 42 x gn!reader genre: fluff !!

miles g. morales was, to you, such a cold, apathetic guy who always looked calm and composed in everything he did. he seemed like a guy that, you believed, wouldn't care too much if he was in a relationship–that he would put himself before his significant other; though you didn't have any evidence to back it up, save for how distant he seemed to you at first. but oh, were you wrong.

miles g. morales wasn't really all that insensitive as you thought when you got to know him, in fact–he was more sensitive to your thoughts, needs, and wants more than any other boy had ever been for you. it took a while, but the longer you spent around him, the more obvious was the fact that he truly, truly cared about you, from the bottom of his heart.

miles g. morales was the boy who'd stay after class, waiting for your class to finish so he could meet up with you and just be around you. ask him to explain why he's always risking his ass getting scolded for loitering outside your classroom, he can't give you one straight answer. "we had free time", "i had no where else to go", "i... left a pencil in that classroom. yeah."

miles g. morales would never admit to your face that he does indeed stare at you sometimes when you're not looking. whenever he sits close to you in class, be it behind, next to, or diagonally across to you–he always finds every angle of you to be a perfect angle to stare at and admire. don't be mad that he's looking, though, he can't help himself; you're way too mesmerizing for him to handle.

miles g. morales whose sketchpad gradually became a book full of... you in it. it started off as simple, small doodles of you; little cartoony you's that he found adorable and kept drawing when he wasn't focusing on anything else. but as time went by, he found himself focusing on you and your features more and more, almost as if he couldn't rip his gaze away from you.

miles g. morales had also noticed that whenever you speak, he hangs on to every word you say. he thought it would've creeped you out at first, how he can remember all the little details you'd tell him when you're telling him about something that happened in your day or how he remembers all the names of your pets, friends, favorite restaurants, favorite bands and artists–he hangs on to every word you utter, and he can't help it; your voice is just too tantalizingly sweet and attractive that he can't not listen to every word you speak.

miles g. morales was the boy who would use his intimidating appearance to his advantage and defend you against assholes who wouldn't take 'no' from you for an answer. he'd stare them down and glare at them, remind them for you that you said 'no', and if they didn't get the message the first time... they'll have to get through him to get to you. "i'm not gonna back down just because they're bigger than me, because i don't fear them. i don't fear them because, for all their brawn, they sure don't have any brains. and whatever happens after, i'll make sure you don't get in trouble; i'll shoulder the fault. i'd do this for you, every time."

miles g. morales would never wish to get in trouble or have beef with anyone else, but if it was you that others were bothering, then he'd willingly do everything he can to keep you safe and unbothered. he doesn't care what happens to him, so long as you stay safe, so long as it isn't your face being beaten in. you insist he shouldn't do these things for you, but... he can't help it. to picture you in danger makes his heart feel heavy; to get rid of that heaviness, he does these things for you, because he... he loves you.

miles g. morales doesn't dream at night, or at least didn't dream for a long while–or maybe he did and just forgets what he dreamt of the previous night–but when you two became much closer friends, he began to see glimpses and images of you in his dreams. in his wildest dreams, he was able to tell you in all kinds of scenarios that he felt weird around you–a good kind of weird. he'd feel a kind of warmth in his chest, accompanied by the pitter-pattering of his heart when your eyes lock with his, and he feels this urge in the corners of his lips to smile widely when you smile up at him. and, he'd never tell you this, but... in those dreams, he'd tell you how he really feels, and you'd teach him how to handle those feelings by placing your hands on either sides of his cheeks and pulling him close to your face–your nose feeling so soft against his own when your noses brush together–and with the feeling of your hot breath against his own lips... he wakes up.

miles g. morales wakes up to the reality that you probably only see him as a very good friend, a friend you used to think wouldn't care about those who love him but was proven very, very wrong. the friendship bracelet you made for him sits there by his nightstand, next to a cutely frame photo of the two of you at your birthday party. you designed that photo frame for him, and despite how a guy like him probably wouldn't care for cute things... he finds comfort and solace in a bit of cuteness in his life; he just wishes he could express that to you, you, who is cuteness personified. he wears that friendship bracelet every day–and wears it proudly. he doesn't hide it under his sleeve nor tuck it away when you're not looking; he's always got it on and shows it off by just having it on him. he loves having mementos of you on him, it gives him a feeling he hasn't had in a long time... and he hopes that, by some miracle, you'd feel that feeling for him, too.

tags !! @ii01vq @luvstarrstruck @maxoloqy @k4tsu3 @solecitoszn @toneystank-3000 @popeheywardssecretgf @lovefrominaya @onginlove @meowmoraless @euphovlq @anikaluv @conitagray @q2ie @zalayni

[luxurychristmaspudding]

you and your friends (tommy's party pt. i)

summary: your handsome new roommate spells trouble. but you've got a handle on it. haven't you?

pairing: frankie morales x f!reader

ratings/warnings: 18+, MDNI. roommate!frankie, stoner!frankie and stoner!reader. mentions of drinking and smoking weed - they're having a good time! no lady and no baby. idiots in love, split pov, lots of fluff tbh and a whole lotta sexual tension. reader and frankie are little creeps n freaks. reader pays a visit to benny, frankie hooks up with 1 (one) other person. f&m masturbation, voyeurism, lots of cuddling. use of pet names (good girl, baby etc. (platonic, of course))

song is tagged at end of fic - header does not represent reader, only the album!

wc: 9.6k

an: *mc voice* let's get this party started!

part ii - tommy's party

When Frankie catches a glimpse of you from across Will’s crowded living room, he’s not so sure Benny’s idea is a good one.

The room is lit with yellow lamplight, heavy with the scent of sweat and alcohol and cigarette smoke. There are people crammed in everywhere; slumped over chairs and sofas, leant against door frames, moving in and out of the kitchen with the click of the door beads. A sluggish bass thumps out over the party, the thrum of laughter and conversation cushioning any other sound. 

He stands at the back of a sofa which has been turned inwards towards the centre of the room, leaning over Santi and Will as they howl over some story they’re retelling for a couple of girls squished between them. Frankie had been quite happy listening and laughing along, but he’s distracted when Benny taps his arm with his beer bottle and motions over to you.

‘That’s her,’ he says, ‘The girl I was telling you about.’

And yeah, he’s very quickly sure that this is a bad idea. 

Because you’re beautiful. A gorgeous wrap dress clinging to your curves, each outline flowing like you’d been poured into it. Jewellery clinking and glittering around your wrists, neck, and ears, and your hair shining like each strand had been arranged by some ethereal hand. Your smile bands out around you, bathing your audience in a kind of glow, a reflection of your warmth. Frankie watches as you tip your head back slightly in a boundless laugh, the corners of your eyes crinkling, the soft clasp of your hand falling on the forearm of the man sat next to you. Fuck.

Frankie swallows drily, and Benny places a hand on his shoulder.

‘Come on, Fish,’ he says, ‘I’ll introduce you. I’ve told her about you already.’

Frankie doesn’t want to move. He’d much rather watch, much rather have Benny do the heavy lifting here. He doesn’t think he can talk to you, much less make a good first impression. 

But his friend is guiding him forwards, and he can’t help but be shepherded. Panic rises like bile in his throat, and he thinks of turning around, excusing himself to go to the bathroom and just sitting in his truck for a while instead, but then -

Your bright eyes flick up to find Benny approaching you, and your face lights up. You stand from where you were perched on the arm of a chair and walk around the bundle of people whom you'd entranced. You place a gentle hand on a soft-haired woman’s shoulder, inclining your head to say you’ll be back in a minute, before you open an arm to Benny.

‘Benny!’ You call, squeezing his waist as the younger man presses you to his side, planting a kiss to your forehead. ‘How are you, man?’ You ask. Benny returns your greeting, answering your question, but Frankie can’t concentrate on anything he’s saying. You listen intently to his friend, smiling and asking a couple more questions, before looking properly at Frankie.

‘Sorry - hey,’ you say softly, ‘You must be -’

‘Oh god,’ Benny chuckles, ‘Sorry, yes. This is Frankie.’ Benny moves to press Frankie forwards, and he stumbles a little as he catches your outstretched hand. If you notice, you don’t say anything, just smile warmly at him and shake, giving him your name. 

‘It’s good to meet you, man,’ you say, ‘Benny here has told me a lot about you.’ Benny laughs, clapping Frankie on the back.

‘Only good things, Fish,’ he grins, ‘I promise.’ Frankie rolls his eyes at him.

‘So, you’re interested in the room?’ You ask, and Frankie turns back to you. He nods, swallowing.

‘Yeah, really interested. It’d be great to come over and take a look if you’re around.’ He surprises himself at how easily the words roll off his tongue. You offer him another kind smile, nodding encouragingly, and he finds himself relaxing. 

‘Of course,’ you say, ‘You’d be very welcome to. You have glowing recommendations from the boys, anyway.’ You lean in closer to him, lowering your tone conspiratorially. ‘I’d have you moved in tomorrow if I could. Sold on you already.’ Frankie beams bashfully down at the carpet and bites his lip, Benny’s idea straying dangerously back into good territory.

‘I wouldn’t believe everything they tell you.’ He says, eyes trailing over your neckline, the dip in your cleavage, the hollow of your throat, skin gleaming and a little damp with sweat. You reach out and tuck a stray curl peeking out from his cap behind his ear.

‘Not at all, sugar,’ you murmur, and your touch, the pet name, sends a shiver down his spine. ‘I think we’d get along just fine.’

Benny leaves you both soon after, in search of another beer. He asks if you want one and you politely decline. Frankie does the same. You lead him to a quieter corner by the back window and pull him into easy conversation. You laugh and tell him this is his ‘interview’, but confess that you really have no idea what that might involve. Frankie lets you ask him any question that comes to your mind, and in this pool of time, you discover everything you could need to know about each other. Where you grew up, what your parents were like, whether you enjoyed school, what you eat when you’ve had a bad day, how often you clean the bathroom, what you do now, and what your dreams are for the future. You ask tentatively, respectfully about Delta Force. Frankie appreciates the way you preface it with an out - you don’t have to answer if you don’t want to - but he finds that he does. He spares the details but tells you about training, about flying, about meeting the boys. He tells you about Tom, and as little about Colombia as possible. You nod, brow furrowing in sympathy, in feeling, and squeeze his knee in comfort. 

Frankie’s heart shouldn’t skip the way it does, but then you’re asking him more about what Tom was like, how his family are. When his eyes mist over, you take his hand. He runs a thumb over your knuckles. He tells you, cringing, about the coke charge, about his licence. About how he’s getting it back in spring. You grin brightly at him, congratulating him, sucking air in through your teeth and doing a little dance in your chair. Frankie laughs at you, heart swelling. He doesn’t know how you’re getting him to do this - tell you all this stuff, make it feel okay, make him feel great. But he loves it. He could get used to it. You’re sat close to his side, shoulder to shoulder, and you are so warm, your skin so soft. Frankie leans in closer.

‘How did you meet Benny?’ He asks, breathing the words into the shell of your ear over the music. You squirm, dipping your head away from him, and Frankie wonders for an awful moment if he’s misjudged the closeness, if he’s already overstepped your boundaries. 

You look at him sideways, your body angled away from him.

‘He didn’t tell you?’ You ask.

Frankie raises an eyebrow, mouth open, ready to apologise. His brow furrows and he shakes his head.

‘No.’ He says. You smile at him, sighing heavily through your nose.

‘It’s a little embarrassing,’ you say, avoiding his gaze. ‘We met at a bar. We got on really well, and -’ you huff out a breath, meet Frankie’s eye again. He’s still watching you, not having put together the pieces. You roll your head onto your shoulder, pick the label on your bottle. ‘We slept together, Frankie.’

Frankie’s heart drops.

‘Oh.’ He says.

‘Yeah,’ you laugh, ‘Oh.’ You’re quiet for a moment, Frankie scrambling for the right thing to say. He’s too slow. You clap your hands down on your knees and rise from your seat.

‘I’m gonna head outside for a bit,’ you say. He watches you disappear with a weak smile, an anxious feeling welling in his chest. 

Frankie sits for a few minutes, taking pulls from his beer, looking out over the crowd assembled in the living room.

His spots Benny lent against a wall, held up by an arm outstretched beside a girl’s head. A tongue of fire licks up through Frankie’s belly, and he has to sit with it for a moment to work out what it is. Jealousy. He’s jealous that Benny has already touched you, has already heard you. Jealous that Benny has already crossed that threshold, and now he has to be the one to move in and keep his distance. Arbitrary rules, he knows, rules which have been disregarded before. Already, you’d be more than a quick fuck. It’s crass, but Frankie knows you should be more than someone you take home from a bar. Maybe you are - you’re here, after all, clearly invited. Frankie’s mind rocks with the notion that Benny is saving you, keeping you around. It would be cruel of him, but not impossible. Benny had a bad habit of getting what he wanted. 

Frankie grinds his teeth, tears his eyes away from his friend. Stupid, stupid. You’re someone he’s only just met, someone he might be living with. Whatever weird thing this is going on in his brain, he needs to fix it quick. Thoughts like these are not suitable in situations like living together.

Frankie stands, but instead of speaking to Benny, instead of getting to the bottom of why you’re here, he follows you through the door beads into the kitchen and out the back door.

You’re sat on the porch swing just below the kitchen window, and the surprise of finding you so easily brings Frankie to a sharp halt. You look up from your bag, eyes wide, lips slightly parted in the glow of the porch light. 

‘Hey,’ you say softly, ‘Are you okay?’

Frankie breathes out heavily.

‘Yeah,’ he says, ‘Sorry about that - in there,’ gesturing over his shoulder, back into the house. 

‘Oh,’ you say, shaking your head and bringing out a small plastic baggy from your purse. ‘Don’t worry about it. It’s not a thing. There’s no -’ you wave a hand around your head, ‘Feelings there or anything. We’re just friends now.’

Frankie nods, leans against the doorframe. Hums a response.

‘You wanna sit?’ You ask, scooching over on the swing, patting the space next to you.

Frankie pushes off the frame and comes to sit next to you. He rocks the seat slightly with his feet, yours dangling a little too far off the ground to move it. 

You grin at him, delighted with the movement. You shuffle to tuck your legs under you. 

‘Amazing,’ you grin, ‘See? Already a dream team.’

Frankie grins back at you and watches you take more items out of your bag. A small, circular grinder, a tiny rolling tray, pink papers. You pop open the baggy, and the smell of the dried plant seeps through the air, rushing up his nostrils. Frankie breathes deeply, watching you sprinkle some of the bud into your open grinder. You close it, and look up at him.

‘You a narc?’ You ask, lips still quirked.

‘No.’ Frankie chuckles. You bite your cheek, shrug your shoulders.

‘Ya never know…’ you coo, and Frankie grins.

‘I got busted for coke, baby,’ he reminds you, ‘I’m not gonna rat you out for weed.’

You laugh, nudging him with your elbow.

‘Fair enough.’ You say. Frankie watches as you twist the grinder back and forth over the bud, entranced by the motion of your hands. His lips part, watching the strong flex of your wrists. 

‘Do you smoke?’ You ask. His tongue dips out to lick the pillow of his lower lip, and you trace the movement with your eyes, fascinated. You swallow, clearing your throat softly. ‘Frankie?’

His eyes dart up to yours, embarrassed, flushed. 

‘Yeah?’ He says.

‘Do you smoke?’ You repeat. He looks away from you, shy, shaking his head.

‘I used to,’ he says, ‘But not for a long time.’

You nod, looking out over the garden with him. The cool wind brushing through the trees, the luminescence of the town beyond their feathered tops.

‘You wanna share?’ You ask. He looks back at you, surprised, eyebrows high on his forehead. You shrug. ‘Don’t have to, of course. Especially if it’s not gonna be good for you. Just that - if you wanna move in, I’m afraid it’s a habit I won’t be quitting.’ You raise an eyebrow at him, half apologetic, half warning. He swallows visibly.

‘What if I get too high?’ He says, breathless. You snort, balancing the rolling tray on your knees as you separate the hash out onto the paper, on top of the lavender you’ve pulled from your purse.

‘It’s okay, sugar,’ you say, ‘I’ll look after you.’

Frankie stares at you, eyes wide.

You snicker at him, finish rolling, and lick the paper. Frankie watches the swipe of your tongue, its slow draw along the edge, and feels his cock twitch in his jeans. Maybe this isn’t such a good idea -

He watches as you perch the joint between your lips, put your shit back in your bag, and pull out a lighter. Your eyelashes flicker down to rest on your cheeks as the lighter clicks and you cup your hands around the flame. You take a deep breath in, hollowing your cheeks, lost to the sensation, the taste. Frankie’s jaw flexes, and he has to look away again. You exhale the thick smoke, blowing it away from him, taking another drag before knocking your hand against his arm.

‘Want some?’ You ask. 

Frankie mutters a thanks and takes the joint clumsily in his fingers, rotating it until it’s comfortable in his grip. He brings it to his mouth, and you watch as he sucks in and immediately sputters out again. He bends over his knees in a hacking cough, and you gently take the spliff as you pat his back. 

‘You okay?’ You ask, taking another draw for yourself. Frankie leans back against the seat, sucking in great breaths of air, eyes watery, his body still twitching. He gulps and nods, not looking at you. ‘Good.’ You say, softly. 

Frankie tries again a few minutes later, and is a little more successful. You finish the rest of the joint together before you flick the roach off into the darkness. Your body hums with the crickets and the static of the night air, and you can’t wipe the grin off your face.

‘This is nice.’ You say dumbly, turning to face him.

His arms are crossed and his jaw is clenched again. He breathes deeply through his nose. You scrunch your face up at him, and he notices the movement out the corner of his eye. His gaze slips to you for just a second, and a large smile slips across his features. You giggle at him, heavy and giddy. The urge to take the hand folded closest to you strikes, and when you do, he turns to look at you properly.

‘You have really nice hair,’ you say softly. Frankie chuckles, unable to help himself. You grin at him. ‘What?’ You say. ‘You do.’

Frankie laughs harder, and you reach over to take the cap off his head. He makes a slow, unconvincing grab for it before you settle it on your own hair, kneeling up to swipe a hand through his curls. He watches you, unable to look away, and you gasp at the feeling of it carding through your fingers.

‘So soft,’ you breathe, delighted. You look into his eyes again, one hand cradling the back of his head. His eyes dart down to your mouth, and you lick your lips before starting to giggle. ‘Anyone ever told ya you got baby cow eyes?’ You say.

Frankie’s brow furrows slightly. His words are slow and slurred. ‘What?’

You giggle harder and move your hand round to cup his cheek, looking at him very seriously. 

‘Your eyes,’ you say, ‘Are like a baby cow’s.’ A slow spread of joy glows across Frankie’s features. His eyes scrunch up with his smile. ‘Nooo,’ you cry softly, ‘Now they’re all happy. They’re not all big and brown anymore.’

Frankie laughs with unbridled amusement, his head dropping from your hand as he clutches at your knees.

‘A baby cow?’ He gasps. You nod quickly, enthusiastically.

‘Yeah, Frankie. You got real pretty eyes.’ Your own are wide and earnest, and that seems to convince him. He raises an eyebrow before grinning goofily at you, lifting a finger to tap your nose.

‘You think I’m cute.’ He says, and you snort, which only sends him off into a flood of more giggles.

‘I didn’t say that. Only said you got pretty eyes.’ 

It’s only a little, tiny lie. And you think it’s for the best.

You spend another hour out on the porch before returning to the party, and though you don’t stray far from each other, you make a point of finding Frankie before you leave. You hand him your phone, and he stares at it, confused, before you roll your eyes playfully and say -

‘I need your number, dummy. For the room.’

He taps his number into your phone, and you save it with a little cow emoji next to his name. Frankie bites away his smile. 

When he’s lying on the sofa in the dark later, surrounded by bottles and cans and ashy cigarette ends, he can’t stop grinning to himself.

You text him early the next morning, giving him a time and a date to come and see the flat. Frankie replies with so much enthusiasm that he flushes when he reads the message back, dropping his phone onto the coffee table as he stretches out on Will’s floor. He sacrifices his spot on the sofa to Will and Benny, Santi beside him as they watch Face/Off over breakfast. 

He doesn’t see your reply until the movie ends.

Can’t wait! So excited to see you!

He sets his phone back down with a happy sigh, so loud that Will and Santi, and then Benny, ask him what he’s so pleased about. 

He only gets them to stop probing by smacking Will in the face with a cushion.

---

Frankie moves in a week later, while you’re at work. 

You think it’ll be much easier for you both. If you were in the flat you’d only be in the way, and he probably needs the space and time to figure out where he wants to put his stuff. Plus, the idea of seeing him all hot and sweaty is one that, quite frankly, you’ve been trying to avoid.

Benny had told you all about his friends on that first date at the bar. You had been taken with the way he’d talked about them, so fond and positive. You’d enjoyed asking him so many questions, and were delighted when he asked you so many in return. And Benny was cute - he was hot. Enthusiastic and giving and good. But you knew, even laying next to him, both panting, turning your heads to grin at each other at the same time, that it wouldn’t go anywhere. 

He had been your type on paper. He’d ticked so many boxes, and you had both fallen into that first date with such excitement - but there was just something missing. There was no burn. You had a good time, you wanted to see him again, but you didn’t yearn for him the way you wanted to. You didn’t miss him when he wasn’t around, you weren’t worried about him fucking other girls. 

It hadn’t been a difficult conversation to have. Benny took it better than you’d hoped, and once it had been established, friendship came easily. You met Will, got on well, and the three of you would go for drinks. Benny would come over to watch a film and eat takeout, and you never touched each other. Sure, you thought about it. But you were on a mission to make life easier for yourself. To not fuck around and get attached to someone you shouldn’t get attached to.

So you should have known better when he introduced you to Frankie. Should have made up some excuse, even if he pretty much had the room after all the boys had told you. Should have backed out as soon as those beautiful brown eyes blinked at you, at that first curve of a shy smile, as soon as you’d tucked that curl behind his ear. Because Frankie was someone you could get attached to. Watching him cook, watching the steam trail out behind him after a shower, watching him stretch out on the sofa with a book, having him crinkle his crows feet at you from across the kitchen as he sips his coffee, the low timbre of his voice reaching you across the floorboards, none of these things are something you needed to know, to see. You should have known better.

Work has been busy, long. 

So busy you had to stay behind for a couple of hours to make sure the late shift got set up properly, and then you could trudge home. The bus journey, the walk up the hill, the clamber up the stairs to your front door. 

When you make it halfway up the stairs, you can smell it. A delicious, warm waft of heady spices, of richness flowing down through the stairwell. You breathe deeply, aching feet pausing on the concrete just so you can tip your head back and inhale. Your stomach growls loudly, and you wish whoever is cooking a good meal, because it sure fucking smells like it.

The smell is stronger on your floor, and you’re still taking deep breaths when you push open your front door. There’s the sound of sizzling coming from the kitchen, the low hum of the radio playing. You toe off your trainers, leaving them next to a couple of unpacked cardboard boxes, splashing your keys into the bowl on the sideboard.

‘Frankie?’ You call. There’s no answer.

You move towards the sound, and push open the door to the kitchen. 

Frankie is stood with his broad back to you, stirring something in a pot. He bops his head and hums in time with the radio, unaware of you behind him.

‘Holy fuck, Frankie. That smells amazing.’

He turns with a wide smile, a spatula in his hand.

‘Welcome home. I made enough for us both.’ 

You grin at him, dropping your bag and shucking off your jacket, coming to stand beside him. You ask about what he’s cooking, and he talks you through each step, the ingredients he’s used, and finally, blessedly, tells you it’ll be ready in five minutes.

You eat across the table from each other in quiet, easy conversation. Even with it all so new, with so many of his unpacked boxes still dotted around the flat, it feels like Frankie has always been here. 

You wash and dry the plates side by side, laughing and happy and full. You retreat to your respective bedrooms to change into your pyjamas, and then you prop your door open for Frankie to come join you if he’d like. You flick on an episode of Adventure Time and dig around in your bedside table for your rolling stuff, sitting cross-legged and giggling at the cartoon as you grind, arrange, and roll the joint. 

Your roommate appears in the doorframe, arms folded across his chest.

‘Come in,’ you say, beckoning him closer, shuffling on the bed to make room for him. He eyes the spliff in your hand. ‘Wanna join?’ You ask. He hesitates.

‘Just a little.’

You nod, stretching off the bed towards the window, grabbing your lighter from the ledge. You flick it to life as Frankie watches from the bed, your legs bare below your sleep shorts, your nipples hard beneath your t-shirt in the cool night air. You jerk your head at him as you exhale, and he crawls over the bed towards you. You try not to think of the way he moves as you hand it to him. 

Frankie puffs from the joint a couple times, and passes it back to you. You continue the routine until there’s nothing left, finishing the last couple of tokes before flicking the roach onto the street below.

‘What do ya wanna do?’ You ask him, closing the window. Frankie’s settled back on your bed amongst your pillows. He frowns at the ceiling.

‘Watch a movie.’ He says, and you giggle at the tacky sound of his speech.

‘Come on then, buddy,’ you say, taking his hand and pulling him from the mattress. ‘We’ll watch it on the sofa. You need some water,’ you sing, leading him towards the kitchen. ‘And we’re gonna need snacks.’

Frankie chuckles at the way you say it, a faux accent twanging at your words. He lets you push him down onto the sofa and watches you dopily as you busy yourself with refreshments. You dump everything on the coffee table before turning on the TV.

‘Help yourself,’ you say, gesturing to your stash, and Frankie leans forward in slow motion to grab a can of coke. You giggle at him. ‘What do you wanna watch?’

Frankie cracks the can open and shrugs.

‘Don’t mind.’ 

You think for a moment, roving through Netflix before slapping his arm.

‘Oh my god!’ You laugh. ‘Notting Hill. We’ll watch Notting Hill. Holy fuck, it’s so bad when you’re stoned, you have no idea.’

Frankie groans beside you, leaning forward again to grab a bag of chocolate pretzels. He rips them open and offers one to you.

‘Whatever you say, boss.’ He smiles.

Halfway through the film, Frankie’s eyes begin to seriously droop. You can’t blame him. It must have been a long day.

When his head drops to your shoulder, you let him cuddle in. He stays there for a while, but when he wakes with a start at the soreness, you manoeuvre him to turn and lay with his head on your lap. He’s pliant and soft in your hands, sighing with relief as he settles. You run a hand through his curls, scratching at his scalp, twisting strands gently around your finger. You stroke and scratch absentmindedly, watching Hugh Grant’s dramatic confession, only remembering what you’re doing when a deep snore resonates from below you.

You look down to find Frankie sound asleep, peaceful face turned up towards you. You admire his silky hair, the scruff of his beard, the heart shaped patch on the side of his face. His soft, full bottom lip, strong nose, the slope and sweep of his brow. You smile at him, something stirring in your belly.

‘Little baby cow.’ You murmur to yourself, and bite your lip to keep from smiling any wider.

---

The first weekend you have off together comes weeks after Frankie moves in. 

You have a long, cosy lie in before running your respective errands in the morning, planning to reconvene in the afternoon with food and movies and your other favourite pastime. 

By some miracle, you get home before Frankie, and unload your bag of snacks and oven food onto the kitchen table. You’re just organising it, putting away what needs to be in the fridge, when Frankie steps through the front door with a crate of soda and your favourite flowers in his other hand.

‘Hey,’ he grins at you, kicking the door shut before stepping into the room and holding out the blooms. ‘These are for you.’

You take the flowers carefully, admiring the colours, the form, the texture. You look back at him with shining eyes, and Frankie blushes.

‘How did you -’

He shrugs, moving to put the soda in the fridge. With his back to you, he says -

‘You mentioned them once, ‘bout a week after I moved in.’

Your heart melts a little, touched at the care, the thought. 

‘Just thought, ya know - don’t need an occasion. Sometimes it’s just nice to pick something up and say I thought of you.’

You blush at his words, just as he turns back around and spots on the table -

‘Holy shit,’ he says, picking up the chocolate covered pretzels. ‘I was just thinking of these! I didn't get any while I was out and they’re my -’ He looks up at you, a knowing smile creeping across his lips.

‘Your favourite,’ you say. ‘I saw them and thought of you.’

Frankie laughs, stepping forward to press a kiss to your forehead.

‘Dream fuckin’ team.’ He says.

You’re both back in your pyjamas within ten minutes, sat on Frankie’s bed, a joint on the bedside table ready to go.

He flicks through the home screen of his Playstation, settling on Red Dead Redemption 2, starting up the game as you lean out his window to dispel the first stream of smoke. You pass it back and forth between you, and when it’s done Frankie chucks the roach in his bin. You climb underneath the duvet and watch Arthur Morgan’s adventures through hooded eyes, your cheek pressed against his shoulder. He’s warm and solid beneath you, and you wrap your hands around his arm, breathing him in. You watch in rapt fascination as he tracks down carvings in the mountains, giggle and scold him when he barrels down the wrong side of the roads, and swat at him when his horse gets hit by a train. He loads back up his previous save to get her back, and you visit a time traveller, hunt for vampires in Saint Denis, and squeal when a UFO appears over an abandoned hut filled with rotted bodies. He tells you the stories of the characters in a spaced out slur, and you immerse yourself in the sunshine, the rain, the snow, the mists. You close your eyes to the sounds of hooves, of birds, of nature, of Frankie’s strong heartbeat and his deep breathing.

At some point in the evening, you wake again, sitting and stretching. Frankie smiles sleepily down at you.

‘I’m gonna head to bed in a bit.’ He says, and you smile at him, kneading your neck. 

‘No worries,’ you mumble. ‘I’ll head to mine, too. Catch you in the morning.’

Frankie fist bumps you as you stumble towards the door.

‘Thanks for hanging out.’ He says. You snort at him before opening the door.

‘No worries, Fish,’ you say, ‘I’m sure I was great company.’

He grins back, and you blow a kiss before snicking the door shut.

Your own sheets are blissfully cool, and you turn on a little quiet music to get yourself off to sleep. The soft, slow jangle of guitars and low voices do the trick, and if you turn your head just so, you can still smell Frankie on your pyjama top.

---

When you come through to the kitchen the next morning, Frankie is already cooking breakfast. He looks cosy in his old Lakers top and sweats that only just cling to his hips. It tightens something in your belly.

‘I’m making eggs and bacon,’ he says, before gesturing with a spatula to the percolator. ‘There’s coffee over there if you want some.’ 

‘You tryna seduce me or something?’ You ask, waggling your eyebrows. Frankie laughs at you, gorgeous little crows feet crinkling in the corners of his eyes. You have to look away quickly to hide your own gooey expression. 

‘No,’ he says, voice grappling with something of an edge - laughter, a little teasing, ‘I’m not in the business of fucking my friends.’ You flash your eyes back to him, eyebrows raised in surprise, and he’s peering at you from below his eyelashes, biting his lip. A grin blows out across your cheeks, and you bite your lip back.

‘Unfortunately for you, I am,’ you sigh, sweeping your hand across the edge of the kitchen table before glancing at him, his attention turned back to breakfast. ‘Santi still single?’

Frankie freezes over the eggs he’s cooking. He looks up at you slowly. Your heart dips in your chest, legs flooding with the feeling that you’ve definitely said the wrong thing.

‘Are you - are you… interested?’

You feel your cheeks heat.

‘I -’ you rub your face, trying to organise your thoughts. Frankie feels something like a freight train headed towards him. ‘No,’ You say, turning fully towards him, smiling a little. ‘No, I’m not. He’s great - he’s a lovely guy, but no.’

Frankie nods, once, twice, before staring back down at the yellow in the pan. He can’t remember what he was doing. Frying or scrambling? They’re too far gone now. He’ll have to try and pass them off as an omelette.

‘It was a stupid joke.’ You mumble, and Frankie shakes his head at the pan.

‘No, no,’ he says, ‘I just, ya know, if you were -’

You smile at him. 

‘You’d set me up?’

Frankie shrugs. You smirk.

‘Well then. If you’re patient, sugar, I might make my way through everyone. Finish with you, of course, make sure we last a little longer.’

Frankie’s head whips up, jaw dropped. He breathes your name, and you laugh.

‘My god, Fish. I’m kidding.’

‘Jesus Christ.’ Frankie laughs, relieved, disappointed. You dance around the kitchen table towards him, reaching out your hands to squish his cheeks, chanting got ya, got ya, as Frankie curls the dish cloth from over his shoulder to whip you with it.

You shriek and leap out of his way, running from him.

Frankie makes no move to follow you, turning off the stove instead, plating up the eggs and bacon. You’re still giggling at him, now armed with a dish cloth of your own. He points at you with the spatula.

‘Sit.’ He says, and you laugh again, taking a seat as Frankie brings over the plates and cutlery. As he settles, you leap up. Frankie watches you.

‘Where are you going?’ He says, spearing some egg with his fork. You return to the table with two mugs of coffee. 

‘Can’t forget the most important part of the meal.’ You say, sitting and slurping loudly, winking at him over the ceramic.

Frankie laughs at you through a mouthful of food.

‘You coming to Will’s tonight?’ He asks, swallowing.

You hum a little. 

‘Yeah, guess so.’ You say.

‘Boys’ll be there,’ he says, ‘So you’ll know a few faces. Not sure who else.’

You nod, shovelling bacon into your mouth. Frankie smiles.

‘Sure,’ you say, ‘I’ll come.’

That night, you find yourselves round at Will’s again. What was supposed to be a relatively quiet poker night has inevitably turned into too many people drinking too much booze, but he never seems to mind. 

Frankie is back leaning on the sofa, listening to Santi and Will talk. He’s laughing, thinking he should go and grab you in a minute - he doesn’t know how many of these stories you’ve heard, but he’s sure you’d enjoy them. He has a compulsion to watch you laugh, to see you enjoy the people around you, to feel the shine of your company, to see the way you look at him, eyes dancing with amusement, always as though there is some kind of joke you’re thinking of that only he will understand. 

When he looks around the living room, he can’t find you. It’s not unusual. He knows by now that you’ll be off chatting to whoever is lucky enough to find you, and he finds himself moving in the direction of the kitchen, pushing through the door beads. When he doesn’t see you in there, he catches Benny at the sink, asking if he’s seen you.

‘Sure,’ he says, ‘I was just with her. She’s out on the porch swing.’

A muscle flexes in Frankie’s jaw as he moves away from Benny, that familiar creep of possessiveness crawling up his throat. Stupid, stupid. He’s already asked him, knows that he wants nothing from you. So why does it irritate him so much?

You’re outside on the swing just like Benny said, gazing up at the stars as Frankie slumps down beside you. He bounces the chair, and you giggle at him.

‘Having a good time?’ You ask. He nods. 

‘Yeah. You?’ 

You nod, tilting your face to look at him. Frankie doesn’t know when he decided it, but he’s sure your eyes are the prettiest he’s ever seen. He loves the way they shine out at him now in the glow of the porchlight, warm and kind and soft. That sunny feeling he gets as he watches you moves something silken and deep within him, something lonely. 

I was just with her. Unfortunately for you, I am -

‘What?’ You say softly.

‘Nothin’,’ he shrugs. ‘Just glad I met you.’ 

You scoff lightly at him, knocking your head against his shoulder. 

‘Glad I met you, too, sugar.’ You murmur, and when Frankie meets your eye, his breath seizes in his lungs. 

You are so close.

Your eyes dart between his own and his mouth, lingering on the shape of his lips, the flecks of grey in his moustache. He can’t move as you lean closer to him, as you ghost two fingers over his wrist. Your eyes are burning, teasing, curious as he stares down at your lips, soft and inviting, curved around so many wonderful words, wrapped around the end of a joint or a beer bottle - 

‘There you are,’ Will says, bursting through the back door. You startle away from Frankie, and he feels dizzy at the change, at the rush of what was about to happen. The warm press of your body against his. ‘C’mon,’ says Will, ‘We’ve got a poker game to win.’

You watch as Frankie hauls himself away from you, settling back in the swinging chair. When the door shuts behind the two men, you press a hand to your chest, feeling the rattle of your heartbeat.

---

You wake as though through fog, to a noise you can’t quite place.

It’s quiet, but almost right by your head. A slick, rhythmic sound, heavy breaths, quiet groans, curses. Through slipping sleep, you process them, too tired to be embarrassed, to be thinking straight. The sounds of Frankie jerking off go straight to your core, and you can feel yourself growing wetter and wetter as you listen, as you slip your hand beneath the elastic of your panties and join him, careful to muffle your own sounds to hear him better.

You become frantic as he grows louder, as he mutters to himself, as his bed moves just enough to squeak. You feel your eyes roll to the back of your head as he looses a particularly loud fuck, and then a strangely familiar word, followed by a long, low groan. You come hard on your fingers, panting as the heat subsides, as you hear Frankie leave his room and head to the bathroom. 

Languid and liquid in the sunbeams on your blankets, it takes you longer than it should to decipher what you’d heard. Longer than it should to wonder if it really was your name he’d gasped as he came.

Frankie needs air. 

He needs to get out of the apartment, so while he’s drinking his morning coffee, he drafts up a list of things to do. Parcels to return, small things to buy, a new coffee shop he’d like to try out. Anything to try and clear you out his head. The feel of your body pressed against his on the seat, the ghosting of your fingers on the inside of his wrist, the flame in your eyes. The way you’d jumped when Will found you, whether you meant it, whether he was imagining it, what he was going to do, what he was not going to do -

You shuffle into the kitchen still in your pyjamas, stifling a yawn behind a hand. You help yourself to coffee from the percolator, and Frankie tells you he’s heading out. You nod and give him a squeeze, saying you’re off to the gym, anyway. Frankie tries not to think of how your ass looks in your blue leggings, and sets off down the stairwell.

He stays out for as long as possible, breathing in the fresh, spring air, looking into shop windows and petting passing dogs. He only decides to call it a day when his stomach starts growling and his feet start aching. 

He feels good, energised. 

Maybe he should get out more often.

Frankie shuts the front door gently behind him, placing his keys in the bowl. He says your name, only half expecting a reply. You didn’t say when you were heading out, or when you’d be back. 

He yanks his boots off by the shoe rack you set up last week, and tucks them away neatly. His feet carry him towards the kitchen, fingers itching to hold a cup of coffee and sandwich before a soft sound stops him. His heart leaps in his throat, and he freezes, not daring to take another step. 

He registers the soft sound of the running shower, and anticipation lodges itself in his belly. He waits, heart hammering in his chest, and almost moves before he definitely, definitely hears it again.

You moan softly on the other side of the bathroom door, and Frankie’s eyes flutter shut. 

He should go. He should absolutely go, but he can see from here in the hallway that the bathroom door is open just a crack. And he has always been a flawed person, which is why it doesn’t surprise him that when he goes to shut it, to knock, to move past, he can’t keep himself from looking. Can’t stop his eyes from finding you, back against the tile, hair dripping down your shoulders, water spattering across your skin as you stand with your legs apart, one hand spreading you open, fingers moving fast across your clit. Frankie grips onto the door handle as his eyes close again. 

Because he knows what’s about to happen. Hot shame floods through him as his cock hardens embarrassingly fast, a thin ringing in his ears as he opens his eyes again, takes in the soft flesh of your thighs, the flow of water, the rivulets tracing your skin, your glistening core, the way your fingers move so desperately - 

And Frankie can see it, can feel it, can taste it when he imagines opening the door and climbing there with you, not giving you a chance to be surprised before he sinks to his knees and replaces your hand with his mouth. 

With shaking fingers, he unbuttons his jeans, unzips his fly, and begins to stroke his cock.

He has no idea how long you’ve been in there for, but he watches closely, ravenously for your tells. It’s not gonna take him long, but he wants to watch you fall apart first. 

He watches you move your weight so you slump a little lower on the wall, a harsh gasp leaving your lips. He watches as your hips twitch and roll forwards as you slow your pace, rubbing harder instead of faster, and he barely contains his own moan as you whine, high-pitched and needy, echoing off the walls. He watches your tummy clench with each stroke of your fingers, stares with drooling amazement as you snake a hand up your body to grasp and play with your tits, squeezing them, rolling your nipples between your fingers, pinching them as hard as you can. Frankie grunts when you gasp out a fuck, and for a long, heart clenching second, he thinks you hear him. You slow your movements, trying to peer through the dark crack in the door. 

Frankie can’t move, can’t stop fisting his cock as he watches you, precum dripping through his fingers, the dirty thrill of getting caught spurring him on. 

You listen carefully, turning your head to the side to see if you can catch any more noises. Satisfied you’re still alone, you continue, this time quickly finding a pace which Frankie can tell will send you off the edge. Your wet skin, the slick sounds of your fingers even over the running water, and your moans, gasps, curses, getting even louder. 

Frankie stares still, enraptured by the goddess in front of him unravelling herself, and he wants nothing more than to touch you, taste you, smell you. He tries not to think of what he’d give to be inside you, but a soft moan escapes him anyway. Imagining the clench of your warm, wet cunt, hearing you make those noises for him, the slip of your wet skin in his grasp, your tits in his hands, the bite of your teeth on his shoulder sends him rocketing to his orgasm. He barely has time to wrap the bottom of his t-shirt around his cock, biting his fist as he empties himself, opening his eyes just in time to watch your body spasm and clench, your back arch, your head knock against the tiles as you cry out oh fuck, oh fuck, oh god. 

Once you finish riding it out, whimpering and twitching, you close your eyes and breathe heavily. Frankie feels feverish, head tipping forwards onto the door frame as he tucks himself gently back into his boxers and pulls his jeans back up. He takes one last breath before a short, shrill beep echoes throughout the apartment. 

Your eyes snap to the door again as you jump, and Frankie flinches, slowly backing away as you cock your head at the gap. Beep. Frankie can feel his pulse in his ears as he reaches the front door with soft treads, managing to open it quietly through his blind panic just as you turn the shower off. He slams it shut, calling your name from the entryway, cringing at the breaking huskiness of his voice. He waits a few seconds as though he’s taking off his shoes before running to his room, hearing the snick of the bathroom door closing just as his shuts behind him. 

Frankie leans against the wood, forcing short breaths in and out his nose. Beep. 

The smoke detector again, on the other side of the door. It shocks him back to life as he rips his shirt off, stuffing it deep in his laundry hamper before scrambling for a new one, praying to whatever god is out there that you hadn’t just caught him in such an obvious lie. That you hadn’t just caught him jerking off to you masturbating in the shower.

Frankie leaves his room as quickly as possible, knowing that the longer he stays in there the more likely it is you’ll know something is wrong. He yanks the door open, stepping out into the hallway, stopping to listen on the hardwood floor. There’s not a peep from the rest of the flat, but the door to the bathroom is now wide open, small tendrils of steam slipping out into the hallway. Frankie takes a deep breath and steps lightly down the hallway to the kitchen, intent on coffee this time, on something to distract him, something to do with his hands. Beep.

He works on autopilot as he pours the grounds into the percolator, throwing up a mental wall every time a glimmer of your body passes through his mind. When he sets it over the stove top he grips the counter, shoulders hunched, chewing his cheek as he breathes heavily through his nose. This time, the beep of the smoke detector makes him jump, and he swipes a hand over his mouth.

‘We need to change the batteries in that.’ You say, and Frankie flinches as you breeze past him into the kitchen. He can’t look at you, shame and arousal colouring his neck, all the way up to the tips of his ears. He makes a noise in his throat, and you shoot him a look over your shoulder.

‘You okay?’ You ask. He swings his eyes to you, and you look back at him the same as always. Warm, kind. You can’t know. You must be oblivious, and somehow that makes it worse. 

‘Yeah,’ he says, and tries to smile, ‘Just need a coffee.’ 

His eyes try not to linger on your body, try not to linger on your lips, your hands. He grips the countertop harder. Stop it. Stop thinking about it.

You smile back at him.

‘If you’re sure,’ you say, sidling closer, laying a hand on his shoulder. You squeeze and wink up at him. ‘Can you make me one? I’m exhausted.’

Frankie tries to muffle his sharp intake of air with a cough. I’m exhausted. How long had you been in there? Had you even been to the gym? Or had you just spent the morning grinding and moaning and coming -

‘Sure.’ He croaks, and you frown at him.

‘You’re really feeling okay?’ You ask, bringing the back of your hand to his forehead. ‘Might be coming down with something. Tired and coughing.’ 

He shakes his head a little too enthusiastically. 

‘No, I’m fine.’ He says, interrupted only by the beep of the smoke alarm. You pull a face at it, and he moves to take the coffee off the stove.

‘Go get the ladder,’ he says, ‘And I’ll change the batteries.’

You swish out of the kitchen, and Frankie scrubs his face with his hands, groaning out a god before taking two mugs from the cupboard and filling them. He’s just finished pouring in the creamer when you struggle back through the doorway, huffing under the weight of the stepladder.

‘Coffee’s there.’ He says, jerking his head in the direction of the mugs as he takes it from you. Frankie sets it up under the detector, stepping up the first couple of rungs before you stand in front of him. He quirks an eyebrow at you, and you tighten your hands around the ladder’s sides, holding it steady.

‘Don’t want you doing any damage to yourself.’ You say softly.

Frankie nods and continues climbing, trying not to think of how close you are. He focuses as he reaches the ceiling, stretching up to unscrew the device.

You swallow as you’re exposed to the slither of skin the action reveals, golden in the afternoon light, and the dark hair which trails down, down, below the waistline of his jeans.

‘Take it for me.’ He says from above you, and you drag your eyes away to meet his, flushing as you reach up to grab the alarm, fingers brushing. You watch as Frankie’s gaze darkens, as he takes you in, flushed, lips bitten, standing at the perfect height. The greedy way you’d been looking at his stomach, water, thighs, fingers -

‘Thank you.’ He says, and you take the detector away to replace the batteries, your fingers shaking. Frankie watches you hungrily, the curve of your jeans, the slope of your neck when you flick your hair behind you. He’s still watching when you turn back to him and hand him the device.

‘Good girl.’ He says. Heat rushes through you at the words, your breath catching in your throat. Frankie’s movements falter only slightly before he’s reaching up again to screw the detector back in. You stare at his belly, the coarse hair, and try to think of anything but nuzzling your nose against the skin, breathing him in, unbuttoning his jeans, taking his cock in your mouth, thinking about what he’d look like, what he’d feel like, what he’d taste like, whether it would be as good as what you’d imagined in the shower -

Frankie steps down from the ladder, prizing your hands off the metal, folding it shut and carrying it back out the room.

‘All done.’ He says.

You run a hand through your hair, pinching the bridge of your nose. Jesus.

You take a seat at the dining room table, and when Frankie joins you, you drink your coffee in near silence.

At work, later that evening, you shut yourself in the bathroom during your break. You bite your lip so hard it bleeds when you make yourself come, embarrassingly quick, to thoughts of what might have happened if you’d kissed Frankie’s stomach on the ladder. The uncomfortable ache in your core barely sated, your panties soaked, you try to do anything to distract yourself for the rest of the shift. Anything to keep your hands busy.

And in his bed, later that night, when he’s sure you must be asleep, Frankie takes his cock in his hand again. It doesn’t take him long, guiltily indulging in what he’d seen from the crack in the bathroom door. He comes with a quiet groan and a whisper of your name, wishing that you were there to lick the salt off his chest. 

He falls asleep to thoughts of you, like he has done from the night you met.

---

A week passes, and Frankie's pretty sure he's going insane. 

He can’t shower without picturing the way you had stood there, moaning and gasping. He can’t stop thinking of the way you had looked at him on the ladder, the way you’d looked at him sat on Will’s porch. He has to jerk off at least twice a day, and aside from it being a fucking inconvenience, he’s beginning to feel like a creep.

He thinks he needs to get laid.

There’s a girl you work with - Tasha - who gave Frankie her number not long after you started living together. She was pretty, nice enough, but Frankie hadn’t been looking for anything, and he certainly didn’t want to shit where you ate. But he texts her anyway. It’s late and sleazy, but she says yes. They meet at a bar, and when they stumble through the front door, you’re already home. 

You’re sprawled out on your bed, a joint already rolled, leftovers from work in the fridge, ready to hunker down and fill Frankie in on your day, ready to hear him tell you about his, watch some shit on the television. Tonight felt like a David Attenborough night.

You jump as the front door bangs open, as two sets of feet come tumbling in. Your heart beats loudly in your chest at the noise, at the intrusion, unsure whether you should leap up to defend your roommate or hide. Then you hear the wet sounds of kissing, the low mumble of Frankie’s words, a high-pitched laugh you recognise as the front door shuts and Frankie’s opens. 

You wait with baited breath, somehow unable to believe what is happening. Your fingers flutter on your chest, anxiously pressing the skin there. 

Frankie’s never brought anyone home before. You don’t quite know what to do with yourself.

You’ve also never quite thought about how thin the wall is between your bedroom and his. 

The realisation makes your skin flush, heated even more when you hear the mumbles and groans from the other side of the wall. Frankie saying something in a language you don’t understand, and Tasha’s breathy reply. 

You don’t know how long you listen for, frozen on your mattress as you listen to the creak of Frankie’s bed, the whines and moans falling from them. The low timber of Frankie’s speech sinks itself into the centre of your body, heating and melting. You close your eyes as you try to pick out what he’s saying, as you listen for his panting breaths, his low moans. You can feel your underwear growing wet with slick, your body tightening - hot - and then Tasha cries out. 

The sound shocks you from your reverie, shame, annoyance imploring your body to move. You raise up on your knees and pound your fist against the wall. Everything falls silent.

You breathe deeply for a moment before Frankie says something quietly, answered only by Tasha’s low giggle. Your tongue feels like ash in your throat as they both say a couple more things, more laughs pouring through the wall before you’re up, pulling on a hoodie over your tank top, leaving your room. 

There’s another shock of silence as Frankie and Tasha hear you moving, but you’re already pulling your trainers on. You can hear Frankie say something on the other side of his door, can hear it getting louder as he moves towards it, but you’re slamming the front door closed before he can intercept you.

Your Uber ride is quiet, seething. You chew your lip, clench and unclench your fists. Your phone buzzes in your grip several times, but you don’t check it. 

When you reach the low, suburban house with the cacti out front, you waste no time worrying about whether you look pretty enough. Because he’s always said you are on the nights when he’s had too much to drink.

You should know better before you raise your hand to knock. But you don’t spare a second thought as your knuckles rap against the wood. You shut down all other thoughts as the door swings open, him knowing exactly when to expect you as soon as you’d called. Something about military training and timing.

‘Hey.’ Benny says, standing in the doorway, moving aside to let you pass.

‘Hey.’ You smile back at him as you step into his house, toeing off your trainers, stripping yourself of your hoodie. 

Benny eyes you hungrily as you stand before him in your tank top. You feel the heat coil in your belly again as he steps towards you, the slick in your underwear pooling as he kisses you hard and hot and open mouthed, as you tangle your hands in his hair, as you scratch at the bare skin of his hip beneath his top. You moan against him when you feel him already hard at your stomach.

‘Bed.’ He growls.

[elkian]

In Stars And Time (and its predecessor Start Again to a degree) did something really impressive in a video game: making a non-combatant child character not only likeable, but critical to the fabric of the story. Notably, the Kid is not a primary story character. They represent the common folk of the endangered fantasy land; someone whose home and family was taken by the Big Bad, leaving them stranded.

In the core party, we have the Housemaiden, blessed, immune to the worst status effect, bearing a unique elemental type, etc. It's actually very amusing that she is blatantly The Main Character of this story, because she isn't the POV character.

With her we have the Fighter, a good-hearted tank who worked as a Defender in the homeland of the first three; the Researcher, a foreigner traveling the land, who's book-smart and has a wide array of spells, the wizard type.

And then we have the POV character, Siffrin, a classic Improbably Good-Natured Wandering Rogue archetype. You know, the classic shifty thief-type and troublemaker who nonetheless aids the party without thought of reward and isn't actually a criminal despite the vibes? That kind of rogue.

The Kid isn't a playable character. They can contribute to combat, but it's randomized. The most you can do is equip them with gear and skills that affect the frequency of their input, and ask them to feed the party heals (and possibly feed the final boss a bomb).

What the Kid is, what they represent, is in many ways the emotional core of the party (as the party knows it; Siffrin might develop different ideas, but, notably, still cares deeply for the Kid's wellbeing).

The Kid provides snacks, which is partly about their heals-carrying role, but it has a broader application. Between each level in the main dungeon, there's a snack break with three options. As you play the game, looping over and over, choosing different snacks can be the most you can break out at times. Snacktime also creates a narrative and gameplay break, a time to chat with the party one-on-one.

The Kid is the moral support and backbone of the party; it's possible to tell this story without them, but it would, frankly speaking, be a less emotional, less interesting story, with lower stakes. The Kid is at risk when you fight; the adults team up and agree to protect them no matter the cost, and this is not a throwaway line. This has consequences. This creates texture.

Late in the game, Siffrin develops the option to do Party Member Personal Quests, and despite being a noncombatant, the Kid is one of them. All of these Quests are meaningful and important in their way, but the things we learn in the Kid's Quest are extremely important to understanding Siffrin. The other Quests have personal elements that Siffrin relates to, but this one is about him in a very specific way, that could not be fully replicated by mirroring the events referenced onto one of the adults. This Quest pans out the way it does because the Kid is a kid.

It's hard for me to put into exact words, especially when I don't want to spoil things, but there's even more specific details that make them important to the narrative progression, again, without being an "important" person in the context of the game world. By being important to Siffrin and the rest of the party, by having their narrative wound in with the others, the Kid is as integral to the story as any other character.

Kid characters like this in video games aren't often well-respected, and that tends to be for good reason - they tend to represent ludonarrative dissonance, be annoying, or be the product of overcompensation and have their importance rubbed into the player's face. Many of them could be extracted from the narrative without having a significant effect on the outcome, or would destroy the narrative because they're the focus character, borderline Morality Pets for protagonists. The Kid in ISAT and SA fascinates me, because I came to care about them in a very natural manner, not just because their personality and interactions are endearing, but because the way they and the other party members relate to each other has a tangible impact on the story and emotional core of the game.

[this-world-of-beautiful-monsters]

one of my pet peeves is any attempt in hotd fic to present the driftmark fight as uniquely the fault or evidence of evil in any particular kid/group of kids/color team, like-they were children socially programmed to look down on each other for being girls, bastards, and/or dragonless, were further influenced by their parents' intergenerational baggage, had their navigations of these hierarchies thrown off balance by various forms of extreme trauma, and THEN were given access to sharp objects and living nukes. somebody was going to get seriously hurt at some point, it was inevitable no matter who reacted to what stressor. then the only course of healing modeled by adults on either side of the conflict was bloody revenge, which only exacerbated the issue.

the whole point isn't pointing out extreme moral flaws in these children, it's that they're forced into increasingly violent situations before they can really develop any personalities at all and the adults in their lives are so marked by their own violent upbringings that instead of realizing "hey, our kids being taught to hate each other for the stupidest reasons imaginable resulted in one of them being partially blinded, we need to change how we interact with one another extremely fast before they end up dead" they double down. because hotd doesn't work as a story of good vs evil, despite fans (and show runners) attempting to frame it that way, it's the story of an incredibly sick social hierarchy's self-destruction via how it treats and mistreats its young.

[tyrantisterror]

What are some examples of benevolent (or at least benign) dragons in classical western folklore? I recall you mentioning that they did indeed exist, but I don’t recall you ever mentioning any specific examples.

Well, firstly, most of the dragons from Greek mythology. Like, the dragon that Cadmus slew was Ares's pet, and Cadmus had to build an army to fight war in Ares's name as penance. The dragon of Colchis was beloved by Medea and viewed as a protector by her people, and in some versions of the Argonauts myth was put to sleep peacefully instead of slain. Ladon, the dragon who guards the Hesperides, was specifically beloved by the nymphs who lived alongside him, and in the versions of the myth where Heracles slays him, Ladon is explicitly mourned by those same nymphs. Dragons were agents of the divine in Greek myth as often is not more so than they were enemies of it, which makes sense given that so many of them were, like, first cousins with the Olympians. It's really funny that people will cite the Greek myths as examples of dragons as "agents of evil" in the same way it's funny when people cite Greek heroes as moral paragons, when any actual look at Greek mythology shows its morality was always very murky shades of gray rather than the black and white view we like to pretend all European mythology shares.

I think this inflicting of Christian black and white thinking on a morally gray mythology also occurs with Norse myth, though sadly we don't have a lot of pre-Christian Norse literature to serve as concrete evidence for this opinion the way we do with Greek dragons. Like, outside of Ragnorok (which some have argued is not a REAL Norse myth, but something concocted during the Christian-ization of Europe as a way to placate Christianity into not destroying all of Norse culture), Jormungandr doesn't do a single malevolent thing in any Norse story. The most he ever antagonizes anyone is when he lets Utgard Loki (no relation to normal Loki) make him look like a cat to teach Thor a lesson in humility that the god of thunder never fully learns. All subsequent encounters are a result of Thor fucking with Jormungandr out of spite for the cat prank. The corpse chewer dragons in Niflheim are terrifying, but the souls they're gnawing on are the dishonored dead, and they don't cause problems for the living until - well, until Ragnorok, which again, may not be a real Norse myth. Fafnir's a piece of shit, sure, but he's not a dragon by birth - he's a dwarf who turned into one out of greed for gold.

Then you have a myriad of stories about dragons who were tamed by saints or heroes only to be killed by townsfolk who thought they were still vicious, and promptly mourned afterwards - the Tarasque is probably the most prominent of these, but there are other stories that are variations on the formula. I'd also include Maud and the Wyvern/Dragon of Mordiford in this category, as while the dragon is never fully tamed by Maud's affection, it's nonetheless kind to her, and the story ends with her mourning its death rather than the townsfolk celebrating it. You are clearly supposed to feel sympathy for these dragons, even if the stories present their deaths as necessary or inevitable.

There are even examples of good dragons in explicitly Christian Medieval stories, despite them usually opting to treat dragons as purely evil. You have Y Ddraig Goch, the red dragon of Wales, whose defeat of a white dragon is an explicit omen of how the wicked Saxons will be overthrown and driven out by a good (or at least better) king in time, and who becomes the heraldry of King Arthur, a paragon of virtue by the standards of the times each of his stories are told in. There's one saint - I think Carantoc? - who found a dragon sleeping in a well and convinced it to move without much complaint, and another, St. Simeon, who removed a thorn from a dragon's eye to the amazement of all and was shown gratitude by the dragon in turn.

Benign/benevolent/not-explicitly-evil dragons may not make up the majority of European dragons, but they're not as rare as modern generalizations of it would have you believe.

[rawliverandgoronspice]

The Dondon Post (or: the bizarre TotK's side content counterpoints to its main quest's immuable binary morality)

Speaking of strange TotK Choices, I think I have one singe post left in me about this game; and it's about the Dondon quest, "The Beast and the Princess".

(and about other stuff too, you'll see, we'll get to them)

More specifically: about how... strange of a thematic point it feebly attemps to make in the larger context of the storyline, and how it seems to be yet another mark of a world that, perhaps, once tried to be more morally complex that it ended up becoming.

Buckle up: it's a long one, and it gets pretty conceptual.

(good gem boys notwhistanding)

The Princess and the Beast

So, a couple of things about the setup. We are investigating potential Princess sightings; but at this point, either because we have already completed a bunch and know the general gib, because we have met a couple of wild Fake Zelda shenanigans, or through the simple fact that we are completing a side quest, we know there's a good chance it won't lead to an actual Zelda information. So when we ask Penn about what is going on and he replies with the ominous "we saw the Princess riding some kind of beast --a frightening one with huge, brutal tusks-- that the princess seemed to control", we get Ideas. Then the sidequest is registered: "The Princess and the Beast".

So. You know me. And if you don't know me, here's what you should know: my brain immediately flared up with the thought there was no way in hell this wasn't some kind of wink towards Ganondorf's renowned boarish beast form, especially given tusks were given so much focus.

My first assumption was: that's a miniboss right? I will get to fight some small boar-like thing that Fake Zelda rides sometimes. Cool! I didn't hold too hard onto my hope that the relationship of Zelda and/or Ganondorf to the natural world, or to each other would be expanded upon, since I had already been burned before, but my interest was piqued.

You have to understand how starved I was for any hint of complexity or mystery or ambiguity at this point. I was extremely eager for the game to throw anything at me that would surprise me, enlighten something pre-established, make the exploration lead to a meaningful discovery or deepening of characters, world or themes (and not just slightly cooler loot, or a bossfight, or a puzzle devoid of emotional context --cohesion and depth is what motivates my play sessions, especially in an open world game that I want to believe is worth losing oneself into). This was about the most intriguing task on my to do list at the moment, and so I plunged in immediately.

After really REALLY misunderstanding what I was supposed to do (I stalked every corner of every forest surrounding the tropical area at night or during blood moons in hope to see something --which was very much the wrong call), I arrived to the other stable, then was guided to the other side of the river where Cima awaits and explains that these creatures are actually a new species discovered by Zelda; that they are gentle and kind and not at all scary ("Dondons aren't beastly, they're adorable!"), and even somehow digest luminous stones into gemstones. They like the company of people and liked Zelda in particular.

I was... I felt two different ways about this conclusion, and I think it's worth to explore both: disappointment and some sort of... "huh!" Hard to describe this emotion otherwise.

I'll get the disappointment out of the way first, because it's the least interesting of the two. While I think the little emotional arc I was taken on was not devoid of interest --I was indeed taken on by the rumor and intrigued by its implications-- I wanted, well. A little bit more. And if the creatures were to be Zelda's pet project, I would have loved for them to be actually terrifying and feisty, and for her to develop an interest for these creatures in particular regardless. It could have been very interesting characterization that veered out of the perfect princess loving the perfect world floundering around her, always bringing her clear, practical benefits from the interaction.

(I have made another post that speaks of my discomfort that Zelda does everything everywhere and everyone loves her for it --I get what they were trying to go for, but it either lacks conflict for me to buy into that dynamic at the scale of several regions, or they went on too hard for my taste, as she is, at once and in the span of a couple of years at most: a schoolteacher, a gardener, an animal researcher, a scholar, a traveler, a military expert, a knower of landscape, a painter, a horse rider, an infrastructure planner, a [...] princess --at some point it begins to sound made up, "Little Father of the people"-esque to rattle the hornet's nest a little bit, especially if it's not shown as either a clearly godly characteristic or, even more necessary imo, a negative trait; another expression of her killing herself at work to compensate for a perceived flaw she's trying to earn forgiveness for, like she did in BotW. But that's another topic, and the clumsiness of her character arc has been well threaded by basically everybody disappointed in the story already.)

But, if I decide to be a little graceful, I'd like to explore my "huh!" emotion, and take it apart a little bit.

I think there's something interesting to have such strong parallels to setting up a story about the relationship between Zelda and Ganondorf ("The Princess and the Beast", like come on guys that's the conflict of over half the series), or at least Zelda and the concept of Evil since Ganondorf pretty much represents it in this game, and then have it go: actually, there was a horrible monster that everyone was afraid of, but Zelda was wise and patient enough to approach it and realize its potential beyond the tusks, what beauty can be brought upon the world if one makes the effort to look for what exists underneath. It says something a bit deeper about the world and about Zelda in particular. It intrigues, at the very least.

Is it a reach? Probably! Is my first interpretation that the quest is actually about "eww you thought Zelda would be interested in *disgusting vile monsters* and not sweet and gentle and human-loving animals that literally shit jewlery when cared for? jokes on you, she never would feel any ounce of sympathy for anything that isn't Good and Deserving" uhhh definitively truer? Probably! But I also don't want to dismiss that the quest made me think about it. If I had completed it earlier, I might have even felt like it was (very clumsy, not gonna lie) setup about the main conflict.

But that's also a good segway into my next section: the arbitrary limitations between the animal and the creature, the monstrous and the human.

And the fact that TotK points directly at it.

A Monstrous Collection

(these two guys are just. doing So Much and being So Valid despite being massive weirdos the game wants us to be slightly repelled by. I, for one, respect the Monster kinning grind and their general Twilight Princess energy.)

So. These two guys. There is so much to say about these two guys. I don't think I have seen the Trans Perspective on Kolton on tumblr, and I would love to get it because. I feel like it's a worthwhile discussion (just, how gender and identity is handled in TotK overall, I feel like it's a very complicated conversation and I have not seen super deep dives and I'd be very interested in hearing more).

Beyond the throughline of voluntary consumption of magical objects to turn into less human creatures being a weirdly prevalent plot point in TotK (Zelda, Kolton and Ganondorf casually transing their entire species for funsies --Ganondorf being particularly relentless with Fake Zelda, mummy/phantom shenanigans, Demon King and then literal dragon), I want to focus on Kilton a little bit.

Kilton is genuinely the only NPC in the game willing to acknowledge the inherent personhood that monsters have (the game does showcase them picking up fruits, mourning their boss if you kill them, being cutesy and happy to identify you as one of their own if you wear the appropriate mask --and that's not even getting into creatures like the Lynels, who seem to really edge on the limit of being a conscious creature with a system of honor and property and many other things). He does encourage us to think of monsters as more than a species whose only worth lie in how fun it is to eradicate them; even more, gameplay-wise, he does give us a reason to interact with them in other ways than just our sword with his museum. He does encourage us to see that beauty for ourselves and then select what we think is coolest/most intimidating/cutest/eight billion ganondorfs in every pose imaginable

The fact that Ganondorf is considered a monster was a great win for this feature in particular, and is very funny, but it's also... A lot, if we dig at it a little more than warranted. Beyond all of the Implications and all of the things of representation and political conflict and values already discussed ad nauseum: when did he stop being considered a human? What does that mean about the flimsiness of what is a monster and what is a creature and what is an animal and what is a person and what is even a hylian, as sheikahs got absorbed into the definition in this game? Especially with the stones taken into account, how profound changes in nature are a huge part of the plot (even when reversed and ultimately pretty meaningless): how easy it is, to make that slip? Who decides when that slip has been made? What is acceptable to hurt without remorse? What is beautiful and worth preserving? What is both at once? What is neither?

And again, in a classic Zelda conundrum (appreciative(?)): who the fuck gets to decide that, when, and why?

The Bargainers and the Horned God

(major shoutout to these big guys for being the sole and only providers of actual depth to the Depths, and for looking cool as heck)

So. Let's move the conversation to the Depths.

Conceptually: what an interesting idea!! And so well executed (initially)!! A mirror world to the surface, dark and hushed and full of unknown creatures; haunted by gloom and sickness and the unknown. Not a first in the series, far from it: from ALTTP to ALBW, and even taking the Twilight world of TP into account, this idea of a Dark World acting as a deforming mirror to Hyrule and revealing many interesting aspects as we get to explore both is always a very interesting take on corruption and envy and fear/weakness and/or some sense of darkness looming under the perfect exterior. I'd argue even the Lens of Truth of both OoT and MM's serve a similar function, both gameplay-wise, but also in terms of theme: not everything is as it seems. In the world of Light, darkness must hide itself; but darkness also possess its own beauty, its own hardships, and will stare back at you without blinking if you go seek for it. It's, in my opinion, one of the series' most compelling conversation about the cyclical nature of fate, the coldness of godhood, and how small one feels in the face of a universe that is more complicated than it initially appears --which is why Courage must be invoked to push forward regardless.

The Depth's otherworldly ambiance is truy wonderful, whether in the plays of light and shadows, the creatures native to the environment we meet there (wish we met more!), the soundtrack, the strange aquatic/primordial plants, the fact that the dragons visit this place and connect them to the outside --invoking ideas of balance and interconnectivity, that the tree branches look like veins. The coliseums, the mines, the zonai facilities and the prisons do seem to poke at many things about what the relationship to the past was to this place; was it ever truly a place? Did it look like this back then? Why was it buried? Why did it come back? But in spite of it all, I think the Depths struggle overall to question or reveal anything about the surface that we couldn't already assume going in (that the only thing congealing there is Ganondorf's gloom, his lonely domain of Wrongness, only shared by Kohga and the yiga --the only naysayers of Goodness and Light, contemptful and blinded by self-importance and rage). The zonite is mined by gloomy monsters --why, what for?-- so any notion of greed and over-expansion that could have been associated to the zonai is now reabsorbed into Ganondorf's general evilness, since it needs to be reminded he is everything and anything bad with the world: darkness and conquest and greed and capitalism and pollution and bad weather and sickness and darkness and violence and war and death and betrayal and fakeness and lies and patriarchy and exploitation. No matter that he never does a single thing with zonite in the game; rather set up elements of conflict that never go anywhere than, for a second, let the foundations of absolute goodness and absolute evil risk becoming shaky --and you coming to this unwelcoming dark place that hates you, killing the miners and taking their resources for yourself is, on the other holy, royal fur-covered hand, utterly legitimate. The resources were once Rauru's after all, were they not?

And this is what I would say, except... except for the dead. The fallen warriors, the poes, and, most important of all: the Bargainer statues.

The Bargainers are, in-universe, godly creatures guiding the fallen to a place of final respite, regardless of moral alignment. The poes are all, fundamentally, cleansed of judgement: they are lost souls whose past reality does not matter anymore, and all deserve that peace regardless. In spite of the heavy paradise/hell parallels drawn in that game, with Rauru/Zelda/Sonia as the guardians of Light where Ganondorf gets to become a Devil-like figure, it is confirmed here that no such thing exists when you actually die in this universe.

It almost feels as if the fabric of Hyrule itself, in a brief moment that refuses to elaborate on its own point, goes: "yeah, whatever is happening here between Light and Darkness, it doesn't actually matter. This conflict is futile and doesn't understand the real nature of being alive, dead, a god, a person, a monster, an animal. The truth lies elsewhere --but you will never be told what it is."

It's: wild.

One of the game's most striking traits of narrative brilliance in my opinion --to the point where I'm wondering whether it's there on purpose or was effectively an oversight since every other aspect of reality breaks its own back trying to reassure us that everything is at its correct place, receiving the appropriate treatment by the universe in a way that is never to be questioned.

Another case of that ambiguity being allowed to exist without being immediately crushed and repressed is the case of the Horned God (interesting parallel to Ganon's actual horns that he develops in this game in case the hellish parallels weren't clear enough already): a demon Hylia sealed into stone and pushed far from humans in a clear case of questionable behavior since, while the Horned God isn't exactly nice, does propose a different philosophy you are not punished for exploring; and yet, a proposal that has seen itself persecuted in a very real sense by the goddess of absolute goodness, patron of hylians, Zelda, and many more. Pushed away from view.

Interesting.

And Yet, Light Must Prevail

Okay, so, after all of this, we're left to ask... What the fuck is up with morality in Tears of the Kingdom?!

What do we trust? These half-breaths in the occasional sidequests that Light and Darkness is just the wrong frame of reference, that nature cannot be this simple, is ever-shifting and can be recalled or reaffirmed by arbitrary forces, and might even not matter at all in the universe's fabric, despite having so much of its lore soaking in the dychotomy? Or... everything else about the game, this insistence that Good must not only be assumed as whatever tradition the kingdom has passed down for thousands upon thousands of years, but remain utterly unquestioned the entire time? That Bad is without cause, graceless and unworthy of investment?

Are the Bargainer's statues the only thing worth listening to, that morality is a fable the living tells themselves --or should we be moved when Darkness destroys Light, when Light suffers to preserve itself and the world --but not when the Other is rightfully slain?

Was Kilton correct to see beauty in the monstrous? Was Kolton onto something when he let go of his previous form because there is no clear distinction between what should receive an arrow to the face and what shouldn't? Or should we rather focus on Zelda losing her human form as a beautiful and tragic sacrifice --but something that never actually altered her nature as a hylian, the descendant of a lineage of Good Kings meant to rule forever?

Is the Dondon good because it always was, or was it worth Zelda's love in spite of the fear it initially provoked?

Either way, at the end of the game, evil is slain. Ganondorf is, not killed, but --like his angry BotW boar counterpart-- destroyed, as monsters tend to be. He explodes over the lands of Hyrule, freed from Darkness; freed from everything wrong, since the foreign menace that embodied it all was wiped out in one fateful sweep of a holy blade cradled in sacrificial love. Nothing wrong remains. The Sages reaffirm their vows to protect the kingdom forward, and a very human --hylian-- Zelda smiles: Hyrule now forever and ever basked in eternal Light.

[tieronecrush]

all i need to hear

frankie morales x f!reader

rating: M

word count: 5.1k

summary: part II to 102 -- frankie lies to you to get out of your weekly meetings when he needs space. when you confront him after finding out, everything comes to a head.

warnings: no use of Y/N, post-film timeline, au where frankie doesn’t have a kid, use of pet names (solecita, mi mejor, osito), use of spanish, unrequited love, self deprecation, alcohol use, triple frontier boys teasing you, lying/deception, mentions of substance abuse

a/n: thank you everyone who wanted a part 2, and thank you to the lovely @cannolighost for beta reading <3

Frankie runs his thumb and index finger through the condensation on his glass, the foamy amber liquid downed halfway despite only getting it dropped off at the table a couple of minutes ago. His leg bounces under the table, half listening to the conversation happening around him at the round booth. Pope, Will, and Benny sit around the table, all with drinks of their own and chatting about Benny’s fight last week. His leg bounces under the table, but he keeps his eyes on the area of the table to attempt to tune into his friends around him. He can’t focus on what they're saying, hearing the words and not connecting them into sentences, and his mind races as he glances at the front door of the bar & restaurant. He can swear he feels the tick of his watch against his wrist, in time with his pulse. A hand lifts his cap off his head, running his fingers through his hair from front to back three times.

The doors moving in his periphery catch his attention. He stands when he sees you, raising his arm halfway in a short wave when you look around the bar for the group.

When you notice him, that sanguine grin of yours stretches across your face and crinkles the skin next to your sparkling eyes. His palms get sweaty at the sight of you nearly gliding through the restaurant, noticing people’s stares being drawn to you. You always managed to brighten every room you occupied effortlessly; he’s watched people sink at ease around your presence, just like you do for him every time he sees you or hears your voice, or feels the warmth radiating off your body and your smile.

The complete opposite of his shy diffidence.

A positive attraction to his negative.

Like those magnets on the North Pole and the South Pole that create a magnetic field, the energy between you two is constantly charged. At least to Frankie, it was; he couldn’t pull himself too far away when you were around.

He grins back at you, one side of his mouth reaching higher as you approach the booth. Your hand reaches up to tug a loose hair behind your ear and Frankie’s fingers itch to do the same on the other side.

“Hey, Osito,” you giggle as he rolls his eyes, trying and failing to hold back a grin at the nickname you’ve dubbed him with since you were teenagers.

“Hi Solecita,” he draws you in with an arm around your shoulders, yours snaking around his waist to squeeze you against his torso before pulling away. The other guys greet you, half hugs leaning over the table and Pope giving you a kiss on the cheek like he always does. He’s teased Frankie about it before, and it used to annoy him, but now he sees it as a sign that you, his best friend from before, have been fully integrated into his found family.

Frankie gestures for you to climb into the booth first, everyone cheating around the round table to make room. It’s a bit of a tighter squeeze with five people, so when Frankie sits down, his knee rests against yours.

He relishes in the contact, resting his hand on the leg closest to you. Silent short inhales fill his lungs every time you shift slightly, the comfort between you two over the years making you completely ignore the seemingly accidental touches. They’re no accident to Frankie — his hand is glued at the spot on his thigh, the other hand around his glass squeezing it tighter with each brush of your jeans.

Conversation turns to making plans to go see some new blockbuster comedy, all of the guys agree to a showing on Monday night. Santiago extends the invitation to you, and Frankie turns his head as everyone waits for your answer.

“I actually can’t make it, I’m sorry guys. You’ll have to tell me how it is.”

“Well, Miss Popular, where are you gonna be?” Benny asks, a corner of his mouth kicked up and a wink sent your way. Frankie turns, rolling his eyes to himself as he takes a swig of his second beer.

“Um, I’ve got a date, actually,” you admit slowly, and as each word leaves your mouth, Frankie feels his body temperature increase. With his glass still as his lips, he downs the rest of his drink and gingerly sets down the empty cup. Pope eyes him with a sympathetic gaze directly across from him.

“A date? Damn, Sol, who’s the lucky guy?” Benny grins at you and Frankie tenses, shifting to sit up straighter on the leather bench. Heat burns at the nape of his neck from Benny’s casual use of the nickname he gave you years ago; it’s become your call sign for the group, but he can’t help the flickering flames of jealousy every time he hears it. They’re only brighter from the mention of your date; it’s like gasoline poured over the fire, a burst of blazing warmth rising up his throat to blister his esophagus.

“His name’s Tristan. We’ve gone on like four dates so far?” You glance around the table as silence falls over the guys. With one look Frankie can tell what they’re all thinking, an involuntary chuckle slipping from his lips and shaking his shoulders. Your head immediately turns to him, confusion clear on your face.

“What? What am I missing?” You snap back to look at each of the other men, a disbelieving laugh escaping you, trying to play into whatever the unspoken joke is.

“Tristan? That’s really his name?” Benny asks with a baffled smirk on his face, eyebrows raised. Santiago explodes in laughter, the infectious sound roping in the rest of the guys. Frankie joins in quietly, glancing over at you and biting his laughter back when he sees your adorable pouty expression.

With a huff you cross your arms over your chest, rolling your eyes. “Y’all are a bunch of dicks.”

“Oh, c’mon, Sol. You have to give us some slack, the guy’s name is Tristan. What kind of name is that? He sounds like he’s like a personal trainer that creeps on women in the gym.” Santi says through his wide smile, shaking his head.

Benny gets even more of a kick out of Pope’s joke, adding to it, “Or sounds like he should be rolling up on a skateboard and asking if you want sativa or indica.”

A guttural groan comes from you and Frankie smiles softly as you bend forward to rest your elbows on the surface and bury your head in your hands.

He’s living for the guys ragging on this dude, but a larger part of him wants to make sure you know it’s only teasing.

“Alright, alright, give it a rest, pendejos.”

He lays a hand between your shoulder blades and rubs a slow circle, giving you an empathetic, tight smile when you raise your head. Frankie’s eyes drop to where you’ve placed your hand on his knee, patting twice before laying it back in your lap. Your touch has eased the burn of jealousy in him like a cold bucket of water thrown over his head and shocking his system.

“Frankie’s right, we shouldn’t be so judgmental just from his name. Even if it’s a little ridiculous,” Pope grins and Will shakes his head, cutting him off before he can attempt to crack any more jokes.

“Just tell them to shut the fuck up whenever you want to, Sol. They’ll actually listen to you, not Fish,” he nods and grins at Frankie, turning his gaze back to you, “So what’s this Tristan like?”

It’s been a few more hours, and you have not stopped bringing up Tristan at every chance you get now that the news was broken to the guys. Little things like Santi ordering a new beer from some local place, “I just went to that brewery with Tristan”, to something that Frankie certainly didn’t need, and desperately didn’t want, to know. Benny being Benny had brought up the third date rule, citing some conversation he had with some girls who work at the gym where he asked if girls have the same thought about the third date as guys. The younger Miller had turned the question to you, asking if you’d followed the third date rule with the new dude. Immediately flustered, you scrambled and Will stepped in, smacking his brother over the head in reprimand.

“Can’t just ask someone shit like that, Benjamin. God, you’re getting more clueless the older you get, I swear.”

It’s dropped after that, but Frankie is stewing inside over the fact that you hesitated. Being friends for years, he knows you would have shut Ben down immediately if nothing happened between you and Tristan.

He checks the time on his phone, thankful for the excuse he has to get an early night. Gently hitting his fist against the table, he grabs everyone’s attention and moves to stand from the booth.

“Gonna head out, got that early morning meeting for my hearing shit tomorrow.”

“Oh, wait! Do you mind giving me a ride? Sorry, I meant to ask earlier and totally spaced,” you smile sweetly at him, the look in your eyes saying ‘I love these guys but please don’t leave me here alone with them’.

Screaming at him, the voice inside his head tells him to say no, that he will just end up feeling worse than he already does if you bring up the other guy with no one else around to listen for him, but when he looks at that face that seems to always melt his resistance, his lips stretch into the softhearted smile that he reserves for you.

“Don’t mind at all, Solecita. C’mon,” he reaches a hand out, grasping yours when you take the offering, sliding out of the booth and turning to say your goodbyes to his friends still sitting. Frankie sends them each a nod goodbye, the lazy raise of his hand in a wave. He clocks the look that Pope gives him, his eyes saying wordlessly, “Do it, cabr��n.”

Frankie strides next to you, walking a step ahead to his truck. You catch up with him at the passenger door, a light laugh breathed out as you speak.

“Geez, Frankie, you’re walking like your ass is on fire.”

He mumbles an apology, opening the car door for you and helping you up with a hand. It’s quiet on the road, the low hum of the radio filling the dead space. Franke’s suddenly the poster child for proper driving, sitting up rigidly straight, both hands on the wheel at ten and two, and eyes trained at the road in front of him, only flickering to check his mirrors.

He doesn’t dare look at you when you adjust in the seat, the swoop of movement in his periphery. Never thought it would happen, but he is incredibly grateful for his interrogation training, being able to sit in droning silence without succumbing to the need to break it. You, however, don’t have the same steal as him and decide to fill the pin-drop quiet with your plans for the weekend. Including seeing Tristan.

No physical reactions give him away, but the thought he has makes his insides roll like the barrel of a wave, crashing over and dissipating nervous energy throughout the rest of his body. 

Your voice fades into the background of the buzzing in his ears as he pulls up to your house, his eyes flay from the reach of the headlights in front of the truck and he looks over at you with a rosy, cushioned smile that he wants to fall into.

“Thanks for the ride, Osito,” your hand reaches across the center console, knuckle of your index finger lightly knocking against the stubble of his chin, “See you Sunday?”

The skin there burns reddened, hidden by the darkness of the car. All his frustration, at himself, at the situation, at you (albeit, misplaced, but still there), sits in his chest, fueling his spiraling thoughts that corkscrew into one decision. The words spill from his mouth before he can fully think about them.

“I can’t make it on Sundays anymore, or at least for a while. My, um, my NA meetings that I go to, y’know the ones closest to my place that are run by my sponsor? They got moved to Sunday mornings cause some church group needs the hall on Thursday nights now.” Eyes averted from you, he only glances lightning quick to see you visibly deflate in your seat. Guilt creeps across his skin, the disappointment evident in your face but you stay silent in your feelings, never going to ask him to do anything that would possibly affect his sobriety.

“Well, maybe we can chat next week and figure out another day that could work?” Moon-eyed with a stunted, mirthless quirk of your lips.

“Yeah, yeah. I’ll call you later this week, Solecita.”

“Alright, um, probably should head into bed. Night, Osito. Text me when you get home, yeah?”

“Will do. Night, mi mejor.”

He sends you as loose of a smile as he can muster, idling at the curb to make sure you get inside your door. The engine revs when he pulls away, letting out a large exhale that he was holding in.

Maybe with some space, he can finally move on.

TO: Frankie 🧸

Hey, any chance you have a few minutes to talk? Got a little bit of time on my lunch left.

Can’t, sorry Sol. At work, don’t have lunch for another 1.5 hrs.

No worries! Call me when you’re off?

FROM: Frankie 🧸

Sorry I missed your call

About to go into another meeting with my lawyer, talk later?

Sounds good! Call me whenever

Hey, how’d the meeting go? Have time to chat?

TO: Frankie 🧸

Sorry to bother, do you have a couple minutes to talk? Just feeling a little meh after work today

Fuck

Sorry I missed this Sol

Guys dragged me out to celebrate my hearing getting scheduled for next month

FROM: Frankie 🧸

Hey Sol

Guess what

Did something you’re gonna hate

Francisco what have you done??

Got a haircut for my hearing

I THOUGHT SOMETHING WAS ACTUALLY WRONG

God, you’re such a dork

I forgive you for cutting your hair, it’ll grow back

How’s the license stuff going by the way? Haven’t gotten to hear about it from you!

TO: Frankie ​​🧸

Ran into Ben and Will at the grocery store

They said you need some character witnesses for your hearing?

I’d do it for you Osito

TO: Frankie 🧸

Everything okay? We haven’t talked in a while

Just wanted to check in with you 🩵

I miss you

It’s been an adjustment to have Sunday mornings free.

Normally you’d sleep until the last minute before you needed to get out the door, throwing on whatever clothes are clean and cozy, stopping for coffee on your way over to the park to meet Frankie. It was always early enough that there weren’t too many people, but consistently late enough to not be caught by a creeping dawn. Some of your favorite mornings with Frankie had been the ones where both of you still met in the pouring rain, parking right next to each other and him running out of his car and quickly over to the passenger seat of yours.

These days, your Sunday mornings have been quiet. Slow. No scramble to get out of bed on time. No feeling of warmth radiating off of Frankie. No sunlight wrapping you two in its embrace. No smell of Irish Spring soap, mint toothpaste, or his cologne you’d helped him pick out before a date years ago — notes of black currant, bergamot, patchouli, and birch that waft from his sweatshirt and tickle your nose, placating any anxious thoughts with one hit.

No, Sundays now are waiting. Waiting for the morning to be over to move on from the ache in your heart. Waiting for a message or a phone call from Frankie. Waiting for the word that his NA meetings have been moved back and your sacred routine can begin again. Waiting for the day that you don’t have to miss him anymore.

This week, you decide not to wallow at home. It will be a productive morning or at least a distracting morning; there’s a bookstore on the other side of town from you, close to Frankie’s, that you have been meaning to make a return at. You thought you would do it the next time you were on your way to his house, but with the way things have been, that day is further and further away. And you only have another week left, according to your receipt.

Rubber soles of your sneakers shuffle against the pavement as you walk down the street, taking in one of your favorite areas of the city that you haven’t visited in a while. You cross your arms over your chest, pulling the flannel jacket you’re wearing tighter to you to block out a chilled autumn breeze. The sun is shining, and it hasn’t quite dropped to an uncomfortable cold, so there are still tons of people milling about along the street. The cafe next to the bookstore even has outdoor tables arranged, and as you approach, the sight at one of them stops your feet from moving and glues your eyes to the spot.

Frankie is sitting in the sunshine, coffee in front of him, and Santiago across from him. He hasn’t seen you yet, and you check the time to make sure you weren’t off in your thoughts.

Yep, definitely should be in his meeting.

God, if only the sidewalk could swallow you up, leaving you to never have to face this. Why isn’t he in his meetings? He should be showing up to everything he can to prove that he’s sober for his license hearing. He would be a fucking idiot to mess that up.

Another thought crosses your mind, bubbling in your stomach and sending bilic, steamy breath to burn your throat as your newfound rage cooks you from the inside out.

Does he even have meetings on Sundays? Was he avoiding you? Lying to you?

Frankie would never do that to you. He couldn’t. He was your best friend. Your Osito. You were in lo—

No. No spiraling. No wasting any more energy on chasing your tail about him, feeling like a lost puppy begging for attention.

Instead, your anger forces your feet forward before your brain catches up, crossing the yard-width sidewalk and standing right in view of Frankie, next to Santiago’s chair. He looks away from Pope, the grin on his face dropping as soon as his eyes register that it was you. Mouth ajar, grip on his coffee cup tighter, and eyes wide —  embarrassed and apologetic.

“Are you skipping out on meetings or did you not want to hang out with me anymore?” Your eyebrows raise, glance darting to the side to see Santi sink in his chair. Frankie blubbers his lips, living up to his call sign as he gasps for air under your blazing vexation, “Y’know what, it doesn’t even matter, cause either way I can’t believe you. I’m so pissed at you. I thought you were better than this.”

“Solecita, wait.” He stands from the table and follows you as you walk away, tears stinging your eyes. You can’t even face him anymore, the fury inside ashing as it fades into icy dejection.

“No, Frankie, I can’t talk about this right now. I really don't even want to look at you right now,” he catches his hand on your bicep, turning you to face him as you stumble. He steadies you with a hand on your waist, the apologetic look in his watery brown eyes and the smolder of his touch making you step back breathlessly.

“I’m sorry, mi mejor. I really am, it’s just— you wouldn’t understand, I’m—”

You hold a hand up to stop him, shaking your head and attempting to cover the emotion in your voice, failing miserably when you open your mouth.

“Please, Frankie, I can’t,” you lock your eyes on your sneakers, blinking back your tears, “I need to go.”

Frankie doesn’t protest again, standing frozen on the sidewalk and watching as you walk past the table. Pope’s eyes flick up from his phone that he pulled out to keep his attention away from the private conversation. When you disappear around a street corner, his limbs loosen from their marbleized rigidity, sulking over to the small bistro table and sitting down in silence.

One of his hands drags down his face, his mind is willing away the tears threatening the corners of his eyes. Santiago looks at him with a grievance, clearing his throat and speaking bluntly.

“That was fucked up lying to her about that, Fish.”

Frankie glares, rancor jagged in his voice, “Obviously I know that. But I couldn’t sit there every week and listen to her brag about this guy…I want her to be bragging about me to her other friends. It’s not fucking fair.”

“You’re the one who stopped yourself from taking the chance to tell her how you feel. And you’re still doing it.”

“She’s probably in a relationship by now, I can’t just dump all my shit on her.”

“Well, you wouldn’t know if she’s even still dating the dude 'cause you’ve been avoiding her!”

That shuts Frankie up and makes him even more annoyed — mostly because Pope is right. And he fucking hates when that happens.

He stews for a taciturn minute; thoughts hastened in plotting. He runs a palm flat against the stubble dotting his chin, working his jaw side to side.

“I’ve gotta go,” he says it as almost a question before his brain is yelling at him to move, “I gotta go find her. Do you think she’s in her car yet? Fuck, I don’t even know where that is. Should I go to her house and wait if she’s not home? Do I drive around the city to find her?”

Pope chuckles to himself, shaking his head as he stands and claps a hand on Frankie’s shoulder.

“I think you know exactly where she’s gonna be.”

It’s nearly midday now, the blinding autumnal sun casting short shadows in the trees as he jogs from the parking lot along the paved trails. It’s busy — way busier than when he usually comes here on Sundays. He’s dodging strollers, slipping sideways between groups of friends and families, juking with runners in the middle of their workouts. When he almost reaches you, he nearly misses his foot getting caught in the slack of a dog lead, lifting it in a skip as he calls out an apology behind him, either to the dog or owner, he doesn’t really care who hears it.

 Darting his eyes around the field, his ears are filled with the sound of his thumping pulse, blood rushing as loud as waves. He’s standing in the middle of the path, getting dirty looks and passive-aggressive comments, but it all falls away when he sees you. Sitting on the usual rock, arms hugging your knees to your chest and head bent to rest against the joints there. Inside of his chest, his heart is squeezed to mush, seeping into the deepest ache he’s felt between his ribs and down his vertebrae.

Never, in all your years as friends, did he ever hurt you like this.

And with what he has to tell you, there’s a possibility that he’ll never be able to make it up to you. That you’ll never want to see him again.

In spite of it, his legs drag him forward, paying no mind to those around him having to stop in their tracks or swerve to avoid him. He’s chartered on a course directly to you, climbing onto the stone quietly until a scrap of his sneaker catches your attention and lifts your head to look at him.

Fuck, you were crying. All because he was a fucking stupid coward.

No sound breaks between you two as Frankie sits next to you, a foot of space separating you. He picks up a small pebble that’s broken off the larger boulder, rolling it with his fingers before tossing it into the water and watching the ripple form and dissipate. After another beat, his head turns to you, your own stuck straight ahead.

“I’m sorry, mi mejor. I am so fucking sorry that I lied to you. My meetings didn’t move. And—and I promise I’m still going on Thursday nights. Still sober. Nothing like that has changed. I wouldn’t do that to you—I wouldn’t put myself back in that place after all the help you’ve given me to get my life back…”

Your voice is thick with sadness when you respond, eyes trained ahead on the water, “So, why did you do it? Why did you lie? Why didn’t you want to see me anymore? I’ve been trying to think of something that happened, something I did. What did I do to drive you away?”

“No. Please don’t think like that. You did nothing, Solecita. Nothing. It was something I didn’t do that made me put space between us. It was a selfish thing to do, and I am so sorry that I did it.”

“What didn’t you do? I can’t think of anything I expected of you. Well, besides our Sundays and being my best friend. You’ve been doing both of those for years.”

“It wasn’t…It wasn’t anything you asked of me, Sol. It was something I’ve been needing to do for years,” he swallows hard and sits up, squinting in the sunlight reflecting off of the rippling pond.

“I understand if you need some space for real after this. Or if you’re angry, or if you wanna just get up and leave. I’ll understand.”

“Frankie, you’re kind of scaring me. Just tell me,” you rest a hand on his arm laying on his propped knee, tender eyes melting his heart, “Always here. Always, Osito.”

He takes a deep breath, nerves haywire, and shakes jolting energy throughout his body. He trains his eyes on his shoes as he begins the confession he’s held in for nearly as long as he’s known you.

“I’m…Sol—Fuck. I’m sorry. I want to tell you, I do, but the words are really not coming to me how I want them to.”

“Francisco Pedro Morales, just tell me. Whatever words are in your head are the right ones,” you lean closer to him, reaching a hand up to brush the hairs at his forehead that stick out from his cap.

His eyes close for a long minute, attempting to relax his galloping heart.

With no luck in calming down, he opens his eyes and turns his head to you, stare locking at yours as a meek voice leaves his mouth.

“I love you.”

You’re perplexed for a moment, eyebrows pinching together before a faint laugh slips out, “I love you too, Frankie. But…you’ve said that to me before. Like many times.”

“No, no I don’t mean — I’m in love with you, Solecita. I have been since…well, since about a month after I met you. You’re this—this radiant, lustrous, fucking dazzling, gentle, and gracious presence in my life that I can never stop thinking about. All I want is to see you smile, and hear your laugh…I want to make you proud of me. I would kill to protect you, even from myself, and stupid shit I do that hurts you. I want to be able to look at you when you walk into a room, and I see everyone fucking glued to you because you’re so shining and joyful and know that you’re mine. That anyone else could try, but I would know that you’re coming home with me, that you chose me. I would fucking worship the ground you walk on, cause I already do. Your word is like gospel to me. It’s like…you’re my true North in life, I just point myself toward you to be able to find my bearings and keep moving…I just, I fucking love you. Te amo infinitamente, con todo en mi. (I love you infinitely, with everything in me.)”

“And I know you’re with Tristan now, so I get it if you can’t—”

“I’m not.”

“Not what?”

“I’m not with Tristan. We broke things off weeks ago. I broke things off weeks ago — when we weren’t keeping up with each other because I realized — I realized that I didn’t want him. He was a placeholder. And he could never live up to the person whose place he was holding.”

“Who’s that?” he says defensively, a puff of air leaving his lips in frustration that there’s yet another guy he needs to compete with.

“Que tonto, Francisco. (What a fool, Francisco.)” You shake your head with a creeping grin, the corners of your mouth slowly rising as your eyes sparkle in the sunlight. His own brow furrows in confusion until it clicks a moment later. His own smile matches yours, sheepishly hanging his head before he turns back to you.

“Oh.”

“Yeah, 'Oh.'” The trill of your laughter knocks up his spine and he rolls his eyes playfully, scooting closer on the cool stone.

“So…is this other guy you’ve been waiting around for just like, wickedly handsome? Es él todo lo que soñaste? El tipo de chico con el que te gustaría montar en la puesta de sol? (Is he everything you dreamed of? The type of guy you'd want to ride into the sunset with?)” He smirks, wagging his eyebrows as his eyes flicker to your lips. His pulse races with the real possibility that he’s finally going to get to kiss you, after all of this time and after imagining it in countless daydreams.

“Can’t say I’ve thought about riding into the sunset with him…but I have thought about flying into the sunset with him. Tiene alas para llevarme (He has wings to carry me). Anywhere.”

“Anywhere for you. Te llevaría a cualquier parte, amor (I would take you anywhere, love.)”

Frankie closes the gap between you two, one of his hands reaching up and holding your cheek in his palm. His lips press delicately, featherlight to yours as if he’s scared of breaking the spell with his touch on your skin.

You, always the more assured and decided, hold onto Frankie’s wrist near your face, deepening the kiss. It knocks the air from his lungs, every ounce of his breath is given to you as his lips begin to ebb with yours, tilting your head back to slant his mouth down. You pull away first, his head chasing after you. His mouth hangs open as he looks at you with a gentle smile, eyes twinkling with the dwindling sunlight. A silent laugh is shared between the two of you, a giddy, boyish grin on his face as his heart continues to race.

It’s you who speaks first, voice no louder than a whisper, as if you couldn’t dare share this moment with anyone else around you.

“I love you, Frankie. Always.”

“Siempre, mi amor. Siempre.”

tags: @beskarandblasters @swiftispunk @joelsversion @lunapascal @addictedtotlou @deathwife @johnwatsn @pedgeitopascal @pedrospartner @atinylittlepain @soaringcloud @wannab-urs @javiscigarette @yazsos @northernwindd @pr0ximamidnight @theelishad @scrambledslut @thetriumphantpanda @dinsdjrn @midnightswithdearkatytspb @ladamedusoif @meveispunk @bitchwitch1981 @marisemonteiroo @brittmb115 @axshadows @cannolighost @titabel @the-wrong-providence @wretchedmo

[badass-queer-couples-battle]

Gay wrongs tournament, semifinals of the minor bracket

Propaganda:

For Lord Hater and Commander Peepers :

Lord Hater is the self-proclaimed "universe's awesomest evil-doer", an immature, attention-seeking manchild with electric powers and a short temper. He rules the Hater Empire with Commander Peepers as his second-in-command (technically third, after his beloved pet spider-xenomorph, but who's counting), however it soon becomes *very* clear that the cunning, remorseless, hardworking Peepers is the *real* brains behind the empire. Peepers might be frustrated at Hater's incompetence at times and isn't above manipulating him to reach an end goal, but he'd never dream of usurping him because, well, he's really gay and in love with him (as much as he can be in an early-10s Disney cartoon, anyways). Hater might take Peepers for granted a lot of times, but as his oldest friend and closest confidante he's the one who Hater is closest to. Whether it's invading other planets or kicking puppies for fun, these two are *delightfully* terrible jerks and the epitome of gay wrongs. 

Commander Peepers is both Lord Hater's right hand man in villainy AND his jilted stay-at-home-wife-guy (Also in villainy. Hater is really good at getting distracted from productive and efficient villaining.) Lord Hater was the greatest villain in the galaxy thanks to how well he and Commander Peepers worked as an evil team to run the Hater Empire!

Lord Hater conquers planets and is such an edgy bastard. Peepers is the actual brains behind the operation. Peepers is often pushed aside by Hater, they are besties and yet Peepers is always pining for this guy who will never notice. Peepers is so horribly gay for him if you watch the show he wants his stupid boss so bad. Peepers is so scared of him season 1 but then starts yelling BACK in season 2 and has to deal with him like a babysitter or something and yet STILL idolizes him and that’s just such a fun dynamic. His password is H8RNP33PRS43VR (Hater and Peepers forever). They are so evil and everyone fears them and they are villains and they are gay and the side of the fandom that draws them as a married couple that needs counseling is absolutely correct. The fanart of Hater openly liking him back is wonderful but I swear you don’t even need that. They are so gay and villain you have to love them they are

Villains that conquer planets and do evil stuff, my favourite characters, not really canon but they are the best :)

For Wu Zetian x Gao Yizhi x Li Shimin: (propaganda from previous poll here)

They are in a poly and are so morally gray and I love em. The triangle really is the strongest shape

They're gay because they're all bi (literally in Shimin and Yizhi's cases, kinda more implied for Zetian). Zetian and Shimin tortured a man for information (and also because he tortured them first) while Yizhi cooked back in their apartment. They made a plan to destroy their government and take over instead. Yizhi killed his dad because he was talking shit about Zetian and trying to sway his trust in her (it didn't work lmao). Instead of a love triangle (it REALLY seemed like that was what it was heading towards) they all love each other and would (and have) committed atrocities for each other. There's a whole thing about how they're stronger together (like, metaphorically and on the battlefield (Shimin and Zetian pilot a giant mecha together and Yizhi balances them))

They're a canon polyship who are all a bit deranged and down to kill for their goals and/or to protect bae. Two have tortured a man to death together and came home to the third making celebratory cookies for them. 

What's more gay wrongs than trying to take over your country and torturing a man together

[missbluesunflowersstuff]

Some Dick Grayson headcanon

I did some headcanon based in canon stuff and also random things, this is more around the batkids and Dick . Please respect

All batkids lie to Batman, ALL.OF.THEM and Dick is the one who lie to Batman and the others Robins (he is the oldest child guys, he will use his power for evil for fun)

He worries about Jason a lot and Dick will be happy in listen if Jason needs to talk

He also worries about Damian but for a different reason, and he still has Damian's adoption papers stored in his house (he mentions about wanting to adopt Damian in Nightwing 11)

Dick bond with Tim is pretty strong

He's Clark's favorite Robin and he knows it (Clark can deny it all he wants, but everyone knows it's Dick)

He accepted very well the fact that Damian changed the color of his uniform and turned the R into Redemption (he forgot to tell the boy what Robin was, but now Dick doesn't think it's right for a grown man to throw his moral responsibility onto a child then he is pretty ok with it )

Dick hates very single Bruce's former romantic partners, especially Khoa (Ghostmaker)

When Dick is tired of his siblings shit, he just needs to shout out "Superman" and less than 20min one of them will show up and pick up his brothers

Is Tim doing something potentially dangerous to himself? Here comes Kon carrying Tim like a sack of potatoes in one arm and Bart in another. Is Steph doing something also potentially dangerous to herself? Kara is on her way. Is Damian missing (again)? just one yell is enough and Jon will be landing on the ground while carrying Damian in his arms like a bride

There is this time that Dick ask Krypto (yep, the dog) to pick up the Robin, Dick's smile got bigger and bigger as the dog approached carrying Robin the mouth as if the boy were a puppy. After that, Damian never went two months without giving news about himself to Dick

Dick and Alfred always get the best gifts in the whole house

Dick is the best at reading people, this is not just a matter of body language, but actually understanding the situation and the person themselves. The more time this boy spends with someone, the better he will be able to understand them to the point of seeing transparency even in Bruce's actions

When he was little, during his circus days, he dreamed of being the ringmaster. Nowadays he is so good at reading the room and pulling strings for his own gain that he basically has made his dreams come true

He taught each of his brothers a different circus trick

Everyone blames Bruce for Damian's addiction to adopting pets, the truth is that Bruce just gave the dog, Dick allow Damian keep the cow and Dick encourages the adoption of his little brother's animals just to annoy Bruce and for everyone to blame Bruce even more

If you ask Batman who is the wost Robin, Bruce will say without hesitation that it's Dick and no one will believe in Bruce

Robin!Dick was a very energetic child, he made a lot of jokes and came from the circus and Bruce was a first-time father, so Dick was able to escape from Bruce and the mansion easily

Nowadays the only Robin who can escape Bruce's obsessive surveillance is Damian (who is a fucking ninja)

"You like the boy as if he were your son because he is a menace like you" - Jason Todd

No one believes in Bruce and Jason when they talk how difficult Dick was in the past (Babs, Kor'i, Wally and Roy can proof but they're in Dick side)

Dick knows many languages, but he really dedicated himself to learning Chinese after Cass was added to the family

The same applies for Arabic

He is actually pretty ok in hide on body if one of his siblings ask

knowing many languages can sometimes become a problem, he may forget a word in English and only remember it in a second or third language

"What is the name of that white liquid that can be ingested?"

and some hours later "MILK! The word was MILK!!!"

Dick always tries to spend quality time with all his siblings and checks in on them regularly (Cass and Damian are the most difficult since they don't use social media much)

Dick and Babs currently knows about Jason fanfiction account, they also reads the fics and leaves comments (Jason will never know it)

He also knows about Damian's fanart account, but will never tell the boy that (if you think Bruce and Tim are terrible you've definitely never read anything about Dick Grayson and its show)

His relationship with Bruce is complicated, to the point that they only interact after Damian's arrival. Dick still tries to understand Bruce, but he keeps the bar low

Never touch him without permission

He became a police officer to try to combat corruption, he gave up the profession due to corruptio, and as being Nightwing allows him to attack the corrupt he will be the hero to keep punch corrupt in their face (I really don't get why in hell he becomes a cop)

Jim Gordon hates him

Dick might get exhausted from all the work, vigilantism, his siblings, and Bruce's weekly batshit, and when that happens he just lays on the floor while Haley the dog plays around him (and sometimes one of his siblings join them, usually Cass or Damian)

"Richard what do you want for Christmas?" - Damian asked one time and Dick in full low maintenance mood "A break"

that Christmas Damian gave Dick a brick, apparently the boy confused the words and didn't understand why Dick started laughing when he received the gift, but Damian was very happy to know that his older brother loved the gift to the point of laughing until his belly hurt

and now every time Dick get exhausted he just sit with Haley the Dog and look at the brick and start laugh (yep, he keeps the brick)

Some batkid headcanon: Damian || Duke || Cassandra || Stephanie || Tim || Jason || Dick