#its not the best but whatever!! i know this content appeals to SOMEONE out there so here you go

[kayotic-catgirl]

the demons (being autistic) got me. here's a small tiny thing of celia being cursed with bisexuality !! :33

(reblogs encouraged!!/nf)

[leog4u]

Game Design and Porn Pt. 1

or, How To Fuck Up The Best Intrinsic Reward Ever

Hi, I'm Leo G, veteran pervert. One time while chatting in a server exclusively made of porn artists, I brought up the game design of a porn game I enjoyed. One of them laughed, saying "Who cares, it's just a porn game?" Being unwell, I never let this go. Since then, I have played many adult games and took each one as serious products made by professionals. Fast forward to today, and the demo for my porn game, Joker's Trip, is nearing completion. I also have some sci-fi erotica you should check out.

So you wanna make a porn game. You heard they make money, and hey what’s more fun than making a video game AND porn? But you don’t know where to begin! Well don’t worry, Leo’s got you covered. We’re gonna walk through the line of thinking you should have when designing your porn game. There's gonna be at least three parts to this, with part 1 focusing on how to reward your player.

Define "porn game" for me, Leo.

There are porn games, and then games with porn in them. A porn game is a game where you won’t last 5 minutes, where everything exists solely to meet and, subsequently, fuck. A game with porn in it is a game where everything exists for the purpose of the game, and also, you fuck. Fate Stay Night, for example, is a VN with a story that just so happens to have some CGs where the protagonist rails Saber, but is mainly about Shirou and the Holy Grail War. Much like how I would call Castlevania a game with horror in it, but not a horror game.

Porn games are a lot like horror games. They both get a bad rap for being cheap to make, appealing to base instincts, and generally being low quality. They're also both not actual genres of games, but genres of content. Think about it, if I asked you what a horror game is, you'd say a game that's scary. But what's the actual game part? The unfortunate answer would most likely be "walking sim," but there are a lot of examples that are FPSes, puzzles, driving sims, platformers, deck builders, the list goes on.

The most common genres of game I see for porn games these days are by far RPG Maker RPGs and VNs. I won’t be talking about VNs because they’re closer to writing than game design, which isn’t a flaw but a feature. What used to be everywhere, in days of old, were breakout games, where the more bricks and levels were cleared, the more of the sexy image would be revealed in the background. Other arcadey type deals like shoot ‘em ups and mahjong were also around, and had a similar “strip ‘em down until you have sex” gameplay loop.

Okay, so what’s an intrinsic reward?

There’s intrinsic rewards, and there're extrinsic rewards. Extrinsic rewards, generally, are the number go up rewards. Things that make your character stronger, or give you more resources to buy new gear or whatever. Intrinsic rewards in games can cover a large swathe of things. It can be the feeling of satisfaction of completing a puzzle, a piece of lore or world building, or a new dialogue option with a character you want to fuck.

I like fucking characters, are we talking about porn now?

Yes! I’m of the opinion that you literally can’t make a better intrinsic reward than pornography. On top of setting the tone for the entirety of the game., at its best it can add to a story, add to someone’s character development, or be a beautiful piece of art to look at. AND you can jack off to it! Unfortunately, that’s at its best. Let’s talk about how porn is delivered in a theoretical RPG porn game. (As a head’s up, there will be talk of “bad end” scenes, but this is under the assumption that the player is the one consenting.)

So you’re playing an RPG and get into a fight. Maybe you were underleveled or too cumbrained to remember to buy healing potions. Then your HP goes to zero, and instead of going back to the title screen, you’re getting fucked by orcs. That’s right, let’s talk about Game Over CGs.

You get to watch porn when you lose?

To someone making a porn game with a battle system, this delivery method makes sense. The characters in this world are driven primarily by lust, this is just the obvious conclusion. And it doesn’t even have to be non-consensual! Games like Future Fragments show that it can be presented as a sexy inconvenience rather than anything uncomfortable for the player or our hero. Game Over CGs even have the benefit of softening the blow of defeat, by giving the player a chance to reflect on their defeat and jerk off. Even better if losing a fight isn’t lost progress, but rather a bump in the road. However, there’s a problem here. The player is a dog, and we’re rewarding bad behavior.

The porn is an intrinsic reward, so why are we giving it to the player for losing? Incentivizing losing on purpose isn’t just bad game design, but a waste of time. And to that end, a lot of porn games try to give solutions to this. One being a kill button on the keyboard or a skill that instantly KOs our hero to get to the lose screen faster. What might seem like a convenience is really just expediting failure.

What it says is that the gameplay doesn’t actually matter. You’re just here for the porn, right? In that case there’s plenty of places I can go to see a chick with huge knockers get railed by an orc, with the added bonus of not having to play forgettable and mid turn based combat!

Another solution I’ve seen is the game outright telling you, “hey don’t bother killing yourself to see the porn. Once you beat the game all of the scenes you missed will be unlocked!” At first this seems like a reasonable way to go about it, but it comes with another problem: your game better be fucking good to make me play through the entire thing before getting to see cock. Like I said earlier, porn at its best can reveal things about the world and drive character development. I uh. Just beat the game. I don’t care anymore. Showing me a scene that’s taken out of context by a factor of 5 hours or more isn’t what I’d call great game design or story telling. It’s also too little, too late.

What if we made the porn actual rewards?

Now we’re getting somewhere! Let’s make the reward…a reward! What if, every time the player beats a level, we get some porn? If we tie the CG to beating the boss, we’ll be tying the reward to game progression. That’s good right? So now, on top of the extrinsic rewards you’d normally get for beating a boss (a lot of EXP, better gear, opened areas) we also get that sweet dopamine rush of pornography! So we’re good, right?

There’s 1142 words left in this post, so I’m assuming no.

Well. It’s a start. It has the problem of predictability. If not handled properly, it comes off as lazy. As a game designer, one of your goals is to not constantly remind your player that they’re playing a video game. Get through the level, get porn. It feels a little too “mouse in a maze looking for cheese” for my taste. And much like the game over method, if the actual game itself is mid, the player will start to question if the reward is worth it, and might be afflicted with the worst condition a player could receive: boredom.

Of course there are exceptions. In puzzle or arcade type games where you don’t get extrinsic rewards, giving the player porn as another form of reward per level or whatever is perfectly reasonable (though it does have the issue of being predictable.) This is a perfectly good way of doing it if your game is short, or if the game is, y’know, good and fun to play. Bad Color’s game, Heroine Conquest, is a level based puzzle game with porn as the reward, but only when you do good. Combining the actual challenge of mastering the game, with a genuinely unique game loop makes for a feeling of accomplishment when beating a level. Pair that up with a sex cutscene, and the dopamine rush will hit.

So! Let’s combine giving the player a power trip, with a less rigid structure for giving the player porn. Instead of tying the porn to purely progression gates, let’s tie it to the progression.

Plot milestones

In Third Crisis, sex scenes are peppered throughout the regular game’s plot, starting with some lesbian bondage before introducing the protagonist, who goes through a tutorial before having their own horny encounters. It’s not just given when you win or lose, but is a natural part of the game. Beating bosses, losing to enemies, and exploring dialogue options in sidequests all lead to unlocking new CGs.

Now what’s nice about that, is that the sex isn’t placed somewhere extremely predictable. It isn’t just a reward for beating The Boss Of Forest Zone, Now Go To Ice Zone And Beat The Ice Boss For More Cock. Because that’s the biggest issue of predictable rewards, you know you’re not getting anything until that checkpoint, which will make the player weigh whether or not it’s even worth continuing. This is fine, again, for an arcade type game, not an RPG or adventure game. By sprinkling sex throughout the plot itself, the player will not only want to progress, but their curiosity will have them wondering “what else is out there?”

Rewarding exploration

By putting sex scenes behind optional side quests or encounters, the dog that is the player will scour every single corner of the map, and leave no pixel unturned. Personally, that’s more exciting to me than what you’ll get in the main progression route. In Future Fragments the player can find their rival Faye in sexual situations if they explore the map enough. These are completely optional, and don’t give any direct rewards like more HP or an item, but they’re by far what motivates me to explore the maps as thoroughly as possible, more so than the plot macguffins the game is named after!

So now the player is excited. Sex can happen anywhere. Maybe that daunting off road path with stronger monsters isn’t just hiding a secret, but a sexy secret! They’ll be more likely to venture down those optional paths you painstakingly made.

If we’re using sex in game overs, boss fights, and just randos, why not put it everywhere?

So now I want to talk about the concept of a “sex stat”. It’s not a bad idea! Say, the higher the player’s sex stat is, the more opportunities you unlock for fucking. It could even be tied to the player character’s personality, and affect the story! Instead of using a sword and shield, they’ll end any conflict with sass and sex. They open their eyes to the horny world around them and stop being a hero, and instead become a succubus, and the ending is a massive cum filled orgy.

That sounds excessive

Yeah, it does, doesn’t it.

I’m not a fan of “corruption” systems in porn games. Corruption as a kink is totally fine, and having it be a part of the story lets you incorporate more sexuality into the plot. But as I alluded to, it snowballs pretty fast (and I’m not talking about spitting in someone’s mouth). It ends up being like a cheat code, where you’re bypassing parts of the game for no cost. It stops being a reward, it stops being unexpected, and it stops it from being sexy.

Wait, what? Stops being sexy? What’s not sexy about a succubus orgy?

Alright, listen, we gotta rein it in for a minute. This isn’t so much about game design as it is about writing erotica, but if you have a world where everyone’s fucking and sucking 24/7, there’s no contrast to make what would normally be a hot taboo a hot taboo. If everybody’s naked, nobody’s naked. The aforementioned snowball effect of a corruption system can be seen if you play literally any game that has one. It won’t take long to not have to engage with any combat or adventuring system if you can just press the “Submit to the big dick warlock” button and watch porn to progress.

Which, now that I said that, is exactly the problem. Imagine any other rpg you’ve ever played. Now imagine if every encounter and dialogue option had an option to just watch a short cutscene to skip the encounter. That would suck ass, right? Literally no difference here.

It would. Hey, I’m sort of lost now.

Don’t worry, we’re wrapping this up.

So what did we learn? We learned game over CGs have a critical design flaw that shouldn’t be relied on. We learned that predictable rewards can lead to boredom. We learned to keep sex as a reward and not devalue it.

To summarize, here’s a neat trick to know where to put your porn scenes.

”Would I put an Xbox Live achievement here?”

It’s that easy. “Lose to Goblins for the first time,” that’s an achievement. “Beat orc commander,” that’s an achievement. “Find Hubert the Magical Dickhead,” that’s an achievement. Using that as a guideline is foolproof. Almost.

This sounds like it’d take a lot of resources

It sure does! But don’t worry. I’ll cover that in the next post talking all about how to deal with the resource management of a porn game.

(Shoutout to Taylor, my guy for editing!)

[lilspacewolfie]

Breathe With Me

I wrote this to overcome some anxiety. It's been sitting in my drafts for like 3 days. I hope it brings comfort to someone <3

Content: 1.5k words, Terzo x f!reader, SFW, only mild nsfw i guess since naked cuddling happens, anxious reader, soft terzo, co-regulation, breathing techniques, no beta we die like sister imperator.

Mornings like this are a love-hate. 

Love; because your gorgeous bambino, your rock, your Terzo, is sprawled by your side. The two of you have shared a shower, and breakfast, but ultimately have ended up back in last night's sheets—limbs tangled and naked bodies warmed, pressed so tightly together in your sleep-haze and exhaustion. 

You would love it more if you didn’t feel the sickly, tight sensation that slowly bloomed once more when your head and body synced up. As fast as you try to run from it, to fall back into slumber, it's no use. It’s going to be another horrid day.

That is the hate. The anxiety has lingered for days, ebbing and flowing, with no real signs of stopping or slowing down. When you think it's getting better, it envelops and drags you into its depths again. Some days you can’t even move. Some days, you don’t want to.  Yesterday had been marginally better, but for whatever reason today, it's back with a vengeance and you can’t bring yourself to move from the bed. The whole room smells of musk and the warmth of sleepy bodies. It should be perfect. Any other morning it would be. Maybe you’re ok with bedrotting a bit today.

The previous night had been the worst of it. Your stomach had been aching with the need for food, but the idea had been about as appealing as drinking from the sea. You hadn’t even been sure you could’ve kept anything down, aside from water, and Terzo; wonderfully, sweet and ever-patient Terzo had been there at your side—understanding, listening intensely while you wept in his arms, offering tender strokes through your hair and hushed coos of affections.

It wasn’t often you got like this, but when you did, you knew at least you could fall onto Terzo. 

You trust Terzo. He is your rock, your anchor. You don't need anyone else. 

Your heavy lids flutter, barely cracking up to gaze at the ceiling above before closing again. A sigh leaves you, heavy with a sensation like you’re breathing out smoke. It’s as if a thick layer of tar is coating your lungs, making it hard to catch your breath. You can't catch a full breath. You haven’t been able to for days. No matter how you try to silence the voice in your head, bury those thoughts behind a green-tinted haze or the company of your fellow Siblings, it is utterly useless.

Beside you, Terzo shifts. Your amore. Your everything. You cringe a little, your eyes fluttering open when you feel the brush of soft fingertips across your forehead. You’re on your back, hands curled close to your chest and equally as naked as he propped up beside you. 

The soft orange of the rising sun streams in through the blinds, haloing his dark head of charming, sleep-dishevelled hair. His bangs fall around his mismatched eyes, brushing the tops of his paintless cheeks. He’s scanning you for your tells, to make sure the touch is not too painful or unwarranted as he brushes back your hair against his lush pillows. You don't have the voice, currently, to tell him how much his warmth is desired. He has an almost magnetic way of grounding you from little more than a mere touch. 

“It is back today, yes?” He whispers, propping himself up more comfortably beside you, keeping himself pressed close. 

You nod, the best you can. Words are tangled in your throat, wrapped around your tongue, thick, foreign and sharp as barbed wire when you swallow. Terzo clicks his tongue in a soft tut—not to scold you, you know well enough by now the sounds of his frustrations when he knows he cannot physically remove the affliction that burns you. 

When he cups your cheek, you slide a hand from where it rests on your stomach and press the back of your knuckles to his chest. The dark hair that furs his skin from his breast down the swell of his stomach is soft, flecked charming silver—your personal pillows that you take great pride in resting on in quieter evenings, much to Terzo’s delight. 

Beneath your knuckles, you feel his heart beating a slow, steady rhythm. You like to rest your head there, knowing he’s as steady as a reed in a hurricane. 

“Tell me where it is today, amore,” his husky, Italian accent curls around your words, making you shiver. “In your body. Show me where you feel it. Let me help you, sì?”

You take his hand from your cheek, worldless and a little shaky, pressing his palm to the centre of your sternum between your naked breast. Your own heart is thumping, not fast or frantic, but heavy like a lead weight. You know the signal, your body is screaming that something is wrong but there’s no adrenaline, just a heightened sensitivity that you feel thrumming through your entire body. It hisses in your bones, heats your skin and makes you feel sweaty without the dampness. But nothing is wrong, really, it’s just a build-up of stress, anxiety—of being in your own head that’s made it like this. You hate your own awareness, at times. 

Terzo’s large palm flattens over your skin, and he knows what you’re asking for without you even having to voice it. You press closer, closing your eyes, and letting out another shaky breath. Terzo hums a soft, encouraging noise and curls around you, weaving his legs with yours and your breathing hitches. You would crawl inside his ribcage and make your home there if you could. To be nestled so close to his heart that beats for you. 

“Easy, easy,” he croons, stroking your hair with his other hand. “That’s it Amore. I am here, my sweet. Listen to my voice, sì? Just focus on your breathing.”

Your bedrock. Your love. You trust him. Again, you nod. You know this. Co-regulation with breathing, a firm hand applying needed pressure or a tight squeeze in a hug. While it won't fix the problem entirely, you’ve come to learn its pros with Terzo’s help. You’ve hugged yourself plenty of times, wedged yourself in a tight space just to feel the squeeze. 

“Bene, bene,” Terzo soothes. “Proprio così, tesoro mio.”

He then applies a gentle pressure, light enough to not hurt you, but enough that you feel it through to your spine. It immediately radiates through your body. 

“Now breathe,” he tells you in a whisper. 

You breathe. 

In. 

Hold for five. 

Out again.

You repeat it, eyes shut tight when they prickle. Terzo’s plush mouth grazes your forehead and soft words in Italian—encouraging and low—spill from his mouth. 

You breathe in. 

Hold. 

Count to five. 

Out again. 

You don't know how long you keep it up for, and the gravel of sleep in Terzo’s voice lulls you into something like relaxation. You feel his thumb swipe over your skin, in the dip of your chest. The pressure is intimate, so close to your heart and needed. You breathe. Slow. In. You feel the air fill your lungs and hear the air leave you. Out. 

Slow. 

In. 

Out. 

—

You wake, slow and groggy. When exactly you fell asleep you’re not quite sure, but your head lulls against the lush mound of pillows. The sun is higher now, its rays more white than gold. You blink in your wake, watching the tiny particles still in its rays. You sigh, heavy, exhausted. You could easily go back to sleep. 

But you don’t. Not when the smell of fresh cornetti and sweet syrup goodness tickles at your nose—that must’ve been what roused you. 

When you hear soft footballs padding to the door, you turn your head just in time to see Terzo stepping through, dressed in one of his purple cotton robes and carrying a golden tray that has a plate on it. There’s a stack of cornetti’s and a small dish of jam on the side.  

“Ah, good afternoon, amore,” he greets you as he rounds the bed to your side. “Are you hungry?”

You move to sit up, letting him halfway. You rub your head, put a hand over your groggy features and blink at him. 

“You made cornetti’s?” You say dumbly, watching him, your voice is gravelly with little usage over the past two days.

“Of course I did,” Terzo purrs as he sits beside you by your hip, his bare face lighting up and his duo-chrome eyes blinking slowly. “How are you feeling?” He then asks. 

You take a moment and close your eyes, searching through your body. It’s still there, though much smaller. It’s easier to breathe and you don’t feel sick anymore. 

“Better. A lot better. Thank you,” you manage.

“Bene. I’m glad to hear that, amore.”

You lift your chin and catch Terzo’s eye. He holds the tray out for you to take it with a little wink, and you do, gratefully. 

“And don’t worry,” Terzo continues, dramatically. “I won’t be absolutely distraught if you don’t eat them all.”

You laugh at his teasing and flush. You’re naked, about to cornetti’s in bed. It shifts the weight that’s been pressed into your stomach. 

You are grateful for his understanding, his patience and his love. It’s all you need. You don’t need anyone else but him.

masterlist ⛧ Ao3

[whoishotteranimepolls]

You are aware that Ace and Sabo are brothers. That ship is incest. It would be best if you took it down because of how problematic that is

Warning, this turned into a rant

They are adopted/sworn brothers, so the ship is not technically incest.

If that ship bothers you, several One Piece ships should bother you in between adopted brothers or sworn brothers, but I have seen zero complaints. This includes Buggy/Shanks, those two were raised as brothers as far as we know, and Marco/Ace, who became sworn brothers. Remember, Ace joined The Whitebeard Pirates, AKA the Sons of Whitebeard. They all are sworn brothers. So let's please be coherent in your hypocrisy

Isn't this Tumblr? I can't be that old because I remember the heyday of Superwholock. The two most popular Supernatural ships were Destiel and WinCest. Remember, they were so popular that the Supernatural show even addressed this in its meta episodes. What the hell happened? And I remember the Ouran High School Host Club speech where the twins said the whole appeal behind them is when you have two attractive guys who struggle between their attraction and their friendship. Plus, because they're twins, it makes their relationship taboo so even more intriguing. So they were hyper-aware of what they were doing with their whole queerbating/twincest thing, and Tumblr ate that crap up.

It's one of those things where it's fiction, so it's not real, so it's okay because no actual person is being harmed by whatever problematic content is portrayed in whatever fictional media. I personally have zero problems with the most problematic content. But that doesn't include all problematic content. I do have lines when it comes to child characters and lollies. That's why there are rules on my blog. But I can also separate fantasy from reality, and if you can't, you probably need to talk to someone about that because that's a problem.

Again, seriously, what the hell happened to the fandom culture on Tumblr? Why are the moral purity police everywhere? I joined fandoms and Tumblr to escape the oppressive Bible thumpers that I grew up around. Why am I now encountering more oppressive moral policing online from fandom idiots than I do from the Church Karens in real life? I live in the conservative Bible Belt. Those Church Karens are everywhere and in everyone's business

Sorry for my rant. I am tired, and I'm still trying to figure out what the hell happened. I've been on Tumblr on and off since 2010, and I feel like I hardly recognize this community anymore. Now, I have been made aware of the anti-shippers/ anti-fandom movement, and I know it's not just a minor thing because this is something I have found multiple academic research papers on. I'll link a good one. But I pray it's something else cuz these are just kids who don't know better at the moment. I hope one day they will realize this behavior is the equivalent of the Boomers blaming all of the Gen Z and Millennial behaviors. They don't like on violent video games. Again, sorry for the rant

[makoredeyes]

Hello, I hope you're doing well! This is probably an odd question, feel free to ignore it. I wanted to ask you as a fellow writer I admire, who is mostly focused on unpopular/dead/deep lore characters. Do you also sometimes feel like what you're writing is irrelevant and unexciting for everyone, except yourself? If so, how do you deal with this? For me sometimes this sudden realization is so crushing, that I cannot bring myself to finish a single work.

Hello! That’s not an odd question at all in fact it feels pretty relevant tbh. (Omg sorry long reply you got me going 💙)

I think I have several kind of interrelated answers for you so let me lay them out.

1- I am powered by autism and a MIGHTY hyperfixation. I have no choice I am compelled. I am blinded to all other things and so while the little bit of feedback that I do get is AMAZING and so extra sparkly motivating it is not entirely what compels me (but BOY does it help)

2- I joked with a friend just last night that, “this season is, as usual, does not have NEARLY enough Felwinter content and so I must therefore create my own.” - as she pointed out, there have been exactly TWO seasons with ANY Felwinter content at all and I wasn’t playing destiny yet for one of them. My point being, sometimes you gotta create what you want to see yourself. I’ve always found myself in some really niche corner of whatever fandom I’m in and have to do this a lot. Probably how I got to writing and drawing etc. fun thing is tho you find a really special group of people who think and love like you that way, and if it’s a smaller crowd, it’s all the more intimate for it Imo. I’ve made some super special friends in the last 9 months or so in my weird little corner here and it’s magical and I think that quality over quantity filter is awesome. (But yeah i know the validation machine is SO good too)

3- the BEST magic of borrowing from obscure content, generally unknown or undeveloped characters or lore is the creative freedom. The headcannon swapping the worldbuilding the background gathering… the RESEARCH! Gleaning what little bit I can from what we DO have. Who the fuck is timur?! We don’t know. I borrowed the beautiful designs for his face and general personality that Sylenth has developed because she’s done such an amazing job and was kind enough to allow me to play with him as she made him, and took that as jump off point for my writing etc but I have all the wiggle room in the world with but a few widely dispersed canon signposts to lead my direction and that is just so fucking fun for me.

(And that doesn’t mean more mainstream characters like Osiris don’t have their creative appeal to me either. I will deep dive on lore and character analysis for YEARS but living in the peripherals is comfy for me)

Those are all the positives to my work, but yeah, sometimes I do feel a little dejected. I have definitely felt a drop off in reader response weirdly in converse to the effort I put into my writing. Housefire has evolved into much more of a cohesive Plot(tm) that is going somewhere very specific from its origin of a few interlinked fluffy anecdotes and funnily enough about the time I started really digging my heels in and plotting and planning and putting in twists I was REALLY excited about, people started responding less. Some of my favorite fics are the least popular. Some of my art I am most proud of gets the least attention but that damn doodle of poor Felwinter getting splattered by a warsat has 200+ more notes than my next most popular art. (The shitposts always win Damnit! 😩🤣😅)

I get frustrated and yeah sometimes a bit discouraged sometimes and I spend Way Too Much time sitting here refreshing my notes because I am a sad lonely person chronically online just way too thirsty for a little validation or a conversation with someone but like. Every piece gets better. Every piece SOMEONE appreciates. Every piece **I** enjoy and is also a chance for all of that when I share it with the world and that’s exciting and good, and like I said the people in this community as niche and little as it is, are really something special, and some of the people that have come into my circle because of it make it SO worth it.

**I was done but then I read your ask one more time and I’ll add this since it popped into my head last-second:

If we are creating works for dead characters we love, we are keeping them alive.

How magical is that??

[tgmsunmontue]

It's all academic darlin' PART 2/10

12k+ Hangster AU. Updating 2-3 parts per week and will be finished by 31st January 2024. (Each part is ~1500 words).

Bradley is a professor but living his best life with IceMav parents. Jake is a pilot. Maverick sort-of tries (and fails) to play matchmaker, so he tries again. Touch of epistolary and sprinkling of one-sided unknown/mistaken-identity.

(Note for later parts/chapters - Ice uses sign to communicate at home, I’m typing it like sign is English despite the fact that I know it isn’t (while NZSL is my third language, I have no working knowledge on the grammar useage in ASL).)

PART TWO

                The next morning he wakes up slowly. There’s music again, although quieter, and he can smell coffee. He’d gone to bed early last night, using the excuse of the long drive, because saying he was developing a pressing headache wasn’t something he wanted to mention. He showers and inspects his bruises in the mirror, presses gently on the cuts where the stitches were removed only two days ago. Nothing feels inflamed or more tender than what should be expected.

                He grabs a black Henley from his bag and pulls it on, only feeling very mild discomfit as he moves now. It’s looser and darker colored than what he usually wears, however his usual form fitting things were dragging across the stitches, catching on them. So, he’d succumbed to Phoenix buying him some shirts that didn’t show blood every time he reached too far when playing pool or rubbed his stitches. Not that it’s a problem now that they’re gone, but the shirt reminds him that someone cared enough to help him feel comfortable. Walking toward the kitchen he finds Bradley standing at the stove, poking at the contents of a pan. Whatever it is smells good, and he hopes that there’s the intent to share.

                “Mornin’,” he greets, his voice sounding rough.

                “Hey, morning. Help yourself to coffee, or there’s tea and stuff. I’ve made some breakfast. Sorry it’s a bit, uh, mixed. I’m just trying to get through the perishables so no one has to deal with the repercussions next time we visit.”

                Jake has a closer look at the pan and sees fried potatoes with some ham and egg thrown in along with some spinach and tomatoes, small sprinkling of cheese and it smells a perfect combination of crispy-salt-fat and his mouth is watering.

                “Smells good. Thanks. You didn’t have to.”

                “Seriously man, you turning up means I won’t have to gorge myself too much today to get through everything. I don’t want to have to come back to this place and find liquified vegetables in the fridge.”

                “Learnt that lesson the hard way huh?”

                “Unfortunately,” Bradley laughs and shakes his head ruefully.

                Jake takes a breath, a shaky smile making its way onto his face in response to the wide smile and crinkling eyes. Bradley smiles so easily, like it’s natural to just be smiley and friendly and simply… good natured. Jake would bet money he doesn’t get called an asshole on the regular. Unlike him. Considering he’s Mav’s son though he might just be hiding his more asshole-ish tendencies much like Jake is ensuring he doesn’t stray from the societal norms of being the most polite and accommodating of guests.

                Bradley is making him think though, maybe finding someone who is more mild mannered and edges on too polite would balance him out. It’s not what Jake usually finds attractive, but with the year at work he’s had maybe quiet, safe, and friendly… could make a nice change. Not that he’s in a hurry for any type of relationship, but he might table it for consideration for the future, because maybe coming back to the same place, the same person, has started to have some… appeal.

                “Did you sleep okay?”

                “Yeah, better than I expected,” Jake replies, and he’s assuming the combination of drive and headache had made his brain unable to formulate its semi-regular nightmare fodder. That’s what disrupts his sleep these days, not the location.

                “That’s good. Here,” Bradley says, passing him a plate piled high with food and moving towards the dining table with his own. “You won’t get this again sorry. I’m leaving early tomorrow, so I’ll probably be gone before you get up.”

                “It’s fine. I lived plenty long enough looking after myself, I’m sure I’ll survive a couple of weeks on my own here. I didn’t expect any cooked meals when I decided to come stay. Are you driving back?”

                “No. Well, partly I guess. I’ve got a plane at Fallon, so I’ll drive there and then fly back to San Diego. Perk of the job,” Bradley says, and he grins. Jake assumes it’s a reference to Mav’s connections, that he can store a plane at Fallon and use the runway and airspace for personal use. That’s one hell of a perk. The food tastes as good as it smells and Jake lets himself savor it, enjoys the novelty of food being cooked for him.

                “Actually, I have a favor to ask. Nothing major, just… can I use you phone later? I need to make a couple of calls. First one needs to be to Mav.”

                Jake agrees easily, it’s no issue for him. They do the washing up and Bradley continues to sing along to the music playing from a portable speaker. The man doesn’t seem to care that Jake is virtually a stranger, no embarrassment at all as he belts out the words to the song being played and tries to encourage Jake to sing along as well. Jake guesses he’s someone who is truly confident, which with a new Hawaiian shirt today, easy smile, clearly happy with whatever lot he has in his life… well, Jake guesses Bradley probably is.

                He’d probably be just as happy right now with or without Jake there, singing along to himself. He clearly doesn’t feel like he needs to impress Jake, and for once Jake feels a little unsettled. Unsure about how he should act with no crowd to play up his own abilities, someone he doesn’t need to harmlessly flirt with, it leaves him without a guide book of basic social interaction and he feels unmoored. He excuses himself to go and grab his phone from his room and thumbs through to Mav’s contact and puts the call through.

                “Hello. Pete Mitchell.”

                “Hey Mav, It’s Hangman.”

                “Hangman. Good to hear from you. Did you find the place alright?”

                “Yeah. Although Bradley wasn’t expecting me. He wants to talk to you actually.”

                “He wasn’t expecting you and he can’t call me himself,” Mav says flatly. “Let me guess. He lost another phone.”

Jake barks out a laugh, because hearing Mav’s disappointed tone and not have it aimed in any way toward him makes him feel like he’s in on a private joke. And maybe he can go with a teasing thing rather than a flirting thing if this is a thing. He walks back to find Bradley lounging on the sofa, looking at something on a tablet.

                “Yeah, fell in the lake,” Jake provides and Bradley’s eyes shoot up to meet his, narrowing as he realizes that he must already be talking to Mav.

                “Jesus. That kid. I swear he goes through a phone a year. Falling in the lake is probably one of the least exciting ways it’s happened. There’s been the top of a car, wing of a plane, compressor which was a stupid prank when he was an undergraduate… Can you put him on?”

                “Yeah, of course.”

                “Hi Dad…”

                Jake moves out onto the porch, trying to be polite and give Bradley some privacy, but the other man just follows, clearly not seeming to want or need privacy as he listens to his father talking. “Yeah, I know.” “Yes. Another one.” “Please stop keeping count.” “I’m good. How’s everyone at home?” “Okay. I’m glad to hear that. Tell him I fixed the smoker.” “Yeah.” “Ugh, I know.” “You’d think so wouldn’t you?” “What? Uh, good I guess?” “Got a whole bunch of stuff done.” “Yes Mav, all the important shit.” “Jesus Mav, I’ll be seeing you tomorrow, you can grill me then.” “Well, it’s not like my fridge is going to be overflowing with food, I thought the least you could do was feed me dinner.” “I knew you’d want to see me…”

                Jake listens to the one-sided conversation, can almost imagine Mav’s side. Not that he knows who else Mav might have at home, but the easy laughter and conversation makes part of him ache for what he doesn’t have with his own father. It’s a small passing ache now; he’d like to think he’s managed to work through the worst of it and accepted that the rest is something he can’t change; more importantly accepted it isn’t his responsibility to change. He listens again and the conversation has shifted to confirming times at the airstrip for take-off and he briefly wonders where the plane is stored in San Diego, because from the sounds of it Mav is picking Bradley up and Jake knows Mav has his own plane. Actually, maybe that’s the one Bradley flew here. Or they store their planes together.

                “Yeah, love you too. See you tomorrow. Did you want to talk to Jake again?”

                “Here…” Bradley says, and he passes Jake’s phone back to him before walking away back inside, leaving Jake with his privacy and he appreciates it.

                “Uh, hey Mav…”

                “Hey kid, I hope Bradley isn’t too much… you’re meant to be taking it easy and I know you didn’t break that drive up over two days like you were meant to.”

                “I’m good.”

                “You are good kid, and I want you to stay that way. It’s why we follow the orders of our doctors.”

                Jake snorts because he’s pretty sure Mav ignored half of the orders he heard prior to his retirement.

                “I’m here now, and I will do nothing but rest. Once Bradley leaves with his blisteringly bright shirts and music it’ll be the perfect place to rest and recover.”

                “He’ll get rid of both if you ask –”

                “Nah Mav, it’s kind of nice having someone not walkin’ around like I’m about to collapse any minute. He even cooked me breakfast this morning, he’s a good host.”

                Mav makes a weird choking sound and there’s mumbling he can’t make out before he clears his throat.

                “Well, I’m glad. I’m going to call you in a couple of days and check in with you, okay son?”

                “Yeah Mav, that’s fine.”

                Ending the call Jake slides his phone into his pocket, although he should really go and see if Bradley wants to use it to make the remainder of his necessary calls. He wonders what he’d have done if Jake hadn’t turned up. He should probably call home and check in with Javy and his siblings. He flicks off a couple of messages and lets them all know he’s okay. He stares out at the sparse scrubby forest, can see the shimmer of water off in the distance, looks at the lean-to stacked high with firewood and wonders what it would be like to have a place like this of his own. Somewhere he chose to be for longer than the length of a deployment, somewhere to return to. Not to one of his siblings. Not Javy. His and his alone.

                The bang of the screen door startles him and he turns to see Bradley, changed into running shorts and a loose tank.

                “I’m just going to go for a run before it gets too hot. Did you want to come with me?”

                Jake pulls a face, because normally he’d love to, but the jarring nature of running would not be great for his head. Today needs to be a rest day.

                “I’m meant to be taking it easy. Running probably isn’t the best idea.”

                The look that that new information gets him makes him wish he’d kept his mouth shut, but he’s feeling okay right now, needs to allow his body to recover after the drive yesterday if he wants to get back to flying as soon as he can. Bradley just nods his head though, accepting it without asking further questions.

                “Okay. I’ll show you the best place for swimming later, and the docking spot if you want to take a kayak or paddle board out.”

                “Sounds good,” Jake replies, failing to mention that he definitely won’t be kayaking or paddle boarding, although normally he’d love to do either of those things. Swimming sounds good though. He’s been aching to exercise in some form and swimming is something that he can gently start with. Maybe work up to the others.

                “I’ll be back in an hour or so. Make yourself at home.”

                He watches Bradley head off to what may or may not be a regularly run track before heading inside. He’s not going to snoop around, but he figures he can definitely go through the kitchen and maybe figure out what he could make for lunch. There’s an odd assortment of things, but he thinks he could cobble together some type of sandwich, but there’s no bread. Okay. This gives him something to do. He likes his bread too much not to have some on hand for a quick snack so he quickly searches for a recipe. No yeast that he can find, but there is beer, so he sets to work.

PART THREE

[grippingbeskar]

salt, ice and fire | frank castle

chapter twenty six - you bring me home

frank castle x fem! reader

warnings: 18+ content minors dni! (car sex lmaooo, mxf nothing you haven’t seen before, its pretty sweet <3) swearing, canon typical violence, mention of scars, injuries, blood, literally packed everything into this chapter its a big one

a/n: wow. this was so rough oh my god. the entire first draft deleted itself and i had to re write the whole thing from memory, so i lost my planned chapter. i really hope i got everything in here, and im sorry for the wait AND how long it is lmao but i just. can’t believe i really finished it. ill rant at the end, but if you only read this part, i love you. thank you for letting me share the absolute vomit that is my brain. you are the best.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

“How was the drive?” Franks voice sends a shiver down your spine, even hundreds of miles away through a crappy phone line.

“Boring.” You sigh, pacing around the tiny motel room.

“You were meant to call an hour ago. Got me waitin’ up for you.” He sounds tired, and it makes your heart skip a beat. It’s stupid, but the image makes you a little giddy. Waiting up for you. 

“There was… traffic.”

“You get lost?”

“Fuck you.” You bite automatically and he groans.

“So yeah?” 

“Yes, Frank. I got lost.” He laughs, the sound managing to take your mind off the dark room you’d managed to secure for the night, the bedside light doing nothing to brighten the small space.

“I gave you a map. It’s a straight shot from where you started.” Rolling your eyes, you look at the map you’d now bundled into a ball and thrown into the trash.

“Who uses a printed map? Seriously, how fucking old are you?” It’s playful and familiar, and all the frustration of driving for 10 hours melts into the bed.

Being a key witness in a now ongoing case apparently didn’t come with any frequent flyer miles, because both Matt and Frank had said you couldn’t risk going through airport security and being flagged in a system, so it meant you had to drive nearly 18 hours to Florida. You thought you didn’t mind road trips, but after today you think it’s only road trips with Frank you don’t mind.

“Maps don’t change, baby. Besides, you’d drive yourself into a god damn tree the second that voice in the car told you you’d missed a turn.” You hate that he’s right— even the thought of that monotone voice droning in your ear for ten hours makes you cringe.

“Whatever. Tell me about something. You said you were going to speak to Madani today?” He’s the one sighing now, and clearly the talk was about as fun as your drive.

“She’s all over the place. Some mishandled evidence fucked their entire case, and Bobby’s lawyers were too well paid to let it go. Murdock said they’ll be able to find more— the appeal’s already been approved cause of how high profile it is, but he’s got no new evidence. He said he doesn’t know if they can get him.”

“That’s… what I expected, I guess.” Frank agrees, and your sudden silence only serves to bring the real issue to hand. “You know where he is?”

“Yeah. I got it covered.” The line goes quiet, and you don’t really know what to say.

On one hand, you want Bobby dead. You know can’t do it- it wasn’t smart, and the last thing you were going to do is drag everything Matt and Madani had worked for through the mud for someone like him, let alone put Sam in danger. Some fucked up part of you is a little mad that it won’t be you, but Frank has every reason to hate him as much as you. You know Frank wants this, and that telling him to stop is like waving a red flag in front of a bull. Your hesitation would only spur him to do it faster, be more impulsive. You don’t want to say anything to put him off.

On the other, you just want him with you. You worry like some love sick child, scared he’s walked out the door and isn’t coming back. You worry he’ll get caught, and end up in the exact spot he was trying to get you out of. You’re scared he’ll get hurt, or worse. Every time you close your eyes you can see him bleeding out, dark red staining your hands until you can scream yourself awake. There’s so many things that could go wrong, and ten hours staring over the hood of your car gives you way too much time to think about hypotheticals.

“It’s gonna be okay.” Frank says softly, and you flop yourself back on the single bed.

“Are you?” He huffs like the question is irrelevant.

“Madani asked about your dad today.” He ignores the question, and you’re too interested to poke him on it.

“Oh?”

“Asked what he knew about your time there. If he ever worked with the Gnucci’s.” A lump forms in your throat.

“You think she knows about the weird... blood stuff?”

“Don’t see why she would. Either way, it’s not gonna matter once he’s dead.” The bluntness of it almost makes you laugh. “He’ll be gone, and no one will come for it. Or you.”

“You don’t have to do this for me, Frank.”

“I’m not.” He pauses, and then sighs. “Alright, I am, but not just that. The shit he said to me in there— the things he said about you. The way he looked at you in there… I watched that shit, and there’s no way in hell that asshole does what he did and lives.”

“What if he was found guilty? Would you of left it alone?” Maybe if you’d been more helpful to Matt and Madani, it would of gone better, and Frank would be here.

“You want me to answer that?” A part of you knew he wasn’t going to let it go. That wasn’t who he was. It shouldn’t make you feel the way it does to know that Frank would kill for you— just to make you safe. It does anyway, and heat flushes over your face.

“Maybe you shouldn’t.” He agrees, a low sound rumbling from his end of the phone. “I spent most of the day wishing you were with me, you know.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. Turns out I fucking hate driving.” He laughs again, and if you could listen to the sound all night you think you’d sleep peacefully.

“You remember how mad you were that first time I didn’t let you drive?” Shaking your head, you flick off the lights slide under the covers.

“I was mad because you had a concussion and tried to fucking kill us.”

“Least I was gonna go the right way.”

“You tried switching drivers on the freeway, Castle.”

“Alright, I was a a bit out of it.” He says plainly and you smile so wide it hurts your cheeks. “Wished you were here, too.”

“I bet you did.” He groans, and you hear him shift on the bed. Your bed.

“Too much space in here. Didn’t even know we had this much blanket.” He makes a real noisy show of it, tossing around the blankets you usually roll yourself up in. It’s meant to be a light hearted thing, but for some reason the idea of Frank spread out on your shared bed, one that you’ve both used extensively— it makes your heart race.

“Dickhead.” He groans again, shuffling around some more. “This one’s too small. Probably have to sleep on top of each other if you were here.”

“M’alright with that.”

“Not a lot of room to move, though.” You look around at the room, hardly enough space to stand in the corner.

“We’d figure something out.” You let your eyes flutter closed, humming high pitched at the idea. “What are you thinkin’ about, sweetheart?”

“You.” You admit, and he seems to like it.

“Me too. Haven’t gone a night in this apartment without fuckin’ you in this bed. Drivin’ me crazy.” You hum again, pressing your thighs together to try and dissipate the heat that’s suddenly overtaken your whole body. “You thinkin’ about it now too, aren’t you baby?”

“Yeah, Frank.”

“Don’t say my name like that.” He growls, and you bite your lip to hide your laugh.

“Why not, Frank?” You practically purr the word, drawing it out and saying it all breathy like you do when he’s teasing you.

“Cause you’re gonna make me drive ten hours just to fuck you in whatever dirty motel you pulled off into.” You’re still smiling, but you think if you keep messing with him, he’d do it. He’d drive ten hours, a hundred of them if it meant teaching you a lesson. Or just being with you. “I’ll see you soon. Real soon, yeah?”

“Yeah.” You breathe out, knowing if you keep talking to him your entire plan will crumble in front of you, because you’re half considering driving home just to sleep next to him. “Soon. Be safe, okay?”

The words tumble out, and you try to hide the guilt you feel when you say them. He was only not safe because of you— because you couldn’t finish the job yourself. You’re glad he can’t see your face, because you hear him mumble on the other end and your eyes close listening to him.

“Always. Tell the kid I said hi.” With that, Frank hangs up the phone, and you slide it onto the table right next to the pistol you keep loaded and ready to fire.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Frank pulls the saturated beanie over his head, and it’s probably doing more harm than good at this point, but he doesn’t have a second to really give a shit. His eye-line is perfect— directed straight into the penthouse apartment Bobby Gnucci was driven to three hours ago. He’s been tucked away in the corner of the rooftop for just as long, watching the man pace and yell on the phone.

It had taken him a few goes to get the right frequency to listen in on the calls he was making, but once he had he took as much information done as he could. He’d had enough of watching, and now he was satisfied with the phones calls he’d listened to that the man was alone for the night; not counting his extensive security team layered through the apartment block. Frank felt the familiar hum in his veins, shoving his loaded pistol in his jeans and swinging the strap of a rifle over his shoulder, he headed down the stairs, across the street and slipped into the back of the building.

There’d be witnesses if he didn’t take the right route, and to make this work he needed every chance at an alibi he could get. He was so used to not caring— every time he’d gone into something like this, he didn’t have something to get back to. He had no preservation, no concern for what came after. Hell, if he was honest, he didn’t care if he went out doing something like this. He would of preferred it, maybe even hoped he’d die somewhere in the cross fire.

Even just talking to you on the phone had him itching to get back to you now. He wanted to be careful— something he never really thought of before. A heavy ache in his stomach that twisted something violent when he thought about not getting home, not making good on his promise from a few hours ago, it made him sick. He planned as much as he could, as much as he was capable of, and hoped to God it was enough.

Frank hid his body behind the corner of the wall. He hid his face, too, even though he’d already had Micro’s help shutting out the cameras. He knew it would set off alarms for the security team, but he planned for that. They’d spread out, follow orders that he’d listened to over the radio, three men on all the entries and exits, and then ten through the penthouse. If he timed it right, he could clear the first few levels before the guards arrived.

He didn’t care about making noise now— slamming his way up the fire access while Gnucci’s men no doubt got into position. He’d just past a number 6, and Bobby was on the top floor. 23. He kept going, not hearing any doors open. When he passed 9, the door on the level below him cracked open and he jammed through the next exit he reached, getting into position.

He could hear voices coming from his right, and steadied himself as he turned the safety off his gun. He had a small army of men to get through, but he knew if he could make it, landing the hit on Bobby would be easy.

He wasn’t nervous. Pure adrenaline flooded him, like it always did, and he didn’t think twice before standing out of cover and pulling the trigger.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

“How have you grown so much?!” You nearly shout, hugging Sam tighter as he all but latches onto your leg. “God, you’re gonna be my height soon.”

“I missed you!” He says, words muffled in your jacket. You don’t even have to bend really, he’s that tall. It is even possible for him to grow that much in just a month? “Come! I want to show you my stuff. Me and Niko share a room, and it’s the coolest thing…”

You let him drag you around the house, showing you the bunk beds that are set up for him and Nikolai. He shows you books he’s brought home from school, and it makes you smile how chaotic his room is. There’s piles of books and papers everywhere, stuffed under the bed and nearly toppling on the tables. It looks like it’s lived in… like a home, and your heart warms and breaks all at once.

When he finally finishes his impromptu tour, he pulls you outside where the rest of the family has set themselves up, and runs out into the giant back yard to chase after Nikolai. You hardly had a chance to say hello to them, but if you were honest you hadn’t thought of anything but Sam since you saw him.

“Did he show you the bunk beds?” The doctor— Zaed, you remind yourself, comes up behind you on the deck. “He hasn’t stopped talking about showing you.”

“I thought he was gonna explode.” Zaed laughs, and you turn to look at him. He’s still sporting a scar across his forehead, and it somehow makes his older features look slightly hardened. His face was still soft, something about him gesturing kindness, an observation you never made in the months you were locked away. “He told me you made them.”

“It took me weeks. I am not very… handy.” Smiling, you turn back to watch Sam and Nikolai screaming and laughing as they chase each other with Nerf guns. “I am sorry for what happened with the case.”

“So am I. If he’d gone away, you wouldn’t have to stay in Witness Protection.” He nods, turning away for a second only to return and offer you a can of something. “What is it?”

“It’s Russian. You’ll like it— it’s strong.” You crack it open and take a long drink, hoping to drown the rising anxiety that kneads the back of your mind at the thought of what Frank was doing right now. “We don’t mind it so much here.”

“Florida?” He nods.

“We want to stay. Corinne thinks the children— with what they’ve been through, shouldn’t move too much. They seem happy here.” You hum in agreement, listening  to the light squeals of the youngest girl, who’s name you haven’t learnt yet, who’s got the biggest Nerf gun of all and is shooting the shit out of both boys. “It was my idea. To offer to take him in. If you are upset, please lay the blame with me—“

“Upset? God, why would I ever be upset?” He blinks in surprise, looking to you.

“You are here with him, and yet you still seem far away. I figured the suggestion was weighing on you. We only offer because… well, we have all grown quite fond of him, and for you— to you we owe our lives. I thought if we could make any of this easier…” You shake your head, finishing the bitter liquid in the can.

“You looking after Sam is about one of two good things I have going right now.” Zaed seems to relax, leaning forward onto the railing as you both stare out to watch the kids. “I think he’s happy here.”

“He is. He misses you, but he is happy.”

“And safe.”

“Of course. I pity anyone who would try to get past Corinne now.” You laugh at the tinge of genuine anxiety in his voice, as if he imagines it, but his eyes are full of admiration.

“I want to talk to him about it… make sure he’s okay, but if he wants to, I think him staying here would be the best thing for him.” Zaed doesn’t answer right away, just lets the echoed laughter of the kids fill both of your ears before he nods simply.

“He will be safe. And I am sure you will learn to love Florida, too, with how much you will visit?”

“What?” Again, a look of surprise crosses his face.

“Sam did not show you the spare room? We have cleared a space for you— whenever you need it. You… it is the least I could do. You saved my life—“

“Hardly.”

“I owe you it. My families life. My own. Whatever you should need here, the door would be open to you.” You have to look away, because it’s too much, and you don’t know when you became so soft that shit like this made you tear up.

“You don’t owe me anything. You keeping Sam safe is everything I ever wanted. I think we’re even now.” You laugh, your throat suddenly feeling a little tight.

“I couldn’t help but notice you arrived alone.” He questions, and you hide your face, unsure if the way you chew on your bottom lip gives too much away.

“Yeah.” No amount of alcohol could drown out the thought of Frank. You hadn’t heard from him in a day. Zaed looks at you, his eyes crinkling as he assess you.

“I thought he was going to drown with you that night. When he saw you go into the water… I recognise that look in a man’s eyes.” It seems so long ago now, and your hand instinctively goes to your stomach, where Frank sewed you up the first time. “He is coming soon, I assume? I doubt he would let you get too far from him right now.”

“Yeah, he’s…” You trust Zaed— but there’s only one person who takes precedent over the people taking care of your brother. “He’s just finishing up some stuff with the case in New York. He should be on his way now.”

“Ah.” He says, his eyes lingering on you in question. You say nothing, just sink a little more of the can. “Well, when he kills the ублюдок, I hope he makes it last.”

Before you can recover and wipe the shock off your face long enough to ask him how the hell he guessed what Frank is doing, Sam and Nikolai are in front of you, and Zaed disappears back into the house.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Frank grunts, a loud nearly animalistic sound vibrating off the walls as he clears the 23rd floor. Every time he breathes out, blood sprays out of his mouth. He can’t tell if it’s his own or he’s just covered in so much that it’s dripping off him. Either way he can’t help it, chest burning for oxygen after he laid the lower floors to absolute waste.

He’d ditched the assault rifle somewhere between the 18th and 19th floors, not even bothering to pull out his pistol. No— he’d fought every single one of them with his bare hands, and anything he could find scattered between dead bodies.

His right hand was fucked, and he’s pretty sure he got shot. Somewhere on the right side of his body, there’s a shooting pain between his thigh and his ribs, but it’s not enough to slow him down. He shoves his body weight into the penthouse door, throwing himself into guards he knows are ready and waiting for him. He reaches for his pistol, shooting three guys in the head before his eyes adjust to the dimmer lights in the room.

He hears them shouting orders, and he kills three more as he crosses the living room. One of them he puts through the TV screen, glass shattering under his hand as he crushes the man’s skull between the hard surface. The other two he shoots, and then moves towards the last four. All of them shield the door to the bedroom— putting their lives on the line for a man who doesn’t deserve the air he’s wasting.

Frank doesn’t have a moral compass when it comes to revenge. Not when it has to do with the people he loves. It’s why he clears the round of bullets in his gun on all four of them in less than thirty seconds, watching the lifeless bodies pile up in the doorway, there isn’t a single moment that he hesitates.

“Bobby!” Frank shouts, his voice horse and so loud he’s got no doubt the dead hear it.

He hears shuffling, and drops the pistol before stomping his way through into the bedroom. He sees Bobby, crawling across the floor in an attempt to reach for a gun dropped by one of the guards, but just as he goes to reach for it, Frank slams a bloody boot down on top of his hand, feeling the crush of bone under his weight.

“Fuck!” He shouts, and Frank smiles sickly, blood dripping from his teeth. “Get the fuck off me, you animal!”

Frank kicks him in the face, two of his teeth flying out and scattering across the carpet. As he rolls over, Frank grabs him by the collar and sits him up, watching his head lull to the side.

“Wake up.” Frank slams his fist into his skull. There was no way he was passing out this fast. Not after what he’s done. “Wake the fuck up.”

His hands shake with how hard he’s holding Bobby upright. So hard he feels the bone of his collar begin to give, and Frank chases the idea. Bobby thrashes, screaming as his eyes shoot open, the sound kicking Frank back into gear. He lets go of his shoulder long enough to pull back, only to drive his fist and crack the rest of his shoulder.

“Help m—“ Bobby tries to shout, but Frank shuts him off with another well placed shove of his weight into Bobby’s stomach, winding him. He wheezes, the pathetic sound something like music to Franks ears.

He punches him again— over and over. Not enough to kill him, though. No, Frank wasn’t done, he was just feeding the thrill. He’d been waiting too fucking long for this, and there was something satisfying about seeing this man— this weak excuse for a man being blinded by his own blood as he cries for someone to help him.

“Ain’t no one comin’ for you.” He growls, and grabs Bobby’s face so it hangs straight. His jaw is slack, but his eyes go wide when he feels the blade at his ribs. “You know that? That there ain’t a single person out there comin’ for you. No one gives a shit about you. You’re alone in here— your life in my hands.”

“Haaa—“ Bobby tries but whatever it is fades out into a scream when Frank slides the blade between his third and fourth rib. Slowly— real fucking slow. “They… they’ll come. Th-They’ll come f-for me.”

“No one’s comin’. Dead. All of ‘em. You’re alone.” He slides it a little deeper, watching the realisation wash over his face.

In truth, Frank wasn’t doing this for him. Sure, it felt fucking good, and Frank was enjoying the sight of the life draining out of his eyes, but he wants him to know why. Why he’s here, why he took out every last man in this building so he knew there was no hope. No one for him to go to.

He knew that’s what it was like for you. Frank couldn’t give you back those years, and he couldn’t take that much time with this— he’d thought about it, but he wanted this to end here and now. He could do this here, for you. Could make him know just how it feels to have all that power beat out of you, and know that there’s no one out there coming to save you.

“Stop…stop!” He wails, and Frank hits him harder. Every crack of his fist sends Bobby further into unconsciousness, and when he manages to stop himself, he shakes him awake again.

He gurgles on his own blood, dark red pools choking out of his mouth. His face is unrecognisable, already starting to blow up as he strangles in a few short breaths.

“I can… I have money. I can p—“ The effort of the words sprays another load of blood out of his mouth, and even though he’s exhausted, Frank laughs.

“You think I want money?” He leans down, yanking the knife out of his ribs and shoving it in again.

“Fuck! What do you—what do you want?!” Bobby wails again. Frank smiles.

“I want you to know that she’s the reason you’re dead. The last thing you’ll know is me— my face, and you’ll know it’s because you ended up just like you made her. Except she got out, and you never will.” Frank loses sense of time, his injuries starting to catch up with him as he yanks the knife out one more time, before slamming it home into Bobby’s skull.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

“I’m watching!” You shout as Sam lines up again, taking a few steps back before rushing forward and kicking the ball towards their make shift goal in the yard. You have to admit, for only been playing a few weeks, he’s got a hell of a kick on him.

“See! I’m getting better— my coach says next year I can try out for the first grade team if I keep training!” He’s smiling so big, and then he’s gone again, picking up the ball to take another shot at Nikolai who’s got goalkeeper gloves on, ready to catch it.

You’d be happy to watch this all day, but then Corinne calls out to you, telling you your phone is ringing, and you all but leap over the railing of the deck. When you race inside, you expect to see Franks name, and your heart sinks when you don’t. You knew he wouldn’t be able to call until it was over, but it’s been nearly two days since you’d heard anything. Then, you see it’s an unknown number calling, and your hands are shaking when you disappear into what is meant to be ‘your’ room to answer.

“Hello?” You recognise the voice instantly when she says your name. “Fucking hell, Karen. You scared me. Are you okay?”

“I’m fine, but are you?!” She nearly shouts, and you are still coming back to your mind with relief it wasn’t someone telling you Frank was dead. “I don’t even know how you did it, but I don’t want to. The way they found him… Jesus.”

“Wait. What? Karen, I’m in Florida.”

“What?”

“I’m with my brother in Florida. I came up here two days ago after the trial.” She goes quiet, and you can hear the commotion in the background. Remembering it’s a Tuesday, and that she must be at work, it only furthers your suspicions. “Who’s dead?”

“Bobby is. They found him. They found his body— but…”

“Karen, tell me.” All you need to hear is Frank wasn’t found. That he got out of there before anyone saw him. It would be your fault— all of it would be your fault if he was found. You needed to get back, you needed—

“Sorry. Sorry, I just thought… with everything that happened before, I thought it might of been you. Bobby’s dead, but… there’s nearly 50 men in the building with him. They’re all dead. And Bobby; he was hardly recognisable. It took them nearly 24 hours to identify him.”

“24 hours?” Frank needed to get out of New York as soon as he killed Bobby. If the police had been crawling around there for nearly a day… “Karen, I gotta go. Thank you for calling.”

You cut it off before she responds, and call the only number saved in your phone. It only rings twice before he answers, and you could nearly cry when you hear his voice.

“Stop fuckin’ ringin’ me, Murdock. I don’t know shit and I’m busy.” He grumbles through the phone, and you choke out something between a laugh and a sob. “Oh, fuck. Sorry— hey, sweetheart. Was just about to call you.”

“It’s… did the— job go okay?” You try to calm your voice as best you can, knowing that if anyone traces the call he’s done for.

“It took me longer than I thought. Had to get stitched up, then Curtis drove me halfway— passed out for most of it.” Before you can ask, he answers. “I’m fine, don’t do that.”

“You’re okay?” Relief floods your body, phone nearly slipping out of your hand with how hard you were gripping it. “Everything’s… everything’s okay?”

“Come see for yourself. I’m pulling up.” Like a kid on Christmas, you toss the phone and basically sprint to the front door, hearing an unfamiliar truck rumble down the isolated street.

He’s driving, clearly having ditched Curtis, but when he gets out he’s got a limp, and his hand is bandaged. You don’t run, instead you stand in the driveway and soak up the image— Frank; leaning against the door of the truck, sunglasses covering up what you have no doubt are black eyes. Alive. Favouring his left side and still with dried blood on his head, but fucking here.  

“You’re hurt.” You say it when you finally reach him, but it sounds pathetic, closer to the tone you’d whimper his name in.

“Don’t worry about it.” He says huskily and reaches out, yanking you forward and slamming his mouth to yours.

The soft touch of his bandaged hand is opposite to the greedy grasp of his free one, the one wrapping around your back and fisting the material of your shirt, pressing so you were flush against him. Both of your hands cup his face, feeling the rough surface of his skin. You lose yourself in the taste of him as your fingers trace the patterns of scars peppering around his head— a constellation you’ve memorised a million times over, and yet it still feels as illuminating as the first.

He groans your name, sliding his hand up to grip your jaw, thumb tugging on your bottom lip. You lean back slightly, staying at close to him as possible. His eyes look you up and down, and there’s a glint in his eye; a hunger that never seems to be satiated when he looks at you. He’s still feverish for it, and it makes your toes curl in your shoes.

“Fuckin’ missed you.” He mumbles against your lips, and it makes you smile against his.

“I can tell.” His other hand forgets it’s injury as he searches your body, gripping your hips and pressing you closer.

“Get Sam. Let’s go home.” He tucks his head lower, mouth kissing under your jaw, and as much as you do want to get the fuck out of here with him, you pull away.

“He’s… he’s staying here.” Frank pushes the sunglasses off his face, looking at you through what is actually only one bruised eye.

“Staying?” You nod. “You sure?”

“I talked to him about it. He fucking loves it here, Frank. He didn’t want me to go again, but you should of seen him with them. They treat him like their own, and he adores them. It’s so much better than anything I could of thought.” Frank wraps his arms around your back and hugs you right, and your eyes flutter closed. “And you can’t just leave. They’re expecting you to come in and say hi.”

“Why?” The way he says it makes you laugh, as if you’d just asked him to drink gasoline.

“Come on.” You tug him by the wrists, and even though he groans and leans on you up the driveway, you both stagger inside and follow the sounds of Sam’s laughter, leaving everything else behind.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

“They were being nice.” You haven’t wiped the smile off your face since you slid into the passenger seat this morning. “Well, I slept great. I don’t know what you’re complaining about.”

“Mhmm.” Frank grumbles, clearing having a much worse sleep than you did.

It was sweet, and truely, you wanted to take them up on it. When Frank dragged himself through the front door of  where Sam had been staying, everyone had nearly jumped on him. Sam couldn’t contain himself, clearly trying to play it cool but simultaneously thinking Frank was the coolest person he’d ever met. It was sweet, the way Frank was with the kids, the sight making you both smile and want to cry.

Either way, when Corinne and Zaed had offered for you both to stay the night, Frank agreed and all but dragged you down the hallway after dinner. The spare room was nice— set up clearly for two people, and you were only human.

It would have been perfect— had the room not been sharing a wall with your brother and his new best friend. A very fucking thin wall. One that was nearly vibrating with how loud they screamed every five minutes playing some game on the TV. The louder they were, the more it became apparent that neither of you would be getting a lot of sleep, and not in the good way.

Having Frank that close all night but not being able to do anything about it reminded you of the start of this whole thing. How you shared a bed with him but had to force yourself to keep your hands to yourself. It was borderline painful, but eventually you managed to drift off to sleep, not missing how hard Franks hands were gripping your hips like he had to physically cement himself to stop from fucking you through the bed.

When you woke up, Frank had all your shit shoved in the car, and was outside cooking pancakes with Sam. You took your time saying goodbye— making sure to thank both Corinne and Zaed properly, and then promising you’ll be back. Soon. ‘So soon you won’t even have time to miss me’ you’d promised Sam, and he grinned and hugged you before disappearing to get ready for school.

“Where are we going, anyway?” Frank looked to you before shifting in his seat, one of his hands resting on your thigh and squeezing.

“Got a stop to make before getting back to New York.”  You’d been driving for a while now— about half way between New York and where you’d left Sam. You turned in your seat, resisting the urge to roll your eyes.

“Don’t be cryptic.” You try to sound assertive, but you can’t seem to hold any resentment when you could feel the warmth of him palm on your thigh.

“It’s close, alright? Promise.” The words eased something in your chest, the same way his smile did when he looked at you.

A small silence drifted between you as a Billy Joel song hummed softly on the radio, and your head dropped, eyes tracing over the bruises left on his knuckles. Your fingers dance around them, careful to keep your touches light. You follow the lines of black and blue up over his wrist, watching them disappear under the arm of his jumper. Your curiosity gets the better of you, and when you push up the sleeve just slightly, you swear loudly.

“Fucking hell! Is this broken?” You pull the sleeve up higher, and you tighten your grip on his wrist when he goes to pull away. If you hadn’t watched him so closely, you would of missed the way he winced, and you let go immediately. “Sorry. Sorry— fuck, Frank. Is this all from—“

“I’m fine. Just a couple scratches.” He says, keeping his blackened eyes trained on the road. It would of been easy to miss— not seeing him without clothes since he’d come back. Bile rises in your throat at the thought he was hurt because of you— because he was doing this for you. Suffering for you. Like he has the entire time.

“Are you lying?” He shakes his head, and you lightly poke him in the side. He hissed loudly, flinching away from you and swerving the car. “Pull over.”

“I’m not pulling over.” Frank groans.

“You’ve been driving for hours, just—“

“It’s fine. We only got a few more miles till—“

“Please.” There must have been something in your voice, some kind of soft vulnerability that even he isn’t used to hearing, and then the car is pulling off the side of an empty highway, dusk rolling over the hood of the truck.

You reach out, pulling the sunglasses off his face to reveal him slowly. This part you’ve seen, but it still knocks the wind out of you. The cut along his cheekbone, not deep enough to need stitches but you know it will scar over. His right eye is a deep purple, the left nearly green. You go to draw your fingers over his face, but hesitate, worried you’ll hurt him. He sees you pulling back and catches your wrist, placing your palm between his cheek and his own hand.

“Don’t do that.” You choke out a laugh, smoothing your hand over and back into his slightly longer hair, pulling him closer over the console of the car.

“I’m not doing anything.” You say softly, something guilty in your voice. When he hears it, he shakes his head at you.

“Can read you like a book. You got nothin’ to do with this, alright?”

“I have nothing to do with it?” You want to laugh. “I’m the reason you were there. The reason all this happened.”

“I would of been in the same place with or without you. This part?” He gestures to himself, his torso that you know all too well is littered with scars. “This isn’t a part you blame yourself for.”

“But it is. My fault.” He opens his mouth but you talk first. “All of this… watching those kids today, watching Sam— all I ever did was put him in danger. And you. It’s better for him to be there, away from all this. Away from me. Maybe now all this is over, it would be better…safer, if you—“

“Stop. I don’t wanna hear that shit. You know how selfish you sound?” You blink a few times, eyes meeting his. At some point he’s leaned even closer, and you can feel the heat of his body thawing you out. “You’re right— I wouldn’t of gone back to New York the past two days if it wasn’t for you. You know why?”

“Listen—“

“No. I wouldn’t of gone back because I would of killed that asshole six months ago and been home in time for dinner. I’ve been doin’ this a long time, and there’s nothin’ you could of done that would of changed how this ended.” He holds your face up to his, rough hands holding you as gently as they could, and his thumb traces the scar just above your eyebrow. “Sam is safe with them, but don’t think for one fuckin’ second he’s better off without you. God knows I’m not. You’ve done nothin’ but good for that kid, and I’d… fucking hell. I’d be dead without you, you know that?”

“No you wouldn’t.” Your voice was so soft it hardly broke the silence, but he leaned in, his forehead pressing to yours. “You could probably jump out of a building and walk it off.”

“Maybe. But now I gotta be careful nd’ come home to you, don’t I?” He smiles, and then kisses you and you forget where you are. Words die on your tongue and are replaced by the taste of him, mind freezing over when he touches you. He does it every time. Every time he manages to take your breath away with one whisper of your name, one swipe of his thumb over your mouth. It’s intoxicating and dependant, something you never thought you’d want, but it feels so good with him. His hands drop to your waist, their pull demanding and needy as he yanks you up and over the centre console and onto his lap.

“I’d do it again. All of it. Kill every single—“ You kiss him again, squeezing your eyes shut, and he groans as you shift on his lap. “Fuck, baby we should wait till…”

“Till when?” You say breathlessly, and despite his words his hands are already sneaking underneath your shirt, his cool hands meeting your feverish skin. You can hardly keep your eyes open, and your hips roll forward again, seeking him out. “I want you now, Frank.”

“Fuck it. Doesn’t matter.” He says and then crashes into you, your back nearly pressing against the dash with how quick he moves. Your gasp of surprise is lost in his mouth, and you can feel the sparks he makes in your chest crackling their way through you, toes curling in your shoes.

Your half bent backwards, legs in either side of his as he keeps your chest pressed to him, both arms wrapping around you to hold you steady. You tug at his shirt helplessly, getting it stuck around his arm and he smiles against your mouth, leaning back to look at you before whipping it over his head.

In the dark of the room last night you wouldn’t of seen it, but now the lights streaming in from the car window, and Franks torso is nearly a rainbow in it— blue, purple and green bruises all up his side, with a short but deep cut on the low right side of his abdomen. He’s taken the bandage off it too early, the stitches still healing, but you can tell it’s expert work. Much better than the botched job you did a month or so back, something he still bares the reminders for.

“Just… just a couple scratches, huh?” He grunts something illegible and hauls you back to him.

“Shut up.” He keeps you pressed close, not giving you a chance to say something back, but then his hands dip lower and you’re a goner.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Yeah. Fuck waiting.

He’s got you here— now, on top of him, and he can’t even fucking think of anything else. Your hands are being so gentle and cautious when he really couldn’t care less about the pain, but you do. You always do.

He wasn’t gonna waste another second, and seeing your eyes close the second he got your pants off and dipped his hands between your legs… it’s pretty much as close to heaven as he was going to get.

You fall forward, Frank catching you with one arm and pulling you close while the other continues slow, teasing circles just how he knows gets you all worked up. Your head tucks away into his neck, and he lets you hide for now, but when he’s got you home— real home, then he’ll be able to look at you as much as he god damn wants.

Your hips move against him, chasing his slow rhythm, and he feels your teeth scrape agains this neck, wordlessly rushing him along. 

“You need me that bad?” He says lowly, and watches in awe the way his words wash over you and yank you closer to the edge. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. Shouldn’t of left you so needy—“

“Fuckkk… right there—please.” Your voice was so high it cracks a little, and it fucking sets him on fire.

“Get my belt for me, baby.” He whispers, feigning a bit of self control as he watches you quickly fumble with the buckle. The slight brush of your hands could finish him then and there, and he had to squeeze his eyes shut to try and remember why he wanted to wait. He had just one more card to play— one that you’d seen him play a few times before, but he doesn’t think you expect it this time, and he needed some semblance of composure to remember it.

A real house, white picket fence and all, smack bang on halfway between New York and Florida. He couldn’t leave New York, not ever, but he had a new anchor now, one that deserved to have it all.

Frank planned to take you straight home. Make a ten hour drive and keep his hands to himself, but how the fuck could he when you were like this? Looking like you do, touching him so fucking sweet and soft and saying how much you missed every part of him— it was a dream come to life, and one of the few moments he’d let himself go in.

You shuffle as close as the seat allows, your now naked chest pressing against his. He dips his head, kissing your jaw, and he’s suddenly surrounded by you. Arms around his neck, warm and soft as your fingers thread in his hair, both of you moan at the feeling of him sliding into you. It’s white hot and nearly painful, how even with the way you’re dripping down your thighs, it still takes you a second to take him all the way. You wriggle your hips, trying to settle yourself and Frank nips at your neck, slowing your pace just slightly. He can hear you sigh, but you listen. You always fucking do.

“Shit— so fucking good. You can take it.” He hums and runs his hands over your skin. You lean into the touch, and when you sigh again he sinks your hips lower, a short punch of your name bursting from his chest when you slam yourself down. “Fuck. There you go.”

He’s a wreck underneath you, and your hands slither away from his hair to his face when you pull him up to kiss you. As much as he loves the feeling of your hips grinding down ever so slightly right now, it’s this part he loves the most. The slow intimacy of it— how he knows he can stay right here for the rest of the day and nothing will change. He can feel how much you love it, how much care you handle him with, and it cracks something old and hard in his gut.

You shudder as he lifts his hips, keeping your mouths together and kissing hungrily. He’d think you’d both been starved for a year the way you two act, but he’d admit it to anyone that asked that he was gone for you. He knows it well and true, in his chest and in the way you bounce in his lap, moaning into his mouth like he’s breathing air into your burning lungs.

“Fuck— fuck, I love you. I fucking… Jesus Christ, you’re so good. I love you.” He can’t shut himself up, and your breath gets faster. He knows you love it when he talks. “C’mon, baby. Let me see you— wanna feel you. I know you want to.”

“Slow… Frank, you’re gonna hurt yourself—“ You suck in a breath and squeeze your eyes shut. His hands stay tight on your hips, and he feels the pleasure buzz under his palms, your skin nearly alight with it on top of him. “Oh my god, don’t stop.”

He wraps his forearm around you and fucks you harder, any pain and injury burnt out by how tight you are around him, and how perfect you fit him. He’s close, so close that he’s hardly able to kiss you now. You both collide in a mess of tongues and sighs, and when he hears you croak out his name into his mouth, he knows you’re cumming for him.

He can’t hold himself back, chasing you into that high with blinding abandon. It hits him like a freight train, bowing him over you like he’s taken a hit, but it feels so good he can’t register that he isn’t breathing like this. He keeps kissing you until he’s sure he’s going to pass out, and only stops when you pull away, eyes darting to the highway where headlights slowly flicker on the horizon.

“Shit.” You say breathless, and you laugh. He can feel it, the sound shuddering through him from where he was still deep inside you, and your giggles soon turned to something less innocent when you heard Frank groan into your chest. “C’mon. Someone’ll see us.”

“Don’t move yet.” He puts his hands on your waist, fanning them out to reach as much of you as possible.

“Mhmm.” It’s like your body gives out at his request, slumping forward and moulding into him like you were made to fit this way. This was what he was talking about. The way you fit together— something that should be out of the question for him fits so right. “I love you, too.”

“Mhmm.” He copies and feels you smile against his skin. His hands trail up your spine, tracing the line of bones lightly to leave goosebumps in his wake. “What time is it?”

“Who gives a fuck?” You mumble, the words half muffled into his neck.

“I want you to see the house in the light, but you wanna go at it blind, be my guest.” It takes you a second, a scoff coming out of you before you sit up abruptly, making him groan again.

“House? What house? Another safe house.” Frank couldn’t keep a secret to save his life when it came to you.

“It’s a house. Twenty minute drive from here.”

“But New Yorks not—“

“I know. Good thing we got cars, yeah?” Your eyebrows are crossed together, and Franks thumb slips over the small scar he left on your face. The movement shifts your gaze to something softer, and he feels the brush of your eyelashes on his finger as you blink up at him.

“You did it on purpose. It’s right in the middle.” You say softly. “Jesus, Frank. You didn’t have to… I mean you—“

“Take a breath. I didn’t buy it. Was a gift from the US Goverment. One thing those guys are good for is their money. I just picked the spot.” He could nearly hear the rave of your heart, and you crushed yourself into him, words hushed and mumbled into his ear, but they melt him to the core all the same.

He’ll never get over hearing you say things like this to him. That you’re grateful for him, that he’s doing a good thing. It’s like nothing he did before you was ever good enough. There was always the next job, always the next group to track, but nothing would be enough. There wasn’t a light at the end of the tunnel for him. But here you were, telling him that he was the reason you were gonna be alright, and if he squints he can see it. The flicker of something hopeful, and if he holds onto you as tight as he can, he might just live to see it light him on fire.

“Did you say… you said twenty minutes from here. Why didn’t we just wait until—“

“Would’ve ruined the surprise.” You laugh again, and the feeling has him gripping you tighter. He leans closer to whisper in your ear, his voice low. “And I wanted to fuck you here and now. Don’t want there to be a single fuckin’ surface where I ain’t had you.”

“Better get driving then, Castle. Sounds like you got a job to do.” The glint in your eye nearly makes him drag you outside and bend you over the hood, but the kiss you give him after is sickeningly sweet, so much so that he lets you slide off him and back into the passenger seat without so much as a nip of his teeth. “Tha–”

“Wait. Wait til you see it.” Frank said, and something about the way he looked at you had you nodding simply, and watching the trees race by as he sped you home.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

You were asleep on the balcony again, and Frank moved as slow as he could to let you stay that way.

In the two weeks you’d been here, he could count on one hand how many times you’d actually slept in the bed. There were no neighbours for miles, nothing interrupting the stretch of sky all the way to the hills. Even Frank had to admit it was a killer view.

He came inside, pouring himself a drink, and a strange pit in his stomach settled after the burning liquid soothed his throat. He can’t seem to kick that feeling when you’re asleep. When you were awake, next to him, there wasn’t anything else he could think about. But alone, walking around a house he owned, a life he might try and live staring him in the face, he felt guilty. There were parts of him he wouldn’t ever get back, but this wasn’t something he thought he’d ever have. Peace and quiet, time to himself. A woman he loved within eyesight, buried under blankets cause she was too stubborn to come inside when it got freezing. He couldn’t figure out why now, of all times, was the time to be thinking of Maria. The weight of the ring around his neck was like an anchor. He knew it was stuck on the bottom of the ocean, but he couldn’t find it in himself to let go. He would sit there, hand cut up and bleeding, holding on for dear fucking life if no one moved him, waiting until he drowned.

Your footsteps were soft, in a way that he knows you can’t help. You tread through the open double doors, and Frank would roll his eyes at the way he could hear your teeth chattering if he wasn’t so distracted.

“You should of woke me.” You say, voice muffled from the mess your head was buried under. He took a step toward you, pushing it back so he could see your eyes.

“It’s late.”

“Couldn’t tell.” He can hear the smirk in your voice.

“You finally frozen to death, smart-ass?” You grumble something in reply, and he catches a few curse words before you look at him again. It’s nearly scary, the way you can read him with one sweep of your eyes. You clock his tone, the way he isn’t leaning into you with his full weight, and squint your eyes.

“What is it?” Frank sucks in a long breath, and kisses you.

He’s a complete idiot. That’s what it is. He can feel the buzzing pulse you wake in him, every movement of your lips on his rooting you deeper in his soul, chipping off ice until theres only warmth. How’s he supposed to tell you, after you’ve just kissed him like that, that he was thinking about his–

“You can talk to me about her, Frank.” You say with your head against his. Not it, her. Before he can ask, you smile a little. Even just a hint of that smile and he’s forgetting how to breathe. “You play with the ring when you’re nervous. It’s actually a bit of a tell.”

“Yeah?” He manages, hands trying to search their way through the blankets for you.

“Yeah. You have a lot of tells. For someone in your line of work, it’s actually a bit worrying.”

“You got me all figured out.” He says and means it, but you just roll your eyes.

“And you lean to the left when you think you can’t make a shot. You think it helps your angle.”

“Who woulda thought you were so observant.”

“You know, I actually did watch you when you were teaching me how to shoot.” Frank smiles, your skin finally under his palms. His hands splay on your back, and you lean closer.

“You were trying to fuck me the whole time. Don’t blame me for being surprised.” You try to whack him but your arms are pinned under the layers. Your laughter carries through him, skittering into his chest until he can’t help but laugh too.

“You came onto me.” He laughs harder. “It was very unprofessional. I was there to learn.”

“Damn fucking right I did.” His voice is low, and you shuffle around under his hold until your hands snake up behind his neck. His hair is too long, but he hasn’t cut it just yet. He tells himself that he hasn’t had time, but truthfully he likes the way it feels when you sift your fingers through the ends of it. Like now.

“You can tell me.” You say again, softer. He’s softer too– more malleable now you were here.

“I can’t help it.” He looks over your shoulder, and you follow his gaze to where the sun is now just starting to rise. “She woulda… woulda liked it here. The kids, too.”

“You think so?” He nods, still staring into the orange sky.

“Probably would of had a lot to say about the inside, though.” You wrap around him tighter, head on his chest. “She was so good with those things. She loved when we painted our house. She had all these colors painted next to each other on the wall. All these different kinds of green. Everyone kept sayin’ it all looked the same but she... she could tell the difference. I could see what she meant when she put the couch next to it and shit, you know? She was real good with that stuff.”

“We could use her help around here. This place is sort of… ugly, on the inside.” He laughed again, his throat feeling tighter as he looked around. There was those same colour swatches, but none of them were coordinated like he was remembering. Pinks, blues, oranges and grays were all mixed together in big, sweeping strikes along the wall, stopping right above where your arm would be able to reach. “What would she have gone with?”

He looks down at you, your face washed in the light of the sunrise.

“The light orange. It looks good with the brown.” He nods over to the couch, an old leather one you’d made him pick up off the side of the road.

“We’ll do that one, then.” You tuck yourself under his chin, sighing.

“I think about ‘em everyday. What the kids would have looked like now. What they’d be doing. How Maria and I would of… raised ‘em. I was away all the time, but I just-”

“I think you would have been just fine.” You say into his chest, and Frank takes a shuddering breath.

“Why’s that?“

“Cause she was in love with you.” His chest tightens, and the grip he’s got on your waist gets a little tighter. “I’m… I’ll never be able to fix…that. It’ll always be with you, and nothing will change what happened, but I want you to know that they will always have a place here. You don’t have to apologize for talking about them– the kids, or Maria. I will never, ever not listen, and it will never be something I don’t want to hear. If they’re always with you, they’ll be with me, too.”

Frank takes two steps forward, and your feet pick up just in time to catch yourself before he throws you back on the couch. He’s never been good with words for things like this. He doesn’t think he should try to shove it all in a sentence, either. Not when theres so much he wants to say, but even more he wants to do.

You lay back, and he moves slowly. He wants you to know every move, every brush of his hand and his mouth is by design. He wants to know every square inch of you inside and out like you know him. He wants his hands to pull the strings, letting you hear all the things his mouth could never possibly form.

“Perfect.” Frank sighs against your mouth, over and over again. It was. You were. Are. The pit in his stomach disappears, pushed out and engulfed by the flames in his chest. There was no room for anything, not a single other feeling or word could possibly fit the way you two fit together. Your fingers tug at his shirt, and he takes it over his head. Your hands run and smooth gentle lines over his chest, over the healing wound on his side. It's jagged and wonky, and it nearly spelt your name. Frank thinks it’s the first time he’s looked down at himself and not hated to see the scars.

He unravels you like a gift to himself, savouring every moment even when you try to shrug off the blanket. You hadn’t dressed since last night, and Frank liked it even more this way. You sighed his name, and Frank shuddered, sealing his mouth over yours again. When his eyes opened for a split second, he could see your face, washed in orange light, and your hair swept to the side. He shut his eyes and kissed you again, the image seared into his mind forever.

Frank had faced a lot of bad things in his life. He had been shot, stabbed, pulled apart and put back together more times than he could remember. He thought he’d seen it all, felt it all before, but there was nothing like this. Nothing made him as weak as your fingers in his hair, and nothing made him as strong as the way you moaned his name. Nothing felt as good as sliding inside you, and nothing felt as empty as when you were gone. It made him lightheaded and brought him to the brink of consciousness, but he knew that this was right.

It could of been minutes or hours that had passed when he let himself go, but no amount of time with you under him would stop him from wanting more. The sun was up now, and Frank had you tucked to his side on the small space of the couch, legs tangled together in the blankets and each other. He felt you shiver against him, and the blankets wrapped around you had come loose. He bent to fix them, and when he moved you did it again.

He looked down, seeing the cold line of metal pressed against your bare back. The ring at the end was hanging over your ribs, and when Frank touched it, it was freezing. Holding it in his palm, it didn’t feel as heavy as it used to, and when he read the engraving on the back, he still felt cold.

Looking down at you, how you rolled over and sought him out even with your eyes closed, he leaned down to kiss the scar on your forehead. Then, like it was the simplest thing in the world, he slipped the necklace off over his head, and placed it in a neat circle on the coffee table next to his head.

They would always have a place here. But it wasn’t them who gave him warmth anymore.

When he tucked himself back under the covers, he knew it was you. It was always you.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

tag list

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@allthingsavenger-y

okay theres going to be an epilogue at some point, but it will probably be small and have very little plot, so this is the end of the main story. so, heres a little rant for you. if you read it, thank you, and if you dont, thank you anyways. knowing anyone is reading my words is a gift enough.

i think i have been writing this series for like 5/6 months ish?? thats fucking wild. i dont have an exact word count, but all i know is its fucking long. i cannot believe i wrote this much about a fictional character, but damn. that is a lot.

basically all i want to say here is thank you. to anyone who has read, interacted, or will read in the future, thank you from the bottom of my heart. it might be a lil dramatic but having people read stuff i write, let alone actually enjoy it makes me so incredibly happy. starting to write on here, and for frank especially, is probably one of the best decisions ive ever made. this series was a struggle to finish for so many reasons, mainly my incredible lack of planning and overall dumb writing schedule, but i have met so many incredible people along the way, and i am just so grateful to have a lil space to share my work.

frank castle will probably always own a giant spot in my heart, so thank you for letting me share my version of him. and letting me add as much smut as i want to this with no complaints bc i fuckin needed it okay!!!!!! i love you all. rant over. series over. damn!

p.s. i am never not going to write frank. dont worry. i already have an idea for my next series lmao!!!!!!!! luv ya!

[ophernelia]

Hi. Do you have any tips on how to grow your sims platforms? I keep tryig and posting and I hardly get any interactions or followers. Idk what to do. I wish bigger creators would help out smaller ones more by reposting the content so it gets more views. Its so hard starting out

Hey! Yeah, I have a few tips I can share! This is gonna be long so beware!

I keep seeing this sentiment reiterated about larger creators. I get it, but I think everyone's missing one thing in regards to it: you already have access to the same audience they have. Just like you they grew their platform. Maybe it was a stroke of luck from a viral post or something, but they still had to start somewhere. What it takes is getting your content to hit the algorithm. That's all! So even if a larger creator never looks your way, you can still grow and curate an audience without their help. Small accounts are what make up big accounts after all.

You NEED good SEO. I'll talk about TikTok specifically. If you want a boost in visibility then get on Tik Tok. Properly tagging your content is the key to working the algorithm in your favor. I think people believe the more tags the better. No. The more accurately tagged, the better. The hashtags "TS4", "The Sims", and "The Sims 4" are always trending. You should always use those tags. The rest depends on the kind of content you're posting. I'll use my most viral video as an example. My Stormveil Chateau post on Tik Tok got 141.6K views, 22.3K likes. Since it was for a maxis match build I used the following tags: #thesims4 #sims4 #ts4 #simstok #ts4cc #fyp #sim #sims4tok #sims4maxismatch #sims4build #sims4builds #ts4build #ts4gameplay. Most of the tags are related to TS4 and TS4 builds. I wouldn't include anything about CAS, mods, etc. It wouldn't fit the post. Don't flood other tags in hopes of getting more views. It'll just bury your post under a bunch of random content. People have to be able to find your content.

Visually appealing content performs better, period. Y'all give the aesthetic girls hell but they know a thing or two about working the algorithm. I'll give them that! People like things that look nice. Now, that's not to say you need to purge all the color or character from your game. You don't have to follow a certain style trend. Curate your own personal style. Do what you do to the best of your ability. Whatever you post, just make sure it's good quality. Focus on sharpness, clarity, etc. If you wanna curate a particular look then go for it! But most importantly, having clear clean images or videos is the main thing you need. And you don't need a beast of a PC to do it. Sharpen your images and videos before you upload them using Capcut or something. Make sure the lighting is nice. Make sure it's a good resolution for the platform you're posting on. A quick tip: Adding dof to lower quality images makes it look better! See how the left photo looks more clear than the right? A little bit of depth of field helps so the pictures don't fall flat.

Pick a primary social to promote your secondary ones. Usually your primary social may be the one where you have your largest audience. For me, it was Tik Tok. On there I'd promote my Patreon, YouTube, and Tumblr. You just released some cc? Post something about it on Tik Tok, let your audience know they can find it on your Tumblr. Use one to promote the others.

Slow organic growth is STILL growth. Growing your audience is one beast, but maintaining it is a whole other thing. As someone who has gotten shout outs from larger creators, that initial boost ALWAYS dies down. And socials like YouTube will not hesitate to tell you "Hey boo, your shit's failing now. You kinda suck." Been there, felt that. Boosts from other creators and giveaways don't have much longevity. Most times that audience will leave. On occasion you may get a few who stick around, but most won't. That's why it's important to build your audience organically. Yes, it may take longer but they won't just dip out after a few weeks. Things take time to grow. Things take time to curate. Understand you are BUILDING something. It takes time!

And lastly- if you just really want the numbers and it doesn't matter what content you post, then here's what you do: Sell. Still use good SEO, still try to have high quality photos, but give people something to consume. People like to see what they can get. Post some builds, cc, whatever. If you're not a cc creator, then do cc finds, mod reviews, tutorials, build recommendations, lookbooks. People love a good cc haul. They wanna see what they can get. And that's not to say people that make this sort of content don't care about their content. I know they do and it's a lot of work! It still takes time and effort to curate. It's just HOT right now! Especially maxis match content. It ruffles less feathers because a wide array of the Sims community has a vicious vendetta against alpha cc. (Yeah ion know. They will "uncanny valley" and "just play IMVU' you to death. If I say what I think it is.. My people know.) But if you really just want thousands of followers, then there's a way to do it.

With all that said, I know how annoying it is to constantly hear to not focus on numbers but don't. CREATE FOR CREATION'S SAKE. Do it only because you enjoy it. Growth for me has come as a byproduct of me doing whatever the hell I wanted. I make Lykaia because I want to make Lykaia. I love that people love it but it is for me. Not to be an influencer, or to inspire, or to receive praise and accolades. I love everything about the process. Hell, I love the stress that comes with it! I have four scenes to film and I'm still not done editing the ones I have filmed. The episode is supposed to air on MONDAY. I fucking love working down to wire. It's stressful as hell but it feels good! If it's out there, the audience will soon follow. Always. Take your time. Be grateful for where you're at every step of the way. Enjoy the process! And remember that all it takes is one post to take off.

[ghostlykeyes]

Hii!! Can I request Aki, Kishibe, and Angel devil with a heavily modified s/o? I have a feeling these guys wouldn’t be intimidated by someone with a little more metal in their face and ink in their skin! It can be whatever piercings or tattoos you want! Feel free to get wild with it!

heavy mods are best for both video games and hot people, god bless

Really long so much of it is under the cut! 🖤

Aki

When it comes to aftercare, Aki isn't squeamish at all. He's completely willing to help you properly care for your new body modifications. He's ever-so-gentle as he dabs ointment on the new out-of-reach tattoo in the center of your back, light and thorough as he swabs your snake-bite piercing. (Yes, he knows you can probably take care of it yourself. Just hush and let him take the excuse to touch your lips.)

Aki loves to trace the lines of your tattoos while the two of you are cuddled up together. It's a soothing ritual--his fingers follow your warmth across the curves of your skin, and his stress and worry starts to melt away a little bit. Whenever you're snuggling on the couch watching a movie or eating dinner close together at the table, his fingers fall into the well-traced path he's mapped by your tattoos. Tracing your ink is often the last thing he does before the both of you drift off to sleep. He pulls you close as the darkness closes in, ghosting his fingers across your skin until your breath evens out and you settle into your dreams.

Whenever you go to get a new piercing or tattoo, Aki comes with. He stands next to you, clasping your hand comfortingly (if the artist doesn't boot him out of the room, of course). Squish his fingers as hard as you need to, if it helps you push through the pain--Aki never complains.

Even though he rarely buys anything, Aki likes to come along while you're shopping for new facial jewelry. He offers honest answers to all your questions: "I don't think I like that lip ring. The color doesn't look quite right." "You should get that industrial bar. It suits you." If you see a pair of standard lobe earrings you like, he'll buy you both a pair and match jewelry with you. (As long as it's nothing embarrassing. On you, the beetles made from rainbow beads look cute and endearing. If he tried to rock them, he'd feel like a clown.

Aki's favorite tattoos of yours are your floral pieces. He's drawn to their delicate beauty, and he thinks it's interesting to see how the natural world can be artistically preserved and interpreted.

When you suggest giving each other stick-n-pokes, Aki's hesitant. He's content with just his earrings, and he really doesn't want to mess up and leave a permanent horrible scribble stamped on your bicep. But when you tell him that you don't mind if it doesn't look the best, and you just want something to remember him by, he softens. He lets you print your name on the inside of his wrist. It's the only tattoo he ever gets. When he's poking yours, though, he doesn't let you see it until he's done. The two of you sit in companionable, comfortable silence while he quietly works the picture into your wrist. As soon as he's done, he gently, bashfully smiles up at you: "Do you like it?" He's tattooed a tiny cigarette with its smoke curling into a heart shape. Of course, you tell him you love it.

Aki keeps one of your stud piercings in his pocket while he's out on patrol. He wouldn't want to lose some of your favorite jewelry, so he picks out some that you wouldn't miss if it somehow fell out of his pocket. It comforts him to have a small piece of you with him, and he fidgets with it whenever his mind wanders back to you while he's working.

Kishibe

Kishibe completely understands the appeal of body modifications. He wanted to get more, himself, but getting an earring torn out in a devil fight put a damper on that. Regardless, he thinks the ones you have are damn sexy and he always hums in approval when you come home rocking a new piercing or some ink. The more the better!

If you want to annoy Kishibe, steal his earrings off the bedside table and wear them. He'll grumble at you that he needs those, since they're the only ones he has. If you really insist, though, he'll huff and let you wear them. Really, he doesn't mind when you wear his jewelry--he thinks it's kind of cute. But he's got a grumpy-hardass reputation to keep up, and he can't let you get away with everything scot-free. You'd rule his life even more than you already do.

If you ask where he got his piercings done, intending on getting a few piercings done there too, Kishibe just laughs. "Well, the one I woke up with after getting blackout one time, and the others I did myself...probably best to stick with your regular shop." Naturally, you can't ignore the fact that Kishibe just admitted to piercing his own ears. If you beg hard enough and give him those adorable puppy eyes that he tries hard (and fails) to be immune to, he'll begrudgingly agree to pierce something for you. He's most comfortable doing your ears, but if you insist on something like your hips or belly button he'll just shrug and tell you to lie down. He grumbles at you to lie still as he swabs the area with rubbing alcohol, but he pushes the sterilized sewing needle through so quickly and smoothly it's hard to believe he isn't a professional. "Don't forget to keep it clean," he tells you, looking his handiwork over. "I'll feel bad if you get it infected."

Kishibe loves the attention that your body modifications draw in public. He loves being seen with a cute young thing like you, holding your hand and being called your 'dear'. Your heavily-tattooed, pierced-up appearance just means that more people are looking at you two, noticing the grizzled devil hunter and his hot ass partner.

For your birthday, or any other special occasions, Kishibe pays for you to get another tattoo. If you ever protest, citing the cost, he just rolls his eyes. "What else do I spend my money on? Booze? Just go get somethin' that you like."

While he like them all, Kishibe's favorite tattoos of yours are the badass ones. Knives, katanas, skulls--if it's a little edgy (but not pretentious, of course) he loves it. He also has a fondness for traditional Japanese work and pinup girls. If you've got a full back of traditional Japanese tattoos, the kind that gets you mistaken for yakuza and frightens old people, consider Kishibe suitably impressed.

Whenever you're making out, Kishibe's tongue automatically finds tongue stud and lip ring decorating your mouth. He pays the jewelry special attention, pulling lightly on it with his teeth. Not enough to hurt, or dislodge anything--just enough to push a shiver down your spine.

Angel

Angel doesn't necessarily understand the process or reasons behind body modification. In his eyes, the pain doesn't line up with the payoff. Why undergo such a grueling process? That doesn't mean he doesn't appreciate the aesthetics of your body modifications, though. He thinks each piercing and every tattoo has its own charm, and you'll often catch him fixating on one of your shoulder tattoos or nose piercings, his eyes following the swirls of ink or shine of metal.

Whenever you go to get a new tattoo or piercing, Angel comes with. He folds himself up in a chair in the corner, knees tucked comfortably to his chest, and rests his chin on his leg. He's intrigued by the way that touch intermingles with pain, and it fascinates him that humans will trust a complete stranger to hurt them if it means they get a new tattoo. He doesn't speak up from his spot in the corner, offers no words of encouragement or comfort--but his soothing presence helps you through the process anyway. If he notices you wince under the needle he'll tilt his head at you and send a kind look your way. And, of course, after every appointment he insists the two of you go out for ice cream. To aid your recovery, of course.

While the two of you are being lazy together, spending the afternoon with his head in your lap (with a thick blanket between you, of course), Angel loves to hear the stories behind your tattoos and piercings. Tell him all about the semicolon stamped on the inside of your wrist, or the shitty stick-n-poke you did yourself on a hot, bored summer afternoon, or about the orbital piercing you got while shit-faced at a house party. No matter the story, big or small, he loves to hear you talk about your body modifications. Knowing the backstory behind each one feels like something so special, so private, so intimate, like he gets to see the full picture of you while everyone else only sees the surface.

Sometimes, Angel picks up your jewelry and plays with it whenever you take it out. He likes to feel the subtle warmth leftover on the metal, transferring slowly into his palms. He can't feel you skin-to-skin, and this is a tiny way for him to at least feel something. He doesn't explain to you his reasoning, but you let him fidget with the jewelry anyway.

When you get a small pair of angel wings tattooed over your heart, and proudly show Angel, he double checks with you that the protective wrap over it is totally secure--then he reaches out and ghosts a hesitant hand just over the wings, so lightly that your angry nerves barely feel it. "So I remember my guardian angel is always watching over me," you tell him, and he smiles at you tenderly. "I like it," he says. He wishes more than anything that he could just lean in and kiss it.

Angel's favorite tattoos of yours are the cute, silly ones. He loves the spaceships, smiley faces, tiny frogs--anything that's fun and lighthearted. If you'd like another, more subtle tribute to him inked in your skin, a soft serve ice cream cone is the perfect choice! He thinks it's adorable.

[autisticempathydaemon]

for the matchups, please? this is very long oops :^)

What song are you fixated on at the moment? What lyric or verse, and why?

magnolia by laufey!!! love the first verse, specifically, "stars in her eyes, handpicked from the skies." i just think it's very pretty :))

What is your Enneagram type?

type 4w5 (looking at the other submissions this is very popular?!)

Do you love gargantuan Youtube video essays, and if so, which is your favorite and why?

the youtuber strange æons has this video where she does a deep dive on an old harry potter fanfiction writer called ms.scribe, i think it's really fascinating stuff!

Tell me about your childhood imaginary friend.

i don't know if this technically counts as an imaginary friend? there was this one time i found a little praying mantis and gave him a whole backstory (he was a legendary samurai!!) and pretended to sword fight with him. i think about that often

What is your go-to way to fall asleep?

get snuggled up in bed and consume content til i pass out wwww

If you had to change your name, what would it be, and why? (In tandem, if you have changed your name, why did you pick that one?)

i named myself after my favorite artist :))

What is your favorite of Redacted’s audios, and why?

caelums first audio! it was the first redacted audio i listened to ever and im very attached to it just for that

What Redacted boy holds no appeal to you, and why? Like, not the one you hate but the one who you don’t get the hype for. (I won’t judge, I promise.)

james! not really into him, he doesn't stand out to me

Tell me about that one book/movie/tv show you know all the words to.

bee and puppycat! i can even mimick puppycats voice hehe (if you haven't seen it, puppycat makes mechanical beep sounds, sorta like animal crossing noises instead of talking) i just find the concept of it charming, a girl who feels isolated from everyone else finding a magical little pet that takes her on grand adventures. the subtleness of its commentary i find really appealing. also if we're just talking about aesthetics it's all soft colors and stars, very pretty and very my thing.

Which Redacted boy are you platonically attracted to? Like- forget dating, which dude do you want to be your best friend?

asher!! he's funny and energetic but also very relatable to me, which are qualities I like in a friend :))

Do you have a go-to thing you ramble about when you’re tired, and if so, what is it? (For example, my boyfriend knows I’m ready to sleep when I start talking about space.)

i basically turn into a pokedex during my late night phone calls with my friends. if the conversation goes out, i'll start speaking about random pokemon facts (it's the special interest talking..)

Tell me your go-to gas station and drink combo.

gas stations and convenience stores are separated where i live xD i like to get a strawberry smoothie from 7-eleven, but tbh i mainly do it because i just think the machine is cool...

What’s your guilty pleasure media, and why?

dating sims! i just like feeling included :,)

And whatever else you think tells me about who you are!

im a drawing artist mostly, but i dabble in a ton of other creative/artistic hobbies, and im in a band :^) also, i have hyperphantasia. that's pretty cool

A Free Spirit, a creative, and artist with a love of the stars- who else could you be but Elliott’s Sunshine, his brightest star?

I love pairing our favorite Dreamwalker with artists; it’s just an irrefutable match, you know? With your hyperphantasia, I bet he’d love to be a guest in your dreams, to firsthand see what you see and bring into the world through art. Elliott is just such a sweetpea, the most fun and supportive boyfriend you could imagine. As someone who works in art/architecture himself, he gets you. He understands creative blocks, the frustration and excitement of trying out a new concept or medium, the desire to not rest until you have made something, a desire he’d make sure to nip in the bud when necessary.

Speaking of your art, he is your biggest fanboy, because Elliott highkey has fanboy energy, don’t you think? He’s picking you up from practice, he’s attending every gig, he hyping you up every chance he gets. He’d also use his magic to give you the most exciting gifts. Think the dragon flashback audio but for you. He could put you in the world of Bee and Puppycat! He could make you a dream dating sim where all the romanceable npcs are him in different hats.

Song:

Pull it out of park, put it in drive/ I can feel your heart beatin' with mine/ Underneath the stars lookin' for a sign/ Glowing in the dark 'til the sun shines/ Made it pretty far on the first try/ Might've set the bar a little too high/ Started with a spark, now we're on fire/ Started with a spark

I had to give you a fun song with star motifs, I couldn’t help it~ This is also a fun, sweet song with chill, lowkey make out vibes. Elliott also totally strikes me as a The Neighborhood, Sweater Weather fan.

Runner-ups:

Vincent is a really fun runner-up because he would be such a good groupie; like, can’t you imagine him front and center of any of your performances, saying “you were great, Lovely, I bought you a brand new guitar.” Anton is another fun runner-up because he’s so technically-inclined, so I think an artist would contrast him beautifully.

note: thank you for your entry~!

Read this post and send me an ask if you’d like a match-up of your own! 💌

[treasure-mimic]

Felt like messing around in photoshop today, so, what started as a want to create some franchise icons for Smash turned into full character mockups, so I put together my 10 most wanted characters for Smash Bros., whatever the next game looks like, and I’d like to post them and talk about them a bit.

Quote is I think my most wanted newcomer to Smash, I really like and appreciate everything Cave Story has done, and I think if you’re talking about indie games, Cave Story has probably had the most influence on the industry. Kids today probably don’t know much of anything about this game, but trust me when I say there’d be no Hollow Knight, no Ori, no Celeste, without Quote.

This one might be a little obvious nowadays, but I am fully behind the Waluigi train. Just one point of contention, I think people undersell his potential by just having him reference different sports games and spin-offs. I think the real play is to come up with a wholly original kit based around being a dirty cheater and trickster with a penchant for explosives.

I’d much rather have Paper Mario than Dr. Mario if I’m being entirely honest with you.

This one’s a bit weird, because I don’t have a huge fondness for Excitebike the game or Excitebiker the character, I’m just enamored with this concept of a fighting game character who fights entirely from the back of a motorcycle. I just think that’s wicked as hell. I’ll take it in whatever form I can.

Metroid Dread is in strong contention for my favorite Metroid game ever, and it did finally give us a character with a body plan and toolkit that lends itself to Smash, outside of Sylux and the Hunters, whom I’m not the biggest fans of. I’ve had some contentious history with the way Smash fans talk about Metroid, so I guess I’ll put it out now that I think if, at this point, you’re not vouching for Raven Beak, you don’t know what you’re talking about.

Love me some DS VNs, Professor Layton I think at this point has the strongest ties to Nintendo and, since Phoenix Wright got to play in Marvel 3, it should be his time to shine, though I wouldn’t be opposed to any of them.

Honestly, every generation of Pokemon there’s a couple of new mons that I think would make sick Smash characters, and will inevitably get passed up for a lame starter. Nihilego deserves a spot, dammit, she’s more plot important than any number of fire/fighting muscleheads. But if we’re shilling for the most recent gen, you can’t go wrong with a giant hammer.

The Heavy is commonly in talks around Smash Bros. wishlists, especially here in the West, but the obvious problem rears its head pretty quickly. He’s a giant, lumbering, immobile mass whose main weapon takes several seconds to start up and then chews through anything it hits. This is my counterproposal, I think the Scout is just as iconic as the Heavy, comes with a lot of fun weapons and abilities, and actually has some mobility. Imagine using a downward Force-A-Nature shot to recover while spiking someone into the blast zone!

This is for sure a weird one, but once the idea came to me I started getting really attached to it. The number of Enderman variants from Minecraft Dungeons gives the Enderman a surprising amount of variance to pull from, and the Ender Dragon could be its Final Smash.

For the final suggestion, this is for sure a “there’s no chance in hell” but also “it would be really funny”. Scorpion, I think, best represents the aesthetics of Mortal Kombat, a ninja with fire, bladed weapons, and the ability to teleport, which centers him more than Sub-Zero who uses ice, Raiden who uses lightning, and Liu Kang who’s just a martial artist. Leaning heavy on the fire aspect is also a good way to nerf MK’s hypergore for a Rated E10+ game, though that really is the central appeal of Scorpion, trying to shove this edgelord into a kiddy cartoon beat-em-up.

[syn0vial]

8, 12, 19, 21, 23, 25 ♥ :) Only what you can please. As you know I'm obsessed with your work and insight on things ♥

thanks! skipping the ones i already answered... ^^;

12. the unpopular character that you actually like and why more people should like them

SO many expanded universe characters, tbh. zam wesell. goran beviin and medrit vasuur. d'harhan. more people should like them 1. bc they're genuinely awesome and fun characters who make so many of the disney newcomers look like wet paperbags in comparison and 2. i want to see more fanworks with them :3 someone draw boba ripping d'harhan's fucking heart out of his chest please…

19. you're mad/ashamed/horrified you actually kind of like…

i'm not ashamed of anything i like :)

21. part of canon you think is overhyped

i really struggle to see the appeal of the jedi. like, i'm sure there's SOMETHING there bc so many people enjoy content of them, but whatever it is flies right over my head. as for "overhyped," i don't like to begrudge anyone's enjoyment of their chosen content, but i wish there was more canon, well-publicized star wars content (so, movies, TV shows, video games) that didn't place jedi at their center. i'd like to know more about the galaxy from other types of characters' perspectives, not just the jedi's.

25. common fandom complaint that you're sick of hearing

"yeah disney might not create the best content, but at least they're more progressive than the old—"

WRONG. INCORRECT. UNINFORMED ASSUMPTION. WE HAD CANON, NAMED, SIGNIFICANT GAY CHARACTERS 20 YEARS AGO. 20 YEARS AGO, I WAS READING ABOUT 10-YEAR-OLD BOBA FETT AND HIS NONBINARY FRIEND CHATTING ABOUT GENDER. 20 YEAR AGO, IT WAS A POINT OF CANON THAT THE MANDALORIANS WERE RACIALLY AND SEXUALLY DIVERSE AND PROTECTED THEIR DISABLED BRETHREN INSTEAD OF BEING A BUNCH OF SAME-FACED WHITE ARYANS WITH A MONARCHY. 20 YEARS AGO, YOU COULD HAVE A MAJOR FETT-CENTRIC PIECE OF MEDIA STARRING TEMUERA MORRISON (Star Wars: Bounty Hunter) THAT DIDN'T WRITE HIM OUT OF HIS OWN FUCKING SHOW.

was the expanded universe perfect? no. but its chaotic, free-for-all nature meant it was a much, MUCH better environment for boundary-pushing and organic, non-tokenized representation than the desolate, corporate, focus-tested wasteland disney cultivates.

[dragonmuse]

Has having supportive parents around (for the older generation) in SSLDCE impacted Lucius in any way? Dave is so dad shaped and Whina is everything, meanwhile his mother is...the wicked witch of whatever erea she lives in.

(it has! Here's a time it did.)

“I’m going to throw up,” Lucius announced. 

“You are not,” Pete chided, squeezing his hand. “You’re going to get there and it’s going to be great. You always do this before openings and you never throw up.” 

“This is different,” Lucius groaned, rubbing a hand over his chest, the shirt he’d chosen suddenly too scratchy and the wrong shade of green.  “There’s no one else to split the attention with.” 

“That’s a good thing, right? Babe, you’ve wanted a solo show for years. You’ve been over the moon all month.” 

“I know, I know, I just...it’s so much. What if it gets panned? What if the only people that show up are our friends?” 

“Then we’ll have a party and you don’t have to talk to strangers?” Pete offered. 

“...okay yeah there’s appeal there,” Lucius conceded. “Fuuuck.” 

The car stopped and Pete fiddled with his phone for a second, giving the guy a generous tip for the threat of vomit. Lucius got out and stared at the window where the poster he’d helped design hung. 

His own show. This was his. A decade of sketching and second guessing himself and somehow he’d still wound up here. It felt like a mistake. Maybe that’s what was making him sick. Even though they were well over a half hour early, Stede was standing in front of the doors in a gray suit with one of his fussy embroidered vests. 

“What are you doing here?” Lucius asked, bemused. Stede was never early to anything. 

“I thought you might want another pair of hands,” he smiled at him. “Let me be the assistant for once.” 

There was some setting up to do though the gallery was handling most of it. But they both knew it had nothing to do with the damn canapes or postcards. This was moral support in wingtips, doing its fussy best. Lucius hugged him and Stede hugged him back without reservation. 

“Well done, you,” Stede whispered and Lucius had to close his eyes for a second. 

“Yeah,” he said roughly. “Thanks.” 

“We going inside?” Pete put a hand to Lucius’ back. “I mean we can hang out here for a bit, but..” 

They went in.  As usual Stede’s helpfulness was high on intent, low on the execution, but somehow it was still comforting to have him in the way, even if it was just to get exasperated at.  Lucius kept his eyes on arranging his business cards and not on his work looking down at him from every angle. 

‘The Body of Friendship’  it said on all the promotional cards and Lucius still wasn’t thrilled with the title, but how else could he summarize it?   

Now he was questioning his whole ridiculous artist’s statement too. He hated the damn things. Had he used too many pretentious words? Not enough? Was it him or the stilted voice of someone without the confidence of their convictions? 

“Hey, someone want to get him a glass of water or something?” 

Was that Eddy? When did Eddy get there? 

“Lucius,” a soft familiar voice filtered through his panic. 

“Whina?” Surprise shook him out of his head a little and he turned to face her. “Did I know you were coming?” 

“No, I asked Eddy to bring me.” She was dressed up even, in a dress and heels. “I hope that’s all right.” 

“It’s more than all right,” he said readily. “Uh...I mean, hope you’re okay with the content?” 

“I’ve seen genitals before,” she rolled her eyes. “Your generation did not invent sex.” 

“Mama!” Eddy protested, having already wandered away to Stede’s side. 

“You came into this world somehow,” she scoffed. “Anyway, your work is very nice and respectful.” 

“I-” Lucius started. His heart stuttered unevenly in his chest. “Did you see the one of Eddy?” 

“I haven’t, show me?” 

He led her to the corner where he’d set up the portraits of Stede and Eddy to face each other. Stede was standing in front of Leda’s closet, the rainbow of pastels giving the work a glow. He faced the viewer, chin raised a little in defiance, his lips just beginning to form a smile. He was stripped down to an undershirt and his boxers, a playful touch of sock garters around his ankles though he swore he had never owned such a thing. Stede himself was barely colored in, just the edges as if the clothes behind him were starting to leech in. 

In contrast, Eddy was a burst of brilliant color against a black and white background. She was sitting on the velvet couch, arms folded over the back. The suggestion was of nudity, though nothing was showing below her elaborate chest tattoo. Her face was turned slightly so that their gaze seemed to meet Stede’s.  Her expression was tender, though unsmiling.  

“That’s my girl,” Whina touched Lucius’ elbow. “You caught her, look at how lovely her hair falls.” 

“She wouldn’t sit still or I would’ve done a full body piece,” he admitted.  

“I think it’s perfect just the way it is.” 

“Babe,” Pete was at his other side with a glass of water, “you okay?” 

“Yeah,” he decided. “I’m okay.” 

“Good because people are starting to show up.” 

“Fuuuck, okay,” Lucius took a deep breath and a sip of water. 

“You’ll be fine,” Whina assured him. 

Other people did come. A lot of other people. The gallery owner had assured him that their mailing list was large and that there would be a decent showing, but the relief was still tremendous. Lucius made himself available and tried his best to be gracious. People asked such inane things or worse, good questions that he struggled to answer. Pete was there, the whole time and Izzy arrived not long after opening. Between the two of them, they were an effective defense team, turning away anyone that was clearly annoying him (Izzy) or offering a distracting comment with a grin when things got too intense (Pete).  Or shoving canapes on him when he was clearly getting hungry (both of them). 

“Dad!” Pete said happily during a lull. 

“Dave?” Lucius glanced up and there he was. “He came in for this?” 

“Of course I did,” Dave said jovially, yanking Lucius into a hard hug. “I don’t get invited to things like this every day, you know.” 

“But the flight-” 

“It’s fine. Anyway, I promised Whina I’d look at some houses this week.” 

“Did you now?” Lucius asked with a grin. 

“Well, I’m about ready to finally give up the old place and come out here and she knows it best,” Dave said as if he’d caught none of the tone. He drew back, clapping Lucius on the forearms. “I hear tell there’s a racy picture of my boy on these alls.” 

“Uh..maybe?” Lucius hedged. “Most of the pictures are pretty naked. And I draw Pete a lot.” 

“He does,” Pete said happily. “Come on, I’ll show you.” 

Lucius did not track that visitation at all, just turned to Izzy. 

“Did you know he was coming in?” 

“Yeah,” Izzy shrugged. “We figured it would just make you nervous if you knew.” 

“Probably,” he sighed. “I’m sorry I’ve been nuts over this, it’s going pretty okay.” 

“You know half the pieces sold already, right?” Izzy lifted his eyebrows. 

“No. Not that many?” 

“Up to sixteen last time I counted.” 

“You’re the artist?” A pointy looking woman asked. 

“That’s me,” he said gamely, shoving aside the swooping feeling in his belly. 

He was passed around for another half-hour before things started to die down. Alone at last, he posted up beside the picture of Jim. Thank fuck Nana hadn’t appeared out of the woodwork or he would’ve had to hope that Izzy wasn’t opposed to taking out a nun.  Jim sat on the edge of their bed, entirely nude, the leg closest the viewer pulled up just enough so only some tasteful bush was on display.  Both their heels rested on Oluwande’s broad back, his face hidden by their thigh, just one hand bold and spread over their hip. They leaned back on their palms, their hands fisting into the covers, head tilted back, eyes half-mast.

It was not for sale. 

Jim had been very clear that it could go on display as long as it wound up back in their home after.  

Lucius saluted the picture and finally drank down the glass of champagne he’d been carrying around for ages. It was lukewarm and tasted awful, but he finished it anyway. Then very slowly, he walked around the gallery. 

The triptych of Frenchie de-dragging from full queen to pajamas: sold. 

The series of cocks, some of them in this room, some not: all sold. 

Oluwande on his own, from behind, nude and holding a single orange: sold. 

Ethel, holding an enormous weight aloft: sold. 

Pete over and over, happy, sad, naked and clothed: sold sold sold. 

Roach in a pile of fabric, spread eagle and back arched: sold. 

Buttons, weeding his garden in just galoshes: sold. 

Eddy and Stede: sold. (Lucius could guess to who). 

His heart knocking in his chest, he came at last to the pieces he’d had little hope for. They were outside his normal style, far more elaborate and fantastical.  Not nudes at all. They were a pair too, back to back. Alma in a dress of bones, leaning against a grave, her shoulders would’ve touched Charlie’s in the next frame as he emerged from a pool of blood. Both with the same beatific smiles.  

There was Izzy too, none of his nudes allowed out into the world by pained request. This one was almost silly, but Lucius couldn’t help himself when Izzy told him with a pained face about the dream. So here he was, rendered in a trench coat with the collar popped up and a hat angled down to shade his face, a dark cityscape thrusting upwards behind him.  

To match it, Lucius had done one of Pete too, in a wide-shouldered suit striding down a daylit street. The lines were looser, but it was clear they went together. 

Sold. Sold. Sold. Sold. 

He stared blankly at the stickers.  

“I hope you don’t mind,” Whina said quietly, stepping up behind him. 

“Mind what?” He asked vaguely. 

“That I stopped them from going to collector’s or someone important,” she said quietly. “I thought you really caught them.” 

“You bought them?” he turned to her. “But the prices-” 

“Eddy looks after me very well,” Whina shook her head. “What’s it all for if I can’t indulge in beauty sometimes?” 

“But they’re so....” 

“Those are my grandchildren,” she said firmly. “Perfectly rendered. Izzy too as it happens. And Dave managed to snag Pete, it was a close call. That pointy woman was trying for him.” 

“He did?” He asked faintly. 

“Yes,” she took his hand in hers. “They’re all beautiful, Lucius.” 

“Thanks, really,” he cleared his throat. “It was really...thank you.” 

“Dave and I kept saying how proud we were to know you,” she smiled faintly at him. “And I thought maybe I should tell you directly. We’re both very proud of you.” 

“....I’m going to cry,” he warned her. 

“You go right ahead. It’s been a long night. Would you like me to get Pete?” 

“Please.” 

So he hid in the corner of his own show and when Pete did arrive, folding him wordlessly into a hug, he did cry. Nothing dramatic, no sobbing or historians. More like a cleansing rain. 

[belicioustummy]

1 from all categories?

If all the characters stuffed themselves to maximum capacity, who would’ve eaten the most?

cade has a pretty big capacity but ultimately I think willow would have him beat by a very slight margin. cade would not be pleased about that

Who’s most likely to get a stomachache from overeating?

willow probably, if he’s eating something tasty there’s a good chance he will keep going even when he starts to feel full. she’s usually able to catch it before mild discomfort and soreness turns into nausea, though that wasn’t always the case…

Who is most likely to seek out tummy rubs when they’re stuffed?

definitely tansy! getting its belly rubbed is a big part of the appeal of being stuffed, and getting love and attention from its girlfriend niah is always amazing. a date night with a bunch of good food that ends up with her tummy being stroked and kissed is something she always looks forward to. willow is content rubbing her own full tummy, but quite enjoys when someone else does so too

Who is most likely to accidentally stuff themselves because they were not paying attention to how full their tummy was getting?

chuck, absolutely. he’s often multi-tasking while he eats, whether chatting with friends, watching tv, or working on a project, so there’s a good chance he’ll wind up fuller than anticipated

Which character would be most likely to wind up stuffed attending a potluck with a wide array of home-cooked comfort foods?

niah! you might think, out of the pair of them, it would be tansy, but she knows her limit and prefers to be stuffed in private. niah adores when several people get together and make their specialties- it reminds her of family reunions, which she looks back on with fondness. she has to sample everything, and then get seconds of whatever tastes best. by the time she’s done, she’s filled with plenty of good home cooking!

[bowtiesarecool123]

yk what guys time to refute all of the hate all quiet has been getting bc i have nothing better to do

ok so i am having a very hard time understanding how a film score without lyrics can be offensive. does it make fun of something that requires nuance? no??? this score is not satirical in any way nor does it appropriate cultural music so where the fuck did offensive come from??? also what is so bad about the score being anachronistic? in fact i think this is one of the best aspects of it, if a film score has to be strictly within whatever period the film is set in not only does it lead to one dimensional uninnovative film scores, it just doesnt make sense in some scenarios. does a prehistoric film have to feature sticks as its only instrument?? ok even if we take all of that at their best, i feel like we're being too severe a couch critic, like cmon, they won for a reason, we don't have to be this rude about it, just say it's mid and call it a day...

yay lets generalize a very diverse fanbase bc it makes it easier to strawman and push my argument!! ok anyways i think a rlly big thing with sucessful adaptations is that ur gonna have to change some stuff. what works on paper might not necessarily work on the big screen. i get that a huge point of contention is the ending change and the cutting out of the returning home section. so about the ending first, i actually liked the changes bc while i get the poetic ending of the book, i think the movie ending does rlly well for character development and rlly goes all in to show the psychological changes paul experiences during the war. if we did keep what they were doing in the book, we might run into a lot of issues bc we're able to know what paul is feeling however that might be difficult to translate on film. also, we get interesting interpolation and final emphasis on the theme of how war is essentially just a puppet game. without the changes of the 11am armistice or the final orders from the evil general dude, we lose the new themes that the film brought in which would feel less complete than status quo. ok so the returning home argument, the novel is obviously more complex than the film but that doesn't make it better or worse. our film at hand already has a huge run time, if we tried to shoehorn in another whole theme, that might be too ambitious and we lose the focus the film has right now. i would definitely choose a world where they focus on one theme and do it really well, which is what's happening rn, over a line by line adaption that could feel messy and end up being too ambitious. again, a line by line adaptation has already been done and i wouldn't fault anyone for thinking the 1930 version is better, it just means it would be even worse and completely redundant to make another line by line adaptation rn. also again, these are completely all my opinions and its def valid to disagree on all of them but the real root of the issue i have with op's comment is how they chalk it all up to ppl not reading the books. it just comes off as rlly elitist and just not representative of what ppls actual opinions rlly are. also it's better to attack the media itself rather than ppl who enjoy the media 💀

braindead bird app time, here we have the classic case of someone thinking it's cool to shit on the film that all their twt mutuals are shitting on rn without ever having seen it. sorry if this is a bit left field but next time maybe watch the film b4 commenting on it?????????

this is honestly one of the least problematic opinions out of the all quiet haters so far but i am still responding to this bc the only category all quiet beat banshees in was original score (why is it always this) and the score doesn't have much to do with whether or not this film is a war film or if soldiers appeal to u or how many times this has been remade. and like i agree, banshees score, phenomenal, but if all quiet lost it still would go to babylon so i feel like the anger here is rlly misdirected.

all quiet haters cannot seem to comprehend that this film is not a remake holy shit. and even if it is inferior, it would only be inferior storywise bc u cannot fucking argue the point that 1930s vfx and cinematography are better than the 2022 version. and the only sweeps all quiet got were technical category sweeps so the inferior remake point is entirely irrelevant. and i am willing to bet 5 bucks this person didnt watch the movie bc then they would understand that technical aspects and story aspects are different bc what it sounds like rn is they're repeating whatever they've heard without properly applying the criticism to its accurate category.

.

.

ok im done now very slay if you've read all of this im sleep deprived bc of babylon dickriders so ignore my gramatical mistakes ty.

[marvelandponder]

I’ve been skimming through both the chapters & author commentary as you post them, & it’s put me in a weird position…

You know the sensation where you come up with an idea for something completely independent of outside input, only to find out that someone else has come up with the same idea or a similar one & managed to successfully execute it before you did? I’m going through that sensation currently, as many others are evident by previous asks & comments directly on the story; But while others are feeling validated, it leaves me discouraged. Even though the ideas I independently came up with were never intended to compete with your ideas & their execution, or were intended to serve as loving tributes to the works of other creators, I currently feel as if any attempts to execute my own would inevitably result in direct comparison & subsequent bad faith accusations of being intentionally derivative out of uninspired laziness…

I say this with absolutely no offense intended towards you nor your co-writer/illustrator; Rather, I’m asking as a fellow aspiring content creator. Even with the understanding that nothing is truly original & every creation is in some way intentionally or unintentionally derivative, where does one find both the drive to execute their personal vision in spite of its intentional & unintentional similarities to other preexisting works, & the confidence that others will celebrate your execution both on its own merits & when compared to preexisting works?

First of all: :hugs: Also, apologies in advice. I'm a rambler.

The best answer to this that I've found so far is that what makes art art is that it's human.

We leave fingerprints behind that other people recognize as their own. Without those, what would they have to latch onto?

Empathy for the Devil is a completely different story than the real life events I was processing at the time. I never struggled with whether or not to embrace therapy (I was a psych major)! I never broke down in front of everyone the way Solstice does. But I was processing grief. I was grappling with a newfound terror of losing my new best friends, because I'd lost an old one.

There's a lot of private details I'll skip, but that's important context.

Because here's the thing: no matter how similar our ideas, or even if they were identical, you're gonna do it different than me.

Empathy for the Devil is the most me version of this story I could tell, and that's why it was so fun, gave me so much passion and drive to see it through to the end. And it was the same for Bevin with her contributions!

You came up with this idea yourself. Point blank period. Something about it appealed to you on a personal level, whether it's your tastes, your experience, your philosophical beliefs, or just your heart. Maybe all of it! But it's you. And as long as it's you, you'll be so damn proud.

It's okay to let yourself feel whatever you feel. I have a creative best friends, and we respect each other so much when one of us admits to being envious or spiteful or scared that no one will like our way of doing things. We're human.

So it's not being devoid of any self-doubt.

Instead, like you said, it's about leaning in despite all that. And I can't speak to what will work exactly for you, but what helped most for me was two-fold:

Support - Naturally, you well know by now I had Bevin's full support and she had mine. Getting excited together and supporting each other when things got hard, that was invaluable! We also have our private fears about what other people will or won't think, and it helps so much to have someone to talk to about that

But it wasn't just Bevin. Our other best friend couldn't read this story for private reasons. Like just completely couldn't. But she supported me as a fellow writer and as a person, gave me the space to talk, and really listened. And I did the same for her. She taught me that everything is a remix (highly recommend this series to you if you haven't seen it). Finding even one person who will listen to you talk even if they don't read a word of your writing keeps the spark alive.

Not everyone's in a place in their life to have that. God knows I wasn't.

No matter what, get excited. Fall in love with the ideas as you develop them out, get stoked out of your mind about the story you want to tell, and keep that excitement going. Protect it. Even when it's hard and you don't know if you have the skill or wherewithal to see it through.

It's really tough to stay removed from what audiences might think about your writing - but, I'd say, not as much if you're not in the same world. Escape into telling this story your way, and you'll have made an experience for yourself that no one else can touch

I hope that answers your question. And if not, just know I'll knock anyone's teeth out personally who tries to discourage you.