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radiowallet · 2 years

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In the Air

Summary: 7 months later, Frankie and you haven't stopped thinking about your weekend in the woods with Marcus Moreno. But how do you take lightening in a bottle and keep it close forever? And what happens when three people try to decide they're ready for more? A direct follow-up to Like A River.

Pairing: Frankie Morales x Female Reader x Marcus Moreno

WC: 9.1K

Warnings: 18+ MINORS DO NOT INTERACT. References to canonical type violence, military imagery, ptsd, grief, threesome, polyamorous relationship, yearning, cursing, drinking. M/M dynamics, M/F/M dynamics, dirty talk, anal play, P in V, masturbation, frottage adjacent, cum play. Look, this one is...filthy. Please, if I missed something let me know, and I will update.

Series Masterlist II Main Masterlist

It’s a dream. One that seems to start as a nightmare, and Frankie can’t seem to remember that neither one is real.

His rank is high. His uniform is crisp. His hair is short. His face is aged, the years pressed harshly into every wrinkle, each line. Behind him is a line of men. No. Boys. Gangly and wide-eyed and seconds from following him to their death. He wants to scream at them to run, order them away from whatever battle lies ahead, but his lips are sealed shut. A good soldier, through and through.

It’s wrong. It doesn’t fit. This is not where his story ends. It’s barely where it started.

He was a kid, just dreaming of a way out and up, eyes always trained on the sky above him. A head in the clouds and a heart too big, they would say. He didn’t fit, even when he tried, desperate to have the puzzle pieces fit together. But it only ended with the edges fraying, the mess growing inward, tangling up inside him, impossible to free. Parents – disappointed in a military son, wife – horrified as his pain grew into addiction, daughter – caught hopelessly in the middle.

Then suddenly the nightmare is different. It shifts and shapes around him, leaving him dizzy even in his sleep. And without warning he’s with you, the two of you wrapped together, your trembling lips pressed to his neck, icy fingers snaked beneath his coat, finding warmth just above his heart. Far too intimate for just a friend but still not nearly as much as he dared to admit.

Frankie knows this place. He hates this place.

He loves it too.

You’re cold, wet, the mountains of Colombia surrounding you, a tall cage blocking out everything. It felt hopeless then, just the same now, the fogginess of a dream keeping reality at bay. The road ahead is bleak, the trail behind not much better. A broken marriage waiting for him, another man’s ring for you, neither of you knowing how to settle but so unsure how to ask for more.

But then.

Your voice is clear, a sweet reprieve despite the rain, despite the dream, patiently calling his name.

I can’t marry him, Fish.

Why he asked.

He couldn’t see your eyes. Not then. Not now. Here in this dream. But he remembers your tears.

You didn’t tell him why. Not that night. Not for a while.

But then there was a kiss. Is a kiss.

And when it breaks the open air is beneath you both, bright blues melting into soft shades of white and grey, his grip firm around the throttle of his helo. Someone else sits behind you. Frankie knows who it is. He just needs to turn his head to check, and he knows he’ll see a smile, a dimple, a hero. But your voice is still steady in his ear, as patient as ever, asking him to keep his eyes on the sky.

It’s harder back on solid ground.

But even on his worst days. Even in his nightmares.

Frankie always feels safer in the sky.

“You’re still thinking about him.”

Your voice floats down to meet Frankie’s ears, your hand making a soothing path through his curls, his head cushioned on the soft pillow of your thigh as you both come down from the rise and fall of your orgasms. The statement sits in the air, mingling with your breath and the patter of rain against the window pane. He knows exactly who you’re talking about, and he knows it’s little use to deny. Both of you always seem to be thinking about him; a pair of brown eyes and plush lips, watching you from across a small tent, shy smiles mixed with gasps of pleasure.

“Yeah,” he hums, letting the tip of his finger trail up the inside of your leg, biting a grin to the inside of his cheek when the muscle tremors just barely beneath his light touch. After a beat, he asks, “You too?”

You answer back quietly, your voice steady with the confidence of no secrets. One more benefit to facing hell on earth with the woman you love.

“Me too.”

It should feel strange, Frankie thinks, lying in bed with you, your body pulled loose and so perfectly pliant, a sated fatigue covering you both, while thinking of another man. There had certainly been other people– that cute girl that used to tend bar down at Sam’s, a guy from that salsa club you had begged Frankie to take you to, Benny one night after too much tequila (of which you still tease each other about, a fond protective sort of care in regards to that night) – but none of them had ever lingered. Their presence was simply a ship in the night; an indulgence Frankie and you allowed yourselves from time to time but never feeling the need to discuss it further than just some harmless fun.

But that day–

Two days, Frankie corrects himself, allowing himself a smile as he sits in the memory of swimming in a river, the water cold, too cold, just like he had predicted. The three of you found warmth in each other’s arms after, pressing your bodies closer and closer, his lips finding his finding yours as you stroked each other to completion, just as comfortable and easy as it had been the night before.

Marcus had been quiet after, helping pack up camp with a focused silence, lost in his thoughts and hiding it poorly. Frankie hadn’t found the courage to ask until they were saying goodbye, awkward handshakes and an overly polite thank you that were all together too professional and nearly broke his heart in the process. By then it had been too late and the two of you watched as Marcus Moreno walked out of your hangar, head hanging low and fists balled tight.

“We should call him.”

It isn’t the first time you’ve suggested it. You both have over the past few months, usually in passing, when something or someone reminds you of Marcus Moreno. A new trendy coffee shop pops up that serves the drinks in camping mugs, one of Mia’s classmates is seen carrying a Heroics lunchbox, someone at the bar makes a joke about being afraid of heights. Without even trying, the man is ever-present. A ghost in their lives despite the fact that maybe he doesn’t have to be.

Frankie wants to agree immediately, actually has to physically stop himself from sitting up and reaching for his phone, choosing instead to turn his face into your leg, breathing in the overwhelming scent of you, letting his nose sit directly in the still sticky mess of your orgasm.

They could call him. Should. But the time that has passed is enough to sow small seeds of doubt. Quiet on most days, loud on the worst.

Did Marcus think of them? Miss them? When he looked back on those days together was it with fondness? Regret? Is he content with an itch scratched or does he yearn for more? More love. More time. Just… more.

The hand in his curls tugs lightly, your other tapping his cheek three times to get his attention, until finally he’s forced to turn back up to face you, a somber smile meeting his eyes, and he’s reminded of the water you love so much, flowing around him, a steady beat that holds him up.

“What has you worried, Fish? You’re usually better at saying what you want.”

He breathes in slowly, trying to calm his nerves enough to speak but when the silence goes on a beat too long he looks away. Your teasing voice finds him anyway.

“The worst he can say is no.”

Frankie nods, eyes unable to rise from where they trace the patterns of the bedspread, again and again in a futile attempt to slow his racing heart, but it’s fruitless. The tears sting anyway.

“Exactly.”

Marcus leans back in his chair, letting his head lay against the black leather, eyes closed to the late afternoon sun blasting through the windows. He could get up and close the blinds. Maybe that would help kill the headache blooming at the base of his neck? The one he knows is going to follow him home, some terrible shadow hanging around through dinner and homework and the cooking show Missy had been begging him to watch. But he can’t seem to make his legs move. He’s preoccupied. Mind fixated on one, no, two other things.

Months. It’s been months. And still all he can think about is that weekend in the woods. Lightning in a bottle. Electricity tingling in the air that, if he had wanted, maybe he could have bottled to keep. The thoughts are constant; Your skin, Frankie’s laugh, your kiss. His eyes, your hands, his smile. The presence of you is constant, overwhelming in the best and worst ways. Two more ghosts to hover just behind him, haunting each step that takes him further and further away.

Selfishly he wonders, do you think about him too? Do the pair of you lay in bed together and remember that night? Do you talk about it? About him?

He leans forward, elbows braced on his desk, unblinking eyes barely focused on the computer screen in front of him. His cell phone buzzes beside him, but Marcus ignores it, instead turning his head to survey the pictures just to his right. Perfectly framed moments of his life, frozen in time, reminding him of everything he had. Has. Annie. Missy. His mom. He considers their smiling faces, and not for the first time today lets himself sink into the guilt of wanting more. It’s a slippery slope, and he’s quick to shake it away, instead focusing solely on Annie’s photo. It was taken the day after Missy was born, her hair tangled, shirt filthy, eyes tired.

She was so beautiful.

What would she have wanted for him?

Oh, I think you know.

Marcus barks out a laugh, rolling his head left to right before leaning back in his chair again. She would choose now to chime in, her teasing voice digging in his ear, reminding him exactly what he already knows.

He does know what he wants.

But what about them?

He reaches for his cell phone, remembering the message from earlier that he had stubbornly ignored, hoping work can, at the very least, be a helpful distraction. It’s probably something Heroics related. A news blurb. Or a problem in need of fixing. Ruffled feathers requiring smoothing.

It has him instantly exhausted.

He blinks the phone awake, only one text message waiting for him on the screen.

F: Drinks tonight? - 🐟🐦

The table is small, but Marcus thinks maybe you picked it on purpose. Something about the way you’re smiling behind the lip of your beer bottle as he and Frankie squish in around you, looking far too pleased at having their large shoulders pressed up against your own. When your hand lands on his knee, giving a gentle squeeze before resting there for good, he finds he’s pretty damn pleased too.

The conversation is tense, the three of you dancing around the elephant in the room, but it’s getting harder for Marcus by the second. He’s acutely aware of Frankie’s lips, how they wrap around his beer, head tipping back to drain the bottle, neck on display and the perfect angle for him to lean over and sink his teeth into. Your hand is still on his knee, not moving, not an inch, but the weight is present, a persistent reminder of what it felt like on his bare skin.

He bites at the inside of his cheek, thumb rubbing at the condensation on his own beer, the paper label peeling beneath his finger. He’s certain the whole bar can hear his depraved thoughts but at this point he doesn’t care. All he can think about is your hand on his leg- did it just move higher?- and Frankie’s lips - why aren’t they on his right now?- and suddenly this bar is too crowded, too loud, too everything and he doesn’t know what to say or do next.

“Hey,” your voice in his ear breaks Marcus out of his panic, and he clings to it, willing his heartbeat to slow and his mind to focus, but all he feels is unbearable heat, his cheeks suddenly too warm. He wishes he had worn his glasses, if only to have something to do with his hands, but his overactive mind told him that neither of you would recognize him with the black plastic hiding his face.

“Hey,” he parrots back, looking directly at you, then at Frankie, and without warning, the pilot says what all of them have to be thinking.

“This is fucking awkward.”

And just like that, the bubble bursts, all three of them laughing, shoulders and knees knocking as they lean in closer.

“It is awkward! Why?” You practically shout, before leaning your head onto Marcus’s shoulder, batting your eyelashes, implying you already know the answer and are anxious to hear him say it. You look so pretty beneath the dim bar lights that he can’t help but play along.

“I can think of a few reasons. How about you, Morales?”

“One or two, Fullmetal,” Frankie chimes in, the nickname filling his belly with a pleasant flutter. The other man doesn’t miss his reaction, licking his lips and folding his large hands around his beer bottle, devastatingly distracting in how his thick fingers overlap. Things get a little easier from there.

“Did you have trouble finding the place?” Frankies asks, his knuckles knocking on the tabletop, his own anxieties betraying him with that one simple tick.

“No, it wasn’t bad. Just a little ways away from headquarters.”

The word headquarters seems to dig at both of them, Frankie’s knuckles knocking again on the wood, your grip going tight on his thigh for a beat before loosening again.

“Have you been back out…in the field, I mean…since…?”

The unspoken words sit heavy in the air, your voice tapering off, and Marcus finishes the questions for you, the ridiculously honest thought inside his head sitting on the tip of his tongue – since we fucked each other in that tent?

Instead he bites the inside of his cheek, taps his fingers an inch away from Frankie’s and says, “I have.”

“And you’re being safe?”

It’s Frankie that asks him, the tap of his knuckles close enough this time too graze Marcus’s fingers. He meets the other man’s eyes, tongue dry and eyes wet, jerking his head in time with his answer.

“As I can be.”

It’s reminiscent of Annie, the fear that would shine in her eyes echoed back at him now; the truth that this is what he does and this is who he is. A hero. There are days where it’s more dangerous than silly and here he is, tangling two more people in this world. Marcus takes a long sip of his beer, swallowing one, two, three times, to drown the guilt before it can rise up from inside him. He shakes his head, smiles, and changes the subject.

“How is Mia?”

“She’s starting Pre-K soon! Can you believe it?”

A second round of beers, a basket of pretzels, and endless pictures of the girls traded back and forth fill the rest of the evening. Your hand lingers along his thigh, never going any higher but the warmth of your touch is persistent, a perfect match to Frankie’s eyes, toffee brown beneath the dingy bar lights. He feels safe, protected, just enough that he sets the question he’s been carrying around in his heart free.

“So where do we go from here?”

Marcus wishes he could take the words back the minute they leave his mouth, the neediness in his tone filling him instantly with dread. He turns his eyes back to his beer bottle, wondering if it’s possible at the age of 40 to develop a new superpower. Maybe one that gives him the ability to sink deep, deep into the ground. But just like the text message he sent earlier, Frankie is there to save him from the spiraling disaster of his mind.

“We date.”

It’s said so plainly. The most obvious answer in the world but still it catches Marcus off-guard. It’s in this moment, this exact moment, that he realizes that’s what he wants. He doesn’t want just one more night or two. He doesn’t want to walk away again. He wants the chance at all the nights. Every night.

He wants the chance for more.

“We date,” he parrots back, a small grin cheating at the corner of his lips. Beneath the table he feels your hand squeeze his leg, your head still on his shoulder, your voice in his ear.

“We date.”

You sneak up behind Frankie and admire his shoulders, the bright blue button-up pulling tight across his wide back. He’s fussing with his curls, pushing them up and back and down again and you grin like a mad woman, wondering if this is how he was before your first date. All nerves and butterflies, hemming and hawing over what he wore or what flowers to bring.

It makes your already nervous stomach flip again, just the same as it did the night Francisco picked you up for your first official date, a bouquet of wildflowers clutched in his shaking hands, a reservation at a fancy restaurant that you definitely missed. It feels so similar that you can’t help but smile, knowing in your heart that can only mean you should stay the course.

You, of all people, knew what it felt like when that feeling was missing. It was palpable; a wound, gaping and exposed, barely beating with the hollow pain. It had taken you two years, a diamond ring on your finger, and the cold mountain terrain of Colombia for you to finally admit that’s what you had been settling for. First to yourself, then to Frankie, the two of you huddled for warmth and wondering if you’d even get to make it home to see any of it through.

Even now, it doesn’t feel like you’ve yet to make it to the other side.

But you’re getting closer.

You cough lightly, alerting Frankie of your presence before stepping behind him, pressing a gentle kiss to his neck, allowing yourself a moment to inhale the woodsy smell of his aftershave before you step back to meet his eyes in the mirror. He drops his hands and matches your smile, waiting patiently for you to speak first.

“Hoping to get lucky, Morales?”

He casts a glance over his shoulder, making a show of looking you up and down, honey-sweet eyes lingering where your sundress hits the tops of your thighs. You know he knows– Frankie always knows– that you aren’t wearing anything underneath.

“Could say the same to you, Bluebird.”

He turns back to the mirror, hands moving from his hair down to the collar of his shirt, tugging at it as if it’s choking him, a truly ridiculous notion with the top two buttons undone, giving you the perfect view of his chest, the smattering of freckles a perfect constellation trailing from his neck down. Finally you can take no more. You still his hands with your own, placing one more kiss, just a hair more pressure, to his pulse point.

Frankie does you one better, leaning down and capturing your lips, the kiss centering you both where you stand, bodies pressed together in the small confines of your bathroom. He holds you there, one hand cupped gently around the curve of your cheek, the other bunching in the fabric of your dress, dragging it up, the heat of his thigh pressing between your legs.

Heat sparks warm inside you, swirling low in your belly, his tongue slipping between your lips and curling sweetly around your own. It’s searing and insistent and when the kiss breaks, Frankie leaves a sigh on your tongue and a need in your chest.

Any other night you would both say fuck it, canceling any and all plans before leaning back in for another kiss and another and another, until the ground was falling out from beneath you.

But tonight–

“Let’s go Bird. He’ll be waiting.”

Frankie turns his truck carefully off the road, following the dirt path that’s been carved gradually over time. He can feel the shift of Marcus’s shoulder, moving down and away from his fingertips to look out the window, his hand flexing where it rests in an uneasy way across your knee.

He’s nervous.

Frankie can tell by the way his tongue is poking at his cheek, his brows pinched beneath his glasses– the ones that Frankie hadn’t been expecting when the front door opened. The ones that had sent all the blood in his brain south immediately, just from the perfectly innocent way they framed Marcus’s eyes.

He was dressed casually, a tan polo, just a shade darker than his skin, stretched across the width of his chest, only one shiny black button fastened, giving them both the perfect view of his neck, his adam’s apple bobbing as he looked them both up and down.

His eyes seemed to linger around the hem of your dress, a smirk tilting at the edge of his cheeks, and when he glanced at Frankie, it was with a knowing wink. You watched it all, your own smile wide, bouncing on the balls of your feet, a bouquet of yellow petals hugged tight to your chest. When you offered them to Marcus, his teasing grin softened, not an ounce of embarrassment painting his features as he brought the flowers to his nose, his whole body expanding as breathed in their sweet scent.

Your voice only waivered slightly when you explained their meaning.

“Daffodils are meant for new beginnings.”

The flowers sit in his lap now, Marcus refusing to let go of them, the hand not curled around your knee still clutched around their cellophane wrapped stems, the plastic crinkling in harmony with the sound of the truck tires on gravel. He leans further forward, the sunset catching in his eye line as he looks at the road ahead, but he doesn’t ask where they’re headed, trusting them to lead him the same way they did all those months ago.

It’s another 20 miles down the dirt path, the three of you quiet, save for the hum of the engine and the creak of the crickets. It’s a comfortable night, both windows rolled down, the wind lifting his curls and playing with the hem of your dress, cool enough to encourage your body to fit in closer to his, but not so much that you pull away from Marcus’s comforting grip. It’s easy to settle into, him and you and him, all pressed inside the cabin of Frankie’s old truck, as if the weathered bench seat was made with this exact night in mind.

The sun is mostly gone by the time he slows to a stop, throwing the gear shift into park and sliding out of the driver’s seat, his boots hitting the familiar patch of dirt, the grass worn away by years of tread. You and Marcus follow quietly, and without prompting you move to the bed of the truck, releasing the tailgate and climbing up, deviously intentional with the way you let your dress ride up, exposing your bare thighs to the open air. Somewhere behind him, Marcus makes a choked off noise, one that already has Frankie’s mouth watering.

“You boys gonna help or what?”

You’re standing now, the box at the far end of the truck bed kicked open, half the pillows and blankets stored inside already piled around your feet. The storage compartment is meant for tools, but Frankie learned long ago he could get most jobs done with what fit inside his toolbox, never feeling the need for anything extra. The pillows and blankets came in handy more often than any electric drill or saw ever could, and allowed Frankie the opportunity to keep you out beneath stars whenever the fancy found its way to his heart.

The three of you make quick work, spreading out layer after layer of blankets, old comforters, and hand knit throws, pillows piled around the walls of the truck bed, and two camping lanterns and a cooler set to the side to complete the set up. It’s been done a thousand nights in a thousand different ways, but the view still sends butterflies curling up inside Frankie’s belly, the feeling only screaming louder at the way Marcus takes it all in with quiet contemplation.

You're steady in all things, but especially now, pulling them both down into the make-shift nest, eyes sparkling brighter than the stars that have just begun to blink to life. Cheap beers are twisted open and passed around, a cold bite to parch dried throats, and giving all three of you a chance to gather your bearings.

“What is this place anyway?” Marcus asks, taking a small sip of his beer before setting it safely to the side. His eyes trace the skyline, the caramel of his irises flitting from star to star, losing himself in the wide open space laid out before them.

The sky is a melting cascade of dark blues that bleed to purple and pink, a smattering of trees in the distance, and hidden behind it, a small creek they take Mia to on the weekends. It’s as close to an oasis as Frankie knows, and he doesn’t really even know how to say it.

“We come out here to watch the stars. Probably at least once, twice a week,” Frankie admits, his thumb hooking through the loop of an old holiday blanket, the green and red faded to murky hues, the yarn soft between his fingers. “I brought Bluebird here…”

“On our first date,” you chime in, just a breath softer than Frankie, eyes never leaving Marcus, something caught between a challenge and a promise in your words.

Marcus stills, his brows pinched beneath his glasses, fists flexing at his sides, the levity of it all seeming to find him yet again. He looks at both of you before glancing back at the stars, and then, like a rubber band pulled too tight, he snaps.

He presses himself into you, lips smashed together, finesse sacrificed in the name of desperation, your bodies molding together in a tangle of limbs. He kisses you again and again, quick and insistent, your cheeks cradled between his hands. He can’t seem to stop now that he’s started, and it’s only when your hand curls around his wrist, thumb brushing gently along his pulse point does he settle into a more relaxed pace, lips parting for your tongue to taste.

Frankie watches, can’t help but, his jeans growing tighter with every sigh you pull from Marcus. He palms himself, feeling his cock harden beneath the barely there pressure, moaning in time with your own. It’s enough for him now, content to watch you move together, Marcus’s large frame crowding over you, a fire blooming to life in Frankie’s gut, his mouth going dry.

Marcus slots his leg between your own, one leg hitching up around his hip, the hem of your dress bunching up enough to give Frankie a view of your ass, goosebumps chasing the cold air across your bare skin. Your hand sneaks beneath Marcus’s shirt, and the change is obvious, his face crumpling in at the tender stroke of your hand along the small of his back, and he pulls you closer, somehow closer, breaking the kiss and burying his head into the curve of your neck.

A hand, then two, reaches back for him, yours and Marcus’s. Frankie goes to them, his front to Marcus’s back, letting the hook of his nose trace his ear, delighting in the shiver that races up the smaller man’s spine. His cock is fully erect, the head practically popping past the waistline of his jeans, straining in the unforgiving fabric. It’s almost painful, and Frankie can’t help but lean in further, rutting his length into Marcus’s ass.

His body goes taut, caught between the two of you, and Frankie watches as Marcus sinks his teeth into your shoulder, his spit darkening the delicate strap of your dress caught in his bite. Your lips find Frankie’s jaw, a nip and a laugh pulling him, and he melts into your kiss, lightheaded at the fact that your lips still carry the taste of the Heroic. The three of you stay that way, tangled together on your knees, Marcus’s lips on your neck, Frankie’s lips on yours, fingertips just starting to sneak beneath layers of clothing.

“History loves repeating itself,” you murmur between broken kisses, your hand somehow undoing the last of the buttons on his shirt, fingers skating a trail down to the soft swell of his belly.

“In more ways than one,” he can’t help but tease back, his memory ensnared between two different nights. One years away, in the back of this very truck, your quivering form opening up for him to slip inside. And another, miles away, three instead of two, crowding inside a small tent, each touch less tentative than the last.

Between you, Frankie can feel Marcus take one deep breath in, the release shuddering through him, a ripple effect that starts with his shoulders and slides down the planes of his back. For a second it feels like the answer will have to be coaxed out of him with a soft touch or a gentle kiss, but without preamble he’s looking up, a cheeky smile catching the corner of his lips.

“I think we had our clothes off a lot faster the last time.”

It’s a challenge – one neither of you are willing to back down from, your dress is gone in the blink of an eye, Frankie’s shirt sliding off with a quick shrug of his shoulders. Marcus is about to follow suit, his fingers already curled around the hem of his shirt, but Frankie stops him, his palm cupping his cheek, his thumb pushing into the black plastic of his glasses.

“Next time,” he warns, “you’ll keep these on.”

The promise is enough to wipe the smirk from Marcus’s face, a blush slowly creeping upwards. Frankie makes the most of the opportunity, slipping the frames from his face, taking care to slip them safely through the open window of the cab of his truck.

“Next time?”

You’re behind him in a heartbeat, lips in his ear. “Next time.”

It’s a blur after that, clothes falling away, all three of you suddenly bare beneath the moonlight. Marcus is having trouble focusing, eyes drinking in the pair of you, fingers trembling as he maps inch after inch with his touch. Your breasts fit the curve of his hand, the weight of them wonderful, your smooth skin catching along his calloused palm. He takes care to stroke at the stiff peak of your nipples, catching your sweet sigh of pleasure in a kiss.

He feels Frankie move in closer, the three of you shifting until you’re on your back, both men hovering over you, your warm eyes tilted up towards the night sky. Marcus takes advantage, lips following the same path as his hands, a flick of his tongue at your nipple. He maps every inch of you, the luxury of time allowing him an opportunity not afforded last time. Each dimple and fold of your skin, every birthmark and scar. Not a trace of you is left untouched by his lips, and when he finally returns to capture your own in a kiss, you’re shaking beneath him.

“Fuck, you’re both so beautiful,” Frankie growls, his large hands just as frantic as Marcus’s, trailing from your ass to your hip to his cock to his neck and back again. He wants to soothe the other man, assure him there’s no rush, but he’s just as desperate, his cock hard, precum beading at the tip and smearing into your thigh. His hips ache, the urge to rut into your side growing with each pass of Frankie’s hand across his back.

“Scars,” Frankie murmurs into the turn of his shoulder, teeth sinking in with a thoughtful hum.

“I don’t usually,” Marcus feels the need to explain, his thumb finding another patch of scar tissue on your skin, raised flesh in the shape of the gunshot, a memory he wishes he could have kept from ever existing. Your hand covers his, pulling his touch up, just as Frankie’s fits over the beat of his heart.

And then, the lightest of touches, enough to send him into a tailspin, the tip of one thick finger trailing across his ass. Marcus arches his back, leaning back towards Frankie, just the smallest stroke between his cheeks stoking the already burning fire inside. He can feel the other man’s smile pressed into his temple, a chuckle and a small kiss following.

“Not out here, sweet boy,” he shushes. But even as he says it, he strokes a little harder, the tip of his finger pushing in, just barely.

“Shit,” Marcus bites out, fingers digging into your thigh, trying to ground himself through the onslaught of pleasure. It’s not entirely new. There’s a memory, fleeting, like a leaf in the wind, of Frankie touching him that way months ago, but he hadn’t lingered then. Not like he is now, the intent behind his touch much more obvious, the sensation like molten fire up his spine.

“Please…Frankie. Please.”

“No,” he says again. “I want to take my time. Want you in our bed. Open you up, nice and slow, baby.”

Your voice joins in, patient and sweet in his ear, matching the pace of Frankie’s finger where it continues to stroke his entrance gently. You start stroking his length, thumb slipping around the thick head of his cock with each pass.

“Francisco’s big, Marcus. So big. Need to take our time opening you up for him.”

“Need lube, baby,” Frankie whispers, his touch growing insistent. “Want you to feel all of it. Savor it. I want to hear you beg for me. Want you to come untouched, my cock in your ass.”

The thought alone has him moaning, another promise for the future sending his heart rate racing and his fingers grasping, turning and reaching for Frankie’s hip, pulling him as close as he possibly can. Sweat is already beading at his temple, the sensation mixing with the cool spring air, his body heaving out breath after breath, trapped in a fever he can’t shake off.

Why would he want to?

You’re still stroking him, the lightest touch up and down his shaft, kisses peppered across his neck, each one sweeter than the next.

“What do you want?” He asks them both, the words strangled in time with the grip of your fingers, the urgency to repay their touch with one of his own welling up inside him.

Frankie’s teeth scrap along his jaw, followed by a tender kiss, a soft press of lips to the hinge of his bone. “Want to watch you fuck her.”

He moans, wanton and needy, already picturing the feel of your tight heat clenched around him. Your touch pauses where it’s still wrapped around him, his cock pulsing in your hand.

“Is that what you want, Marcus?”

He looks down at you, letting his eyes focus on your soft curves, bright eyes brighter still beneath the open sky, and he groans again, an unrestrained sound sitting at the back of his throat, his heart thumping a wild staccato in his chest.

It’s such an easy question. Is that what he wants? Of course. All of this, every last bit of it, has been all he’s wanted for months now, and it’s being given in ways he couldn’t have ever dreamed. But at the back of his mind he can hear a traitorous thought sinking it claws in and dragging itself forward in to steal the light.

There hasn’t been any one night stands, any wild nights out, any half-formed connections that lead to the sheets between his bed.

In the three years since losing Annie there’s only been the two of you, and that night, while filled with so many firsts, never found its way here.

“I…shit— is that okay?”

“Of course,” Frankie whispers, the tip of his finger pressing deeper inside him. Marcus gasps, falling forward, his forearms braced on either side of your head, your neck craned to meet his lips in a mismatched kiss.

“There hasn’t been a-anyone…else…” he murmurs, the pressure of Frankie’s thick finger stealing his breath away.

“It’d be okay if there had been, baby,” you coo, smoothing back his hair where it’s started to curl over his forehead.

“No, no,” he rushes out, a messy kiss pressed to your lips between his words. “It’s just been you…the two of you…since…”

He’s saying it all wrong. He wants them to know, to understand how important this is, even when the words won’t come, the blinding pleasure of your lips and Frankie’s fingers searing hot iron into his blood.

Behind him Frankie nods, his curls tickling at the back of Marcus’s neck. He slips his finger out of him, shushing the whine that parts his lips, petting softly at the small of his back. They stay that way far longer than they should, only the crickets keeping time with their breathing, the levity of the night catching up with them.

Finally, your voice breaks the silence, both men curling in closer to hear you.

“We all have scars, Marcus.”

He nods, then laughs, leaning in to kiss you, slotting his lips along your own, savoring the taste of you on his tongue. Frankie is moving around behind the two of you, and before either of you can ask what he’s doing there’s the sound of foil tearing open.

“I need to get you ready. I…I need…,” he tries to argue, fingers already slipping down your body to dip between your folds. He groans, greedy in his touch, pushing in deeper, already addicted to the slick heat of your arousal. You’re soaked, practically dripping, and Marcus licks his lips at the phantom memory of you, suddenly desperate to bury his face between your legs.

“You’re so wet, fuck- so wet for me already.”

You’re scrambling, grabbing at his hand where it’s still buried between the wet folds of your pussy. Marcus only pushes in further, groaning at the way you squeeze around his finger, the pad of his thumb settling heavy on your clit, eliciting a deep moan from the back of your throat. You spread your legs wide, giving him a better view of your soaked center, his finger disappearing and reappearing as he softly fucks it into you. It’s Frankie’s hand that grabs at his next, a growl in his ear to stop.

“She likes the stretch. Likes to feel it.”

Below them you’re nodding frantically, eyes fever-bright, bottom lip caught between your teeth.

“I do,” you agree, even as you cant your hips up, your fingers taut where they grip at the blankets beneath you.

“You’re thicker than me,” Frankie teases, his free hand wrapping around Marcus’s cock where it juts out, precum glistening, pearly white and beading at his tip. Frankie wipes it away with his thumb, bringing it to Marcus’s lips, watching with quiet eyes as he sucks the taste of himself off the other man.

“I want to watch you stretch her pretty pussy open.”

“Please, Marcus…” You beg, voice candy-sweet as it tapers into a gasp as he pulls his finger out of you and up to his lips. He hums, letting the flavor of you mingle with his own, Frankie’s exacting touch gentle as he rolls the condom down his aching length.

There’s little flourish as he guides Marcus down to your entrance, the head of his cock notching just inside, pulling another one of those breathy moans out of you. He slides into you slowly, inch by inch, watching with rapt attention as your eyelids flutter, your lips parting, looking at him as if he hung the very moon that floats above them. Frankie’s hands find his waist and hold him steady just his hips as are flush with your own.

His eyes pinch shut, the feeling of you clenched tight around him bursting sparks into his vision. He reaches back with one hand, holding as hard as he can to Frankie’s forearm, the other finding the curved lip of his truck bed, the metal crumpling in his grasp like a piece of paper. He can hardly breathe, the both of you wrapped around him, surrounding him, so much the same and so different from what he remembers. It’s overwhelming in the best way and Marcus can only cry out, your name and Frankie’s mixing together.

“Marcus,” you whisper, a glance of your fingers on his cheeks encouraging him to open his eyes.

At first he refuses, shaking his head and biting his lip, terrified to move, to take, knowing once he starts he’ll be hard pressed to stop. You persist, your stubborn touch more insistent, thumb and forefinger pinching at his jaw. Your legs snake around his thighs, pulling him impossibly closer, Frankie’s tongue in his ear.

“Move, baby.”

His pace is bordering on frantic, his hips slamming into you again and again, the slick of your arousal helping him jam his thick cock deep inside. Again and again, he spears inside you, your hips rising to meet his pace head on, the truck rocking in time with his thrusts. Your hands wrap around his neck, his head falling down, forehead pressed into your own, hot breath traded back and forth in strangled groans.

“You feel so good, M-Marcus….don’t stop…”

He falls in closer, only able to kiss you, tongue licking into the caverns of your mouth, swallowing your gasps of pleasure. All the while, he refuses to slow down, pumping the entire length of him in and out of you, drunk on your mewls of pleasure.

Frankie is a constant presence behind him, his hands on Marcus’s hips, his voice in his ear.

“--fucking her so good, baby. You look so good, too. Love watching you stretch her open. Does it feel good, Bird? Does Marcus fuck you good? Shit, what if we both tried to fit…stuff you full of us. Shit…–”

It’s a constant stream of filth pouring out of him, his cock hard and leaking where it rests along the small of Marcus’s back. It’s a tease, reminding him of the promise both of you made earlier in the night, and he’s suddenly feeling impossibly empty, even as he stuffs your pussy full. He can’t seem to help the challenge he tosses over his shoulder at the other man.

“Is this how you’ll fuck me, Fish? Split me open? Make me feel it?”

Frankie chuckles, the sound low and choked, and Marcus wonders how far he would have to push to break the gentle pilot’s sweet demeanor. Turns out he doesn’t have to wonder for long.

The larger man shifts behind him, his movements intentional, the fat head of his cock catching closer to Marcus’s ass.

“Our boy is greedy, Bird.”

Every muscle in his body is shaking, his hips still pounding into you, his fingers cramping where they cling still cling too tightly, the possessive tone in Frankie’s voice edging out the last of his coherent thoughts. And without warning, he begins to beg.

“Fuck, p-please…please…I need…I don’t know w-what…I just need you…both…”

Frankie can’t look away, his eyes glued to where you and Marcus join, the glow of the lanterns and the moon providing just enough light for him to see. Your face is twisted in ecstasy, your fingers twisting in Marcus’s curls, lips finding his between your gasps of pleasure. It’s beautiful and wretched and a million other things that barely come close to describing what he’s born lucky enough to witness. Your hips move together, over and over, legs tangled and lips begging. You’re close. Have been. But Frankie knows you’re waiting for both of them, desperate to have the three of you come together.

I just want us to share that, you had whispered to him the night before, your eyes distant, you heart beat steady.

His own cock is painful, hard and leaking, the tip resting on the small swell of Marcus’s backside. He considers again, wonders if there’s a bottle of lube hidden somewhere in the depths of his truck – in the glove box or beneath a seat– but the thought leaves him quickly. He couldn’t dare break away from either of you now.

Instead he fists his cock, moaning at the instant relief. He could come just like this, stroking himself while the two of you fuck right in front of him, letting his own release drip down Marcus’s backside and down to meet the sopping wet mess of your pussy. He moans again, head falling back, eyes to stars, as he pictures how beautiful Marcus’s ass will look with cum smeared into his tan skin.

But before he can let himself, another idea springs to life, filthy and half-formed, and he refuses to let it go. With little warning, Frankie forces himself even closer, his knee somehow fitting in between the tangle of your limbs. His cock in hand, he shifts his hips closer, forcing his girth between your bodies. The friction is intense, blinding white pleasure bursting in his vision. It’s constant pressure, the push and pull along his hard length driving him right up to the edge.

Below him the two of you are practically sobbing, the added weight of his cock between your bodies pushing you past your limits.

“Francisco…what…”

“I d-don’t know,” he grinds out in response to your broken question, his hands grasping wildly, finding purchase in the mismatched pile of blankets beneath you. “You both look so good. I just needed to feel it…feel you…shit-”

“I’m close…please, Pajarito, please tell me you’re close…” Marcus’s voice is strained, the tendons in his neck pulled taut from where he’s holding back, sweat beading at his temple, the dark of his eyes bleeding away all traces of brown. You can only nod, a pitiful whine leaving you, the heels of your feet pulling him in faster, harder.

They grind into each other, sobs wracking their bodies as their orgasms crash into them, almost simultaneously, Frankie feels crushed, the pressure almost too much on his cock, but he moans loudly, the feeling of Marcus and you convulsing around him enough to push him equally over the edge. He pulls out from between you just in time to shoot his cum down Marcus’s back, thick white ropes of it pooling in the small of his back and spilling down between his cheeks.

He moans wantonly, his face buried in the curve of your neck, his cock still buried in your cunt. He arches, needy, pathetic, into the mess, and Frankie can’t stop himself, a possessive beast roaring inside him. He takes his time, smearing his release down his ass and into the smaller man’s puckered entrance before dragging it further down to the swollen lips of your pussy, pushing his cum and the tip of his finger in next to Marcus’s softening cock.

All three of you whine, interest piqued but bodies spent, collapsing together in a heap.

Your smaller frame is sandwiched between both men, Marcus laying at your front, Frankie curled along your back. Another sigh breaks your lips when Marcus pulls out of you, his head finding the gentle slope of your shoulder, his lips unable to stop from giving one, two more kisses to your bare skin. Frankie is the last to join you, first reaching over to slide the condom away from Marcus, petting gently along his legs as he does, the muscles still shaking from it all.

It’s easy enough to curl around each other again, Frankie’s arms draped around your waist, Marcus’s just below, his fingers trading gentle circles between his and your hip.

“Pajarito?” You manage to ask between yawns, eyes already slipping shut, a smile playing at the swell of your cheek.

“Means birdie. Is that okay?” Marcus answers back, and when Frankie peeks down at him, he spots a bloom of pink rushing up his neck.

“‘Course it is,” you murmur, not bothering to open your eyes, instead following your words with a kiss to his temple.

“Just don’t start calling me Pescar or something like that, please,” Frankie begs, only half-joking, burying his nose where your neck curves down and inhaling deep, already addicted to the way the three of you smell on each other’s skin.

“Lo prometo,” Marcus murmurs, his Spanish cloudy and his laughter thick with sleep. “Should we go…or…?”

“Just a few minutes,” Frankie hums, and even he doesn’t believe his own lie, the comfort of the open air too much to resist. Sleep finds him first, comforting shades of black swallowing him up, and when he dreams, he knows that’s all it really is.

The sun is barely starting to peak past the horizon when you blink your eyes open, the cool air warming just enough for morning dew to bead along the bedrail of Frankie’s trunk. Despite the early hour, you smile, eyes tracing the dip in the metal, suspiciously shaped like the grip of someone’s hand, the memory of that same hand bruised into the curve of your hip. It’s the weight of that hand that woke you, Marcus’s arm across your waist, Frankie’s right above it, a nose pressed to the hollow of your throat, lips resting on the crown of your head, two pairs of legs tangled with your own.

It isn’t often you wake up before Frankie. His time in the military had left him with more than a few unbreakable habits, just the same as you, but the early mornings had been the easiest for you to shake. He was always content to let you sleep in, a cup of coffee and kiss waiting for you when you finally emerged from the kitchen. It was, until this morning, your favorite way to start the day.

Marcus must share a similar taste for mornings as Catfish, the nose along your neck tracing the curve of it, his mustache tickling where he presses a soft kiss. When he speaks, his voice is still scratched with sleep.

“I think I missed this the most.”

“Us too,” you whisper, eyes still watching the horizon, letting the words breathe into the tilt of his forehead.

You feel the pull of sleep again, Marcus’s warm breath on your skin, Frankie’s arms around your waist, but his voice pulls you back, hushed in disbelief.

“You did?”

“We did.”

It’s Frankie who answers him, his lips pressing a kiss to the top of your head, his arms stretching just enough for the tips of his fingers to graze Marcus’s hip. There’s a finality to his statement, the same tone in his voice from the bar two nights ago, the word date declared with a soft intent and a heated promise.

A strangled sigh leaves Marcus at Frankie’s words, at his touch, and without warning his hips thrust forward, barely enough to push the tip of his hard length between your thighs. You gasp at the sensation, Frankie’s fingers digging into your hips to hold you in place, his own cock pressed along your backside. You can feel the ache of last night in your muscles, their release and yours still sticky between your legs, but it hardly matters. You’re hungry for more.

The thought sneaks up on you, and soon all you can think about is the two of them surrounding you, engulfing you, one single word on the tip of your tongue. You’re about to utter it, let yourself beg for it out here in an open field with the clouds passing above and the uncomfortable truck bed below, when something cold splashes on your cheek.

“Looks like we’ll have to wait, cariño,” Frankie murmurs, tongue and teeth scraping along the sensitive shell of your ear. “Storm’s rolling in.”

When you roll over to pout at him, his feral smirk lets you know that he could already see the filthy request rolling around inside your head. It’s probably for the best, you rationalize with yourself.

You want a bed the first time you take them both.

It’s a scramble to pack everything back up and get back in the truck before the skies fully open up, the three of you only half dressed as you slide across the bench seat. You hum in satisfaction, the twin heat of each man on either side of you, more than enough warmth to chase any chill from the rain. Frankie makes a point to roll the windows down, just enough for the sound of the rain to find your ears through the hum of the engine. He finds your hand and squeezes it one, two, three times– hey Bluebird– before lacing your fingers together and letting them rest on the weathered vinyl between your legs.

Marcus is quiet, but very much present, his arm resting along the back of the seat, his bicep firm beneath the bend in your neck, the tip of one finger tracing the neckline of Frankie’s t-shirt. The daffodils are resting in his lap again, the petals slightly wilted, but he traces their shape with reverence nonetheless.

“Not sure I’m ready to head home.”

You grip a little harder to Marcus’s thigh, hearing the last word he still seems reluctant to say out loud.

Alone.

Frankie nods, eyes shifting to his right briefly before flitting back to the road, the hand wrapped around the steering flexing in time with the wiper blades as they whisked away the rain. “How about we take the long way?”

“That sounds good,” Marcus is quick to agree, the smile in his voice beautifully clear, even with the pounding of the rain on the roof of the truck. You match his grin, leaning your head onto his shoulder, eyes pitched forward, watching for breaks in the rain, happy to catch glimpses of the road ahead. And as they come to the turn that will lead them towards the city, Frankie makes no move to slow, his hand steady and his eyes forward, taking you both forward into the open air.

Dedications

To my beloved @magpie-to-the-morning and @write-and-buried who have been listened to my unhinged horny screaming for weeks. This fic came to me in bits and pieces and my torture of both of you was slow and systematic, and I'm so thankful for both of you. Thank you for always supporting me!

To @astroboots Your love of these three idiots is so so special to me. And it's because of them that we started talking regularly and now I get the pleasure of screeching at you about any and everything. Thank you for loving this story, allowing me to bounce snippets off of you, and for supporting my insanity daily. Please accept this as an early birthday offering. 🖤

And to my dearest @jazzelsaur How do I even begin to thank you? For encouraging me to create this world, to continue with it, to write this sequel as slowly as it came. Your constant support and strength in my DM's has been more than I deserve and I don't know if I'll ever be able to properly say how much it means. Thank you for loving these three idiots and for loving me. I would be lost without you and your avocado hair.

#marcus moreno fic #frankie morales fic #pedro pascal #radiowallet writes #marcus moreno x f!reader #frankie morales x f!reader

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asingleietsist · 7 months

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I get some people raise an eyebrow on how you write Bowser in this au but can I just say hes gotta be one of my favorite Bowsers out there!! ❤

Like no shade to other Bowsers but he's such an interesting and complex character to me I want to learn more about him in this au!

Like it's strange & interesting to me how he can neglect to raise his own imperfect creations yet be willing to take in other imperfect & abandoned koopalings, It makes me wonder about whether it was him being naive to parenthood in his younger years as well as seeing his own imperfections in them.

I actually like him doing poorly at being a parent the first time around but doing great with most of the next set of kids since these things do happen in life and it makes me want to know more about his relationships with not only his kids but their relationships with each other and how it effects everyone, like I'm curious about Bowser's mindset and what he regrets in his life and if he ever considers trying to mend broken family relationships with his older kids, I'm also very curious about how Luigi handles this info and if he calls him out on some things later on when he kinda has the right to do so as a queen and step parent

Im a huge fan but also super shy so sorry for this being anon but your story leaves me with questions and cravings for more it's so good and not just black & white keep up the great work!❤

After reading all of this, thank you 💚

I don't dislike other Bowser interpretations (heck I envy how simple or even more complex others make his character). However thank you!

I've also shared a few times that just because I've written a morally grey or black character, doesn't mean they're terrible overall or stay that way. It gets frustrating having to explain this over and over again especially when the version in my au gets compared to someone's personal version of him or another au. I have nothing against either.

Anygays, what a rant- moving on 😭

I'll reveal more on the Koopa Kids in the next post and I'm excited to share more of their personalities. 🎉 Surprise 🎉 they were the ones the new animatic is going to be about. It'll flesh out their lives a bit more.

As for Luigi's response, there's a comic planned for the confrontation so I won't spoil much outside of that. Just know it gets pretty messy.

Also for anyone doing the math, yes, Bowser wanted an heir at the age of 16, he was royalty AND the only other large koopa species. Kamek is a nice father figure, but he wanted company he could tend to. He was also naive in thinking about how fatherhood worked and Kamek spoiled him, so no wasn't really an answer he would take.

I genuinely found canon Bowser's treatment of different types of the younger koopalings over the years interesting. He praises Junior a lot and most of the others are an after thought (just like how Nintendo treats them...)

I know 10 is a lot of children for him (I've been told this before), but he's 34 almost 35 in my au. He has most definitely will and has fucked up whether it be with his children or his relationships with others.

It's good to know that there are people invested in the au though and don't worry about being anon 😌 I appreciate the support n luv ♥️

Here are these two goofs eating spaghetti. 🧡

#super mario #q&a questions #bowser au q&a #au lore #ask response #super mario bros #bowser #luigi #thank you for coming to my ted talk

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comradeboyhalo · 7 months

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I'd think people would see q!Bad’s current mind break and immediately gravitate towards the guy, like that's what got me into egg lore: Bad’s insanity 😂 I was kept there by his complexity. Like, I love a good deranged character who is just not having a good time; it's weird to assume his breakdown is him just "acting as his true self" Once again... BBH-ers, never gonna win!

yep, if c!bad was too complex for people to fully grasp, then q!bad is even worse. the issue is that his "base level" morality is already grey, but then people will see his current "darker shades" and think that was the palette it's always been. but that's not the case. you have to try harder than that.

q!bad has always been down to torture people(foolish is an exception), but he'd only do it if they did something drastically bad (like kidnap his kid) and even so, he would only act if he was encouraged to. that's what makes bad so endearing: he's got violent tendencies, but he's always checking in to see if these tendencies are acceptable by those around him. and when they're not, he's disappointed, but tries to match how mortals think. so him kidnapping ron, a worker whos not directly involved, by himself is enough proof that he's clearly reached a new low.

also the q!bad who originally captured ron and the q!bad who's unhealthily attached to ron are him at two different mental states! so they must be analyzed accordingly! he's deteriorated a lot in the past few weeks, with no sleep and no leads, and of course he's going to act even more desperately.

NOT TO MENTION we still don't know q!bad's overarching plan for all this. we know it must have something to do with the eggs and finding out the puppet, but we don't know the details behind his motives. he's such an incredibly deep character, and there's so much about him we just don't know yet. yes, his current actions and breakdown do shed light on who he is as a person. but no, that doesn't mean this is his "true self".

#ask

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mahou-furbies · 6 months

Text

Alright here's the results for the 2024 Precure Hopes and Predictions!

Q1: Hopes for the theme of the season?

Technology/games. Or more likely: science?

Military, video games

Technology / Gaming

Computers and/or bugs

Video games/Tech

the arts (both performing and visual)

Seriously hoping for creating things as a theme

Art theme! Or something winter-related (a precure team located in Hokkaido? That would be so cool!)

I would like a season based on a combination of gemstones and popular hobbies like arts, sports, and science. It can have a moral theme of "finding your inner sparkle, your one true talent."

I've always thought that season-based characters (spring, summer, etc.) were really fun, with lots of possibilities as far as power and design go! But it would be harder to have a sixth ranger, and we've just had a 4+1 season, so I'm not too hopeful… I guess I'd like a story around art (like, each of the girl represent a certain form of creativity?) We've had lots of cures who were artist of some kind, but their interests are rarely reflected by their cure powers!

someday i want a 4 seasons precure

Flowers

I hope for flowers theme or elementals but i think it will be idols or fashion

Insects would be fun! (ladybug lead, butterfly and honeybee Cures. Moth midseason!)

Carnival.

Cars and racing, fairy tales (specifically Peter Pan), music and dancing

We never had a proper fairy/fairy tale season, so that!

Fairy

unlikely but aliens would be fun

cats/felines + lolita fashion + fantasy

Pirates

Mythology

Gemstones

Sports

Q2: Predictions for Cure theme colours?

Standard pink/yellow/blue to follow the pattern Hugtto set

please please please don’t go back to pink/blue/yellow

Ideal - Pink/Yellow/Green/Blue or White; Realistic - Pink/Blue/Yellow/Purple

Pink, blue, yellow, purple

Pink, Blue, Yellow, Purple, Red

I want a blue and a pink at first, then green and yellow (maybe also purple) but I am sure it will be pink/blue/yellow again

Pink, Blue, Yellow, Purple maybe, No green lol

Pink, blue, yellow, purple, maybe green?

I'm kind of curious, since Toei got pretty original with the colour scheme this year… My guess is, either they'll go for something super conventional like Healin Good or Delipre, or they're going to keep their "unique color scheme" streak.

Similar to ALaMode it can be the standard trio (PBY), followed by a red and purple duo, and later joins a vibrant green.

pink, blue/teal, purple, black/white/grey would be super cool!

Pink, Orange, Green, Yellow, Blue, Purple

Pink - Blue - Red - White (midseason)

Pink, Red, Purple

Pink, blue, green

Pink, red, white, and purple

White, orange, indigo, green, red, teal

dark pink/red, blue, and gold (later cures would be green, purple, and black/white/grey)

For gaming: the usual letter button colors (red green yellow blue) For science: uhh, def needs a Cure Combust thats red. I imagine her having a combo attack with a blue cure that makes blue fire.

Pink leader (current season was too revolutionary, time for Toei to get back to a safer structure), a yellow/orange, a blue one, a mixed weird color joining mid-season and hopefully a green cure

for aliens green orange pink

Green pleasssse (probably pink for the main Cure)

We've gotta get at least one green cure right?

Two colours for each Cure.

Q3: How many Cures do you expect there to be at the start?

Q4: Any other thoughts?

Hopefully there'll be more than one villain active at the same time, Hirogaru Sky was honestly kind of disappointing in that regard (it does not help that the first villain's debut came with a fart joke).

I'm fine with another pink, yellow and blue Cures, but please, at least try to make them different by using different shades of said colors. There are so many, don't settle for the most basic color palette.

If it doesn't happen, I could always make fancures instead.

I really want a cure who becomes an engineer of some kind in the epilogue. Specifically a girl becoming an engineer

I am sure it will not be what I want XD but precure prove me wrong this year!

I would love unique flower motifs for each cure. All of the possibilities!

Mythology would also be a fun theme, but the Tropical team had a phoenix and so did Cure Wing, so they would probably try to space that out.

The cures' designs would be based on wild cats and domestic cat breeds: maine coon, norwegian forest cats (e.g cure forrêt), serval, jaguar. There would be a cat goddess (who could possibly also be a precure)!

Male Cure, Twins as cures, a disabled cure, a chubby cure, and a cure of color (like Elena)

I think it'd be neat to have the main trio be required to transform together as a call-back to Black/White, Bloom/Egret, Melody/Rhythm, Miracle/Magical, and Macherie/Amour, plus to keep celebrating 20 years of Precure

they will go back to pink/blue/yellow

i want scifiesque magical girls i feel like theres been lots of fairytale themeing recently and i want something very different also the idea of the midseason cure being the pink one amuses me greatly

I want more boy cures

A male lead, preferably voiced by Yuki Kaji

Please, no babies, not another one…

Random list of elements that (I think) haven't been done that much in a precure season: 1) Have cures be siblings/give a significant role to a cure's sibling. 2) Have characters actually be in a romance! I know precure has a young demographic, so romance isn't exactly important, but it's a bit tiresome how many precure romances tend to be unresolved crushes that are dragged throughout the season! I don't care if it's girl/girl, girl/boy or boy/boy, it would just be nice to see characters confess to each other and have their relationship build from there throughout the story. 3) I know there have been debates on relationships between the cures and the villains, how redeemable the villains are, how much the cures should be concerned about them, etc., but I'd like Toei to play on that dynamic more. Maybe a villain questioning their allegiance, or even turning out to be a mole for the good guys! Or on the opposite side, a cure joining the bad guys willingly, whether misguidedly or to become a mole themselves! 4) Fun stuff with the mascots! The mascots are a family! A mascot is a family member of a cure (don't ask me how that works!) Secretely-a-villain mascot! Mascot who is reluctant in their role and a bit cranky! 5) Families and non-magical friends being a relevant part of the cures' life. To be fair, it has been done several times, but it's always nice to see. 6) Boarding school!

Thanks to everyone who took part, reading these was super fun. Let's see if anyone got it right! (though you only get half of a point if the pink-blue-yellow prediction turns out right lol)

#precure

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jakethesequel · 5 months

Text

I've been binging The Boys off my dad's account recently and having read the original comics like any self-respecting edgy teenager, I can see why people say the show is an improvement over the comics so fucking often. It's a pretty addictive show and does a good job adapting the broad-strokes storyline to a new medium, a new decade, and a new audience. Only slightly disappointed they haven't done the all-black-trenchcoats uniform look from the comics yet, hopefully they're saving that for a big moment in a later season. And thank God they gave Kimiko an actual name and way to communicate.

Cw for mentions of all the kind of shit that happens in The Boys, in case you don't want to read about that on a nice Wednesday afternoon. (Meaning: sexual abuse and excessive violence.) Also, long.

The political aspect is often sharper than you'd really expect from an Amazon product, too. It's not gonna start a socialist critique of the political economy or call for revolution anytime soon, but the commentary on the relationship between mass media (Vought), original and/or neo- Nazism (Stormfront), and neoconservativism (Homelander) is pretty well-done for a show mostly about superpowered violence. My one gripe is that the political commentary doesn't have that Ennis-brand bite to it that the comics have, the evil is a bit less in-your-face and gratuitous (and even the heroes are a slightly lighter shade of grey, like 75% from 90). Might be a surprising thing for me to say about a show that loves head-exploding effects even more than Scanners, but this is in comparison to Ennis writing any rich or powerful character as being one or more of: a serial rapist, a pedophile, a child murderer (I guess the show has this but we're told it was an accident where Ennis would have done it on purpose), a perverted serial killer, etc etc etc. On one hand, you could argue this gives the show villains that feel more realistic and less outlandish; but on the other, it's really missing the viscerally palpable disgust and disdain Ennis displays for the upper crust. That said, as much as I like the way Ennis displays the bourgeois as grostesquely evil, I'm more than happy to give it up if it means we can avoid the habit of violently transmisogynistic caricatures he always includes in his work.

There is a couple places where the political commentary does fall short compared to the comics, though. Particularly when it comes to criticizing the military and to criticizing monopolized corporate control of the media. Now granted, both the show and comic Boys work for a CIA contract to different extents, but because almost everyone in the comics is a bit more of a dickhead than in the show, the CIA likewise doesn't come off as clean. Not that the show is entirely unwilling to have the CIA and the US government suck, in both versions it stays an alliance of convenience between the Boys and the CIA against the temporarily greater common enemy in Vought, but the comics are just a little bit more willing to show that the CIA have themselves done indefensible and unforgivable things. In the show they tend to come off more sanitized Jack Reacher types, doing morally gray things for morally good reasons, instead of the more true-to-life morally dark things for morally dark reasons. The third season gets a little closer by mentioning Iran-Contra and the CIA crack smuggling in Black neighborhoods, but that's still just "accurately showing historical events the CIA was in" rather than the comics' "coming up with new horrible shit just to remind you the CIA's no good."

Now, as for the monopolized corporate control of the media. There's two levels to this, as I see it. There's the ways in which the show has been limited in criticizing the mass media on its own merits; and then there's the ways in which the show's criticisms of the mass media differ in content and direction from the comics. For the former, there's obviously a big elephant in the room: Amazon. The Boys show clearly wants to criticize the ways in which mass media influences our view of world events, and its central villain even moreso than Homelander is their world's largest and richest company, Vought International. But you can obviously only criticize the actions of a fictional megacorporation so much when your show is produced by one of the real world's top five megacorporations. So thus far the show's commentary has focused it's most pointed criticisms at stuff like social media, news media, religious influencers, and daytime TV (like talk shows, reality shows, etc). Those criticisms have been very good, especially the social media stuff and the stochastic terrorism induced by Stormfront, but I do notice that the areas they focus on are never really areas Amazon has a lot of money invested. While there have been spoofs about streaming services -- and I really enjoy all the in-universe media the cast and crew have put together to sell the illusion of this massive media franchise, it makes the show's internal history feel really lived-in -- I find that it has more of a wink-and-nudge self-deprecating vibe rather than the pointed criticism other media gets. The Prime analogue gets the harmless goofy Seven movies, the real pernicious media manipulation moments happen more often on livestreams or news broadcasts. Part of this might just be a difference in style: the Supes are shown to be more brash and unpredictable opportunists while Vought themselves are patient and surreptitious manipulators, but then Vought's big moves are also announced via press conference more often than not. I don't mean to act like they never criticize Vought's ersatz Amazon Prime, though. It is shown to be a shitty, erratic place to work full of impossible to placate alpha personalities that mainly makes propaganda for evil and powerful people. There might be something to be said about Amazon also being run by impossible to placate alpha personalities and Prime Video acting as propaganda for evil and powerful people. But on the other hand, all the Vought employees tend to be either actually evil, helplessly idiotic sycophants, or nameless grunts. I'd be more impressed if they had the stones to show, say, Vought Video employees threatened by laser to work crunch time, or Vought warehouse workers made to smuggle Compound V. Maybe I shouldn't go too hard on them, they are doing a lot more than other shows, but I always get the vibe that there's a line they keep toeing but can't cross because of corporate.

That segues nicely into the latter way, how the show's criticism of media differs from the comics. Obviously, the comics have a lot more freedom of speech as a creator-owned series under an indie publisher than as a megacorporation's high-budget production. But there's an even bigger difference at their core direction, and I think it's the biggest loss in the transition from page to screen. The Boys (show) values using its evil supes as an exaggerated analogy for political power and celebrity culture, in addition to the "power corrupts and superpowers would be more likely to fuck you up than make you a hero" central message that it shares with the comics. In contrast, while The Boys (comics) does also share that central message, and also talked about political power and celebrity culture, what it values most is using its evil supes as an exaggerated analogy to criticise pre-existing superhero comics and narratives. It was in direct dialogue and in direct opposition to the existing highly duopolized corporate superhero comics industry. The Boys (show) isn't nearly as interested in being in direct dialogue with the MCU or DC cinematic universe. Honestly I think this is the main reason people going to the comics from the show find a lot of the supe characters flat and uninteresting or even mean-spirited: most of them aren't characters in their own right but parodies of existing characters that don't really make sense without the metatextual background of Big Two superhero comics. Yeah, the comic does have a lot of weak spots in its characters and plot, but especially so if you only view it on the layer of the literal story. Many of those weak spots are a lot stronger when understood by analogy. I'd argue the metatextual analogy is a solid 50% of the comics' message. Don't get me wrong, there are still a good amount of weak spots left over -- Ennis's jokes can keep going long after they stop being funny -- but the comics are greatly improved if you don't take them as a completely literal or serious text all the time. Vought in the comics isn't just any massive corporation, the particular ways it exploits supes isn't a generic criticism of capitalism, it's more often than not a specific criticism of what the Big Two superhero comics duopoly of Marvel and DC have done to the comics industry. Vought superheroes encroaching into every aspect of the economy and culture? That's Marvel/DC taking over the comics industry and pushing out almost every other genre of comics in favor of superheroes. Without spoiling too much, even the central ideological conflict of Butcher vs Wee Hughie/Starlight vs Vought supes can be taken as a metaphor for different views on the superhero genre's role in the comics industry. The show is really missing an opportunity (maybe deliberately) to take similar shots at the superhero blockbuster movie industry. The conflict is arguably more potent than ever, as superhero movies dominate the cinema to an unprecedented degree, and with far more widespread cultural influence than comic books have ever had. The show has mostly limited itself to a couple jokes about Batman V Superman and the Snyder cut, which is a far cry from what they could be doing. I'd love to see them really take a fucking swing at the MCU, maybe bring in Tek-Knight as an Iron Man analogue, have him be a rich asshole making tons of movies, making billions off of his underpaid and overworked support staff, insisting on having his company cronies take over other projects outside his wheelhouse like idk healthcare to disastrous results. Really, yknow, try to say something about Disney-Marvel's monopolization and bad work practices! But, they'd be a real shift in direction for the show's writing, so I don't think they'd go for it. Just a shame that the analogy layer isn't present so much in the show, even if the literal layer of the plot is better to make up for it.

I think that's all I had to say. Oh wait also I was sad they downgraded Love Sausage from the most successful hero of the Soviet Union's supe program, with the full standard set of super-strength/durability/speed, a loyal communist long after the fall of the USSR, one of the very few comics supes that's a genuinely decent person, one of the fighters who beat Stormfront to death, and who just happens to also have a massive penis; to basically being just the dick joke and having dick-related powers. What a downgrade! This guy was a powerful supe and a total bro to the Boys! When he (bit of a spoiler) dies, he spends his last breaths sending out a warning to save Wee Hughie's life! Justice for my man the Love Sausage, capitalist Amazon hates to see a communist winning lmao

#the boys #comics

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kariachi · 2 years

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Hot Take!

Argit definitely should've been a 3rd Protagonist in Omniverse alongside Ben and Rook

Just hear me out, Argit's character bounces off so well against Ben and Rook's characters

He is a PERFECT foil to Rook.

-Both are Aliens who live on Earth but while Rook is clearly a Fish out of Water, Argit already seems to know well about Earth Culture and blends right into it

-Rook is a "By-the-Book" Cop who has a very Black and White sense of Morality, while Argit is a Sleezy Conman and is in the Grey Area of Morality (granted it's a rather dark shade of Grey but it's still Grey nonetheless)

-Rook is an Alien based on Cats and other Felines while Argit is an Alien based on Rats and other Rodents

Ben could be a perfect balance between the two. While Ben is a Hero, he is also kinda a dick tbh.

Rook and Argit could play roles like being the Angel and Devil on Ben's shoulders.

And I just think Argit and Ben's interactions are funny lol

Anon I am gonna agree with you for the following reasons-

I've been saying for a while that the story overall would've been improved if he'd been the one to join Team Tennyson rather then Kevin. You'd have to make him a lighter shade of morally grey (personally I'd do it by leaning more into the sort've characterization we got in the Rooters Arc, where he's shown as more loyal and courageous even if the bar is low) but it would avoid the rushing of Kevin's change to a 'good' character while still allowing him to be in the show, remove what I still hold is a poorly done romantic subplot or at least force it to be done differently, add an alien to the cast earlier without having to go 'everything is aliens so technically', and as you said, at least halfway, his interactions with the Tennysons are still plenty amusing and leave room for some interesting dynamics.

The fact Argit and Rook aren't played against each other more pains me. Because as you said they could be made into good foils but also the 'new immigrant to a strange land and established immigrant to that land' dynamic could be so good. Plus you get the option of the more inexperienced Rook as compared to the more worldly Argit (Rook went from a backwoods planet where his connection with the rest of the galaxy was via radio to the Academy and then to Earth, meanwhile what we see of Argit starts out in the Null Void, travels the galaxy with Kevin, and then comes to Earth (which also is 100% why he's better with Earth stuff than Rook- he had years travelling with an Earth native and then a few years living on Earth before OV starts, while Rook has nothing but Ben's file and whatever info the ethernet has on the planet to go off at OV start)). This stuff could be very well played with.

Plus, a point of the foil scale you didn't mention- Argit's belief that you shouldn't try to make your partner someone they're not (including just accepting sudden changes in behavior just because they fit what you want them to be) as compared to Rook's desire in early OV for Ben to meet his expectations, to the extent that when Ben is swapped with he ignores the red flags because 'Ben' is acting more like what Rook wanted him to be. Could be interesting to have that as a running thing in the background, Rook's disappointment vs Argit's acceptance, before it comes to a head in that episode.

Also, because you know how people are with narrative foils, the chaos that would erupt between Rook/Argit fans (you know they'd happen) vs Rook/Ben fans (which already fucking happened). Actually thinking about it it'd probably be more Ben/Argit fans circling the tags opposite Rook/Ben fans, because this fandom puts shipping Tennysons above any other ship in existence, but the three options would dominate and be a complete mess. I dread and yearn for the shipping maps people would come up with.

-Seriously, it opens so many options there that the fandom would've gone absolutely ass over tits wild. It'd have been total anarchy. We got a bit of a mess when it was Gwevin and Benlie vs Bevin, can you imagine this?

Then you get the opening for more Argit background, which more background for characters is always a good thing, and since OV was bigger into worldbuilding we'd have probably gotten more info on his species. You can even get episodes contrasting him and Rook and how they got to the places they are in life (the farmboy from a strict conservative culture who heard stories of heroics and decided to leave home to pursue them, becoming a cop due to his hero's association and probably also because his upbringing made the cop thing seem like a Good vs the homeless and family-less child who presumably first turns to crime due to lack of options and then grows to fit that mold due to his young age at start). (even if Argit had anything pre-Rooters, he sure as fuck only had Kevin after, and Kevin we know is in that position) (and hey opening for more about their relationship)

And of course you get the interactions as a trio, as you said Rook being the Lawful Good influence and Argit the Neutral Evil (probably working towards true neutral) influence to Ben's Neutral Good. Plus, you also get the Sliding Scale of Alien Knowledge- from Argit's 'I am an alien and I've been living among a wide variety species if not my whole life than for over half a decade' to Ben's 'I have canonically about three/four years experience becoming and fighting a wide variety of species' to Rook's 'I am an alien and have been living among a wide variety of alien species for maybe a year, probably a matter of months'. Group arguments, group agreements (sometimes of the most unlikely sort), two guys ganging up to tease the third, a running gag of Argit lamenting that Ben and Rook are wasting themselves on fucking law enforcement. An episode where Argit and Rook both have fleas and spend it arguing about who gave them to who. And episode where they both confront Ben on his tendency towards speciest comments and that get handled. The fucking Rooters arc and what changes there. And the appearance of Argit 10 in the multiverse episodes would take on an entirely new common view (closer to my own because come on Paradox was only bringing them to Good Bens), he may have even joined the group there.

Just, it could've been very fun and very interesting. But no, we can't have joy in our lives.

#achi rambles #i think this deserves the tag don't you?#the show would've been better with argit as a lead i've said it and will continue to say it #argit 10 for morally neutral at worst

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gregorovitch-adler · 2 years

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The reasons why I think Johnlock (Sherlock Holmes/John Watson) from BBC Sherlock and McWexler (Jimmy McGill /Kim Wexler) from AMC Better Call Saul have a lot of parallels (unintentional, yet interesting)-

(BCS Spoiler-heavy post).

They both 'get off' on the wild, crazy adventures (or subplots they choose to go for) and other in-universe characters have called them out on it :

Sally Donovan.

Howard Hamlin

They'll do literally anything to ensure the other one's safety.

Some examples-

John shot the cab driver within just a day of meeting Sherlock.

Kim was totally about to shoot Gus to keep Jimmy safe (for the record, she didn't even know how to use a gun- she'd never used one before.)

It's not a case of 'forced shipping' in either cases. We're given a huge list of canonical reasons to ship them.

Generally they don't even bother putting that much of effort in a het-couple; we're supposed to assume that they're meant for each other just because it's about a boy and a girl- heteronormativity in short but this was not the case with McWexler which was surprisingly refreshing and well done.

Both come under the category of dark haired person/ another person with lighter shades of hair (lol).

Both pairings are about two flawed, messed up characters who feel happy in the other one's company. Morally grey characters.

In the case of McWexler it becomes messier than that towards the end. However they both showed remorse and actually acted on that in the Series Finale (Saul Gone) in their own different ways.

Both of them received a sad ending. Johnlock never became canon and remained subtextual (till the 3rd series at least) and Mcwexler got separated in the final few episodes.

Although the difference here is that Jimmy and Kim getting separated was actually fitting within the narrative and didn't feel jarring (within context- although I still felt sad for them).

Another point (which is a bit silly)-

I ship both of them and they're both my otps and I love both of those pairings like anything (lmfao).

Yeah, that's it. I've always felt as if there were some similarities between the two pairings. Even if the shows are completely unrelated.

I've even written and posted a fic on AO3 featuring both of these pairings. I had fun while writing it.

#bcs spoilers #johnlock #bbc sherlock #mcwexler #better call saul #sherlock x john #kim x jimmy #parallels #fanfiction #headcanon #meta #(sort of a meta)#otps #shipping #multiple fandoms

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rocrown · 1 year

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Writers love contrast.

One's blonde, one's brunette; one's redheaded one's raven-haired; one's big, one's little; one's popular, one's unpopular; one's shy, one's outgoing; one's inexperienced, the other experienced; one's uses magic, one doesn't; one's a theist, one's an atheist; one's clever, one's dumb; one's kind, one's mean; one's a black cat, one's a golden retriever; one's human, one's a monster; one's self-conscious, one's confident; one's modest, one's conceited; one's rich, one's poor; when one says "Stop!" the other says "Go!"—etc.

It's an engine for conflict, but it's also an expression of theme: how these two dichotomous characters interact with each other and with the setting and plot at large expresses your story's view on these traits. Physical differences are imagery signifiers for greater differences—one big, one small or one blonde, one brunette is shorthand for "they're different!" (Or maybe you decide, "Outside of physical differences they're the same actually!" Well congrats, you've stumbled upon a theme.)

Contrast is archetypal and found in our fairy tales and folklore like The Tortoise & the Hare. But beyond simple morals of one's right, one's wrong often associated with fairy tales, we're allowed to revel in shades of grey. When you have your black cat character and your golden retriever fall in love with each other, you're saying that each possesses qualities worth valuing and in fact loving. Different but both deserving of love—what a wonderful revelation! The contrast matters because the means in which you find common ground, settle conflicts and show appreciation between them is a vertebra in the backbone of your story.

Of course, a lack of contrast also says something.

#writing #writing advice #writeblr #stories #writers #contrast

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ficsandcatsandficsandcats · 4 years

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Could you do a little fic where the reader super nervously asks Yennefer to help her look beautiful to impress Jaskier? Like maybe they're going to a fancy ball or something and she knows she needs to stand out among all the gorgeous women, and shes super intimidated by Yen but loves her dresses and makeup and wants some help?

Fandom: The WitcherPairing: Platonic!Yennefer x Reader, Jaskier x Reader, Geralt x ExasperationWord Count: 1,822Rating: GTaglist: @heroics-and-heartbreak a/n: Genuinely, truly, from the bottom of my heart, thank you. Love me some Yennefer x Reader bonding.

You’d been standing outside of Yennefer’s door for about 10 minutes trying to summon the courage to knock. You knew, logically, that the worst thing she’d likely do is say no. Even if she laughed at you that would be survivable. But she also might say yes, a thought that equally frightened you but also gave you a glimmer of hope. You were out of your depth in preparing for the ball tonight and while Jaskier had offered his services you wanted to make sure he didn’t see you until you were ready. You just needed to get past this damn door first and then, if she said no, you’d throw yourself on the mercy of the shopkeepers and maybe that was the better plan anyway because Yennefer was likely quite busy and-

“Are you going to come in or not?”

The door had swung open mid-thought and Yennefer stood before you. Her hair was perfectly coiffed and her makeup was already applied, a jewel-toned emerald shade gracing her lids and her lips a deep berry red. She wore a robe, not yet dressed, and she gave you an amused expression as you stood there gaping.

“Oh! Yennefer! Hello! Fancy meeting you in your room! I had a question,” you began. Yennefer patiently waited for you to continue speaking and when you felt certain she wasn’t going to close the door in your face, you continued.

“I’m going to that ball tonight and I don’t now much about… any of it,” you said.

“Any of it,” she echoed.

“Yes well I mean I know how to dance, sort of, and I’ve read about them but getting ready for one is totally foreign to me. Literally. They don’t really have balls where I’m from. Small village and all,” you were babbling but Yennefer considered your dilemma thoughtfully before standing to the side, leaving room for you to enter.

Though you all had similar rooms in the manor you were staying at, courtesy of the host of tonight’s ball, Yennefer’s struck you as much more refined. There were a couple of dress options, it seemed she was leaning towards either a black or gold gown, and you saw the vanity where the makeup she’d used was still sitting.

“Do you have a dress?” she asked, circling you.

“Um yes and no?” you said and when she gave you an inquisitive look you gestured to the simple grey frock you were wearing.

“Alright let’s start there,” she said, pulling open the wardrobe where you saw flashes of colors, dresses of varying hues and fabrics.

“Yennefer, that’s very generous and kind but what are the chances of a dress you own fitting me exactly the same I mean you’re much taller for one thing and-”

“Magic,” she said offhandedly as though it were obvious.

“Wait really?”

“Yes, did you choose grey or was that just what was available?” she asked, quickly moving past the many questions you had about the kind of magic that could make any article of clothing fit anyone.

“It was available,” you replied.

“What is your favorite color?” she asked, hands skimming through the dresses as you thought.

“I love purple but it doesn’t look good on m-”

“Try this on,” Yennefer says before you can finish speaking, tossing a dress into your arms. The silky fabric is cool to the touch and you have to grip it so it doesn’t slide right through your arms. You hold it up in front of you and then turn it around a couple of times. When you start to turn it upside down Yennefer stops you.

“I’ll help you put it on,” she suggests and you give her a grateful smile. Once you’re down to your shift Yennefer waits, still holding the dress.

“I’m ready,” you say.

“No, that has to go too,” she says, “There’s a slit.”

You didn’t know three words could inspire that much panic in a person but you were learning a lot of things today. You dutifully took off the slip, down to a simple corset and small clothes, and Yennefer unlaced the side of the dress and had you step into it. She murmured a few words you couldn’t understand and then slid the dress up your frame, the fabric contouring onto your body as though it had been tailored to you specifically. Once she finished lacing up the sides she turned you towards the full length mirror and you gasped.

“Oh no,” you say, “Oh no this is… Oh.”

The dress is held onto your body through the amethyst toned strap on the right arm which winds down, tucking into the bodice of the dress which is made up of mesh and detailed flowers in complementary violet hues. The skirt is long and loosely flowing with a little train and a slit that runs from halfway up your left thigh to the ground. Your leg peeks out boldly and you don’t quite know what to do.

“Do you like it?” Yennefer asks.

“It’s gorgeous but… it’s maybe too gorgeous?”

“Let me ask you a question. Why did you ask for my help tonight?” she asks.

“As I said I wanted help,” you repeat.

“Yes but why?”

“Because it’s my first ball and I want to look put together.”

“That’s not the real reason, is it, Y/N?” Yennefer asks, violet eyes peering into your face as though they already knew the truth but needed you to say it. You take a deep breath.

“I want Jaskier to notice me,” you say, “Really notice me. There are going to be many beautiful women there, women that look more like you than me, and I just don’t want to get lost in the crowd.”

“Alright,” Yennefer says, still eyeing you appraisingly, “Now tell me, how do you feel when you look at yourself in this dress?”

She redirects your eyes back to the mirror, hands on your shoulders and you aren’t sure if it’s to keep you pointed at it or just for moral support.

“I feel… powerful,” you answer. Yennefer smiles and meets your eyes in the mirror.

“This is the one,” she says with certainty and you can feel it too, nodding and nervously biting your lip. “Ok, there’s much more to be done.”

She pulls you over to the vanity and begins to brush through your hair with surprising tenderness. She doesn’t ask you what you want done with it, both of you trusting that she knows what to do from this point on. Instead you talk about the balls she’s been to in the past and she answers the questions you’d felt too stupid to ask like which fork to use and if there was an order to who was able to dance first and how often she’d have to curtsey. She braids your hair into a loose French braid, tucking it together with little ornaments that complement the dress you wear. She threatens to spell your face frozen while she puts on your makeup but you manage to get your twitching under control long enough for her to brush your lids with a soft purple shade and identical wings of black eyeliner. She chooses a subtle shade not much different from your skin tone for your lips but even the subtle change helps emphasize their fullness.

“Thank you for not laughing when I told you about Jaskier,” you said as she held up two pairs of earrings, trying to choose which goes best with your ensemble. “I know I must sound like any number of his adoring fans.”

“You sound like a woman in love. I don’t judge. For all of our blustering I’m not unaware of the bard’s charms,” you look at her in surprise and with a tiny bit of possessive suspicion.

“Luckily my taste in partners is much less refined these days,” she adds with a little smile and you smile in return. Once you’re done she quickly slips into her own dress, choosing the gold one which you help lace her into though you know she could do it on her own. You look each other over appraisingly and while you can’t help feel a bit overshadowed with Yennefer standing beside you, you feel much more prepared for what’s to come than you did before.

“Is Jaskier going to walk you down?” Yennefer asks as you leave the room.

“No I wanted to surprise him,” you answer. Your heart is skipping a few beats as you stand out in the hall where people are starting to enter, on their way to the ball as well. You see a few admiring eyes looking you over and it simultaneously makes you feel bolder and scares you. As though she can sense your distress Yennefer links an arm through yours and stands up a bit straighter causing you to unconsciously mimic the movement.

“Shall we?” she asks. You nod and the two of you join the growing throng walking to the ballroom.

“Have you seen her yet?” Jaskier asks Geralt, the fifth time in as many minutes.

“Still no Jaskier,” he replies.

“I knew I should have gone to walk her down myself. What if she gets lost? What if someone is trying to make advances on her? What if she changed her mind and doesn’t come down at all?”

“What if she’s standing right over there,” Geralt says, pointing towards the entrance of the ballroom where Jaskier sees Yennefer and a woman walk in together.

“I was talking about… Y/N?” Jaskier turns back, eyes still catching up with what he’s seen. He isn’t sure at first if it’s you but then you catch his eye and smile and he’d know that smile anywhere. Then his eyes travel further down and he sees parts he is nowhere near as familiar with. Yet.

“Geralt, Jaskier,” you say when you finally reach them, fighting the urge to curtsey at Yennefer’s suggestion to avoid making any such gestures unless those around you do the same.

“Y/N,” Jaskier breathes but says nothing more, mind fruitlessly searching for the right words. Geralt gives you the briefest of nods and then his eyes are back on Yennefer’s.

“You look wonderful,” you say as the silence grows awkward, Jaskier’s big blue eyes still as wide as they can get.

“You… I… Y/N… There are no….”

You see Yennefer look between Jaskier and Geralt and she gives him a meaningful look.

“Why don’t you ask her to dance, Jaskier?” Geralt asks with a heavy sigh. Yennefer smiles approvingly and gives you a supportive wink.

“Y/N, would you do me the great honor of having this dance with me?” Jaskier asks. You giggle.

“Gods, Jaskier, it’s still just me,” you say, taking his hand and letting him lead you away, past a crowd of nobles, past the Countess de Stael whose presence he neither notices nor cares about in the slightest.

#Anonymous #platonic!yennefer x reader #jaskier x reader #geralt x exasperation #reader request

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motorcyclegirlfriends · 6 years

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man, i don't understand their insistence on shading lena so much(not her grey moral side, that's pretty cool and shows a yin/yang balance with kara), presenting her like a bomb ready to go off anytime. If they're so intent on making her evil why not actually have Lex show up, make her choose between her beloved brother and Kara so she can choose Kara and let supercorp be endgame like... i'm p sure the writers realize where it leads if they make Lena choose, so they just shade her "evilness"

They’re playing with the morality and darkness of the character because that’s who the character is.

Not who the person is—I’m not trying to say if you pop this person into reality that it’s inevitable that she’ll turn evil or even struggle in the same ways. I’m saying that when you take a character with her history and her issues and her fears you have to explore them for the story to work.

Who the character is defines what their story is about, and vice versa.

Let’s say you’ve started with an interesting premise and an awesome world, and all you need are some characters before you can get to the story. So you take your protagonist and begin throwing some of your favorite traits (and some other traits to play off of them in interesting ways) into a blender to see what sticks.

Perhaps they’re awkward, but funny. Insecure yet ambitious. Smart, but struggle with getting certain things. And then you go a little deeper. Where does the character’s insecurity stem from? Being socially awkward? Perhaps not. Perhaps you don’t feel you have a take on that idea that isn’t cliché.

Maybe the gaps in their intelligence, then. But why? It’s not interesting if it doesn’t go deeper. Absent parents who must be impressed for attention? Critical parents who are disappointed with anything less than brilliance? A formative experience in which the gaps in their intelligence resulted in something truly terrible?

You settle on something, and then you… write a story with nothing to do with their insecurity? I think not. The story is about your character, and your character is about this. (If you want your story to be about something else, instead create characters which are About that journey.)

Lena Luthor is about a deep ache, a need to be good.

Kara Zor-El Danvers is about finding home.

Alex Danvers is about being true to oneself.

We know this because of how they were built, the events which shaped them. Because of the setup before the real story begins:

Kara lost her entire world. Her home, parents, culture. Everyone and everything she knew. How could her story be about anything other than finding a home after that?

Alex had difficulty carving a space for herself as a kid because doing so would often result in Bad Things happening, and a heavy dose of perfectionism left her with very little room to be anything other than what she Had To Be. Do we not now want to watch her learn how to be healthy and to be assertive of her needs and to be imperfect and to just be?

And Lena. Lena Luthor, the emotionally abused kid in a family of terrorists, whose mother made her feel like she was never good enough, and who the world now never sees as good, full stop. Who fears becoming the monsters which hurt her above all else. Isn’t her story meant to be about recognizing and cultivating her own goodness to feel safe in her own skin?

Each of these characters strive to find happiness, but they all have different journeys to go on to get there. And these journeys examine the foundation of those needs to say something about them.

Lena can be good. Kara can feel at home. Alex can be true to herself. But, like in an essay, one must set up and address the counterarguments. This is where the story comes in. The story is the act of addressing the theme of the character’s counterargument.

If you have two characters in a fanfiction who do cute things with each other with no conflict internally, between each other, or otherwise externally, then you don’t have a story. You have a piece of a story (which people do love to consume anyway, because they’ve experienced the set up in canon that makes it feel satisfying).

But trust me, a 50 chapter fanfic of just this is not satisfying. Fluff only goes so far. It’s like eating only candy for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.

The characters must struggle and then surpass these struggles in order for the story to say, with confidence… anything. If you want to say that the intelligence of your character doesn’t matter as much as their heart, you have to prove it. Give them an obstacle they try to solve using their head and show them failing miserably. And then show them getting back up and using their empathy or their will to win the day, instead. Without that first failure, winning in that way falls flat.

And then with each success, offer a different counterargument. Another obstacle.

Your character who lost her world—who you wish to prove that one can overcome great loss through—is happy? In a relationship with a guy from a sister planet to her lost world who makes her feel pretty normal and at home? Rip it apart. Don’t just take it away, but make her feel worse than she was before he came into her life. And then have her build her life back up from scratch, with another angle to the argument.

“What if you tear away that answer? Can she still find a home? If the Romantic Love is destroyed, what is left?” the villain inside all of our brains asks.

Answer the question. Answer it a hundred ways.

Tell us the wrong thing: Supergirl. Just Supergirl.

Tear it down. Offer another: “And if I don’t have Supergirl, what do I have?” “You got me.”

The villain asks another question: “What if her home becomes sick at its heart? What if it becomes foreign to her through its hatred?”

It asks more: “What if her relationships became strained?” “What if someone she loves dies?” “What if she feels she doesn’t deserve her new home?” “What if this physical planet were destroyed?”

Answer them. Answer all of these questions with your story until your audience believes, “Yes, of course. She’s home. She’s home.”

Because once the character wins, really wins forever, the game is over.

If Lena Luthor is good, believes she’s good, is impervious to temptation or moral tests and doubts and the whole world believes in her goodness (or she finally feels free from needing that), her story is over.

Until then, this is the character playground we’re living in. Lena’s issues are about trying to defeat the monsters she fears within and have been since day one. The story can take breaks from tackling this theme so directly (slow burn, baby) but it’s always, always going to come back to this.

But it’s not always going to look the same! And it doesn’t mean she’s Secretly Evil or a time bomb.

The question is, “Can Lena rise above her emotionally abusive and ideologically toxic upbringing and be Good, or is she destined to be evil?”

Sometimes it’ll be about Lena wondering if being intelligent and cunning means she’s like her mother in other, nefarious ways. Or if she is responsible for what her intelligence results in down the line. Or it’ll be about proving to the outside world that she isn’t what they think.

Sometimes it’ll be about making mistakes which hurt people and how she can still be good even if she’s imperfect. Sometimes it’ll be about learning to recognize the parts of herself which need work—emotionally, relationally, and morally—and addressing those without self destructing because of her fears. Sometimes it’ll be about the nature of goodness. Maybe one day, it’ll be about helping someone with similar struggles while staying true to the lessons she’s learned.

Often, it’s about how healthy love can help her be good, and how refusing that kind of love can set her astray.

So, to address what you’ve said, of course the writers know what Lena would choose, in the end.

(Though the question isn’t really about two people, or choosing who she loves more. Even if Supercorp were canon, Lena would still be dealing with this until the story was over. Supercorp itself would be a tool to answer Lena’s goodness question.

And even without the shippy angle, Lena choosing Kara is a no brainer. Their relationship is clearly valued by the show and by Lena, and she has addressed how wrong her brother is already. That’s not her current struggle, nor the hardest one she’d face at this moment in time. Now, throw the perception of betrayal into it via Kara’s secret identity, and you’ve got something a little more interesting.)

It’s just that Lena has to keep making these types of choices until the show is over. Otherwise, she’s just furniture. A setting. Her real story is over.

If you’re not interested in various angles of Goodness™, or if you just love the character so much you can’t stand to see her morality under scrutiny all the time, I feel for you.

Personally, I think certain beats are a bit overdone (and that some of the undertones—like Lena fearing her own intelligence, for instance—could have been highlighted more to make it more dynamic) and that what we’ve seen so far could have been drawn out over more time while other, less obviously core issue-related things are happening.

But generally, I like it. This question of goodness is what drew me to the character to begin with.

Not just because of the Lex comparison—although it is connected to it.

It’s because it’s a story about emotional abuse and how it can get into your head and nurture qualities you abhor but fear you can’t escape emulating. It’s about feeling all twisted up because of what you’ve been through, and the struggle to keep those demons from hurting others while they whisper in your ear that it’s all useless anyway. That you’re just bad.

That’s something I’m interested in seeing, and one I haven’t really seen told this way before?

But it’s not enough to have her fear being evil and then just be good anyway. That doesn’t represent the insidious nature of emotional abuse nor the real work one has to do to overcome it. It’s complicated, and I want to see it be complicated, because when she overcomes all of that it will mean something.

Because the villain in our brains are already asking these questions (doubly so if you relate to Lena).

“What if she does do something bad? Really bad? Does that mean she’s evil? That she was evil all along and can’t escape it?”

I want the show to say, “No. She can come back from this. Goodness is a choice.”

Because I fully believe that their intent isn’t to make Lena evil, it’s to prove that she isn’t. To subvert our expectations set up by what happened between Clark and Lex.

To say “No, this time friendship wins. Hope wins.” To refute that dread of inevitability caused by the familiarity of the story and, for Lena herself, that dread of inevitability because of who her family is and how she was raised.

It’s a hopeful show by design, and so it often has their main character try to get through to people, to change them for the better. Logically, this is the sort of story they’re going to tell, and personally, I’m here for it.

But it’s not going to go away.

#supergirl #lena luthor #long post #analysis: you're gonna suffer but you're gonna be happy about it #Anonymous

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