The Fact That The Duffers So Easily Could’ve Given Max A One Dimensional Plot Where Her Guilt This

Theo: I get really offended when people tell me I'm going to hell for being gay, because I feel they're overlooking all the perfectly valid reasons I'm going to hell

Lambert sucks at flirting. But he still tries with Aiden. Next time they are sparring, without their shirts on Lambert decides to try again.

Lambert: *reaching out to stroke aidens stomach* "you got a nice form, really great abs"

Aiden: (a cat witcher, with cat instincts.) *bites the shit out of Lamberts hand*

stop luring me into your found family! *sobs*

This is BEAUTIFUL

therapy cats

#CaitViKinktober day one: edging!

HD & unglazed on schmatreon 💦

Don’t get me wrong, I’m living for Frenchie and Colin but I wish they’d explored a different aspect of Frenchies back story this season. like how he finally escaped from his dad (did he kill him in the end or run away?) or being homeless and having to become a prostitute to survive when he first came to the states.

I’m also convinced that Frenchies dad actually killed his mom but he’s blocked it out due to trauma. If they went down that route then that would have been an interesting way of linking his and Colin’s storyline.

THISSSSSSSS!!!!!!

when little nina mentioned his abusive father, and when he mentioned turning tricks’ in a flashback, i instantly wanted to know so much more about his backstory. those were two story arcs that were already set up for him to explore! but instead we get him and colin, which feels a bit rushed and kind of pointless anyway since we know nothing about colin. we know frenchie is going to lose colin, there’s no way this will work out. but we don’t care if he loses colin because colin has no emotional weight on the story. maybe if we got to see colin and frenchie’s relationship develop from the start we’d care more about them, but it was thrown at us just for it to be taken away immediately in an attempt to force the audience to pity frenchie. but we already know frenchie feels regret for his kills. i want to see how other aspects of his past shape him as a person.

we could still delve into frenchie’s guilt for being a hitman — but let’s explore what drove him to become a hitman. like you said, anon, did he have to kill his dad to finally be free? did this + turning tricks in america make him feel like the only thing he was good for was his body — his physical form, only made to please or hurt others, only made to follow commands. we see how he yearns for true individual freedom, but he struggles so much to actually free himself from those who hold the end of his chain. why is that? why does he not let himself to decide his own fate when that is all he wants? does he not trust himself — after a life of listening to others, does he not feel he can think for himself? does he think that if he tries to make his own decisions he’ll fuck up, so he only lets himself do what others tell him? or does he think he doesn’t deserve it — after killing so many people, does he think he deserves to be kept on a short chain for his sins?

frenchie is SUCH an interesting character, and they could be doing so much more with him. i’ve loved how they’ve explored his character over the past three and a half seasons, but i wish they would keep going further. clearly he has issues with his perception of his own autonomy. how did an abusive, controlling father affect this? anon, if your theory about his father killing his mother is true (it makes sense to me), how would that knowledge affect frenchie? how did turning tricks to survive in america impact his own self image and worth. how does selling his body for survival — first as a prostitute, then as a weapon — affect his perception of autonomy and identity? who does frenchie think frenchie is? these are all the paths i want to be explored with his character. if the writers wont do it, give me the pen.

all my kudos to the writers and the actor for creating such a great character. to leave the audience wondering more about your character like this is a compliment — it means we’re invested and we want to see more!!

also anon, feel free to message me to talk more about the show!! having the boys brainrot rn and id love to discuss it. or you can keep sending anons!

horrid little brainworm

Frenchie is still green at the start of the Kraken era.

He isn't, by the end.

But back then, when it all begins - when he isn't used to the sting of kohl-mixed sweat dripping into his eyes - he makes mistakes. Lots of them. Simple little things - fluffing a knot in the rigging that has their sail unfurling midway through the dogwatch, goods left unstowed to roll with the list of their ship.

Most of the time, Izzy yells himself hoarse for five minutes, then shows Frenchie how to fix it, interspersing his lecture with expletives. Whatever. That's fine. Let the little man scream - he's not the scariest thing aboard anymore.

Never was, really.

But then Blackbeard (Ed? The Kraken?) stomps out of his cabin, hair a black thundercloud, and snarls 'which one of you men is responsible for that fucking mop', pointing to some cleaning equipment Frenchie forgot to pack away.

And everything goes still, as if they're becalmed.

[CW: whipping, abuse, non-explicit mentions of Frenchie's past locked-box traumas]

No one says Frenchie's name - not even Izzy. He just ducks his chin and refuses to look his captain in the eye. But the eyes of every other crewmember jump guiltily to Frenchie, at least once - and Blackbeard is too smart to miss such a tell.

"A ship needs discipline," he says. "Isn't that what you always tell me, Iz?"

"I'll attend to it," says Izzy, voice scratchier than ever. Frenchie knows this is a bad fucking situation - memories battering against the inside of his locked box, trying to get out - but somehow he can't feel fear. Can't really feel anything.

"With the cat," says Blackbeard. "Give the culprit fifteen. Really make the lesson stick."

Ah. There's the fear.

Frenchie's breath stifles itself halfway up his throat, as screams sneak through the keyhole of his box, along with the crack of a whip -

No. No, no, no. He can't. Not again, he can't -

Izzy glances up. Frenchie expects him to grin, all vindictive sadism - but whatever he sees on Frenchie's face has his mouth pulling into a tight line.

"Yes, sir," he says, though Frenchie barely hears over the dull roar of his heart.

He casts his gaze about, looking for an escape. Over the side? They're too far from land, but fuck, if it isn't tempting -

Jim fondles their knives, glaring mutinously at Blackbeard's back as he returns to his cabin. They don't spring after him (though Frenchie selfishly wishes they would). They're well aware - as is everyone - that right now, with Blackbeard black-eyed and bloodthirsty, they'd lose.

Izzy swallows. Shuts his eyes. Then calls for Fang to fetch the cat.

Frenchie loses time then. Scarcely a blink passes before Fang reappears above the deck, the strings of the knotted whip scraping the floor like the tentacles of a shrunken sea-monster.

They're flaky with rusty residue. Old, dried blood.

Frenchie's fingers twitch in the chords of the first song his Ma taught him. No rituals or superstitions will save him. Nothing will. Because his old crew are marooned, almost certainly dead, and his new crew are - with the exception of Fang and Jim and Ivan - fucking monsters.

He's going to be whipped (again). He's going to shred open all those old scars. The box is going to open, and -

Oh, God. Oh God. Fifteen lashes is survivable (Frenchie knows, he knows) but he's still not sure if anything of himself will emerge from the other side.

He's still frozen, staring at the whip held in Fang's big hands, flat out like he's presenting it to Izzy. Only... Izzy doesn't take it.

No, Izzy moves to stand in front of the mast. Walking stiff, with a bit of a limp. While Frenchie's reeling, struggling to process what's happening, he yanks off his shirt. And - fuck, his back is almost as ugly a sight as Frenchie knows his own would be, if he could bear to study it in a mirror.

A few of the crew draw shocked inhales. Most don't look surprised.

Frenchie is one of the latter group. Sound travels, on a ship.

"Um," says Fang, cat dangling limp. "Boss?"

Izzy grabs the hawsers wrapped around the mainmast. Heaves a deep breath. Rests his forehead against the wood.

"You heard the captain," he croaks. "Fifteen lashes."

Fang's eyes are moist - though they are more often than not, nowadays. "Boss - "

"The captain wants the culprit disciplined," Izzy says. His muscles flex beneath their coating of scars. Bracing himself, Frenchie's mind supplies. For the oncoming pain. Not that any amount of tensing is ever enough. "First mate's responsible for maintaining a tidy deck."

This turn of events finally settles into Frenchie's bones. The whip's not for him, thank everything. His key slides gratefully into the lock of his box and turns, ensuring it's shut tight.

Still, sickness churns in his guts. Last week, sleep eluded him. He'd intended to skulk above decks and breathe the sea air to clear his head. He never made it - because who should stagger out of the captain's cabin, so dead-eyed he didn't even notice Frenchie lurking in the shadows of the galley door, but the Revenge's thrice-cursed angry gremlin of a first mate?

Izzy hadn't looked much like a gremlin then, though. Doesn't now, either. Just looks. Tired. And old. And bruised to shit beneath his shirt, and not all of those lash marks are old, weathered scars, and -

Frenchie's fingers twitch more rapidly, pressing through their imaginary chord sequence.

Shit. Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit -

"Fifteen lashes," Izzy reminds Fang. "If you can't do it, anyone else is free to step up. I'm sure there'll be fucking volunteers."

Frenchie eyes Jim. They and Izzy aren't exactly friends - not when Frenchie has heard them mumble a word that sounds horrifically close to 'Oluwande' in their sleep.

But Jim stays right where they are. Hand on the hilt of a knife. Ivan emulates, and, well, Frenchie's feet have damn near put down roots. He couldn't move from this spot if he was ordered to.

Fang's tears well over, and his hand shakes on the whip handle to the point where Frenchie thinks he might drop it.

A clash from the great cabin has them all jumping - all but Izzy, who rests his cheek on the mast like it's a particularly splintery pillow, eyes drifting shut. Blackbeard barges back out, sousing the air with body odour and smoke and self-hatred and whatever the fuck else he's been marinating in.

"What's the fucking wait?" he demands. "I expected way more screams by now." He halts, frowning at the sight of Izzy, stood where Frenchie ought to be (because fuck, he shouldn't have left that mop and bucket out; how many times has Izzy told him - ). For a moment, the harsh line of his brows crumples on itself in something that could be mistaken for regret. But then that dark sneer crawls onto his lips, the one with which the whole crew is becoming familiar. "Can't pick who gets the privilege, eh? Well, lucky for the lot of you, that's what a captain's for."

He stalks forwards, feline-graceful. Frenchie scuttles from his path. When Blackbeard snatches the whip from Fang (not seeming to notice his whimper, his flinch) Frenchie fully anticipates that he'll turn on Izzy, not him.

He certainly doesn't expect Blackbeard to smile, cold and white as a toenail moon, and thrust the whip towards him, hilt first.

"Oh, no." Frenchie raises both hands in surrender. "No, no, no. I couldn't. Awful with a whip, me. Wouldn't, um..." There's the noise of it again, slithering out through the keyhole of his box. The swish. The crack. The scream. "Wouldn't be able to strike hard enough," he stutters. "No upper body strength, yeah."

Blackbeard doesn't approach Frenchie. Just keeps the whip held out towards him, like the accusative finger of a god.

"You give him fifteen," he says, gently. "And make each one count. Or I give him fifty."

Against the mast, Izzy makes a sound - not quite a whimper. Worse; it's far too much like relief. His hands don't shake, but only because they grip the hawser tight as rigor mortis.

Fifty can kill. Has killed before. Frenchie's seen it.

But Blackbeard doesn't want Izzy dead, right? Who would he torture then?

Blackbeard's blank, lifeless eyes pour into Frenchie's.

Who indeed?

Fuck. Frenchie swallows dry. He tells himself it's for self-preservation that he unsticks his boots from the deck and shuffles forth to take the whip. Not for Izzy. Not like he likes the angry little prick. Man's vicious as a cat and thrice as cursed.

Maybe, if Frenchie tells himself that, it'll make this memory easier to lock away with all the rest.

"Ready?" he asks Izzy, softer than he intends. Izzy twists over his scarred shoulder. He looks at Frenchie - really looks at him - for what feels like the first time. Not even glancing to his left, where the Kraken lurks.

Frenchie can't decipher his expression. Pity, for whatever made him offer himself up in Frenchie's place? Frustration, that Frenchie prevented Blackbeard from whipping him into the grave? Misery and fear - no, that's far too sane for a guy like Izzy.

Izzy turns back to the mast.

"Give me your worst," he says.

Frenchie breathes in, breathes out, and obeys.

moth girl giggling and blushing kicking her feet in the air writing in a pretty pink journal with a cute glittery pen and when you look at the page its just a bunch of drawings of streetlamps

this is my favorite warrior cats quote 

and then they did, right?