#.........i want that in my eulogy actually | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

suzukiblu · 6 months

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NaNoWriMo fic, day one: obligatory sugar daddy Tim/sugar baby Kon AU.

Tim Drake had absolutely no intentions of ever becoming anyone's sugar daddy when he met Superboy.

This would have worked out better for him if Superboy had ever had an actual legal identity or an actual legal guardian or just . . . literally anything whatsoever in life. Ever. At all.

Just a bank account, even.

"You're working for Cadmus," Tim says slowly. "Cadmus, as in the lab that stole Superman's body and cloned him without his consent. Cadmus, which you had to break out of so they couldn't put mind control code words in your head."

"Yeah," Superboy replies like that's not literally insane. Tim stares at him.

"Why?" he asks incredulously.

"Food and shelter?" Superboy shrugs. "And I mean, I dunno, where else am I gonna go?"

Tim is not okay with this situation.

"What did Superman say?" he says.

"Just to like, keep an eye on things," Superboy says with another shrug. "Make sure they're not up to anything shifty."

Tim stares at him.

"Superman," he says. "Told you to just . . . 'keep an eye on' the dubiously ethical cloning lab. The specific dubiously ethical cloning lab that tried to put mind control code words in your head. Specifically."

"Yeah," Superboy confirms.

Alright, Tim is actually even less okay with this situation than he thought, apparently. Like, impressively less.

"Okay," he says. It is absolutely no kind of okay in any way whatsoever, of course, but he doesn't want to put Superboy on the defensive. That'd make effectively interrogating him a lot harder, for one thing. Cooperative subjects are best in these situations. "What are they paying you?"

"I mean, like, they gave me my own room and they're feeding me and whatever, so I don't really need much money," Superboy says. "There's a discretionary fund I can use if I need to go on an undercover mission or anything like that? But I'm not really the undercover type anyway."

"Sure," Tim says. So . . . no way for Superboy to save up to move out and get an out-of-lab life, then. Great. That's not fucked-up or crazy or horrible at all. "Do you like it there?"

"It's okay," Superboy says, shrugging again. "Better than literally everybody in Hawaii yelling at me every time they see my face, yeah?"

Tim wants to set the world on fire, but he's trying really hard not to go supervillain before he's thirty and he'd hate to throw out all that hard work.

"They just let me do whatever, mostly," Superboy adds. "They don't really care as long as I'm around when they need me."

He'll go supervillain as soon as Bruce dies, Tim promises himself. Just–he'll give his share of the eulogy at the funeral and then he'll blow up three-fourths of Arkham and the entire GCPD while Commissioner Gordon is on his lunch break. He can time that out, that'll be easy. And then he'll go and personally murder the Joker with the very specific combination of a rusty crowbar and a shrapnel bomb, and then he'll just . . . well, he'll just go with the flow from there, he figures. Do whatever feels natural.

Seriously, the world as it is does not deserve to exist. It really just does not.

Tim figures he can probably convince the rest of Young Justice to tag along for the whole supervillain thing and hopefully Dick and Steph and Barbara too, and ideally also Alfred, in the unfortunately likely event that he outlives Bruce. He's got time to lay the groundwork with them all and all, and also everything really is awful and horrible and really does deserve to burn.

"Are they sending you to school or anything? Or tutoring you?" Tim asks with what little scraps of hope he has left. Higher education would be . . . well, something, at least. And actually it probably wouldn't hurt for Superboy to learn a bit more about genetic engineering from the same place he got genetically engineered, just in case anything goes wrong with his DNA again. Cadmus should at least be good for that much, right?

"Ew, no, thank fuck," Superboy says, making a face. "Like I said, they mostly let me do whatever until something needs punched."

So . . . no furthered education or learning any usable job skills or making real money or literally anything that could, again, lead to Superboy ever getting any kind of an actual out-of-lab life established.

Great.

Just great.

"I see," Tim says.

"It's a pretty sweet gig, considering," Superboy says, and grins brightly at him. It's a very nice grin. Normally being faced with that particular grin would make Tim need to beat down the highly unprofessional urge to kiss it.

Right now, though, he's a little bit more concerned with the fact that his teammate is just . . . living in and working for a fucking lab. As a matter of course. Just as a thing.

And Superman of all people thinks that's . . . fine, for some reason? Like, normal and ethical and okay? Somehow? In some way?

What the actual fuck, Tim thinks to himself.

"You said Superman told you to keep an eye on things?" he asks.

"Yeah," Superboy says, his grin widening. "He took me to his fortress and asked me to do it there. Showed me around a bit, too."

"That sounds really interesting," Tim says, wondering in vague disbelief if that means Superman had never taken Superboy to the Fortress of Solitude before. He must've, right? And just . . . inexplicably not shown Superboy around then.

Yeah. Sure.

"It was awesome!" Superboy says with more enthusiasm than Tim's seen from him since they met Nina Dowd's . . . endowments, seemingly forgetting the need to be "cool" for long enough to lean forward in his seat and outright beam at him. Tim is gonna need a minute to recover from the sight of that expression, probably. "It's seriously freaking freezing up there, but there's so much cool shit in the place. Like, from all over the universe, but from Krypton, even! The only thing I'd ever seen from Krypton before was kryptonite!"

Tim considers moving up his supervillain timeline after all. Like. Just possibly. Just a little.

Maybe he can convince Bruce to take an early retirement off-planet and just go from there.

What the hell is wrong with Superman?

"Oh, wow, really?" Tim says, simultaneously pretending he didn't already know what Superman has in his fortress and trying not to be screamingly obvious about the internal calculations he's running on figuring out how to weaponize red sunlight. Or like, maybe he could look into learning some magic. That's technically an option. Probably more time-consuming and harder to hide the process of, though. Still, it's on the table.

"Yeah. He showed me some of it. Told me some stories and stuff, even," Superboy says, and that excited grin turns just a little bit shy and soft and somehow even more distracting than usual. He ducks his head just a little, and then that soft grin is more like a soft smile, and Tim suffers. "And I, uh–and he gave me something, too."

"What did he give you?" Tim asks, praying to God that the answer is "an emergency contact number" or "an allowance that can cover a semi-decent Metropolis apartment" or "an offer to live literally anywhere but Cadmus, including in the thirtieth century or on a hostile alien planet or inside an active volcano". He's technically an atheist, so the praying thing is probably moot, but times of desperation are times of desperation.

"A name," Superboy says, and his smile widens helplessly. "Like, you know, a real one."

Tim might hate Superman, he thinks. That might actually be a thing now.

Yeah, he's definitely going supervillain after Bruce dies and doesn't need an emotional support sidekick anymore. Better start stocking up on the kryptonite.

"That's great," he says with a very carefully not-forced smile of his own instead of anything more along the lines of "wait, you've been alive and active as a superhero for all this time and no one ever actually named you?!" Superboy would probably take it the wrong way, not in the least because that genuinely never actually occurred to him as being a thing before. Like–he really did just assume Superboy was keeping a lid on whatever his real name was for personal reasons or Superman reasons or something. "Are you allowed to tell me it, or is that a no-go?"

"Oh, yeah," Superboy says with a sheepish laugh, rubbing at his arm. "It's like, a Kryptonian name? Not like a secret identity one. It's, uh, Kon-El."

Of course it's not even a damn secret identity, Tim thinks in absolute frustration and abject loathing. Of course not! Why would it be?! Fuck forbid!

"I like it," he says, because he lies to Batman and therefore there is no fucking way that he's going to let Superboy–Kon–see any sign whatsoever of the metaphorical 9.9 on the Richter scale that is currently happening in his psyche. "It suits you."

"You think?" Kon grins all the wider. Tim can't even calm down enough to want to kiss him, except in the sense that he always wants to kiss him.

"I do," he says, and smiles at him again.

Kon smiles back.

Tim hates everything. All the things. There is nothing that Tim doesn't hate right now, except maybe Alfred's snickerdoodles because he might be having a nervous breakdown but he's not, like, criminally insane or whatever.

Yet.

"Yeah, it's kinda cool," Kon says, straightening up in his seat and then leaning back, clearing his throat and slipping his sunglasses back on like they're not in a literal cave right now. Tim doesn't call him on it, because he has a supervillain timeline to work out and that's much more important.

Also because the teammate he has an inadvisable crush on is in a much, much shittier situation than he ever realized and he has to reconcile that with his worldview and also his opinion of Superman. Tim doesn't especially idolize the man except in the sense of knowing he's one of the greatest heroes on Earth and a very, very good man that Bruce thinks incredibly highly of, one of the best men on the League and maybe even on the planet, but . . .

But if he's such a good man, then why the hell is Kon living in a lab that tried to mind-control him and why has he only just seen the Fortress of Solitude for the first time?

Why didn't he have a real name?

"So do we call you Kon or Kon-El now?" Tim asks, which is a bit of a senseless question but also at least a bit of a distraction. He wants to say this whole situation is a horrible idea, who the FUCK convinced you this situation was a good idea?!, but there is no possible way that Kon would respond well to that. Ever.

Also, Kon had a point. Where else is he gonna go?

Clearly not the Fortress of Solitude.

Seriously, would it be that hard for Superman to give him a room there? At least a place to stay sometimes, so he wasn't exclusively relying on the mind-control cloning lab for food and shelter and basic comforts?

"I think just Kon?" Kon says, frowning consideringly. "'El' is like Superman's last name, I guess? So I think just Kon."

"Makes sense," Tim says, internally seething. Superman gave him the "El" name but not a secret identity? A name from a dead civilization with a bit of sentimental value, maybe, but nothing usable on this planet? Fuck, you'd think Kon didn't already know his secre–

. . . Kon doesn't know Superman's secret identity, does he.

Tim had thought he was lying, when he'd said that stuff about Superman not having one, before. Thought it was supposed to be a cover or a misdirection or something. But Kon actually thinks that, doesn't he. And Superman has just . . . kept letting him think that.

Becoming a supervillain actually might be an underreaction, in retrospect.

"Just Kon sounds less formal anyway," Tim says instead of so just in theory, do you think tactile telekinesis could trigger a heart attack or stroke in a full-blooded Kryptonian, if you could REALLY concentrate on doing it? like not FATALLY, just dehabilitatingly?, because he still has some groundwork to do before they get that far into potential supervillainy. There's steps to the plan. The steps need to be followed. They're very important steps. "You don't want Bart full-naming you every time he's looking for the remote."

"Like he'd even bother, it's faster for him to turn the living room upside-down than actually ask anyway," Kon says with a laugh, dropping his head back on his neck. Tim has some thoughts about climbing into his lap and figuring out if the TTK makes him hickey-proof, and then buries them. Not appropriate. Not professional. Just not.

. . . technically, if Kon wanted a hickey, he could just let his TTK down and ask for–

Tim buries his thoughts deeper.

Much, much deeper.

"Point," he says. "So what time does Cadmus expect you back?"

"Dude, it's a job, not a boarding school," Kon says, giving him an amused look. "I don't have a curfew."

Tim, technically, hasn't followed his own curfew any way but accidentally once in his entire life, but for god's sake, is Cadmus even pretending to be raising a teenager or are they really just being that flagrant about ignoring all the child labor laws they so clearly do not give a fuck about? Like, there must be something illegal about this. There has to be.

If there's not, Tim will be adding "burn down Project Cadmus" to his list of supervillain plans to set up in advance. In red pen. Underlined.

Twice.

God, why is the world like this. Why are people like this?

"I guess that'd be convenient," Tim says, internally ranking various methods of combustion. "Though I guess it depends on the cafeteria hours, too."

"It's whatever, I can always eat later," Kon replies with a shrug. "I think I've still got a couple protein bars in my room anyway."

"Just protein bars?" Tim asks, mentally upping the amount of explosives he was considering going with. Cadmus is going to be a crater by the time he's done with it. "Don't you need more calories than that?"

". . . well, sort of," Kon says, folding his arms and looking very briefly embarrassed. "Superman doesn't have to eat, apparently, but, uh, guess I'm not Kryptonian enough for that. Actually I kinda need to eat more than normal humans, it's weird. Like. A lot more."

"I'm ordering pizza," Tim says, upping his mental explosives count again. "What do you want on it?"

"We're the only ones here," Kon says, looking puzzled.

"More pizza for us, then," Tim says.

#timkon #tim drake #kon el #conner kent #dc robin #superboy #young just us #young justice #long post #rinfic #wip: obligatory sugar baby Kon

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munson-blurbs · 10 months

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Single Dad!Eddie x Fem!ReaderSeries

1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10

Summary: Grandma's funeral brings out a side of Ms. Sweetheart that Eddie hasn't ever seen, leaving the two of them questioning everything they've built up together.

Warnings: funeral service (I tried to keep it as neutral as possible so it could apply to any religion), mentions of cause of Grandma's death, failed attempt at sex, pretty much all angst sorry

WC: 5.1k

Chapter 10/20

Divider credit to @saradika Harris's note credit to @girlwiththerubyslippers

Eddie can’t remember the last time he went to a funeral. It might’ve been for one of Wayne’s friends, or a distant great-aunt twice removed. He doesn’t even own a proper suit for such an occasion; everything he’s wearing actually belongs to Wayne. He smooths down the creases in his black slacks; the material of anything other than worn denim is foreign against his legs. The elbows of his coat jacket are patched, and he slides his palms over them in embarrassment.

He takes a seat in one of the back rows, trying to remain as inconspicuous as possible while the other mourners file in. There’s a pit growing in his stomach as his gaze swoops to the coffin resting at the front of the room. The realization that Grandma was inside was almost too much for him to handle, and he’d only met her a month ago. He hadn’t known her when she was…herself, but he saw glimpses of her now and again. The last time he was over for a Wednesday night dinner, she rested her head on his shoulder as though she’d done it a million times. You’d mouthed sorry, but Eddie had simply smiled and let Grandma stay there as long as she wanted. If he was being honest, he felt special, knowing that she was comfortable with him.

Eddie’s eyes are only drawn from the casket when he sees you walk among your family. He immediately takes note of your face, normally soft and vibrant, now stoic and emotionless. It’s a sharp contrast to your relatives, who wear their grief through bloodshot eyes and tear-stained cheeks. The hymn playing in the background fades out as a man speaks up at the podium.

Eddie’s barely listening, keeping his attention on you. He watches your mouth move as you recite the prayers along with the rest of your family, though he’s only half-listening to them. He’s never been one for organized religion, but he echoes the closing statement when everyone else does.

That’s when you stand up, smoothing down your dress at the back of your thighs, and walk towards the front of the room. You’re clutching a piece of paper in your hand, which Eddie notices is slightly trembling. He locks eyes with you, dragging his teeth along his bottom lip and offers the smallest of encouraging smiles. You acknowledge it with a tiny nod in his direction before taking a deep breath and beginning the eulogy.

“Um, h-hi.,” you start, stumbling over your words awkwardly. You clear your throat and try again. “Thank you all for coming to honor and remember Grandma. It’s evident that she meant a lot to so many people.

“When I was writing this eulogy, I kept thinking about who she was as a person.” You don’t let your gaze drift from Eddie’s, and you could swear that he’s the only force keeping you from crumbling to the ground in a heap of grief. “For a lot of us, we wonder what ‘big thing’ will define our lives. The occasion that people will remember us by, you know? But with Grandma, there wasn’t one ‘big thing.’ Her life was a series of little kindnesses that she made sure to sprinkle into her everyday life. Like, when I was a kid, my dad broke his ankle. My mom couldn’t leave me home alone, so Grandma drove him to and from the hospital and stayed with him while he waited. She always took care of us.

“One of my favorite memories is how she would bring me a bouquet of flowers after every dance recital I was in. She’d be waiting for me by the stage door with a big smile on her face, telling me what a great job I did, even if I totally messed up…she was the best. All she wanted was for the people she loved to be happy.

“And that’s what I associate with Grandma—love. How much I loved her, and how much she loved us. Just a few weeks ago, she was sharing Oreos with the kid I tutor, and it reminded me of how she used to be with me.” At that line, Eddie feels his lip quiver, tears dampening his lashes, and he ducks his head to keep you from seeing him break. This time, it’s more for your sake than his, since you’re leaning on him to remain upright. “I encourage all of you to find the little kindnesses in life, and to be the kindness in someone’s day.

“Grandma, you are already so missed. I hope you’re seeing the values you instilled in each of us. Rest easy. We’ll take it from here.” The only sounds in the entire room are the heels of your shoes clacking on the floor and sniffling from nearly everyone else in the congregation. You take your seat quietly, bowing your head as though trying to hide.

The rest of the service is a blur of hymns and prayers; nothing, Eddie notes, nearly as moving as the eulogy you gave. He barely notices when the people around him start moving, keeping a watchful eye on you. You’re trying to blend in amongst your black-clad relatives, but Eddie has no problem finding you. He cranes his neck just in time to see your family make a right through the doors, while you pivot left.

Instinctively, his hands tuck into his pants pocket as he fumbles for his cigarettes and lighter. He has no idea what to say to you, no idea where to even begin. He needs a smoke or three to clear his head before he sees you and stammers out some half-witted acknowledgment of your loss. There’s no time for that; however, because as soon as he steps outside, he sees you sitting on the steps. It’s freezing outside, but your arms are bare, and Eddie can see the prickle of goosebumps lining your skin.

“What are you doing out here by yourself?” he asks, drawing your attention as he takes a seat next to you. He shrugs off his own jacket, placing it over your shoulders without a second thought.

You offer him a sad smile, tugging the coat so it covers more of you. You didn’t realize how cold you were until you felt the contrast of his body heat. “Trying to avoid my family,” you admit, placing your hand over Eddie’s. “Could you take me home? I got a ride here from my uncle, but I really don’t want to go out to eat with everyone.” They’re probably arguing over where to get lunch right now, acting as though their matriarch isn’t about to be lowered into the ground.

“You sure?” Eddie’s eyebrows pinch together in concern. “I mean, I don’t mind, but I don’t want to take you away from them or anything.” He can picture the sneers he’ll receive, a pit forming in his stomach.

You remain unfazed to the conundrum he faces. “Trust me, you’d be doing me a favor. I can’t…” your voice catches, so you restart your sentence. “I can’t sit there while everyone’s smiling and laughing. That’s what happens when an old, sick person dies; people don’t even try to hide their relief. I need…I need to be alone.” You tuck your lips inside your mouth, attempting to bury your feelings.

Eddie nods, reaching over to take his keys out of the jacket you’re now wearing. “Yeah, no, I get it. We can get outta here.” He stands up, takes your hand in his to help you to your feet, and leads you to the car as inconspicuous as possible. The last thing either of you need is to be confronted by one of your relatives.

The two of you sit in the car quietly, without even the radio on. Eddie can’t remember the last time he’s had a silent car ride; he either has music playing, Harris yammering his ear off, or a combination of both. He keeps his hands at ten and two, internally debating whether or not to rest one on your knee. It wouldn’t be a sexual thing, not even close, but he doesn’t want you to get the wrong idea. His grip remains steady, the hum of the engine is the only sound.

You take this time to study him, taking in the crow’s feet that line the edges of his eyes, the tiny patch of stubble that he’d missed while shaving, the slight dimple in his chin. You try and turn before he can catch you, and though your efforts are fruitless, he doesn’t quite call you out on it. “Y’good?”

“Y-Yeah,” you stutter, smoothing a part of your dress that isn’t wrinkled. “Could you come inside for a little while? I thought I wanted to be by myself, but I really want you to stay.”

You really want him to stay. Not just that you need company, but you want him specifically. The notion sets all of Eddie’s nerve endings alight. “‘Course,” he replies, perhaps a bit too casually to cover up his excitement over the realization that he brings you some form of comfort.

When he pulls into the apartment complex’s parking lot and shuts off the ignition, he takes the opportunity to hold your hand again. It’s so much different than when he held it a few days earlier on your date, when there was an atmosphere of joy and hope. Now it’s like he’s pulling you along, like his lead is what has you placing one heel-clad foot in front of the other.

You unlock the door, accidentally leaving the key within its latch, and Eddie quietly removes it and places it on the table. His fingers ghost your biceps to remove your–his–coat from your body, but you just pull it on farther like a safety blanket.

“Y’want coffee? ‘M gonna put on a pot,” you offer quietly, already heading over to the kitchen. You scoop out a serving of coffee grounds for you, inhaling the hazelnut scent before dumping it into the basket, glancing over at him for his response.

“Uh, yeah, sure,” he nods, and you put another scoop in before filling the carafe with tap water. With a flick of the power button, the Black + Decker rumbles and kicks on, and the drip drip drip of coffee fills the room.

You grab two mugs from the cupboard and place them on the counter. “How’d you even find out about the funeral?”

Eddie walks over, though he feels as though he can’t get close enough. He just wants to hold you tight and never let go, but you’ve put up some sort of barrier that he can’t quite interpret. “Oh, um, I asked Byers. I hope you don’t mind–I tried calling you, but it said the line was disconnected.”

Your cheeks burn. “That was Grandma.” Eddie looks confused–rightfully so–and you elaborate. “The morning that she…she got annoyed with the phone ringing, so when I wasn’t looking, she took the scissors and cut the wire.”

Eddie’s jaw drops in disbelief. “You’re joking.”

“I wish I was. I left the house for a few minutes to get a new phone, and when I came back, she’d fallen asleep and…” you swallow thickly, rummaging through the refrigerator for the tiny carton of half-and-half, “…and she never woke up. First call I made with the new phone was to 9-1-1, but it was too late.” Too late. That’s what the EMTs told you: I’m sorry, but it’s too late.

“Oh, Sweetheart. My sweet girl…” Eddie’s heart lurches, and he instinctively reaches out to you. One hand lays between your shoulder blades while the other rubs up and down your spine. He’s careful not to let it drop too low, never going past the small of your back. Though you’re pressed flush to his chest, there’s still a strange disconnect between you.

Despite every urge you have to cling to him, you pull away and shove a teaspoon into the sugar bowl, sliding it towards him on the counter. “S’okay. I mean, it’s not, but…they said she’d had a heart attack. If I didn’t get the phone, I wouldn’t have been able to call for an ambulance anyway.” The dripping of the coffee maker slows as it finishes brewing. “Only thing I could do is go back in time and stop her from cutting the wires, and Melvald’s was all outta time machines,” you joke, but it falls flat.

Eddie frowns, crossing his arms over his chest as he leans against the countertop. “You don’t have to do this, y’know.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Pretend like you’re alright,” he explains, voice hardly louder than a whisper. He tucks a lock of hair behind his ear.

You feel an anger rising within you, though you’re unable to pinpoint its origin. “I am alright,” you insist through gritted teeth.

Eddie shakes his head, peering at you through his impossibly long eyelashes. “It’s okay to be sad–”

“Don’t you get it, Eddie?” You cut him off with a snap, slamming the coffee pot down so harshly that it almost cracks. “I’m not sad. I’m not relieved. I’m not anything. My grandma just died, and I don’t feel a goddamn thing! It’s like I’m some kind of monster.”

“Hey, hey, c’mere.” He hugs you again, holds you even tighter than before as he kisses the top of your head. “You’re not a monster, ‘kay? I promise you.”

You look up at him, not quite believing his words, but you press your lips to his. He kisses you back gently; timidly even, but you deepen it and graze his tongue with your own. Your left hand weaves its way through his messy curls and your right fumbles with his belt buckle, but you’re unable to unhook the clasp before he steps back.

“What’re you–” His eyes widen and he puts his hands up to avoid touching you, clearly confused by your behavior. If you had the capacity to be honest with yourself, you’d admit that you’re not sure why you’re doing this, either.

“Please, Eddie,” you beg, trying to reconnect your lips with his, but he just pulls away again. “Please, I…I need this. I need you.”

“If we sleep together for the first time right now, while you’re like this, you’ll regret it,” he says.

You don’t deny the accusation; instead, you double down on it. “Okay, so I’ll regret it! I’ll feel regret, but at least I’ll feel something!” Your trembling fingers brush against his shirt, trying to grab onto it and bring his body to you, but he turns with a scoff.

“You’d really be okay with that?” There’s unmistakeable anger in his tone, but it’s laced with something more than that; something that sounds more like hurt. “Regretting our first time together?”

“Didn’t we almost fuck on your couch the night we met? You didn’t even know my last name. You barely knew my first name.” Your words are biting, thick with malice. “When did you become so averse to meaningless sex?”

“Meaningless?” Eddie balks, digging his fingernails into his palms until they leave crescent-shaped marks. His lips contort into a perplexed grimace as he formulates a response. “I, um, I gotta go. I’ll call you–”

“Yeah, I’ve heard that line before, and I’m not falling for it again.” You can’t stop the words before they’re tumbling from your mouth, and you can’t take them back. “Shit, Eddie–”

“Just—don’t say anything else, ‘kay? I’m leaving.” He turns around, digging into his back pocket. “This is for you. From me and Harris.” He tosses a piece of notebook paper, folded into fourths, onto the end table and closes the door with a slam.

You stand there, dumbfounded at what just occurred–mostly at your own actions. When you move towards the paper, you realize that you’re still wearing Eddie’s suit jacket, and you yank it off and throw it to the ground, leaving it in a heap. You open the note and read, vision blurred from the tears threatening to spill over.

The innocent kindness of a little boy is all it takes for you to break down and cry, muffling your sobs in your palms though there isn’t anyone around to hear them. Grandma was gone. You’d chased Eddie away with the same vitriol he’d spewed at you that day at the record store. You’re really, truly alone.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” you chant to no one in particular. You’re sorry to Grandma, for leaving her home alone. You could’ve asked Jess to run out and get a new phone, but you’d needed a break from Grandma’s anger that was always directed towards you. That morning, after you’d discovered the cut phone line, there had been another argument over taking her medication, and she yelled “I HATE YOU!” at the top of her lungs. Then she sat at the table and ate a bowl of cereal like nothing had happened. Instead of taking a deep breath and brushing it off, you’d grabbed your keys and headed to RadioShack. You could’ve driven there, it would’ve made the trip much faster, but you’d decided to walk. The fresh air would do you good, you told yourself, pushing away the full truth of the matter: you’d desperately needed to be away from Grandma. When you got back, she was laying on the couch, and you would’ve sworn she was only sleeping…

You’re sorry to Eddie. Sorry that he’d wasted his time with someone who resorted to dredging up the past as soon as she felt an ounce of anger and rejection. Someone who insisted that he could trust her and then promptly shattered that rapport once he’d let his guard down.

And for a split second, you allow yourself to feel sorry for you. Sorry that you couldn’t even grieve properly without feeling like you didn’t deserve it, because if you were home, Grandma might still be alive.

You look down at the card one more time, choking out a laugh through your tears at Harris’s offer to share his grandpa. It dawns on you that you’ll either have to stop tutoring him or continue to see Eddie on a weekly basis. Everyone who comes in contact with me gets entangled in my problems, you note miserably. Eddie’s finally getting his life together and I’m fucking it all up. He deserves better than me.

Maybe it’s a good idea to leave Hawkins and go back home, at least for the holidays. You’re not sure what type of celebrations the family will muster up, but it’s better than being alone with your thoughts. And if you never return, that might be best for everybody.

The bell above the drugstore door chimes as Eddie pushes his way in. He smoked out his remaining cigarettes on the drive over, and he’s desperate for another pack. He makes a beeline for the back wall, plucking his usual Camels from the display. “Perfect,” he mutters, though his lungs would certainly disagree.

As he shuffles towards the cashier, he spots a familiar face in one of the aisles. His lurking cowardice screams at him to run away, but he shoves it deep down and talks anyway. “H-Hey, man. How’s it going?”

Jeff turns around, first bewildered at who’s speaking to him, then tensing up when he sees Eddie standing before him. “Can’t complain. Just getting some of these prenatal vitamin things for Viv,” he replies tersely, shaking the bottle to emphasize his statement.

There’s an awkward silence before Eddie speaks again. “Look, um, I’m really sorry about what happened at our last show.” He rubs the back of his neck and winces at the memory. “What I said, what I didn’t say…you’re gonna be a great dad, dude. Like, the best. I was just jealous, but that’s not an excuse to be an asshole.”

“Jealous?” Jeff cocks an eyebrow incredulously, willing Eddie to continue.

“Yeah,” Eddie nods, shamefully averting his gaze. “You’re bringing a kid into a stable household, and I couldn’t do that for Harris. I don’t regret having him, of course, but I’ll always feel guilty about the shitshow he was born into.” He taps the pack of cigarettes on his palm, biting his lower lip to shut himself up. “Anyway, I gotta get home—”

“Eddie Munson?” He turns around to see a young woman standing behind him. Her low-cut top shows off the top of her breasts, cleavage pushed up by a bra, and her jeans hug every curve. She purses her pink-glossed lips together in a flirtatious smile.

“Y-Yeah?”

“I’m Lisa.” She says this like Eddie should already know this, and he’s embarrassed to admit to himself that he can’t place the name or face. “We hooked up last summer at the Hideout? In the men’s room?” Lisa lowers her voice seductively to whisper that detail. “I haven’t seen you there in a while.”

“Oh, yeah.” There have been multiple men’s room hook-ups, but he’s not about to play detective to figure out exactly who she is, so he plays along. “The band’s been on a bit of a…hiatus, I guess.” From his peripheral vision, he can see Jeff ducking his head, and his cheeks burn with the truth.

Lisa juts out her lower lip in an exaggerated pout, though Eddie knows it’s all for show. “That’s too bad.” She lets her hand rest on his chest, leaning into him and twirling a strand of his hair around a polished fingernail. “If you’re not busy tonight, I’d love to have you over for drinks and…dessert? Recreate that night at the bar, minus the urinal?”

Eddie moves her arms from his vicinity, putting a necessary space between them. “Um, n-nah. No thanks,” he clarifies. “I’m, uh, kinda involved with someone, so…”

She remains undaunted, a small chuckle escaping her throat. “I can keep a secret. She doesn’t have to know.” She takes another step forward to close the gap, and he’s so goddamn tempted, but he shakes it off. He doesn’t have a clue what’s going to happen between you and him, but he knows he’s not going to sabotage any potential relationship.

“Well, I’ll know,” he retorts, “and I’ll feel like shit about it.”

Lisa rolls her eyes. “Whatever. Your loss.” She pivots on one heel and mumbles something under her breath that Eddie doesn’t even bother to interpret.

Jeff looks at Eddie with an amused grin as he shifts his weight from one side to the other. “So, you’re involved with someone?” He knows from what Jess has told him that Eddie went on a date with you a few days ago, but he couldn’t gauge the seriousness of the situation.

“I think so. At least, I was, until about fifteen minutes ago.” He relents and fills Jeff in about everything that happened, from your conversation over steaming coffee mugs, to the amazing kiss you’d shared as snowflakes collected on your eyelashes, to the unexpected confrontation after Grandma’s funeral today.

Jeff sighs, but it’s one of sympathy, not exasperation. “You did the right thing,” he says finally.

“I don’t think anyone’s ever said that to me.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Jeff laughs, punching him playfully on the arm. “I’m serious. And you did the right thing just now, too, with that groupie.” He clears his throat. “Viv’s baby shower is in a couple weeks. Ladies only, y’know, but I could use some help loading all the gifts into the car. And we could grab some lunch beforehand, if you want.”

Eddie nods. “Yeah, that would be great. Might have to let Harris tag along, if that’s all right.” He doesn’t want to keep asking Wayne to babysit, no matter how much the old man insists that he doesn’t mind.

“Of course. You know that little man is always welcome.” Jeff says, walking towards the register. “I’ll call you with the details.”

Eddie hesitates, letting his friend pass him by a few paces before he calls out. “Jeff?”

“Yeah?”

“What do I do about…” Eddie trails off, unwilling to finish his sentence. He feels absolutely ridiculous having this conversation in the middle of the drugstore, but he’s desperate not to fuck this up further.

Jeff scratches at his stubble with his free hand, contemplating the options as only someone who’s been in a long-term relationship and hasn’t had to navigate the nuances of a fresh relationship in ages can. “Give her some time; a few days, at least. She’s going through a lot. She needs her space, y’know, to figure things out.”

It’s not the answer Eddie was hoping for; patience has never been his forte. He wishes that Jeff would have told him to chase after you, to go get the girl and make sure she knows how much she means to him. But he knows that his friend is right, and he acknowledges his response with a small smile. “Thanks, man.”

“See ya around, Ed.”

Eddie unlocks his apartment door, new pack of cigarettes in one hand and a pint of Ben & Jerry’s tucked under the other arm. He doesn’t usually splurge on ice cream, but every romantic comedy cliche has instructed him that it’s the perfect remedy for heartbreak. If that’s even what this is, he thinks, but he knows it’s true. After doing everything in his power to prevent it, he’d allowed you to break his heart. And as he shoves a spoon into the container of Devil’s Food Chocolate, it dawns on him that he’d do it all again.

He’d come to your rescue and pick the lock of Grandma’s bedroom door. He’d sit around the table and eat pizza with you, Harris, and Grandma every Wednesday night. He’d drive to your house with store-brand cookies and watch cheesy Thanksgiving movies with you just to see the smile on your face. He’d take you out for coffee and kiss you in the snow a thousand times over. And he’d go to Grandma’s funeral and drive you home and turn down your offer for sex and break his own fucking heart again and again if it meant protecting you.

He shimmies out of his starchy dress pants and unbuttons his shirt, leaving himself in just a white undershirt and his boxers as he sinks deeper into the sofa. He reaches over for the remote–now that he works when Harris is in school, he rarely has time to watch something that he actually enjoys–and notices the phone’s red flashing light indicating that he has a new voicemail.

He presses play with a clumsy finger on the button, expecting Wayne’s gruff voice or a reminder for an overdue bill. When he hears that it’s you, he sits up straight, nearly dropping his ice cream.

“Hi, Eddie. It’s me. I’m so sorry for what happened earlier. I’m sure you’re probably mad, but I just want you to know…it wouldn’t have been meaningless. It wasn’t meaningless the night we met when it was supposed to be meaningless.” You take a deep breath. “I’m going back home for the holidays. Um, I’m not sure when…if…I’m coming back, but before I leave, I had to apologize for what I said. You’re a great guy, Eddie. I hope you know that. Have, um, have a nice holiday. Okay, bye.”

Eddie remains still, a loud silence enveloping the room once the machine relays that he’s reached the end of new messages. He’s dissecting every word you’d uttered, replaying them over and over.

It wasn’t meaningless the night we met when it was supposed to be meaningless.

So you’d felt it, too; that spark much stronger than the usual lust that overcomes him during hookups. And while he’d tried to convince himself that he’d only asked you to cuddle, had you stay over out of post-sex, post-show delirium, he can’t deny the truth any longer.

He’d asked because he felt comfortable around you, like he could hold you forever and whisper secrets that scare him to even admit to himself. Maybe it was because you’d seen Harris’s car seat that night and hadn’t run for the hills, or maybe it was the way you’d kissed him like he was worth savoring. And the morning after, when he’d all but chased you out of the apartment…Christ, you didn’t deserve that.

I’m not sure when…if…I’m coming back.

The ‘when’ he could handle, but that ‘if’ was a weight on his chest. He questions his actions for a moment–should he have slept with you? Showed you how wanted and cherished and safe you were with him? Given your mind a chance to wander from the grief choking it? But Jeff said he had done the right thing, and considering the man was engaged with a baby on the way, Eddie figured he had to know something about women.

You’re a great guy, Eddie. I hope you know that.

Is he? He’s certainly a better man than when you’d first met him, but is he actually a great guy? He’d bought you coffee and didn’t fuck you when you were too vulnerable to truly consent–is that what constitutes greatness, or is he just a step above a piece of shit?

And, of course, part of him is angry. Not only because you were so easily willing to use him–although that realization definitely stings–but mostly because you’d thought he’d want to. After everything you two had been through, did you truly believe that he’d be unbothered? That he’d throw away all of that progress just to get his dick wet? Is that how little you think of him? Eddie doesn’t want the answer.

The ice cream is melting, so he forgoes the spoon and just takes a swig from the pint. He licks the chocolatey residue from his lips before standing up to put the carton in the freezer. Tacked onto the refrigerator is Harris’s picture from Halloween where Eddie and Ms. Sweetheart are holding hands.

He plucks it from under the magnet, staring at it intently. The memory of his son and his uncle asking him about you, that pretty like a princess remark, the unfurling realization that he felt things for you that he’d thought he was incapable of feeling. He never should have taken their ribbings, inadvertently getting his hopes up that there was something there worth pursuing.

Without thinking, Eddie crumples the paper in his fist, crushing the family portrait into a ball. “Shit,” he mutters, placing it on the table and smoothing it out as best as he can. His hands glide over the drawing, rubbing over every crease until it looks good as new and Harris will be none the wiser.

But Eddie knows what’s been destroyed. What he doesn’t know is whether or not it can be smoothed out.

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mutfruit-salad · 12 days

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read your criticism and have a genuine question about your thoughts on the branding scene. i completely understand how max's branding is inherently tied to a racist history, and it always will be, but i dont feel like the scene itself was written with that bias/intent. thaddeus also gets branded in later episodes and it's implied to happen to every aspirant upon their promotion. at what point in writing are black characters morally barred from specific story points because of their similarities to a history that's not directly related? sort of similar with barb, at what point can black characters not do bad things at all, especially in a story where there are near a dozen non-black characters who do worse things? also considering it's implied (at least, i understood it as) she's sticking to vault-tec to protect her family?

I am not in the best position to comment on this, because I am not black. I will do my best to add what I can, but this is a space for others to chime in.

Barb is interesting because she's essentially become the person who did the most heinous crime in the entire setting- by far and away worse than anything anyone has ever done. There really aren't white characters who did worse things- because all the crimes of Caesar or the Enclave or whoever else pale in comparison to being the one who literally set into motion the total annihilation of all nations on Earth. (This is setting aside her willing participation in the inception of the vault experiments- which is an entirely separate also horrific crime.)

The issue is they've created a setting that is, as presented, colorblind. Race is invisible to the writers, who did not consider it meaningfully while producing the show- as is often the case with white creatives putting characters of color into their stories. Colorblindness does not always produce entirely racist results- and when done with tact and intentionality it can even be revolutionary. Look at the relative inclusivity of star trek as an example, and the radical depiction of Uhura in the original series.

The thing that makes Fallout different from Star Trek however is that it is not depicting its colorblind future with tact and intentionality. This is a show that is intensely concerned with depicting the specific brand of nationalistic American politics of the 1950s and the Cold War- and they've reproduced that system for the show but with a black woman at the head. That's where the issue comes up.

This was a system that had racism baked into it by design. It still does. American Nationalism and corporate violence are built on racism against black people and other minorities. And this show desperately wants to depict these things, but they've decided to put a black woman at the head of them. They're depicting systems that are, by their nature, violently racist- but they've decided to portray them as being run by a black housewife.

Fallout 3 does a similar thing with how it depicts every major slaver as a black person. Eulogy Jones, the slave buyer at Paradise Falls, the head slaver in the Abe Lincoln memorial, Ashur in The Pitt. Hell Mothership Zeta adds in a black woman from the wasteland and even SHE'S revealed to have been a slaver. This is something Bethesda consistently does- depicting ideologies and practices with a deep history of racialized violence- and then showing black people at the head of them, seemingly to try to avoid actually addressing any aspect of racism in their stories outside of hamfisted metaphors like synths and ghouls. (I use Fallout 3 as an example but Fallout 4 does many of these same things.)

Thaddeus does also get branded, and he does also get treated to the same demeaning servanthood as Maximus. The difference, quite frankly, is that Thaddeus is white. There are just some things that are straight up inappropriate to depict happening to black characters without appropriate thoughtfulness and context. Never before this series has the Brotherhood ever done brandings- and yet this show opens with it in the first episode and introduces this brand new jarring concept with the visceral image of a black man being branded by faceless fascist cultists.

It's also important to note that even if they didn't intend the scene as racist, it still is. Like I don't think the scriptwriter sat down and said "oh I'm gonna do a racism" cuz intent just doesn't matter here. The scene was intended as a way of showing the severity of the brotherhood- but it also thoughtlessly reproduces images of historic black violence.

@orange-coloredsky I know you've been talking about this stuff all day, and your initial posts about the antiblack racism in the series were what prompted me to write my thoughts today- which is what this ask is in response to. I was curious if you have any other input with all this.

I'd also be more than happy to have any additional input from people better suited to answer these questions.

#fallout #fallout show #fallout 3

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londonspirit · 6 months

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Was there ever any doubt that Our Flag Means Death Season 2 wouldn't end in thrilling fashion after taking all of us on a rollercoaster of emotions? Probably not, but show creator David Jenkins and writer John Mahone, who teamed up on the script for the finale episode, seemed distinctly driven to squeeze as many tears out of us watching as possible. With the dynamic between Stede (Rhys Darby) and Ed (Taika Waititi) seemingly fractured as of the season's penultimate installment, it was unclear how — or if — the two men might eventually reconcile, but a new threat to the Republic of Pirates, alongside Ed's realization that maybe he isn't meant to be a fisherman after all, sends the two back into each other's arms, literally.

While some characters are afforded something resembling a happy ending, with Stede and Ed deciding to try their hand at being innkeepers as they watch the Revenge sail off into the sunset under Frenchie's (Joel Fry) command, not every single crew member emerges from the finale battle unscathed, chief among them Ed's first mate and formerly ruthless right-hand Izzy Hands (Con O'Neill), whose parting words to Ed may be the very thing that the former Blackbeard needs to hear in order to fully come to terms with accepting the man inside him all along.

Ahead of the Season 2 finale premiering on Max, Collider had the opportunity to reconnect with Jenkins to discuss some of the episode's biggest moments. Over the course of the interview, which you can read below, Jenkins explains why Izzy's speech is both a eulogy for the character and a statement about the show itself, how the Season 2 premiere and finale bookend each other with those beach scenes, and why he wanted to use that Nina Simone needle drop in particular. He also discusses why the season concludes with a wedding at sea, what the finale sets up for Season 3, and more.

COLLIDER: I feel like my first question, in a completely non-serious way, is: how dare you, and my immediate follow-up is: what gives you the right?

DAVID JENKINS: I'm sorry, I'm sorry. Also, I am God to these creatures! But it was hard. It was a hard decision.

The episode kicks off with a somewhat more lighthearted moment, which is Ed realizing he's not cut out for the fishing life after all. On the heels of Stede and Ed’s big fight in the episode prior, why did it feel important to have Ed humorously have the revelation of, “This isn't what I really want after all?”

JENKINS: Well, I like the idea that Season 1 is about Stede’s midlife crisis, and Season 2 is about Ed's midlife crisis. I like that he had a little prima donna moment where he thought he could go and be a simple man, and then it's revealed that he really isn't a simple man; he’s a complicated, fussy, moody guy. No, he's not gonna be able to catch fish for a living. For him to be told that, “At your heart, you're a pirate. You have to go back and do it,” he doesn't want that to be true, but it was true.

Speaking of characters that have a revelation about themselves, Izzy's speech about piracy, about belonging to something and finding family, feels like the thesis statement of this show. Was that the intention behind it?

JENKINS: When I wrote that, I wanted to give Izzy a proper eulogy for himself. He gives a eulogy for himself, but it felt true writing it. Yeah, this is how he sees piracy, and also that's not how he would have viewed piracy in the first season. He would have viewed it as, “I'm here to dominate you, so you work for the boss.” By the end of his journey in the second season, he sees that they built him a unicorn leg, he learned to whittle, and he mentored Stede. He's learned that, actually, a pirate crew works differently than what he thought and that they are all in it together, and they do this for each other. So it felt right for Izzy’s arc, and it is kind of an overall statement about the show.

It's interesting that you call it a eulogy, because, by the time we get to the scene where we know Izzy's not going to make it, it feels like he's using his last moments for Ed more than himself. He has those final words to Ed of, “They love you for who you are. Just be Ed.” Is that the kind of the thing that Ed needs to hear in the moment — even as he's losing, arguably, someone he's known even longer than Stede and is just as close to on an emotional level?

JENKINS: Well, I like that Izzy gives that to him, and then Izzy also apologizes to him because he says that he fed his darkness and that they were both Blackbeard together — that Blackbeard wasn't just Ed, that they did it together. In a way, it's very much for Ed, that speech. The “we were Blackbeard” is claiming that he is also Blackbeard, that Blackbeard is not just Ed’s creation, and I like that for him, too, because he's worked so hard for that — and then just to say, “You can give it up.” There can never be a Blackbeard again as far as Izzy’s concerned because he's dying, and they did that together.

I wanted to ask you about the Stede/Ed reunion. We get Ed finding Stede's love letter that was written all the way at the beginning, and then also the beach fight/reunion. It's definitely a callback to the dream, but was that always the way that you wanted to bookend the season? Here's the dream and the fantasy, and then this is the real moment that we get to have?

JENKINS: It was nice. I knew that I wanted to have the Republic of Pirates at the beginning and end up with the Republic of Pirates. I think the reunion of it was a nice surprise, but it felt right. And finding the letter in a bottle — if you have a letter in a bottle, it's thrown out somewhere, it has to pop up somewhere, you have to see one of them at some point. But yeah, there's a circular nature to it, and that's why I thought it would be good to use Nina Simone at the beginning and at the end as a callback. This dream in this way did come true, and they made it come true.

When I talked to you at the beginning of the season, you mentioned the Nina Simone needle drop, but couldn't say anything about the significance of it at the time. I talked to [music supervisor] Maggie [Phillips], as well, about the needle drops throughout Season 2, and she said you always had a very clear vision for what song you wanted there. A lot of people know the original, but why did you pick Nina's cover? It strikes a different tone; there's a hopefulness to it in a lot of ways.

JENKINS: Yeah, it's wistful. There's a lovely part that sounds like church bells, which is great for the wedding part of it, and then it's just moving. I love her interpretation of it. It’s wistful, positive, and it felt like the end of the show to me. There's a size to it that, up against these images, I just was like, "Yeah, this would be really good. I want this to be in the show."

I did want to ask you about the wedding because on the heels of Izzy's death, it's bittersweet, but also, it's a sign this crew has become a family, and they can still find happy moments and reasons to celebrate. We’ve seen Black Pete and Lucius reconnect, but also reconcile and navigate through Lucius's problems and have their own, almost parallel trajectory journey as a couple alongside Stede and Ed in a way. Was that something that you always wanted to close the season on, the two of them getting hitched?

JENKINS: Yeah. We knew we wanted a matelotage in the season, which is the real term they had for marrying crew members. And yeah, they've always been in relief to Stede and Ed, and they're a little bit ahead of Stede and Ed in how much they can talk about things. So to have a bunch of family things in the season, like a funeral and a wedding, and have the parents kind of watch the kids sail away, felt right, and all of those things seem to work well together and build on each other.

Speaking of Ed and Stede watching everybody sail off, that was an outcome that was somewhat surprising, I think because where they are, you think maybe they're going to end up sailing off with everybody else.” But no, instead, it's just this sweet, lovely note of them getting to play house for a little while. What inspired that turn for them?

JENKINS: I think that they've come to the point in the relationship where they say, “Yeah, we're gonna give this a try,” and that's where the story really gets interesting. That will-they-or-won't-they is interesting to a point, but the real meat of it is always like, “Can they make the relationship, and can they do better than Anne and Mary?” That's the question that we all ask ourselves when we end up in a serious relationship is: can we make this work, and can we get through the hard times? Then they're both very damaged, and it's gonna be a challenge for them, and that's where the story gets interesting.

I'm not sure you can really tease much for a Season 3, but we talked before about how you have your vision for where you want to take this, and based on what we see at the end of Season 2, the implication is that we're going to have Stede and Ed off together, but is the plan to also continue with the other characters as well in their own places?

JENKINS: Yeah. Frenchie’s in charge of the Revenge, and I think Frenchie's Revenge would be an interesting place to work and an interesting ship to be raided by. Then I think that the Revenge means a lot to Stede, and it would be very hard for him to give it up, and he hasn't had a great track record of that. So I think the odds of them all finding each other again are quite high.

All episodes of Our Flag Means Death Season 2 are available to stream on Max.

#our flag means death season 2 #ofmd s2 #ofmd s2 spoilers #spoiler #our flag means death #ofmd #david jenkins #interview #collider article

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trungles · 1 month

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Processing Process, and More Processing

I made this post free and publicly readable on Patreon, but I'm reposting the whole thing right here too because, well, it's a free post, and I don't want to make you click away from your dashboard if you don't need to. But also if you want to support my work, here's the link to the post.

It's a little bit about cartooning, a little bit about drawing, and then it turns into a eulogy for a chicken.

I wrote “process” more than once, and now the word looks funny and is beginning to lose its meaning to me.

This post is about a few things, and it’s a little bit on the sad end of things. Nothing dire! No worries. There’s just a little mention of death, just as a heads up.

Before we get to that, though, I’ve been doing some work and had some thoughts.

I’m often asked about how I draw the noodle hair on my characters, and the answer is typically that I draw each and every line with my hand. But there are considerations of movement and volume that go into it beyond its texturally decorative purposes. I love being able to convey shape and motion with it. It’s less evident, I think, in my illustration work, but I think it’s much more obvious when I do sequential work. In the above image, you can see me working out a sequence of Angelica having a series of thoughts. Her head sort of moves, and her eyes follow. You can see I’d planned out the general shape of the hair and how I’d like it to move.

I wound up moving the drawings a little bit so that the readers eyes will actually follow the character’s eyes as it moves gently rightward on the page. The hair is there to accentuate the movement, like so:

It’s a consideration I employ in all my drawings, but especially when I’m drawing hair and fabric. I don’t use a lot of action lines, so this becomes an important way to give the reader the information that someone is moving through a space. Resistance, gravity, and motion are all things I have to keep in the back of my head when I’m doing these little drawings. I think the planning actually takes more time than the inking, which can happen pretty quickly once I map it all out.

In other news, I’m starting to take my extracurricular artistic development a little more seriously in the silliest way possible.

You wouldn’t know it, but I studied painting college—a medium I switched to after the printmaking professor and head of the Art Department at the time told me I probably shouldn’t be an artist (he gave me a hard candy for my trouble). I recently bought a bunch of little dolls, dressed them up, and am returning to my painting roots. It feels really nice to work in big blobs of color instead of lines. It’s an exercise I came up with in response to a common lament from art students.

One of the more aggravating generational tensions described to me by art school students is when professors describe a student’s portfolio as “too anime” without much explanation. I know what the professor means. They’re trying to get at how referencing your favorite anime or cartoons means that your style becomes a simulacrum, an imperfect copy of a copy, and you never learn to develop your own sense of judgment about where a line or a shape needs to go. And we can tell. It’s a way of working that is perfectly fine for cartooning because cartooning is closer to hand-writing than it is to drawing. I always turn to Charles Schulz’s work for an example. Those figures aren’t literally depicting children—with their little chessboard-pawn proportions and bread-loaf feet—but we read them as endearing children because we’ve come to a consensus between us, the readers, and Charles Schulz, the author, that those shapes mean those things. There are no whiskers or paws in the shape of the word “CAT” but you look at those three letters together, and you know the thing to which it refers. That’s an aspect of cartooning, too. Of course, what elevates it from mere writing is, in part, due to the fact that those little figures do not lose their meaning the more you depict them.

To really draw well, though, you have to do those fundamentals. You have to draw from life. There’s no way around it. It helps you develop a stronger sense of where you like to lay down your lines and shapes, no matter how stylized you like to work. It grows your judgment, and every artist’s best tool is their own well-honed sense of artistic discernment about their own work.

But that doesn’t mean you have to surrender the stuff you like or the things that inspire you to make art! I tell students that if they want to hold fast to their anime style AND hone their fundamentals to develop their eye as an artist, they should buy little figurines and toys of their favorite characters, prop those up against a light source, and draw them as still life objects. Like, yes, do the vases and the figure drawings and all those, I still think those are important. But if this is what you need to keep you interested in drawing from life, having some toys around is a great way to do it! Also, bless those sculptors and toy designers. They’re the best.

I think there’s something to be said about remembering to imagine the physicality of the things we draw, in all its dimensions and in the way it catches the light or casts a shadow. It helps sentimentalize things, too. Makes them feel more real, even emotionally.

Edwina died on Tuesday night, after a few final snuggles, surrounded by her favorite treats. She was about five years old, which is old for a chicken, and she had a very comfortable life. We buried her this morning. She was a good hen, J’s personal favorite.

It really feels like the end of an era. She was the last surviving member of our very first flock. After the other hens died, she really seemed to prefer the company of people over other hens. She is survived by Snooki and Nelly, our two other young birds who get along quite well together, actually.

A baby chick costs between three and five American dollars, typically. An egg-laying hen could be between twenty and fifty bucks, depending on the breed. There are roughly 26 billion chickens living in the world today, about 518 million of them here in the United States. They come pretty cheap. And a part of me was moved to cynicism, entertaining the thought that it might be strange to feel sadly over a little animal that, at most, might be roughly equivalent to the price of a fancy lunch and a coffee.

I watched the 1974 musical version of The Little Prince recently, and I remember it mostly because Bob Fosse was in it and scared the crap out of me as a kid—he played the snake that would take the Little Prince back into the sky when his body gets too heavy to take with him. Gene Wilder plays the Fox whom the Little Prince befriends and tames among a garden of roses. The Fox explains that he is like any other fox in the world, but he is changed—made special and particular to the Little Prince—with time, effort, and patience. So, too, is the Prince’s little flower special to him. Out of all the flowers in the universe, she was the one he watered and protected under a little glass jar. And that’s enough.

I knew my little hen would not live that long. It could be very easy to take a broad view of the life expectancy of a hen and distance myself from it by virtue of its mortality and its commonness. People who raise livestock do it all the time. But I also think it’s wonderful that we should all be capable of loving very small, very brief little things. Edwina is not, to my mind, the rough equivalent of a fancy lunch and a coffee. She was our little hen. For her whole life, she was ours. And I’m so happy she was here.

#cartooning #drawing #patreon #cw death #cw pet death #comics #trungles #artists on tumblr

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hunnysnoops · 21 days

Text

Main Three + Craig with morbid/odd reader

“I want love to change my friends to enemies and tell me how it’s all my fault.”

Stan:

He lets you draw on him but instead of doodling you take a black marker and start to meticulously draw dotted lines and arrows like you’re a surgeon prepping him for cosmetic surgery.

While helping him with farm chores you go into detail about how you can compost and break down a corpse in soil, he just kinda nods along.

You give him tarot readings every week. He thought they were fake and just did it to entertain you until his week played out exactly like you said it would. When he realized he just froze up and went non verbal.

Stan- “Hey, do you have any spells to curse my dad?”

Met him when he was in his goth era.

The two of you were having a moment in the rain when you told him that he should’ve worn shoes with rubber soles in case he gets struck by lightning.

You started writing his eulogy when you were laying in bed together, bro was trying not to freak out. Just spam texted Kyle.

You’re date idea is taking him to an abandoned house.

You guys bonded over music. Now you help him write songs since you’re so used to writing poetry.

Reader- “You’re into music?”

Stan- “Yeah, I guess so.”

Reader- “Have you heard Carnival of the Animals, R. 125: Aquarium composed by Camille Saint-Saëns and performed by Philippe Entremont, Gaby Casadesus, and Yo-Yo Ma?”

Stan- “Can’t say I have.”

Kyle:

Has veiny arms so when the two of you are just chilling you’ll put your finger on one of the veins and start talking about what would happen if you severed it. He’s lowkey interested from a scientific standpoint.

You’ll straddle his hips and pull his lips back to look at his teeth, poking around in his mouth like a dentist. You’re inches apart.

Reader- “Wow, you have beautiful teeth.”

Kyle- “Thank you?”

He’s kinda fascinated by you but also repulsed by some of the things you do/say.

He came to your house and you were butchering your own meat, left right away.

You listen to The Cure together.

When you climb trees to look for birds and squirrels he’ll climb too to help you.

Will get mad annoyed after listening to you say incredibly out of pocket things while he’s trying to focus on something.

He’ll buy you little knickknacks that remind him of you.

Before he got to know you, he talked mad shit.

Sometimes gets super freaked out by your behaviour, you straight up give him the heebie-jeebies.

Reader- “So this is my collection of human teeth.”

Kyle- “All of those are yours, right?”

Reader- “Actually, none of them are mine.” 😁

Kyle- 😨

Kenny:

Sits through horror movies and weird foreign films with you. He didn’t like it at first but he came around and started sourcing out movies he’d think you like.

You took him to a Wicca ceremony and he had the time of his life.

You taught him how to make flower crowns and now he makes them all the time. He likes to give them to Karen.

When he sees something off-putting or creepy he will immediately take a picture and send it to you.

Reader- “Hey, it’s raining. Do you want to go look for earth worms and build a worm colosseum?”

Kenny- “Hell yeah.”

He likes to go for walks in the forest with you, you guys will look for bugs and pick them up or make them houses of leaves and twigs.

He’ll help you wash the skulls/bones you find.

Never really minded that you were weird, he approached you first because he thought you were hot.

He loves when you play with his hair and tie little braids into it.

You guys tried to recreate The Blair Witch Project but failed miserably when you actually got lost in the woods.

You’ll meet up at the graveyard and just sit in the grass while you talk about ghosts and ghouls. Sometimes you’ll walk around and stop at a specific grave and guess how they died.

Reader- “Would you rather be in Cannibal Holocaust or The Poughkeepsie Tapes?”

Kenny- “Erm, I gotta pick The Poughkeepsie Tapes.”

Craig:

Generally goes along with whatever you want to do.

Reader- “Can we go down to the riverbank to pickup fish heads and then eat out their eyes?”

Craig- “Yeah, sure.”

He’ll just watch you roll around in the mud or set little twig piles on fire, he won’t join in but he also won’t interfere.

You’ll talk to Stripe, not in the baby voice that people usually use to talk to animals but your tone will be dead serious like you’re talking to a grown adult.

The two of you will watch true crime documentaries together.

He’ll fuck up anyone who calls you weird or a freak.

When you’re out in public, you’ll point someone out and predict how they’re going to die.

There’s nothing you can do that’ll shock him, he’s unfazed by everything that you say.

Sometimes gets concerned with you around Stripe.

You’ll disappear for hours at a time and he’ll get worried, sending you a million texts then you’ll randomly show up at his door soaking wet or covered in dirt with no warning.

Craig- “Where have you been? You weren’t answering my texts.”

Reader- “I was meeting with a friend of mine who is alive.”

Craig- “Oh, that’s cool.”

Requests are open! I’m working through a couple right now. Thanks to the anon who requested this.

#kyle broflovski #kyle south park #south park #eric cartman #kenny mccormick #south park x reader #south park x y/n #stan marsh #craig tucker #sp craig #craig tucker x reader #stan marsh x reader #kenny mcormick x reader #kyle broflovski x reader #sp kyle #south park hcs #south park headcanons

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starry-teacup · 14 days

Note

(about your thing with relating to shifty)

im more upset that she uses the vessels against LQ while also dismissing them as important viewpoints and perspectives. in my eyes she is just cherrypicking the parts of those lives that she finds meaningful while ignoring how they were real people that had fears and lives.

and yeah a little bit of taking them from their happy endings to be combined into something they never asked for.. she says they are gifts from lq but its not like he ever chose to give them to her.

(i know you said youre okay to debate but im honestly Terrible at it and i just wanted to share my view because i do have my reasons for preferring the princess(es) over shifty)

Ok. Sorry it took me a day to respond. I’ve been putting my thoughts together on this before i write back

a) not gonna argue there. shifty is manipulative and uses the experiences that she's had with us to try to convince, guiltrip, strong-arm, or really use any form of persuasion to get us to leave with her.

HOWEVER. I do not think that she as a whole ignores that they were real people that had fears and lives. Vessels, hearts, eulogies- shifty speaks to us of the identity of each and every princess as she cradles them in her embrace. She is not ignoring 'their' experiences because they are hers as well, because each and every one of those princesses is her, even if they functioned independently for a time. She does ask the Long Quiet to ignore these, but I don't view this as casting aside the aspects of herself less interesting or useful to her, but trying to convince the Long Quiet to look away from these contradictions, and to stay focused on the more compelling cases for escaping together.

So yes. she's a bit of a sophist. but she doesn't ignore the princesses, just ask the long quiet to

b) i mean… i have a lot of thoughts on this. They were always a part of her, they always were her, they just didn’t know it yet. I think all of them were searching for her, they just didn’t know that’s what it was they were searching for. The most aware of this is the spectre- she senses the longing within her, and realizes that she can’t quite explain what it is or why, just that she needs to be somewhere, rather than try to label it as something else, like the other princesses do. At their core, though, all of the princesses know that they need something, and that the slayer is the gateway to it.

Also…happy ending??? I know the game implies that they might have almost gotten this before being taken away, but let’s think about this for a second. There is no way out of that construct. There are only a hundred feet or so of woods and the cabin. What happy ending awaited them? The player and the princess don’t realize it at the time, but they’re not actually in the real world. They can’t reach the real world. They are trapped there until either a reset happens or they starve or kill each other or something along those lines. None of the princesses can actually escape without reuniting with shifty and rejoining the world. They’re just as trapped in the woods as they are in the cabin. If anything, shifty was actually rescuing them.

#If this seemed mean or angry or discounting your opinion I’m sorry #I didn’t mean it that way #I am enjoying this #En garde and all that #Verbal sparring is how i show affection #Stp #slay the princess #the shifting mound

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ceilingfan5 · 6 months

Text

make it count

"problem" for @taznovembercelebration

Kravitz thought he was already having a weird night, but the guy tumbling out of his closet was, honestly, a real surprise.

“AUGH, FUCK,” Kravitz says, flawlessy parried by closet guy’s “FUCK, AUGH.”

Kravitz steps back. Too far. The bed catches his ass, which hopefully looks like he sat down intentionally and didn’t reverse kneecap himself. Closet guy straightens up, long, gorgeous hair all over the place, and he spits hair out of his mouth and eyes Kravitz, steely, but also nervous, like Kravitz might be angling to kick his ass.

Kravitz might. He hasn’t decided yet. He’s a little panicked, and he doesn’t like, WANT to call the cops, obviously, but there’s a fuckin’ dude in his closet and he’s been home for like three hours now. He’s played dad rock as high as his phone could go and danced in his boxers, and showered, and changed into pajamas, and eaten popcorn like both a horse and the tender but misunderstood delinquent girl feeding that horse and maybe that’s not necessarily something he wanted some kind of malignant fucknugget to witness.

“Who the fuck are you and how did you get in my apartment??” he demands, grabbing the nearest heavy object and brandishing his shitty lamp that makes an annoying noise when it’s on like it’s some kind of newfangled glaive-mace.

“Who the fuck are you and where am I?” closet guy retorts aggressively, in a funny accent Kravitz can’t really place. Maybe it’s fake. Is this guy fucking with him? He’s too tired to be fucked with. He won’t allow it.

“My apartment, asshole, keep up!”

“Answer the first question!”

“You first!” Kravitz juts with the lamp, which is unfortunately a little flaccid, what with its flexible spine and all. He should have grabbed a shoe and just chucked it.

“I don’t remember what you said!” the guy admits, which, okay, Kravitz kind of gets it, and it’s sort of hard to stay serious, even with his hackles up as they are. “Why are you dressed like that?”

“I’m in my pajamas!” Kravitz says, defensive. He knows the old, old Death Note t-shirt and Jack Skellington pants, which he got from the defunct K-mart mumble years ago, are not like. Flattering. BUT!! Listen. His vintage monogrammed pjs are in the dirty pile. And the dirty pile has gotten a little big, cause things have been nuts at work, and he’s worn out and exhausted and other words for fuckin’ wiped. What is it people say now. Eepy? Baby you’d best believe he’s eepy to the core like some kind of fucking blood disease.

Man. Maybe he should get his vitamins checked.

But also fuck you, closet guy, he’s in his own home, and no one was supposed to witness him tonight. He’s done being seen and perceived. You hear him? Done!

“Is that…so.” The guy squints at him. Kravitz would be assuming what the fuck he’s judging Kravitz on, but he kind of got lost in the attractive freckles and his long elegant fingers, and the gap in his teeth. And the hair, despite the fact that it is still all over the place, isn’t a minus. “I am Taako, prince of the elves.”

“Oh, okay, and we’re back to zero,” Kravitz says, cheerfully realizing he’s going to have to fucking call 911 because he truly cannot figure out what the better option is. Except. He’s going to get strangled in his fucking Death Note t-shirt from 2013 because his goddamn Jack Skellington pants don’t have pockets and his phone is in the kitchen, actually, and they may not put that in his eulogy but everyone is going to know anyway, because of cringe osmosis.

He doesn’t usually believe in cringe. Funny what imminent death does to your philosophy.

“Why is that?” Taako squints at him, tucking hair behind his ears. And, shit, maybe he’s done costume work for whatever the fuck this is, maybe he’s had some insane plastic surgery, but his ears truly are crazy pointy. Not even elf in a movie pointy, like ten, twelve inches long, and they flick when Taako touches them. Kravitz reorients some facts, none of which add up, and he struggles.

“I’m Kravitz,” he says, against both his good judgement and his judgement he uses when his good judgement is dirty.

Taako squints at him harder. Kravitz wonders if he should put the lamp down, especially considering it knocked over his wifi router which is blinking frantically like some kind of crying electric beast, but honestly whatever at this point. Like, is he going to die? Shit, then at least he doesn’t have to work tomorrow, you know? Sorry mama, he promises he cares, mostly.

“Assistant head of sales,” he adds. Taako considers this at length.

“I think I took the wrong portal,” he decides. He turns back to the closet, which reveals that he has a tail, actually, for real, as far as Kravitz can gather, and puts his hands on his enticing hips in frustration when he finds Kravitz’s bullshit mess of Work clothes, Dress Up clothes, Play clothes, and Nobody Can See Me Fuck Off clothes. And also four wigs, his heated blanket, the printer he’s mad at, an embarrassing amount of hangers, and two paper boxes full of dumb garbage he can’t let go of from two moves ago. And some glitter. Shut up is why.

"What the fuck is going on?" Kravitz demands.

"Well," Taako says, with deep conviction, and doesn't finish. He turns back to face Kravitz. That tail flicks dismissively, still somehow incredibly appearing to be legitimate. Kravitz eyes him over, takes in his elaborate and scrumbled suit-gown of purple and gold gossamer and his thighs high boots and his golden eye makeup and also the way he keeps glancing at Kravitz's pajama pants.

"Well?" Kravitz prompts. "You realize you're in Austin, Texas?"

"Nah, uh," Taako looks a little pale now. "Chaboi was in Phandolin, in uh, Faerun, the fuck is a Texas?"

So true.

"Don't you dare tell me you hopped through a portal in my closet like reverse Narnia."

"Narnia?"

Man. Maybe Kravitz will hit him with the lamp. Shame he's so pretty.

"I don't have time for this," he mutters. "You always watch those fantasy movies and they just handle it, but I don't have- what am I supposed to do, call in an elf prince personal day? If I'm going to take an elf prince personal day you can bet- sorry, I…" Kravitz winces. Just because he wants this to be fake doesn't mean there isn't a situation at hand.

"I mean, Taako is all for an elf prince personal day if it means what I think it means." Taako grins, showing surprisingly sharp teeth, which Kravitz feels totally regular about, no details thanks. "I was running from some assholes who wanted to murder me. I mean, I don't necessarily think monarchy is the way of the future either, but you don't see me assassing about it."

"Well, no monarchy here." Kravitz can't help but be glib. He finally puts the stupid lamp down. Just on the bed. No way he's sleeping anytime soon. This makes the cord pull taut. His sad router just slumps onto the floor. Taako jumps and inspects its flashing lights, alarmed but also kind of fascinated.

"No?" He glances at Kravitz, and back at the lights. "Sick. That sounds easier."

"Well, it's not like there's no- we don't have to do politics. Hey, Taako, if I take this as nonfiction, which I am not committed to, and do not faint, which I am also not committed to, what the fuck am I meant to do next?"

"I mean either we take that elf prince personal day, really make it count, or uh, you magic me back home, mister?"

"Magic isn't real!" Kravitz runs his hands down his face, excruciatingly aware of the comedy of the situation.

"Ah," Taako says, really tasting the gravity here. "Guess there's no option but to fuck me."

"Now hang on," Kravitz says, struggling not to laugh.

"No, I'm right, probably."

#taz #tazb #taakitz #the adventure zone #the adventure zone balance #fan5fics #taz balance #taakitz fic #taz nc #taz november celebration

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random-chaotic-bitch · 5 months

Text

ninjago characters as things my friends and i have said

"Use Miracle Grow, it does wonders! You'll have a beard in no time!" Jay to Lloyd (prob just before the merge) (iykyk)

"People who put their crocs in sports mode are walking red flags." Cole to Zane

"I support women's rights, but I also support women's wrongs." Jay, about Nya

"Show the angles." Kai. On a daily basis.

"It's official, seagulls are the spawn of Satan." Nya, pissed that a seagull ate her sandwich (this actually happened to me... fucking beach pigeons)

"THIS FUCKING BOOK IS 40 CHAPTERS LONG WTF WHY DID NO ONE TELL ME" "Yeah... Sensei didn't want to break your spirit." "MY SPIRIT NEVER FUCKING EXISTED I WOULD HAVE APPRECIATED THE HEAD UP" Kai and Nya

"Don't die of boredom, I would hate to have to give your eulogy." "Going to your funeral would be inconvenient for my schedule." Kai and Jay to Cole

"Oh. I wasn't aware of that information." Zane

"Daddy long legs" Jay to a very confused 6'4" Zane

"Oh no not the crusaders." "Oh yes yes the crusaders." Cole and Nya

"I HAVE NEITHER THE PATIENCE OR THE CRAYONS TO DEAL WITH THIS!" Lloyd. Specifically little Lloyd (pre-tomorrow's tea)

"Do me up, I dare you!" "I'll do you up! Oh, goddammit!" Cole and Jay (while Nya is on the floor laughing)

"Find another animalistic queer identity, this one is mine." Cole, Lloyd, or Kai

"It's me, hi. I'm the problem, it's me." Lloyd

"I just love giving Cole anxiety attacks." Jay

"Do you think that after we physically die, a part of our soul gets trapped wherever we died?" Cole (joking about the whole ghost thing)

"I've fingered the middle!" "... Fuck you." Kai and Lloyd

"I thought charity was about giving, not bitching." Nya

"We got you two for a buy one get one deal." Cole to Nya and Kai

"You're the child, Sora is the cousin that comes and goes as she pleases, and Wyldfire is the rabid cat-like creature we found on the side of the street." Lloyd to Arin

"I have a little bit of karma in my back pocket!" Kai

"I have a joke, but if I say it, you might actually kill me." Jay to the team

"We wouldn't kill you!" Lloyd ^

"Okay then." *tells the joke* Jay ^

"... You have five seconds." Lloyd ^

"Give it back you- you rat!" Nya to Kai

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7-wonders · 4 months

Text

After

Michael Langdon x Reader (Mad Love Act II, Chapter XIII)

Summary: What comes next?

Word Count: 6.6k (haha ironic)

A note from the author: Is this my best work? No, absolutely not. But I needed to get from Point A to Point B somehow, and I also wanted to show how we got there. Anyways, hope you enjoy, likes, comments, and reblogs make my world go round.

Content warnings for this chapter include mentions of death, thoughts of suicide, and graphic depictions of the apocalypse/end of the world. Reader discretion is advised.

Mad Love masterlist

One day after

Death is no stranger to you.

You’ve met a few unlucky times in your life and felt the devastation they bring with them when they come knocking every time. Tears have been shed, and mourning has been done, and eulogies have been listened to from the pews. Each time is just as tragic, and each time, you wish to never see death again.

So yes, you are unfortunately familiar with death. What you are not familiar with is the carnage, the totality, that death has ushered in now. Never before have you lost everyone you ever cared about in one fell swoop. Never before has the vast majority of humanity been annihilated with the press of a few buttons. That is a totally new level to the death you thought you knew.

You don’t remember moving to a bed after Michael had revealed to you that this was “his” plan at work. You don’t even remember seeing a bed when you were first deposited here by the Cooperative. But this must have happened, for when you come out of the daze you’ve fallen into after realizing that the apocalypse was real and that everyone was truly dead, you’re lying on top of the covers of a bed. The room in which the bed sits is just as sparsely furnished as the room you originally arrived in. It’s reminiscent of a hotel, and you get the feeling that this is not where you’re meant to be staying for very long.

There are curtains on the wall next to the bed, and curiosity begins to eat at you. Will you see a nuclear wasteland outside the window, some terrible and barren landscape? Or maybe this was all just a sick and twisted dream, and you actually are in a hotel somewhere safe. Sitting up, you pull back the fabric to reveal nothing but the wall. They merely hang for a sense of normalcy, you realize. Your hopes fall along with you as you crash back against the mattress.

It was all real, then. The sirens and the running for your life, being forcefully taken and having to feel as nukes were dropped onto the Earth’s surface. The world ended, thanks solely to the man that you love (loved? Where do you stand now?), and you were saved for no reason other than you being said man’s wife. Your stomach starts to churn the more you dwell on this cruel twist of fate.

Before you can feel sick enough to warrant needing to find a bathroom, someone knocks quietly, and you turn your head toward the sound in anticipation of the visitor. The door cracks open, and Michael sneaks inside. He’s silhouetted by the light of the living room, but you can still see the fond smile he sports.

“Hi,” he whispers, as though worried you might be asleep even though you’re staring at each other. “How are you feeling?”

Did he seriously just ask you that? You want to snap at him, to yell and ask how he thinks you’re feeling, but the fight has leached out of you and been replaced with a heavy exhaustion. You couldn’t come up with something to get your true feelings across even if you tried. So, you don’t try. Instead, you shrug.

“That’s alright. I have a surprise for you.”

“I’m a little scared to see what your idea of a surprise is after today.” Your voice sounds hoarse, both from the strength of your earlier cries and how long it’s presumably been since you last used it.

“It’s a good one, I promise.”

He ducks out before quickly returning, holding a lump in his arms. You stare at it curiously, and Michael shifts. Your cat jumps out of his arms and onto the bed, padding across the mattress until she reaches you.

You blink owlishly in disbelief, slowly reaching a hand out until it lands in her soft fur. Fur that feels so real under your touch. She is real. She’s here and safe and in front of you. Both hands land in her fur now, one scratching the top of her head, and she begins to purr in contentment.

Michael chuckles at the sight, and you remember that you’re not alone. It takes you a moment to remember how to speak once you look up at him. “You…you saved her?”

“Of course,” he says like it’s the most obvious decision in the world. “She’s like our child—I would never leave her behind!”

You try to hold it in, you swear. But once you start laughing, you can’t stop. It’s a hysterical laugh, the type that can be confused with sobbing, the two sound so similar. Maybe you are sobbing a bit, and the tears falling down your face aren’t just from laughter. The situation is just so ridiculous, though, that laughter is really the only reaction you can think of.

“What’s so funny?” he asks.

“Michael, you just ended the fucking world,” you gasp out in the pockets between laughs. “You killed billions of people, but you stopped to grab our cat before you did?”

“Why wouldn’t I?” Michael begins to laugh as well, likely just because you are, and for a moment, things feel almost normal. Then you stop to catch your breath, and reality sets in once more.

“I don’t think I’ll ever understand your priorities again.”

“My priorities are simple, and they’re the same as they’ve always been. To make my father proud, to create a new world for us, and to love you the way you deserve.” At that last part, he takes your hand and kisses the back of it. Revulsion creeps up your spine, and you gently pull your hand away from him.

“I’m tired,” you say. This isn’t a lie—you are tired, just…tired of him, and tired of your current reality. You sink further under the blankets while gathering the cat in your arms and pulling her under to snuggle with you; something that she’s more than happy to do.

“Okay. I have more work that I have to do,” he rolls his eyes as though dealing with the logistics of a post-apocalyptic world is a nuisance, “so I’ll be a little bit longer. I’ll make some dinner when you wake up. Does that sound good?”

You hope your smile doesn’t look as forced as it feels. “Yeah.”

Michael kisses the top of your head. “I love you.”

Luckily, his phone chimes (wait, his phone still works? You’ll have to ask about that later) before he can wait for you to say it back.

One week after

It takes approximately one week for the radiation levels post-nuclear apocalypse to fall just enough that the Cooperative, with all of its tools and technologies, is able to travel safely.

You spend most of it curled up under the covers, trying desperately to sleep and wake up to a world prior to the end. Every time you open your eyes to your reality, you’re let down once more.

Considering he’s the source of your misery and also increasingly unhinged, Michael is surprisingly sympathetic to your grief. And though you want to push him away, to scream at him that you think he’s evil and that you don’t know if you’ll ever be able to love him again knowing what he’s done, you’re also very, very sad.

Actually, sad feels like too light of a word. You’re heartbroken. Your entire life has collapsed in front of you, burned to ashes, and you’re left adrift. The only familiarity, the only link back to a time that feels like so long ago, is Michael. You forgive yourself as you fall apart in his arms time and time again, clutching onto him as one clutches onto a life preserver while you cry and scream.

You’re once again in his arms when you jolt awake with a loud gasp, fear coursing through your veins and the memory of your friends and family screaming in agony as they were killed fresh in your mind. Michael tightens his grip around you, threading his fingers through yours as you squeeze his hand to remind yourself that you’re not sleeping anymore. As you come to the realization that it was just a dream, you’re hoping that you’ll open your eyes and be back in your bed—not just a bed, but your bed in the manor you shared with Michael. Looking up, you see the metallic gray roof of the armored, impenetrable Cooperative vehicle that’s taking you to the Sanctuary, and not your bedroom ceiling.

Disappointment curls in your stomach, and you tuck your head into Michael’s chest.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, even though he knows the answer. Your bad dreams are increasingly common and are by now a nightly occurrence.

Regardless, you tell him. “I had a nightmare.”

“I’m sorry.” This isn’t a new routine for either of you. Though it’s been only a week, every single time you go to sleep, you’re tortured with these nightmares. You almost dread falling asleep now, but your body seems to use sleep as a protective response to the fear you’re constantly dealing with.

You look up at him. “I think the worst part is that, when I have these nightmares, I wake up right into another one, one that I can’t wake from.”

“What do you mean?”

“I see those that I love dying, over and over again. And then I wake up, and they’re still dead. Everyone is, and it’s because you killed them.”

“I did.” There’s no remorse in his voice, nothing to say that he’s sorry for what he’s done. You know that he’s not, but you still want to force him to be faced with the reality of what he’s done. For some reason, you still believe that he’ll come to his senses eventually and that he’ll wake up one day horrified by the devastation he’s wrought.

“I don’t think I’ll ever be able to forgive you,” you admit.

“Give it time.”

You don’t say that all the time in the world won’t matter, that you’ll hold this anger and pain and distrust with you until your very last days. Instead, you pose a question. “Would you let me die?”

Michael looks down at you in alarm. “What?”

“You always say that you’ll do anything for me. If I told you I wanted to die, to be with those you killed, would you let me?”

“No.” He pulls you up from where you’re leaning against him so that he can look you in the eyes. Panic is evident on his face, and a sick part of you enjoys it. “No. Why would you even ask something like that?”

Why wouldn’t you? How are you supposed to see yourself going on with everybody gone? Alone in a post-apocalyptic hellscape with the Antichrist? The thought of suicide, of killing yourself to get out of this nightmare and be reunited with your loved ones, has crossed your mind more times than you’d care to admit in the short week since the end of the world.

You know that you can’t, though. You’ve seen Michael’s power at work, and you’ve heard all about the Seven Wonders, both from Mallory and Michael. If you kill yourself, Michael will just use Vitalum Vitalis to bring you back. You’ll never be able to escape him, the monster that is your husband, even in death.

You shrug. “I just wanted to make sure, even though I knew the answer.”

“You’re my wife, my person. I love you. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“Guess you won’t have to find out,” you mutter bitterly.

Instead of answering, Michael puts a hand under your chin and pulls you up to look at him. He kisses you softly on your lips. You want to turn away, truly. Shove him away and declare that your marriage is nothing but a farce now. But muscle memory is a funny thing. Your lips work against his, and even your heart stutters that old, familiar staccato. Your body still holds the memory of your love for him, even if your mind rebels against that.

“I love you,” he says once more, leaning his forehead against yours.

You don’t say it back, and he doesn’t call you out on it.

The vehicle shudders to a stop, and Michael peers out through the window. You’ve refused to do the same this entire trip, not wanting to see the barren wasteland you know is outside. After a moment, you start moving again, into a garage much smaller than the one from a week ago. Instead of getting out and going into an elevator, the car itself begins to descend down, down, down.

Michael barely waits for the elevator to stop and for the car to pull into a large, underground chamber before he opens the door and bounds out. He looks around proudly, then turns to you with a grin.

“Are you ready?” he asks.

You’re not, but you nod nonetheless and take Michael’s outstretched hand.

“Home sweet home!”

One month after

The Sanctuary is…nice, you suppose, if you were asked to be completely objective about it. The compound is huge. There are nine different “levels,” because why wouldn’t there be symbolism when it was built by and for the Antichrist? With how deep underground you are, it almost feels like you’ve descended into Hell. You wouldn’t even be surprised if that were the case.

All the stops were pulled out for this project, and no expense was spared. Scientists and engineers and the world’s best and brightest had come together (whether they knew what they were working on or not) to create the technology that would allow the Sanctuary to be self-sustainable. There was plenty of room for new arrivals—though Michael had used the Outposts as a way to get rich fucks to finance the end of the world and had plans on killing them, there were still plenty of survivors who were chosen due to their exceptional genetic makeup, those who would be creating the next generation. Plenty more were important to the “rebuilding of the new world,” and more still were religious fanatics who happily served their lord and his kingdom.

People enjoyed their new lives, for the most part. The devout were more than happy to be in the presence of their savior every day, the Cooperative and their families enjoyed continuing their luxurious lives, and the lucky ones were just thrilled to still be alive. There was always something to do, and everybody had a role to play to keep the Sanctuary running and functioning (everybody except the richest of the rich, but that’s par for the course). Life had moved on, and survivors created a home here.

All except for you. No matter how much Michael tried to make your quarters like they were—it’s almost an exact copy of your former home, and it’s still just as creepy as it was the day that you arrived—it doesn’t feel like home, and it never will. You miss your home, in all its familiarity. The creaky stair on the way up, the house staff that you knew on a first-name basis (you had gotten them all Christmas gifts, and now they would never receive them), and the back of the couch that was a little wobbly from where you fell into it when you and your friends had your last sleepover are just a few of the mementos that you long for every time you wander the halls of your new home.

While everybody else has been finding a new normal in the month since the world ended, what you’ve found is time. Time to think, and rage, and for the grief that’s been swallowing you to subside enough that you can finally focus and think about your situation and what to do now.

What’s become clear is that you can’t give up, no matter how much you want to. So many hours of this first month have been lost to tears and wishes that you could be with those you love instead of in this hell on Earth. So you can’t die yet! What you can do, however, is make Michael’s life miserable.

Since one of Michael’s favorite things in life is, well, you, you’ve decided that you’ll deprive him of that favorite thing. Your method? The silent treatment, which has been going on for basically the entire time that you’ve been at the Sanctuary. Beyond answering questions that need to be answered with the most basic of responses (“yes,” “no,” “I don’t know”), you haven’t talked to him. No in-depth conversations about random topics, no idle chitchat, nothing. It drives him absolutely nuts, and you’re reminded of another person that you once drove nuts with the same silent treatment.

(Oh, Mallory. You still can’t think about her, or any of your loved ones, without crying, and so you try your hardest not to. What you wouldn’t give to be able to give her the silent treatment once more, even if it meant you were kidnapped by Cordelia Goode once more!)

To really hammer home the point that you’re not pleased about any of this and are not just going to roll over and take it, you also attempt to make yourself scarce whenever he’s around. There are plenty of rooms in your “house” that Michael doesn’t bother to check—you’ve made one of the guest rooms into your hideout, and it’s actually very comfy—and you’ve gotten really good at hearing him coming so that you can disappear. You suppose the one nice thing about your house being copied at the Sanctuary is that you still both have separate bedrooms. Where you once loathed to sleep apart from him, now, you crave it.

The best part of this is that you know that Michael’s insanely frustrated. He had an entire vision for how your life post-apocalypse would be, one that involved the two of you in that same honeymoon phase you had found yourselves in before visiting New Orleans. Whereas you had imagined your perfect future as you and he exploring the world, he saw your perfect future as the two of you becoming bloodthirsty monarchs over a world that was yours to mold however you saw fit.

Fat chance.

You can only keep avoiding him for so long, and it appears that tonight is where your luck runs out. You’re sitting in the kitchen and reading, waiting for the timer to go off on the oven—truly nothing really changed about life, except for the fact that it was now underground. You were still able to enjoy frozen pizzas, even! Since Michael’s usually still off doing whatever it is Antichrists do at the Sanctuary at this time, you let your guard down. Your mistake.

He grins when he sees you sitting at the counter, pleased that he finally caught you. “I was hoping to find you.”

Sneakily, he tries to duck in and steal a kiss. You’re quicker than he is, though, and you turn your face at the last moment so that he’s only able to catch your cheek. Frowning slightly, he straightens back up.

“There’s a dinner tonight being hosted by people that aren’t insufferable.” Michael waits for you to answer, to show any sign of hearing him, even though he knows that you won’t break. “I think it’ll be fun, and a good way to meet some new people.”

“Enjoy yourself,” you murmur, keeping your eyes fixed on the book in your hands.

“Come on, won’t you please join me? There’s so much here that I want to do with you.” He tries to take your hand, but you pull away before he can. Hurt, raw and unfiltered, crosses his face. “Why are you ignoring me? I hate this, this isn’t you.”

You scoff. He’s one to talk about sudden personality changes. “I told you, didn’t I?”

“Told me what?”

“Before you ended the world, I told you that I wouldn’t be able to stand by you. That you would lose me. I wasn’t lying.”

Michael groans. “You still don’t understand! I had to, it’s my destiny and—”

“Oh, I believe that you believe that. But it still doesn’t justify your actions, and it still doesn’t change what I said.” You finally meet his eyes. “Physically, publicly, I will play the role of your wife when I am forced to. I’ll stand by your side and wave and shake hands and pretend like we’re a happy couple. Emotionally? When we’re alone? You get nothing. You should consider yourself lucky that I’m even talking to you now.”

His eyes go dark. Not the dark, pure black of the demon that lives inside of him, but dark with a rage you’ve never had directed towards you before. “Is that right? You want to wage this battle against me, the monster you’ve created in your head?”

You stare at him defiantly, refusing to cower now.

“Baby, my love, the one to whom my soul belongs.” Michael showers you with pet names in the hopes that it pisses you off, which it does. “Everything I’ve done, I’ve done for us. And I’ll continue to do so, no matter how much you hate me for it. You’ll be grateful one day, even if I have to force you to see it.”

His threat has you recoiling, but not because it scares you. No, it’s because this new Michael now follows through on said threats. “Fuck you, Michael. I hate you.”

“Keep telling yourself that.” He smirks, before walking over to the oven and turning it off.

“Hey!”

“You said that I have to force you to play the role of my wife. Well, I’m forcing you. Get ready. We’re having dinner with some people tonight.”

You’ll be honest, you weren’t expecting him to make good on what you said. If you weren’t so blindingly angry, you’d almost be impressed. Glowering, you slam your book closed, screech your stool across the floor as you shove it away from the island, and stomp away. Since he’s going to force you to do this, you’re going to voice your displeasure as loudly as you can, even if it means throwing a tantrum.

Michael smiles as he watches you, calling out, “We’re going to have so much fun!”

For some reason, you don’t believe that.

One year after

There’s a party tonight. A celebration, it’s been billed as. One year since the end, and one year since the beginning of what would become the “new world.”

In the past year, there have been so many changes in your life. But there’s been no bigger change than the one that Michael’s undergone. His hair’s grown longer, with the perfect blond waves falling to just past his shoulders. He’s learned how to do makeup, and he’s started painting red on his inner crease to make himself look more dramatic and intimidating. He’s also grown extremely confident, almost cocky. The world is his now, and he has the bravado to back it up.

You can’t help but think back to when he started to change, the drastic shift in personality after that fateful meeting with Papa Legba in New Orleans. The memory of those last, golden days before everything went to shit is one that you remember often and fondly. If there’s a day where you’re feeling extra masochistic, you’ll force yourself to remember that last date, and how Michael’s eyes shone with joy as he held a firefly in his hands for the first time. When you and Michael were just enjoying being together and making plans for the future. When there still was a future. By now you would have graduated college, and likely would have moved somewhere else to attend graduate school. Secretly, you had been leaning towards the East Coast; you were so excited to watch Michael experience snow for the first time.

It makes you miss the Michael you once knew, the Michael that you loved. This new Michael feels so unfamiliar, it seems like you’re living in “Invasion of the Body Snatchers.” At least you were able to pretend like it was your Michael when he still looked like himself. Now, there’s no fooling yourself.

Even though you live with a stranger now, you still see shades of that Michael in this one. You still love this Michael, even though you wish with all your being that you didn’t. Oh, you remain furious with him—you always will, probably. But apparently, the whole “soulmates” thing wasn’t bullshit. Despite your best wishes and attempts, you love Michael Langdon.

(Not that he needs to know that. No, you’ll tap into all that hatred whenever you’re near him.)

Though you wish that you were spending today in solitude, so that you can cry without anybody seeing and mourn in your own way, Michael has other plans. He hasn’t backed off on forcing you to play the part of his wife in public. He brings you to events, dinners, parties, and walks through the Sanctuary. The whole time, you’re holding his hand, smiling, and acting like you’re interested in whatever drivel is being discussed by those you’re surrounded with.

In private is a different story. You avoid him, and he gives you your space. You suppose it’s nicer this way; at least now you don’t have to be sneaky and hide any longer. There’s only one time that you let him touch you, and it’s the time that you’re most ashamed.

About six months after the end of the world, your constant fighting with Michael came to a head. You were both furious with each other (only yours was justified) about the same things that you’re always furious about. At some point, as you got in each other’s faces, you stopped yelling and started kissing. It was then that you discovered: hate sex is the best sex. And hate sex with Michael? That’s on a whole other level.

You’re obviously not proud of this. But it’s a whole new world, you try to reassure yourself when you try to sleep at night, and it’s not as though any of this is out of love. Things are complicated, and you’re trying to forge a new path in life. So if you fuck your husband out of anger a couple of times? Well, you hope Mallory and Kate are cheering you on in the afterlife as you draw blood scratching down Michael’s back.

Presently, you allow the Cooperative stylists to make you over for the “celebration” that you couldn’t get out of even if you tried. To the inhabitants of the Sanctuary, you’re simply the Antichrist’s wife. What’s the point of trying to prove to them that you’re more than that? you’re reminded of the first time you found yourself in this situation, a whole lifetime ago. How nervous you were. Back then, you fought so hard to not wear the typical Cooperative color scheme. “I want to be me,” you had said. Now, you don’t put up any sort of fight as you’re helped into a black, floor-length gown with off-shoulder straps. It’s not as if you really care anymore. Your entire identity post-apocalypse has been reduced to “Antichrist’s wife”, and there’s nothing you can do about it.

You don’t hear Michael enter the room. Instead, you see the stylists bow and curtsy before promptly filing out, and you know that he’s here. Rather than look at him (or roll your eyes), you stare at yourself in the mirror and pretend to wipe away an errant eyelash. You hate Michael’s insistence on everybody treating you and him like royalty. You never wanted to be a queen, and you certainly don’t relish the position now.

Michael leans on the wall next to the mirror, watching you with a soft smile on his face. Since your emotions are already fried today, you don’t bother risking a fight by ignoring him. When you look at him, his smile widens into a grin, and you yet again catch a glimpse of the Michael that you once knew and loved. It makes your heart clench, and you swallow harshly.

“You look lovely,” Michael says, kissing the corner of your mouth so as not to smear the lipstick that the (admittedly talented) Satanist makeup artist applied.

“Thank you. Are we running late?” You hope that’s the case; you’d love to keep everybody waiting as long as possible, simply out of spite.

Michael checks his watch (yet another thing you don’t understand—how the Cooperative has managed to keep to the traditional format of keeping time) and shakes his head. “Only fashionably, not that it matters. We’re the guests of honor, of course.”

“Goody,” you say dryly.

“Are you not excited for tonight? It’s a party!” He grabs your hand, pulling you to him and swaying with you. “We can even dance. You love dancing.”

Correction: you used to love dancing.

You shrug out of his embrace and move to put on your (pre-approved) shoes. “I don’t feel like dancing tonight.”

“But we’re celebrating!”

“Celebrating what?”

The flimsy dam that you had built up to hold your feelings back upon waking up this morning bursts, and nothing can hold you back now.

“How could I dance on a day like today? The day that everybody died, the day that I became an orphan, the day that I lost all of my friends and family. I mourn today, I dreaded today.” Tears prick at your eyes, and you roll them toward the ceiling to keep them from falling.

“I understand,” Michael says, coming up behind you and placing a large hand on your shoulder.

“Oh, you do?”

Though you inject a healthy dose of sarcasm into your voice, it seems lost on Michael. “I lost people that I cared for, too.”

He’s right. It had only been a couple of months, but Michael had gotten close with the group that he started playing video games with. Before the blast, you could confidently say that Brennan and his fraternity brothers, Matteo and Jack, were Michael’s friends. He was even friendly with Kate, and cordial with Mallory.

(You thought that time would help to make the absence of your best friends more palatable. If anything, time has done nothing but make that loss so much more bitter. They’re with you in everything you do, and in everything you do, you think about what they would be saying and how they would be reacting. Maybe it’s a coping mechanism, that you’re imagining your dead best friends. But there are no therapists to tell you it’s unhealthy, so until that day, you’re going to keep doing it.)

“You don’t mourn for them, though,” you point out.

“Their deaths served a purpose,” he parrots that old, familiar line.

“Michael,” you snap, so sick of hearing it over and over again.

“What?”

He sounds just as frustrated as you, and by now, you know what’s coming when your tones match in this way. You still don’t have it in you to fight today, so instead, you close your eyes and take a couple of deep breaths. Once you safely feel like you won’t blow up at him, you look at him once more. “Nothing. Let’s just go. Your kingdom is waiting, after all.”

He smiles triumphantly. “Our kingdom.”

Because that’s where the issue lies, doesn’t it? He’s proud of all of this—the pain and devastation he’s wrought, the annihilation of the world that everybody once knew. There are no regrets from him, even knowing the individuals that he’s killed. The blood of seven billion people is on his hands, and he loves it.

Michael holds out his arm for you to take, but you refuse, instead marching side-by-side with him. It’s only when you reach the doors to the ballroom that you begrudgingly slip your hand around his bicep. The roaring of the crowd, full of Satanists and members of the Cooperative and those who were lucky enough to make it in, greets you and Michael as you enter the main ballroom.

You’re surrounded by people, but you’ve never felt more alone.

Eighteen months after

After going into the Sanctuary, you honestly expected to be stuck there, underground, for at least five years. Nuclear science admittedly wasn’t your strong point, but you knew enough about radioactive half-lives to know that it wouldn’t be safe enough to be above ground for a long time.

But you forgot about who your husband is, and what his plans post-apocalypse were.

Michael had never been shy about the fact that the Outposts were simply a means to an end. He needed the end of the world financed, and he also needed central locations to quickly get the survivors worth saving to, even if they were far away from the Sanctuary. Hence the creation of the Outposts. What to do about those that populated the Outposts, though?

As Michael had explained it to you the one time you felt brave enough to ask, that was where the fun began. He would arrive at each under the guise of being a Cooperative member tasked with deciding who was worthy of coming to the Sanctuary. After teasing the survivors, playing mind games with them, and pitting them against each other for a few days ( “Sowing chaos,” he gleefully called it), he would extract the survivors with optimal genetics and leave the rest to die. Sometimes he would let them kill each other, other times he would leave them to starve, and a couple of times he planned on killing them himself. His newfound bloodlust made you shiver in fear, and you dropped the conversation.

Shortly after the anniversary celebration, Michael decided that it was the perfect time to start on this next phase of world domination. He would leave the Sanctuary, traversing the globe to each and every Outpost until all were emptied of any signs of life. It was almost like a business trip, you thought, if business trips involved mass murder.

The thought of Michael, the perennial thorn in your side, finally leaving for extended periods of time should have filled you with joy. You would finally be free of him, at least for a bit. But the more you thought about it, the more you realized that you didn’t want to be left alone. The Sanctuary still didn’t feel like home, and Michael was really the only person that you knew. He was the only constant, and being on your own in a place that was still frightening and unfamiliar was not something that appealed to you. It was surprising that you felt this way, but maybe it shouldn’t have been. After all, survivors band together, even if one of the survivors caused all of this mayhem.

Michael seemed just as surprised when you asked if you could accompany him to a few of the Outposts, but he was still happy to accommodate your request. Even though he knew the reason—his powers had also grown immensely in the past eighteen months, and he could read everyone’s minds with ease now—he still saw this as a way to spend quality time with you. While you wouldn’t necessarily agree, you would still be spending the most time with him since before the bombs dropped, and he counted that as a win.

You had visited three Outposts with Michael, choosing which ones you went to. Since you certainly didn’t enjoy watching Michael play with his prey before slaughtering all but those whose genetic material ensured a bountiful next generation, you only went when Michael would be gone for a particularly long time or you were feeling extra stir-crazy. It was a luxury that nobody else had, getting to choose when to stay or go, and you pushed down feelings of guilt every time you were given the choice.

Things were different, you constantly reminded yourself when thinking of this, or about how the you of eighteen months ago would be horrified at the thought of being okay with Michael committing murders. You are still horrified by the murders, and the ease with which Michael performs them. But over time, you’ve become almost desensitized to it. Everybody had to do shameful things to survive now, including you.

You weren’t originally planning to join Michael on his visit to the last untouched Outpost. It was less than 100 miles away from the Sanctuary, which meant that Michael would be gone a week at most. Since the Outpost 9 trip was almost three weeks long (it was all the way in what used to be Spain, which meant an extra difficult transmutation for you, who still has not gotten used to this mode of traveling), you were happy to spend an extended amount of time back at “home.” But Michael insisted that you come with him, promising you that it was only a week-long trip, if that. Though you were confused, you still acquiesced. It was only when you were on the road—Michael wanted to take a carriage for this trip, which should have been your first clue that this was no ordinary Outpost—that he revealed why he wanted you with him.

Outpost 3 was built in what used to be Hawthorne School for Exceptional Young Men, and it absolutely wasn’t a coincidence. Michael was openly cheerful when explaining that this was his plan all along, and that he always intended for Outpost 3 to be the last stop on this journey. You don’t pretend to understand his motives anymore. On another, non-evil level, he was excited to show you the school that had played such a formative part in his accelerated adolescence. Another glimpse of the Michael that you used to love, though these glimpses get fewer and farther in between the more time passes.

The plague doctor getup you’re forced to wear upon venturing aboveground is happily removed when you enter the decontamination pod in Outpost 3.

“Would you like to come with me to meet our hostess?”

Well, it’s better than being stuck in your temporary lodging. “Absolutely.”

You’re greeted by a woman wearing all black, just as you and Michael do. Michael always wears black now, but the point of your matching black wardrobes is to make you look like regular Cooperative officers when you enter the Outposts. The only splash of color is her hair, which is a bright orange. Her hands tighten around the top of a can as she watches you enter the office that she will soon find out is being commandeered by Michael. She smiles, but it’s a haughty, smug smile.

“Wilhelmina Venable,” she introduces herself as. “I’m in charge here.”

From beside you, Michael tilts his head teasingly. His game begins immediately upon first contact, and you just stand back to watch. “Of course you are.”

“You don’t sound like you believe me.”

“Why wouldn’t I?” He plays his part well, you have to admit. “Seems like you’ve done a wonderful job. The walls are still standing, your people are alive and healthy, which is…quite a feat, considering.”

He’s baiting her, but, predictably, she bites. “Considering?”

“That three more Outposts have been overrun, and the remaining three won't last through the year.”

“Why are you here?”

You zone out a little bit during the well-practiced rigamarole that Michael whips out during every introduction with the Outpost leaders. It’s tedious at this point, and they all react the same. Shock, revulsion, disbelief. It’s only when he grabs your hand that you fall back into the part that’s expected of you.

“I could take all of you…or none of you. Those who make it live. Those who don’t…” Michael smiles serenely. “End up like our horses.”

Tag List: @thatonehumanbeing05 @xavierplympton @hecohansen31 @codycrazy @love-on-the-murder-scene @michaellangdonswhore @nsainmoonchild @aftertheglitterfades @iamlivingforturner @narwhal-swimmingintheocean @angiestopit @littleangel4996 @xo-angel-ox @ajokeformur-ray @iamavailablesstuff

(I really don't know why I still do a tag list. Habit, I suppose.)

#michael langdon #michael langdon x reader #michael langdon imagine #american horror story #ahs imagine #american horror story imagine #michael langdon imagines #mad love musings

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obsessivevoidkitten · 2 years

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An Unholy Attraction

Male Yandere Angel x Male Demon Reader (CW: Physical assault, non-con, psychological abuse, isolation, food deprivation, blood, kidnapping, forced relationship, general yandere themes) Word Count: 2.6k Margaret Sewell, 89 long years old, spreading sunshine and radiance into the lives of all who knew her. A mother to five and a grandmother to many more. She passed peacefully in her sleep and she still looked as if she were merely sleeping in her casket. Her service was lovely. Beautiful floral arrangements, a lovely and heartfelt eulogy, and a coming together of a large number of people to mourn their lost family and friend. It was beautiful. An absolute all you could eat buffet of human misery. Real gourmet shit. Sure, you could pick up a meal from any depressed rando or sad bar scene, but this right here was some fancy fucking dining. You were just innocently enjoying your meal of unfettered human sorrow when suddenly everything went black. When you came to you found yourself in wholly unfamiliar surroundings. You were tied with ethereally glowing rope to a cushioned silver chair, each wrist, and ankle were bound, as well as your torso. There was a pristine silver bed with an immaculate white mattress and silver blankets and pillows. The hard floor tiles were white and silver in a checker board pattern. The walls and ceiling were white too and the light was bright and harsh. This was fucking Hell. A really bright and tacky Hell. Well, no it wasn’t, you were a proud denizen of the underworld. This was worse than Hell. Seriously, what in the great name of Belphegor happened? You struggled against your restraints trying to get free but they were leeching away your magic powers. What could possibly do that? When you found out who abducted you they were DEAD! You heard footsteps approaching the room you were stuck in. The door opened. In stepped a beautiful man, tall and elegant, emerald eyes, with hair of the finest spun silver. He wore pristine white and silver robes, the kind you would expect to find on an archmage. He carried with him an aura of grace and power. “EXCUSE THE SHIT OUT OF MY GOD DAMNED FUCK, WHO ARE YOU AND WHY AM I HERE!?! I AM (Y/N) A DIGNIFIED BEING FROM THE OTHERWORLD AND I DEMAND RELEASE!!!” You practically growled out your words, your teeth sharpening and your eyes going entirely black. You looked feral. You felt feral too. “How positively foul. But what more can be expected of an unclean parasite though? You are not a dignified being from the otherworld, you are a demon of Hell. And you should not speak unless spoken to. I am the archangel Seltrael, and you are here because I was comforting the grieving while you were feeding off and enhancing their misery.” This wasn’t really true, he rarely bothered with the affairs of humans. Certainly reducing their grief would be a lost cause, they would simply find more. He had actually just stumbled upon you and found you captivating and in his loneliness he had to have you. But you did not need to know that, better you think him noble. “Are you an idiot? Are you in possession of all the mental strength of a moldy head of dehydrated cabbage?? I was just doing what I have to to survive. Feeding off a little emotional turmoil.” You were, understandably, pissed. Sure your presence strengthened negative emotions in humans, but you weren’t out killing or making contracts for immortal souls! He walked closer and struck your face. Hard. He did not really want to do it, but he did think it was necessary. He had to make you obedient. “You need to treat me with proper respect.” The fucking lunatic held your face in his hand, stroking your cheek with his thumb, it would have been a tender gesture at someone who had just been hurt had he not been the fuckwit who had hit you. You had never met an archangel before, but rumor had it that they were all varying degrees of unhinged. They were said to be ancient, and after God vanished they apparently cracked under the pressure of their abandonment, responsibilities, and immortality. Apparently these rumors were true. You glared at him silently. “Don’t give me that look, I have taken it upon myself to train you. You should be lucky that I have deigned to care for you.” In reality he felt he was the lucky one to have found you. You would take care of his loneliness. “What? Train? Do you think I can just go without human negativity? The only other thing we live off of is blood dipshit. Even if that was something I consumed I doubt you have any blood laying around.” Another smack, this one making you a bit dizzy for a moment. Kinda worth it to agitate him though. “You can drink mine, after you treat me with the reverence I deserve and ask nicely for it.” The grin he gave you sent chills down your spine. You, a Dignified Being of the Otherworld, who had experienced the deaths of human tragedy and the terrors of what some choose to call “Hell”. “You are a whackadoodle dipshit if you think I would lower myself to b-” He punched you so hard in your stomach that the chair almost fell. Ouch. He just stared at you as you tried to recover from his abuse. This man was completely out of his mind. Even if you did not have to beg you sure as shit did not want to consume Angelic Ichor. You had no idea how your body would react to such a thing. “Why are you trying to train me anyway?” You hissed, once more glaring at your “angelic” warden.

“I kill most demons, but you have not directly hurt anyone.” He had his hand your sore cheek again, his finger lightly moving across your lip as his cold gaze took you in. “You can be fixed. I want to help you. But you have to want it, you have to request for my help.” This wasn’t false, he did want to help and fix you, to elevate you from parasitic feeding on humans to a mutualistic relationship with himself. You would love and admire him and keep him company and he would provide you with everything. “Go make out with a splintered broom handle, you revolting earwax filled enema bag.” You said deadpanning. You winced as he jerked your head back harshly by one of your horns. He got right up in your face, so close you could feel his breath. “Maybe a little time alone will convince you.” He released his hold on your horn and stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind him. How was he revolting? You’d feed from lowly humans and not him? He was your savior! The last thing he wanted was to leave you now that he had you, but he had to break you a bit to get cooperation. At first the worst part was simply boredom, he would come in for a few minutes each day, like clockwork, ask you to beg him for help and food, and then slam the door when you told him where he could shove his “help”. It was so monotonous. At least you never had to use a restroom like humans did. You flicked your tail in agitation, you counted the floor tiles, you contemplated new insults to add to that book you wanted to publish one day, “The Tome of Insulteries”. But after a week or so you were very anxious and hungry. Having not fed you were starting to go through withdrawal. Sensitivity to the lights and door slams, clammy skin, chills, tremors and even greater than usual irritability. You were beyond miserable. “Come on (Y/N), this can all end this very moment if you just ask for my blood~” You had to willingly ask for his essence, you did not know it but it would seal a pact binding you to him for all eternity so you could never leave. “May the flesh fall from your bones and may the wolves sup well upon your marrow!!” You were not doing well, isolation was not good for you. And you were shaking. You would not starve to death, but you were still growing weaker and even though the withdrawal-like symptoms had faded you were still growing more psychologically distressed from the isolation. But you’d be damned (and you had been damned) if a little kidnapping, forced isolation, and starvation would keep you from throwing curses and insults. He left with an angry expression. Why wouldn’t you just ask for his blood. You had to be hungry! He came at the same time the next day. He walked over to you running his hands through your hair. It was nice to feel physical contact, if only it wasn’t his. “(Y/N), don’t you want to feel better? You’d never have to hurt ever again if you’ll just ask politely.” He was getting really impatient. You needed to just realize you were his already. “How about you politely suck my dick you fucking psycho!” He stared at you with an intimidating and creepy smile. You tensed up waiting for a smack that never came. Instead he undid your pants and pulled out your cock. “G-get off!” What the fuck was wrong with this guy? “I’ll get you off little demon don’t worry~” He got on his knees before you, in what almost seemed an act of worship with your crotch as his alter. He tentatively sucked each of your nuts for a few seconds before kissing them gently as he stroked your cock, it betrayed you and hardened quickly at his touch. “Seriously! Stop it! Why are you touching me.” You moved against the rope restraining you even though you knew it was useless. “You told me to politely suck your lovely cock. So I am.” He took the tip of your cock into his mouth and sucked lightly, rolling his tongue around the bell end. He lapped the tip of his tongue over your cock hole, your precum tasted divine to him (trust him, he would know). “I-it was rhetorical.” You were too tired to keep squirming so you gave up struggling, you blushed deeply at his attention. You could not help yourself as you made lewd little moans and gasps. He greatly preferred those sounds escaping your lips over the usual curses. You wanted to cry, you felt so betrayed by your reaction. He fondled your sack as he took your entire length into his warm, greedy mouth. You instinctually bucked your hips, as much as you could with your restraints, desperately seeking to shoot cum down that wonderful throat. A bit to your embarrassment, you did not last much longer and actually let out a whimper like moan as you shot into his mouth and he gulped down every drop.

“Thanks for the snack (Y/N), but you look quite famished yourself and I would not be a very good boyfriend if I let you go hungry.”

“A WHAT friend?? What the shit is this fuck? You think you’re my b-b-boyfriend!? You kidnapped, isolated, starved, and restrained me! You’re a moldy d-” He cut you off abruptly by slamming his lips into yours, kissing you deeply rather than hurting you this time. His lips were amazingly soft. You would have bit him, but you did not want to willingly put his blood in your mouth. Even if you had not verbally requested it. He broke the kiss and snapped through all your restraints, not that it mattered now. You were far too exhausted to do use any of your magic at this point. Before you could ask what he was doing he tore your clothing off, grabbed you by your horn, and dragged you across the room and pushed you on to the bed in the corner. You fell on to it on your back, you recognized his hungry gaze as lust and yearning. You did not like where this was going. “Please don’t do this. Just let me go…” You backed yourself into the corner of the bed where it met the walls. Your lip trembled, quite cutely, in his opinion. “You’re mine, and I am tired of waiting, I have given you chance after chance. I took you from your miserable parasitic life, I have taken you into my personal pocket dimension of heaven, and I have fully committed to taking care of you.” He disrobed and you could see he was all lean muscle, it looked as if he was chiseled from the whitest marble, his large cock glistened with a copious amount of precum, he allowed his six wings to manifest and it was certainly intimidating. “Now, one last chance, will you ask nicely for me to feed you?” “N-no!” You immediately began to regret that response. He lunged at you with a maniacal grin marring his otherwise beautiful features. He grabbed your ankle roughly, you kicked at him but he grabbed that ankle too. He pulled you to the edge of the bed and flipped you on to your belly. You squirmed as much as you could, but he was extremely strong and he had you pinned, he rubbed his uncut cock against your hole, the precum would be all the lube he offered you. With one thrust he rammed his entire length into your ass. You screamed in pain. You started sobbing and crying, you had never even bottomed before. It felt like someone had stuck a hot fire poker inside you and was splitting apart your insides. Each thrust was slow, hard, and deliberately painful. You were trembling even more now, each movement of his large member renewing the pain inside you. “PLEASE S-STOP!!!” Tears were streaming down your face, you had forgotten that you could even cry, it had been so long. In response to your cries he pulled your head back by your horns and went faster, the sound of his huge nuts slapping your ass taunting you. You knew you had to be bleeding a good amount by this point. “Pl-please” You begged softly. “Please. Please. Please. Please.” You were broken, repeating your soft chant for mercy over and over. “My blood would make the pain go away little (Y/N)~” You could not see it but he was smirking behind you, he knew he had broken his small demon. “C-can I have your bl-blood please?” Your words came out in a choked sob. “Mmm, of course anything for my precious boyfriend~” While still inside you he slid his arm around you with his wrist up to your mouth. You bit it and sucked the blood gently. You could feel your soul resonate with him, your very essence branded by his. Oh fuck, that’s why he wanted you to ask for it, you’d never be able to leave him now. You were renewed with life, and while the pain ebbed into nothingness almost instantly it did nothing to make the moment more pleasurable for you. You lay limply, resigned to letting Seltrael have his way over you. At least it didn’t hurt anymore. And it did not take long for him to finish, he was pushed over the edge from the act of you accepting his soul binding blood. Each throb of his prick sent another flood of angelic cum into you. You were still sobbing, albeit much more quietly. He sat on the bed and pulled you into his lap. He held you close with his arms around your torso as he draped his wings over you protectively as his cum leaked out from you, though he did not seem to mind at all. “Don’t cry (Y/N), I’ll never have to hurt you again, you’re mine now~” He peppered the space between your horns with little kisses. That’s why you were crying. You were his now. You would always be his.

#yandere teratophilia #male yandere x male reader #oc yandere #exophilia #yandere angel #angel boyfriend #my ocs #demon reader #yandere x reader

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mermaidfanficlibrary · 5 months

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A Free Churro?

T/W: Death, funeral, ooc, bad parent relationships, a bit deep just for a crack fic, reader is depressed. Yuu is his own person and uses he/him pronouns. Fic under the cut

a/n: sorry if this is Y/n centered and not all the characters have a reaction but this is a monologue and to sort of stay true to the actual monologue there really isn't supposed to be any response. Also writing this like super late so sorry if its incoheirent. I could do individual scenarios and go deeper into each of their reaction if this is well recieved

youtube

Heres the referance if you wanna listen along both links are the same monologue

Housewardens, vice housewardens, Aduece duo, Yuu, and Grimm: *All sitting in the audience of the funeral. Not knowing why they were invited, beside Yuu and Grimm. They all stare at the casket, unsure who it was.*

Y/n: *Walks out and starts the eulogy but first starts to explain why they were late* So I stopped at a drive thru place on the way here, and the girl behind the counter said, “Hiya! Are you having an awesome day?” Not, “How are you doing today?” No. “Are you having an awesome day?�� Which is pretty… shitty, because it puts the onus on me to disagree with her, like if I’m not having an “awesome day,” suddenly I’m the negative one.

Housewardens, vice housewardens, Aduece duo, Yuu, and Grimm: *All gasp from Y/n's sudden explanation of the interaction between them and the lady behind the counter.*

Y/n: *continues to explain the interactions and how it went down* Usually when people ask how I’m doing, the real answer is "I’m doing shitty", but I can’t say I’m doing shitty because I don’t even have a good reason to be doing shitty. So if I say, “I’m doing shitty,” then they say, “Why? What’s wrong?” And I have to be like, “I don’t know, all of it?” So instead, when people ask how I’m doing, I usually say, “I am doing so great.”

Housewardens, vice housewardens, and the Aduece duo: *Are in shock about knowing Y/n's true feelings*

Y/n: *sighed going on trying to finish the story* But when this girl at the drive thru place asked me if I was having an awesome day, I thought, “Well, today I’m actually allowed to feel shitty.” Today I have a good reason, so I said to her, “Well, my mom died,” and she immediately burst into tears. So now I have to comfort her, which is annoying, and meanwhile, there’s a line of people forming behind me who are all giving me these real judgy looks because I made the Drive thru girl cry. And she’s bawling, and she’s saying, “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” and I’m like, “It’s fine. It’s fine.” I mean, it’s not fine but, you know, it’s… fine. And I would like to order a Double Burger Meal, and I’ve kinda got somewhere to be, so maybe less with the crying and more with the frying, huh? And the girl apologizes again and she offers me a free churro with my meal. And as I’m leaving, I think, “I just got a free churro because my mom died.” No one ever tells you that when your mom dies, you get a free churro.

Housewardens, vice housewardens, and the Aduece duo: *At a loss for words, not knowing how to react. Feeling unsure if they should coverse with each other or stay silent. They chose to stay silent*

Y/n: Anyway, I’m sorry, that’s not part of the... *clears their throat trying to think of what to say next* All right. Okay, here we go. Let’s do this. Here I am, Y/n L/n, doing a eulogy, let’s go. *Goes on a monologue explaining the strained relationship between their mother and them.*

Ace: *Whispers to Yuu, Deuce, and Grimm* Never knew Y/n could hate someone so much

Riddle: *Speaks in a hushed voice* Ace, be quiet and listen to Y/n!

Housewardens: *All look at Y/n seeing how much they're struggling. Vil recognizes this to be a monologue.*

Malleus: *Confused as to how someone could hate a parental figure this much.*

Riddle: *Seemed to understand the pain of Y/n hating their mother. The other house wardens just watched, worried.*

Vice housewardens: *All sit patiently, trying to understand Y/n's trailing off. Jamil had the most concern out of the vice housewardens*

Grimm: *Grabs Yuu's hands with his small paw* I'm worried for Y/n*

Yuu: *looks to Grimm with a solemn look* I am too, but let's just listen right now. Might be good for them to get it out.

Y/n: *Sighs and looks at the casket once more reminiscing about when both their parents were alive.* My dad died about ten years ago of injuries he sustained during a duel. When your father dies, you ask yourself a lot of questions. Questions like, “Wait, did you say he died in a duel?” and “Who dies in a duel?”

Aduece duo, Yuu, and Grimm: *Look at Y/n confused as to where this story is going. Ace and Deuce were trying not to laugh at the duel part.*

Housewardens and vice housewardens: *Stare at Y/n in disbelief, not knowing they could have such a messed up past. Riddle and Leona understanding the feeling of strained relationships with family*

Y/n: *Chuckled to themselves as they explain the story of their father's duel.* The whole thing was so stupid. Dad spent his entire life writing this book, but he couldn’t get any stores to carry it or any newspapers to review it. Finally, I guess this one newspaper thought he was pretty hilarious, because they ran a review and tore him to shreds. So my father, ever the proud Mary, decided he would not stand for this besmirchment of his honor. He claimed the critic didn’t understand what it meant to be a man, so he demanded satisfaction in the form of pistols at dawn. He wrote the paper this letter, saying anyone who didn’t like his book, he would challenge to a duel, anyone in the world. He’d even pay for airfare to San Francisco and a night in a hotel. Well, eventually this found its way to some kook in Montana, who was as batshit as he was and took him up on the offer. They met at Golden Gate Park and agreed: ten paces, then shoot. But in the middle of the ten paces, Dad turned to ask the guy if he’d actually read the book and what he thought, but, not looking where he was going, tripped over an exposed root and bashed his head on a rock.

Housewardens, vice housewardens, Aduece duo, Yuu, and Grimm: *All look at each other, then look back to Y/n. Some of them have a very clear reaction on their face while others had a straight face. They all had a similar thought in their head* 'How can someone leave their kid do fight in a duel'

Y/n: *Sees their friends' reactions, but goes on with their thoughts as it forms the on spot eulogy they are giving. Y/n starts to recall a time where they saw their mom decently okay.* My mom used to hold these glorious parties, they were really something. There were skits and magic acts, and very insensitive vaudeville routines, and the big finale was always a dance my mother did.

Housewardens, vice housewardens, Aduece duo, Yuu, and Grimm: *Were all intrigued at the scene. Vil had the most interist since pereforming was something he was well versed in*

Y/n: *Continues to go on seemingly imersed by the memories they had of the parties* She had this beautiful dress that she only brought out for these parties, and she did this incredible number. It was so beautiful and sad. Dad hated the parties. He’d lock himself in the study, and bang on the walls for us to keep it down, but he always came out to see Mom dance. He’d linger in the doorway, scotch in hand, and watch in awe, as this cynical, despicable woman he married… took flight.

Yuu: *Was the most worried out of the group that was there, wanting to run up and hug Y/n as he seemingly knew where this was going.*

Grimm: *Looked at Yuu and noticed the discomfort he felt and let Yuu hold his paw* It'll be okay, Y/n will be okay.

Aduece duo: *Place a hand on both of Yuu's shoulders, seemingly comforting him. The two of them watch Y/n with sadness in their eyes.*

Y/n: *Their eyes start to water slightly as they take a shaky breath* And as a child who was completely terrified of both my parents, I was always aware that this moment of grace, it meant something. We understood each other in a way. Me and my mom and my dad, as screwed up as we all were, we did understand each other. My mother, she knew what it’s like to feel your entire life like you’re drowning, with the exception of these moments, these very rare, brief instances, in which you suddenly remember… you can swim.

Octavinelle trio: *Seemingly understood what Y/n meant by the drowning metaphore, all three of them were worried. The one who felt the most worry was Azul*

Y/n: *Looks at the casket with teary eyes, knowing this sad but beautiful memory in their head wasn't truly happy* But then again, mostly not. Mostly you’re drowning. She understood that, too. And she recognized that I understood it. And Dad. All three of us were drowning, and we didn’t know how to save each other, but there was an understanding that we were all drowning together. And I would like to think that that’s what she meant when we were in the hospital and she said, “I see you.”

Housewardens, vice housewardens, Aduece duo, Yuu, and Grimm:

Y/n: *goes on to explain their personal relationships. But then stops realizing they've been going on and on missing the point of where they were going. They take a deep breath.* I’m not gonna stand up here and pretend I ever understood how to please that woman, even though so much of my life has been wasted in vain attempts to figure it out.

Housewardens, vice housewardens, Aduece duo, Yuu, and Grimm: *Notice Y/n becoming more sad the further they go on. They all wanted to get up and hug Y/n, but thought it best for them to continue the eulogy*

Y/n: *Chuckles slightly now remembering another moment before their mother died* But I keep going back to that moment in the ICU when she looked at me, and… “I-C-U.”

Housewardens, vice housewardens, Aduece duo, Yuu, and Grimm: *All of them have their eyes widen as they come to a realization. They all stare at Y/n wondering if they caught what they just said*

Y/n: *Speaks slowly as tears well in their eyes. Their voice is soft as they peice everything together* “I… see… you.” Jesus Christ, we were in the intensive care unit. She was just reading a sign.

Housewardens: *Notice the tears in Y/n's eyes as they all feel bad.*

Y/n: *sighs and looks down, not wanting to face their friends in the room* My mom died and all I got was this free churro.

Grimm and Aduece: *Stare at Y/n, unsure what they should do after the funeral survice with Y/n*

Y/n: *Looks at everyone with eyes glazed with anger and sadness. Their tone was bitter as they point outside the funeral parlor door.* You know the shittiest thing about all of this? Is when that stranger behind the counter gave me that free churro, that small act of kindness showed more compassion than my mother gave me her entire goddamn life. Like, how hard is it to do something nice for a person? This woman at the Drive Thru place didn’t even know me.

Housewardens, vice housewardens, Aduece duo, Yuu, and Grimm: *Most of them seemingly understood Y/n's frustration. The only two who didn't were Malleus and Floyd, but they listened hoping to understand*

Y/n: *Looks at the casket with tears falling down their eyes. Their town is full of anger as they point at themselves* I’m your son! All I had was you!

Housewardens, vice housewardens, Aduece duo, Yuu, and Grimm: *Were even more worried as they see Y/n start to cry and hear the desperation in their voice*

Y/n: *Their town shifts to a more happy tone, but its a light happinesss.* I have this friend. And right around when I first met her, her dad died, and I actually went with her to the funeral. And months later, she told me that she didn’t understand why she was still upset, because she never even liked her father.

Housewardens, vice housewardens, Aduece duo, and Grimm: *All look at Yuu wanting to know if he knew of Y/n's friend and who she was*

Yuu: *Ignores the stares of the others and just watches Y/n intentivley, trying to memorize every detail so he could help Y/n decompress afterwards*

Y/n: *Smiles sadly, not knowing where to land their gaze* It made sense to me, because I went through the same thing when my dad died. And I’m going through the same thing now.

Housewardens, vice housewardens, Aduece duo, and Grimm: *Were all curious, wanting to know more on how Y/n handled their father's death*

Yuu: *Only listened on knowing exactly what Y/n went through when their father died because Y/n told him*

Y/n: *Eyes widen once more, finding a connection between something an their mother's death* You know what it’s like? It’s like that show Becker, you know, with Ted Danson? I watched the entire run of that show, hoping that it would get better, and it never did. It had all the right pieces, but it just—it couldn’t put them together.

Housewardens, vice housewardens, Aduece duo, and Grimm: *All have a curious stare at Y/n and Yuu not knowing what Becker was or what Y/n was talking about, but seemingly understanding the sentamet of the connection*

And when it got canceled, I was really bummed out, not because I liked the show, but because I knew it could be so much better, and now it never would be. And that’s what losing a parent is like. It’s like Becker.

Aduece duo *look at Yuu with curious eyes.*

Ace: *Speaks first as his hand is still on Yuu's shoulder* What's Becker?

Yuu: *Doesn't look at the Aduece duo, only focused on Y/n. Speaks in a hushed town* It's a show. I'll explain what it's about to everyone later...

Y/n: *Shudders through the tears trying to finish the connection to the show they just mentioned and the moment going on right now* Suddenly, you realize you’ll never have the good relationship you wanted, and as long as they were alive, even though you’d never admit it, part of you, the stupidest goddamn part of you, was still holding on to that chance. And you didn’t even realize it until that chance went away.

Housewardens, vice housewardens, Aduece duo, Yuu, and Grimm: *They all have a sympathetic gaze on Y/n, some trying to understand what Y/n meant.*

Riddle and Yuu: *Seemingly were the only two who understood Y/n's desires for a better relationship witht heir mother*

Y/n: *Looks at the casket with tears in their eyes and a frustrated tone as all their friends watched* My mother is dead...And everything is worse now because now I know I will never have a mother who looks at me from across a room and says, “Y/n L/n, I see you.”

Housewardens, vice housewardens, Aduece duo, Yuu, and Grimm: *All gasped, minus Yuu, at Y/n's statement about their mother's death. They all felt more saddened at what Y/n had admitted to wanting to be seen*

Y/n: *Takes a deep breath as tears still roll down their cheeks* But I guess it’s good to know. It’s good to know that there is nobody looking out for me, that there never was, and there never will be.

Aduece duo, Yuu, and Grimm: *They start to feel guilty because they want to be there for Y/n, the way Y/n wants them to be there.*

Y/n: *sighs and wipes their tears away, finally accepting the realization they had* No, it’s good to know that I am the only one that I can depend on. And I know that now, and it’s good. It’s good that I know that. So… it’s good my mother is dead.

Housewardens, vice housewardens, Aduece duo, Yuu, and Grimm: *All shocked but try not to make any noise. They watch and see Y/n trail off trying to end the eulogy. They also feel upset that Y/n feels so alone and that they need to feel independent. Malleus feels the worst because he doesn't understand how Y/n feels.*

Y/n: *ends the eulogy and sighs, walking out of the room not wanting to face anyone*

Housewardens, vice housewardens, Aduece duo, Yuu, and Grimm: *Watches Y/n leave, unsure if they should follow or not.*

A/n: This is part my Bojack Horseman brainrot so I'm happy this is the first post! Hope it made you sad? idk it made me tear up a bit. This is part of the Free Churro monologue in the Bojack Horseman Episode Free Churro which is Episode 6 Season 5.

Taglist: @nightshade-clown

Do not repost or translate without my explicit permission! Reblogs are welcome!

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