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bangarangdarling · 1 year

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blame the “hitting on your mom as a punishment” tiktok i just saw that literally blew my brain up. established because they’re disgustingly in love and because i say so

Eddie would normally consider himself pretty immune to the roar of arguing teenagers. Chaos surrounds their little Party. They’re not a quiet bunch when all together. It’s all shoving and yelling, giggling and roughhousing. Carpet-burned battle scars from the floor of Steve’s living room.

Lord knows Eddie himself wasn’t an inside-voice kind of person. He was certainly wont to standing on coffee tables and screeching demands for the remote when it was unjustly stolen away by villainous hands.

Eddie loved these people to death, and they were a lot of fucking fun to hang out with, it’s just this...this was an unreal level of noise. A normal sleepover night turned a little too rowdy, the adolescents celebrating the start of Summer with a bang.

Steve had already asked them to keep it down four times this evening. Nothing seemed to calm them. Not requests. Not threats of being sent home. Usually their Dungeon Master threatening their characters’ souls did the trick, but no go.

Getting teenagers to listen? A feat more impossible than defeating creatures from an alternate universe.

Dustin and Erica were in a bitching match about the best D&D class. Lucas and Mike had been fighting over movie choices for the last half hour. Eddie’s money was on the VHS player breaking before that, the constant mishandling and shoving of tapes had the poor thing practically smoking.

Will, ever the diplomat, was trying to be an impartial party when asked his movie opinions. Which, of course, caused more yelling.

Max and El had been the only ones being semi-quiet, but that quickly ended when they followed through on their surprise attack pillow fight, pummeling the boys senseless and causing the already unbearable volume to kick into overdrive. Eddie could practically feel Steve’s migraine building, even from where the dude had retreated to the kitchen. Dinner had been pizza. Quick. Easy. Clean. Or, it would have been if it hadn’t had been for the food fight. Steve was still in there scrubbing cheese out of his parents’ tiled backsplash. Dishes clattered in the distance when the cacophony hit its crescendo.

It was the proverbial straw.

“Alright, that’s it! Hey. Come on, guys. Knock it off,”

Nothing.

“HEY!”

He maybe overdid it that time, but the absolute ear-splitting boom of a yell he let out stopped the ruckus dead.

Silence rang for a beat.

Huh. Maybe Eddie should try out incorporating that into his music. He honestly hadn’t known he could get to that range.

The teenagers in the room stared at him, not cowed in the slightest, but curious enough to know what the hell Eddie’s problem was. Max was the first one to quirk an eyebrow at him. “Geez, need attention much?”

Eddie folded his arms to show he meant business. “Steve has asked you guys to tone it down. You’re waking the fucking dead. Why don’t you guys, like, actually go be good human beings and help him clean up your mess you all made in the kitchen, huh?”

Lucas snorted. “Yeah, okay, mom. Why don’t you go help him, you guys will probably just make out in there, anyway.”

It was a teasing comment. Meant to jokingly rib before getting back to doing whatever the hell they wanted to do.

But, see. That just gave him an idea.

Never let it be said Eddie couldn’t be creative with his punishments. He was a DM after all.

“Alllllllright. New plan. Listen up or suffer, ankle biters,”

He really didn’t appreciate the snickers that brought about when he was trying to be intimidating. Rude.

“You going to send us to our room or something? I’m real scared,” Erica’s scathing, dry wit was unparalleled, truly.

“Nope. Better. It’s a new rule: You little shitheads give me attitude and don’t listen, I hit on your babysitter.”

It was silent for a minute, brains audibly computing that statement and coming up ERROR. Will hesitantly spoke up.

“Uh, Eddie, I really don’t think that’s--”

“Yeah, what the fuck?” Mike interrupted. “Why would you beating up Steve hurt us? I mean, like, I guess it would emotionally, but that’s fucked up, man.”

Eddie rolled his eyes, still smirking wickedly as his plan solidified. “Oh, I don’t mean that kind of hitting, young Wheeler. Though, it may yet get physical--Hey, Steve?” He called out. The sink in the kitchen shut off after a second.

“Yeah?”

“Can you come here?”

The kids shuffled around on the floor warily as the other man walked into the living room. The energy had obviously shifted, it was probably an odd vibe to walk in to, but Eddie cut Steve off before he could ask any questions.

“You tired?”

“Uh, no. I’m fine--”

“It’s just you just keep on runnin’ through my mind constantly. I figured you’d be exhausted, sweetheart,” Eddie purred, the words cloyingly sweet and full of exaggerated charm.

There was a countdown, three, two, one...

A collective groan let out. A few uncomfortable laughs. “Dude, what the hell?”

“You guys agreed not to be gross in front of us!”

“Oh, my god, can I actually get sick from how cheesy that was?”

Eddie had to work at keeping in character when his very first line had pulled the intended reaction. He was already reaching forward to curl an arm around Steve, pulling him in in a slow, sultry attempt at being smooth.

“What? Can’t I be sweet on my guy? You all will understand when you’re in love one day. Right, sugar?”

Fake gags and retching sounds, too dramatic to be real protests, but still indignant and annoyed. Eddie was pretty sure Dustin slapped a hand over his eyes.

“Uh...yes?” Steve, who had previously looked like a car accident had happened directly in front of him, was catching on to the play. He eyed the disgruntled floor-children with a growing grin and let Eddie snuggle up to him.

God, his baby was so clever. He always knew what Eddie was thinking.

Too busy having a non-verbal conversation with Steve on how to best annoy the kids, Eddie didn’t see Mike turning his attention back to the tv. He did, however, hear him telling the others to “Just ignore them, they’ll get all gushy and leave us alone.”

Oh, Michael, Michael. Wrong move.

“How you doing, babygirl?” Steve flushed, deep and red and--huh. Okay. Revisiting that one in the future. “You good? You need anything? Your head hurting, sweet thing? I can kiss it better,” Eddie ducked forward to kiss Steve’s cheek. It was chaste, a sweet little thing...that Eddie made infinitely worse by the smacking, obnoxious kissy sounds he emulated there. The chorus of groans and protests started up again. He didn’t even pull his face away to call over to them.

“I’m sorry, is that attitude? Am I hearing more attitude?”

“Dude, Eddie, noooo!”

“Jesus, it’s like watching your parents make out, oh my god.”

“You guys, let’s just go already,”

“Yeah, I’ll take washing dishes over this,”

The grossed out teenagers whooshed past them. Grumbling and glaring--except Eleven, who smiled up at them sweetly--leaving Steve and Eddie standing in the living room, still wrapped up together.

It was too tempting then, with the kids safely out of range, for Eddie to resist the temptation to drop his kisses a little lower down Steve’s neck. To let them get a little less chaste. Just a little.

What can he say? He’s a weak man.

“That was evil,” Steve hummed. His shoulders dropped, though, relaxing into Eddie’s hold, the closest thing they’ve had to quiet all night settling in.

“Hey, I accomplished two things. Got them to chill out and I get the perk of feeling you up in the middle of sleepover night. It’s a win-win.”

A crash and a muffled argument broke out in the kitchen before Steve could respond to that.

The audible scuffling was cut off by Eddie calling out “Your ass looks great in these jeans tonight, Harrington!”

The fierce whispers and shushing were enough to get both of the older boys cackling loudly.

#Listen this is cheesy and poorly written but i HAD to #go find that tik tok because it was hilarious but also radiated love and healthy parenting #they called it 'gentle parenting with malicious intent' looooool #steddie #the party #my brain vomit

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theromanticscrooge · 4 months

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Lord Boxman, the Lonely Tyrant of Boxmore

Note: I've been wanting to return to writing beefy character essays for awhile and I was finally able to start back up after rewatching O.K. K.O.

Lord Boxman started out wanting to build a robot army strong enough to defeat POINT. Look at his early interactions with his first sapient robot Mr. Logic. This was his original business partner; someone he 'invented' to help fill in what gaps and blind spots he might have. Someone he wanted active feedback and suggestions from. Boxman himself was a lot more open-minded, patient, and collaborative at this point in time. He immediately called Mr. Logic his 'best friend' and treated him with warm, open affection.

Mr. Logic advised Boxman that he shouldn't immediately jump at his goal because he didn't yet have the manpower or resources to pose a legitimate threat. Instead, Mr. Logic proposed using Boxman's inventing abilities to tweak and improve upon his current inventions, to sell these inventions to other villains, and build a villain supply chain store. With time, hard work, and concentrated efforts, Boxman would eventually have the resources and power to successfully launch an attack later. It was a big-picture, long-haul plan. The Mr. Logic-Boxman team led to building the main Boxmore company headquarters and establishing Boxman as a trusted robot minion supplier.

Unfortunately, Boxman isn't a big-picture man. He didn't stop to consider that heroes could also start up and maintain a hero supply chain. Suddenly, POINT wasn't an abstract, 'someday' goal-post anymore. The heroes were right in Boxman's backyard with the presence of Mr. Gar and the developing Lakewood Plaza Turbo. Boxman thought he had ample time to become an indomitable powerhouse, but if the heroes had the same advantage, he'd never be able to catch up and had to address that problem now. When Mr. Logic said to "ignore Lakewood Plaza," Boxman was too lost in himself to listen. He felt threatened and intimidated enough that it stoked his insecurities and anxieties.

When Mr. Logic ventured out to investigate Lakewood Plaza, it could be seen as someone talking to the "other" that their parent, friends, or whomever painted with broad strokes and demonized. Boxman told Mr. Logic that his role was to fill in the "logical inconsistencies" with his plans, but he never asked Mr. Logic what he wanted to do with his life. With Boxman, everything was tailored to realizing Boxman's dreams and ambitions. When Mr. Logic spoke to Mr. Gar, it was a partly about what the Plaza was for and what Mr. Gar hoped for the future with the other part inviting Mr. Logic to share his plans for the future; plans about and for himself, not just the sustainability of Boxmore.

After Mr. Logic had his perspective broadened and returned to Boxmore wanting something fundamentally different from Boxman's new "Destroy the Plaza!" direction, it was the straw that broke the proverbial camel's back. Boxman was already knee-deep in plans to stop this new existential threat; to have full control over his environment and his life. When Mr. Logic challenged Boxman's worldview, Boxman saw it as a challenge to him personally. Seriously considering Mr. Logic's arguments here meant that Boxman would have to self-reflect in a way he wasn't equipped to. So if Boxman had to shave down Mr. Logic's personhood to a black and white concept of "obstacle in my way" to safeguard his ego, that's what needed to be done.

GIF by zevzevarainai

The episode "Lad & Logic" is a fantastic launchpad to unpacking Boxman's screwed-up dynamic with his other children. His creator-robot minion dynamic is an allegory for an emotionally abusive parent that sees their children as extensions of themselves rather than full, autonomous beings with their own wants and desires. Mr. Logic was fully self-actualized and wanted something different than Boxman. Despite what he said out loud, Boxman knew that Mr. Logic was on even footing with him. Everything came down to power dynamics. So, when Boxman invented his next set of robots, he opted to be their "parent" because of the power imbalance he could exploit.

Shannon, Darrell, Raymond, and others strictly and obediently follow their father's wishes because they were deliberately conditioned and threatened to. Boxman pits them against each other to vie for his favor. The only TV they're allowed to watch at home are movies he carefully filmed to reinforce his "father knows best" agenda. It's similar to strict Christian parents banning their kids from watching certain shows or reading certain books because they may contain "undesirable" properties. Anything that encourages their child to question Christianity or endorses more critical thinking about their household values period is a threat to their authority and maintaining a "functional" household.

While Darrell, Shannon, and Raymond seem satisfied with their lives, unconditionally love their father, and gleefully attack the plaza, every time Boxman threatens them with the "furnace" or yells at them for failing, it's an exaggerated, blunt example of bad parenting. The "furnace" is a catch-all punishment for not being able to meet or exceed Boxman's expectations with anything and everything. He leaves some amount of ambiguity in his demands so that he can tug the proverbial leash every time he feels he needs to.

Granted, it's important to look at everything that led up to Lord Cowboy Darrell. Boxman's most egregious display of favoritism was when he built Boxman Jr. and refused to acknowledge how stung Darrell was. He kept pushing how much stronger, more competent, and better Boxman Jr. was overall. Generally, Darrell's respective relationships with Shannon and Raymond were strong enough to buffer against Boxman's picking favorites tactic. They'll fight each other for Dad's affection, but there was always an implicit understanding that they had each other's backs under normal circumstances. Jr. is different in that he had no significant relationship with his other siblings, only Boxman. And Boxman blatantly showered the newest addition with praise and affection the others never received.

Pushed to his limit, Darrell took matters into his own hands and staged an effective coup d'etat against Boxman. Through his disillusionment with his father, Darrell stepped up and became the focused, tight-knuckled business operator that Boxman could never be. Boxman tried to fill the mold that Mr. Logic helped him create and focus on appeasing his board of directors. But his all-consuming obsession with destroying the Plaza was always his true life's goal and work. This was such a core part of his character that he was miserable and hollow if he gave up on that goal. In contrast, Darrell can follow orders and do what needs to be done with whatever task he's given. The result of Lord Cowboy Darrell was one potential future of Darrell as a self-actualized villain without Boxman putting him down and actively demoralizing him.

After K.O. convinces Boxman to talk to Darrell and tell him he's proud of his achievements, it leads to the pivotal moment that Boxman couldn't give Mr. Logic. For once, Boxman looked at one of his kids and saw them as a separate, autonomous being rather than an extension of him. For that brief moment, he placed Darrell on equal footing. Darrell took over Boxmore partly out of spite but also out of an earnest interest in following in Boxman's footsteps. Without Boxman, he's a better Boxman; with Boxman, he's a co-conspirator that's as eager to destroy the Plaza as Boxman is.

GIF by the-green-sailor

Enter Professor Venomous. In stark contrast to Lord Boxman, Professor Venomous and Fink call themselves "boss" and "minion" respectively but it's really a father-daughter relationship. Venomous makes a point of bringing Fink along to important events or letting her tag along where relevant. He brings along what extras are needed to accommodate Fink whether it's a high chair, crayons, or even glorbs for a high-powered attack on some heroes. At their best, Venomous makes a point to talk to Fink on her level and she speaks very highly of what kind, affectionate gestures he does for her. Where Venomous trips up is discipline. Fink can do whatever she wants. Babysitters are run over by her reckless energy and disregard for other people that aren't Venomous. Any sign of a complaint or a tantrum is pacified with an expensive gift. When Venomous starts getting overwhelmed, the gifts replace all usual attempts at parenting or communication period.

After re-watching O.K. K.O. recently knowing that Professor Venomous was K.O.'s biological father from the jump, perhaps the "boss" and "minion" labels were Venomous' coping mechanism for knowing he abandoned one of his kids. It was easier to interact with and care for Fink as long as she was his "minion." That's a different enough relationship that he can compartmentalize it and distance it from what guilt or regrets he had from his past as Laser Blast.

When Boxman became business partners with Professor Venomous, it led to obvious shifts in his approach to parenting. After his night out with Venomous and Darrell and Shannon babysitting, he gave them T-shirts as rewards for their efforts. No pushes at playing favorites or nitpicking for once.

GIF by loser-jpg

With Professor Venomous in the picture, Boxman finally had the business partner he wanted and needed. While Mr. Logic's approach worked beautifully for kickstarting Boxmore, Boxman needed Venomous to cultivate it into exactly what he wanted vs what it was when tied to a board of directors. For a short time, Boxman and Venomous were building a blended family that was more successful together than separately. Boxman encouraged exercises and attempts towards Fink and Darrell getting along better. The Boxbots all received personalized upgrades from Venomous to improve and augment what weaponry or abilities they had. Fink now had access to what 'toys' Boxman could invent that were several grades above what Venomous could just buy. In short, Boxman dating Venomous led to him becoming a more proactive parent in a surprisingly organic way.

Venemous' intense self-destructive and literally destructive stint as Shadowy Venomous further elucidated what impact he had on Boxman. When Boxman had to step up as the responsible parent, the first problem he addressed with Venomous was how he'd been failing Fink recently with the "You missed Fink's recorder recital" comment. He was also emotionally strong enough to realize that Venomous was causing enough problems in the household that things had reached a boiling point and he had to leave. Breaking up would be emotionally devastating for him but Boxman was prioritizing the emotional well-being of his house and kids overall.

Even the devastating scene where Boxman leaves his kids to go off on an ambiguous "finding myself" quest was meaningful improvement on his part. Similarly to his confrontation with Lord Cowboy Darrell but with all of his kids this time, Boxman told them that they didn't need him. He was cutting the dependent and toxic grip on his apron strings. The Box kids are resilient and capable enough that they could carve out their own path.

There's a quote that Boxman brings up in another episode: "I'm a villain. I'm not a monster." In context, the quote was a punchline for a dark joke about Boxman potentially being a cannibal. Though, it interestingly applies when looking at Boxman's actions during his confrontations with Shadowy Venomous. Shadowy was the kind of monstrous villain that wanted mindless destruction and to see the world burn. Seeing the absolute lowest his partner could reach led to Boxman establishing what lines he wouldn't cross.

He wants to destroy the Plaza, not the world, and a pretty face isn't enough to convince him otherwise when he finds the self-assurance and confidence he needed. It's the pique of his character development as a father. While there is a lot more room for exploring this part of Boxman's character, there's enough substantial story here that it's an interesting look at a "bad dad" that was actively working on becoming better. Boxman and Venomous get back together later but only after Venomous proves that he's working through his bigger issues in a meaningful way with real, tangible results.

Over the last several years, there have been several stories tackling generational trauma that include parents realizing their failings and working on course-correcting with those failings. This has been a point of contention about a recurring to the point of tired stories in recent Pixar animated movies and the core of what made Everything, Everywhere, All at Once the powerhouse that it is. It's not too far of a reach to include Boxman as another one of these stories or even a decent starting place for digging into stories or characters dealing with generational trauma.

In Boxman's case, he could be seen as an example of an insecure parent that uses their role as a parent to reassure themselves in a constantly changing, unpredictable world. He only starts to get better when he starts changing and adapting to fit into that unpredictable world rather than trying to make his little corner of the world continue to conform to just him alone.

#ok ko #ok ko let's be heroes #ok ko lord boxman #lord boxman #lord boxman character analysis #character analysis #character essay #professor venomous #voxman

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jupitermaidalinejoy · 6 months

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Never Happy

Wednesday tries to sit in class carelessly, but she just couldn't. Today was one of those days where everything felt like a punch, in her ears, in her side, on her temple.

All it took was the scratch of a pencil to set her off, for the class to be chatting to get to her. The laughing of the one guy in the corner of the class, how it reverberated to her, though her desk.

Her foot was bounding up and down, muscles buzzing, fingers twisting together. Each second made it harder and harder to keep her emotionless mask on. She wanted to let go. She couldn't, not here.

The braids on her head felt too tight. The beating of her own cold and black heart in her practically caving in chest was too loud of a disruption. Never less the goings on of the other twenty seven students in botany all around her.

A sadistic concept, putting a life's worth of hormonal teenagers in a building together and expecting everything to end up fine. She used to relish in the thought of whoever thought up the idea of public school. But in Nevermore, it was worse. These hormonal teenagers had an edge, they were all freaks. The private school complex they all had in their rotten brains made them entitled.

Wednesday couldn't take it. The ever-so-faint sound of Yoko sipping her blood bag behind her. The barely audible tapping of Thing scuttling from behind one poisonous plant to behind another. The graphite-on-card stock slice of Xavier's drawing beside her. The piercing nasal echo of Mrs. Thornhill's voice ringing out through the greenhouse, not to mention the sickening crack of her heal against the floor of the classroom.

No, the raven-haired girl could barely take it. The depth of her observational skills only dug away at her everlasting hatred of sensations when she was close to her breaking point. She used to think she didn't have one, or that it only resulted in mild frustration or torturous methods inflicted on others. But recently she had discovered that, unless she was stepping on eggshells, she could set herself off, and ruin her worldly image of herself, and the Wednesday Addams to everyone at this insipid school. It would most definitely make it's way to Principle Weems, causing it to make it's way to her parents. Weems had kept an extra close eye on her after what happened with Tyler after last semester.

She couldn't take the shift of Bianca's uniform as she repeatedly raised her hand, hearing the scratchy material rub against it's self as her arm elongated before returning to her side as she answered the question, her voice cutting away at Wednesday's proverbial last straw. She couldn't handle the feeling of the fibers of her own black-striped uniform on her hyper-sensitive skin cascading together in a suicidal rhythm over her entire body, making her want to claw her external organ off in strips, only to haphazardly glue back on later.

Earlier in the week, three days ago to be exact, she had been assaulted with a flashback from Crackstone's Crypt. Wednesday knew that sooner or later, the faulty barricades of her fragile, trauma-prone brain, just like everyone else's, would come back and haunt her, the incident not disturbing enough to be blocked out, but still worrisome enough to cause her mental distress later on.

But she expected it to be of the fight, her getting stabbed, or hanging by shackles, or Crackstone rising. But the flashback took her right back to her one and only date with Tyler. The candles and the blanket and the rose petals and the projection of the truly horrifying movie and the Galpin boy turned monster himself. She couldn't shake the feeling oh him next to her, his breath hot on her cheeks before they were interrupted, his smile.

His claws digging into Enid as she fought for her that night.

How Wednesday remained so fucking guilty for fighting with Enid, for letting her fight the Hyde in her honor, for letting Tyler trip her warning alarm and still moving on in the pursuit of secret happiness. She never found it with him. She had yet to find it at all. Maybe she should end up alone, undeserving of anyone or anything else. Alone and forgotten and rightfully unhappy.

And now there was the shriek of chalk on a chalkboard and the heels against the ground and her uniform on her skin and Bianca's arm up and down and Xavier's drawing and Yoko's sipping on blood and Thing's scuttling and the laughter reverberating-

A tear stung her eye. And then another. And another.

Before she could make a fool of herself, she collected her backpack and ran out of the class, cheeks wet and eyes streaming, practically sprinting to the dorm. She heard someone call her name behind her and steps following suit but she ignored whoever they were's advances, bounding up the stairs and taking refuge in her dorm room.

No less than a minute later as Wednesday was desperately trying not to have a meltdown and failing horribly did someone enter her room. It was Enid, and she looked worried. Confused. Empathetic. The smaller girl almost jumped out of her skin, face heating and legs scrambling out from under her and trying to get away, but there was nowhere to go.

"Hey, hey, It's okay"

Enid says slowly, locking the dorm door behind her softly. Wednesday obviously wasn't herself in this moment, or really at all since the incident last semester, and she couldn't resist the comforting tone in her roommate's voice, lulling her towards the compelling girl in front of her. She craved comfort and praise and recognition and everything she was usually so averted to.

"I-, uh, I-" She tries, but her throat is against her. Enid cuts her off.

"Shh, shh, you're okay. Take a deep breath, just tell me what's wrong. Can I step closer?" She nods, hurriedly breathing. It's like she couldn't get any air, and when she tried, the tears only got thicker and rained down in more of a downpour than a drizzle like they had started out.

"It w-was all too muh-uch. Noise and f-feelings" Her roommate nods understandingly, taking another small step closer, noiselessly.

"Okay, okay, look up at me. W-" Before she can finish her sentence, a boom of thunder resonates from outside, the clouds beginning to muddle gray and grow heavy with precipitation. That's how Wednesday felt at this moment, even as she wholeheartedly jumped at the sound of the storm, dark and growing heavy, too much filled up inside of her.

"-What would make you feel better right now?" She thought for a moment before remembering the insisent itching of her uniform on her skin. She tugs at her sleeve to portray her distress. Right now, she just tried to forget all the repercussions of this moment, of all the regret she'd have later. Of how she would newly perceive herself. She just wanted this moment to play out, comfort and acceptance.

"Maybe a bath? Would that help, getting your uniform off?" Wednesday nods. "okay, is it okay if I hug you?" to her surprise, she skyrockets into Enid's open arms, burying her face in the cool fabric of Enid's vest. It was softer than hers, significantly so.

The colorful girl began lightly rubbing her back, whispering things in her ear. Not long after the hug had started, the goth gave in, and began to sob, letting all the storm inside her out. But every time she thought the war had ended, it began again. Her fists were balled in her roommate's shirt, and they only gripped harder when she felt a ghost of a kiss being pressed into her forehead, alone with soothing words and the subtle pressure of the embrace. Goosebumps prickled her skin.

"C'mon, lets get you to the bath" She feels herself being led into the bathroom, and eventually the tap switches on, water pooling into the tub. Enid adds some of her bath salts into it, making it smell like her. Wednesday was trembling and sobbing and had no idea what she was even doing to herself. "Willa, look at me" she says, trying to tilt her head up off of her chest. She wouldn't budge. "It's okay, look at me, shh shh" The dark haired girl finally allows her face to meet her roommates, all watery and tear-stained.

"Ready to get in, hmm?" The colorful girl asks her, tucking a loose piece of hair behind her ear. She nods shakily, and halts her tears as much as she's able to. "Let's take out your hair" she says, taking one of her braids between her fingers and unraveling it, doing the same to the second one. Her headache dulled a bit by her hair being set free.

"Is it okay if I help you get undressed?" Wednesday knew that all Enid wanted to do was help, and she trusted her, and only her. So she nodded.

She carefully helped her pull her arms from her fest, her blazer and blouse following right after. Her eyes never lingered on a certain part of the girls body, thankfully. Even she got self conscious. Once she was completely stripped, she slowly sunk into the lovely-smelling, warm bathwater, allowing the world to sink away.

Her roommate washed her hair and helped her dry off and redress. She was exhausted, physically and mentally. Her brain was spinning in circles in a pool of grease, slowly frying away. By the time she made it into bed, she was back in Enid's arms, sobbing again. She had no idea why she still couldn't stop herself fro breaking down, but she let it happen.

"Let it all out, baby" She would say while rubbing her back, or she'd kiss her forehead and tell her, "You're okay, I know how bad it hurts".

It hurt so fucking bad, but it was numbed when she had someone to hold her through it.

idk what this is but I hope you like it. this will be up on my ao3 account, but im still waiting to get an invite so i'll let you know when thats up. okay love you guys, bye!!

#pretend that mrs thronhill came back to neverore for some reason i just need her to be a trigger but for ep 8 to still have happend go w it #enid sinclair #wednesday addams #wenclair #wednesday x enid #random oneshot #hurt comfort #traumatized wednesday #wenclair overload

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deathbecomesthem · 1 month

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Gutterballs - Than's Edition

Eddie Munson x GN!Reader | ~900 Words

*This fic is written from the perspective of the Emily character in @dr-aculaaa's Gutterballs Eddie Munson fic. Go fucking read it, I love it forever. Drac, my love. Thank you so much for being a friend. You inspire me in so many ways.

You heard about the show through the grapevine. Betty called you up a few weeks ago to tell you about it. You've been tuning in off and on for a while now, just to catch that old familiar voice. God, has it been this long? No. It was just yesterday when you sat with him to get that fucking bird tattooed on his thigh. You look down to faded Camel ink above your left knee and huff a laugh. Maybe you should think about covering that one up, even though it makes your heart ache a little.

It's the sound of his voice, the way he talks about you with fondness while not holding back. You can't help but drift to the past, decades before, but you can still smell him. You can still feel the way your heated bodies felt in that bed. In that apartment. That dusty, disorganized mess of a life. It's pain and love all together, it always was.

---

Ever since Eddie broke his nose while Max was teaching him how to do that kickflip trick with her skateboard last month, his snoring has been bad. Very bad. You had thought that after the swelling eased, his nasal passages would open up and allow for a more quiet sleeping experience, but you’ve since realized that was wishful thinking. There’s some kind of long lasting damage, and Eddie Munson doesn’t go to the doctor unless there’s a chance of bleeding to death.

It’s worse than the sleep talking he used to do. Your eyes are focused on that spot on the popcorn ceiling where you smashed a spider with the end of the broomhandle 6 months ago while he saws away. You can’t look at him, you know what that will get you. All gooey and melty at the sight of his open mouth drooling on his pillow. His wild curls hanging over his closed eyes, but you’ll still see the concerned pinch that sits on his brow whenever he’s fast asleep. It always makes you wonder what scenarios his mind creates for him while his body rests. You’ll want to smooth it out with the tip of your finger, you’ll want to kiss his cheek and snuggle your face into the crook of his neck. None of those things will allow you to hold onto the annoyance that is your current lifeline.

You sigh loudly, flopping onto your side. You kick the blankets away from your body and lurch out of the bed. You’ll go and sleep in the living room tonight. The sound of the clock hanging on the wall will be a comforting rhythm compared to the incessant cacophony of Eddie’s nighttime rumblings. I’ll drag him to the doctor by his fucking ear if I have to, you think as you stomp your away across the hardwood floor of the bedroom. And that’s when it happens, the straw that breaks the proverbial camel’s back.

As the heel of your right foot hits the sock that missed the lip of the hamper by mere inches, you feel your entire body conspiring against you. In the darkness without your eyes guiding your path, you’re unprepared for the obstacle. One sock is all it takes for your body to lose its balance, and your ass is on the cold and hard floor with only your cotton briefs to break your fall.

The pain starts at your tailbone and radiates to your hips and up your spine. Eddie’s snores continue as your teeth snap closed, and you manage to gnash out a groan. It takes you a moment to register the pain in your left wrist, an old injury reignited from the automatic way it tried to catch your fall. You assess no major injuries just as you regain your breath and say -

“Goddamint, Eddie! Jesus Fucking Christ,” loud enough to break through his protective wall of snores.

“Huh, whazzamatta?” Eddie chokes and coughs. You see his shadowy figure under the covers turn to face your body still splayed on the floor. “Jesus, what happened?”

“Your motherfucking sock just tried to assassinate me. Why is it so fucking hard for you to put your fucking clothes in the fucking hamper, huh?” You’re climbing up to your feet, and he’s crawling out of the bed. He’s bending down to help you up, and you grab his hand. You squeeze it more tightly than necessary in an effort to transfer some of the pain and exhaustion through the gesture.

“Christ, come back to bed. Come on, I’m sorry, Baby.” Eddie’s muttering, still half asleep and uncomprehending the full picture of your anger. You’re thankful for the dark, you can only imagine the way his unfocused eyes would sparkle and disarm you.

“I’m sleeping on the couch, Eddie. Again. I swear to god, you snore like a chainsaw lately. If you don’t make an appointment to figure out what’s wrong with that” you reach a finger out and push on the bridge of his nose, “thing on your face, I am going to murder you in your sleep.”

“Go back to bed, I’ll sleep on the couch.” Eddie’s hand is cupping your cheek. He pulls you into him, his chest is still warm from his slumber. He smells like himself, smoke and soap with an underlying sweetness that is his skin. “I’ll go to the doctor. I’ll fucking throw out all the socks and go barefoot for the rest of my life. Whatever will get you into the bed, and off my ass.” His words are as soft as his hand on your bare back, running along your spine to calm the beast that lives inside of you.

“I fucking hate you, Eddie,” you say with your face pressed against his chest, breathing in the smell of him. You don’t want him to sleep on the couch. You want him to climb into the bed with you and hold you tightly. You want to feel his breath on the back of your neck, and smell him on your pillow.

“You liar.”

#eddie munson x reader #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson #eddie munson x you #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson stranger things #eddie munson x gn!reader

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thefugitivesaint · 14 days

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youtube

It was 1990, the year the album 'Mystical Shit' came into my life through my strange friend who loved off beat music. His eclecticism, which he had at an early age, exposed me to bands I might not have discovered had I been left to follow my own tastes exclusively. I would love to have him pop his head out to say hello to you dear reader but, unfortunately, he went and got himself addicted to heroin, a relationship that eventually led to his death. I didn't attend his funeral because I didn't know he had died. I didn't know he died because we had a falling out when, somewhere on the path he walked, he got very lost. Somewhere along the way he started to embrace white supremacist bullshit (one among a number of baffling decisions). He knew how I felt about that garbage. The heroin was bad enough, the additional strain of reprehensible politics was the proverbial straw on that poor camel's back. The souring of a very long friendship left associations in its wake that cannot be separated from where and how they were born. When I listen to King Missile* I think of a younger dude with an odd sensibility that was coupled to a wry sense of humor. Before the descent, where I was forced to watch a person gradually erode themselves. Before having to finally admit that there was nothing I could do to help or intervene or stop what was happening. Before having to bid adieu to someone who was part of my life for years. In the divorce I got to keep King Missile and They Might Be Giants and Christian Death and all the other bands this friendship exposed me to. I mourn the loss of who that person was but I also get to celebrate the memory of that person through the music we both enjoyed. (*'Steal Stuff From Work' was a shared mantra and countless zines in Philadelphia in the late 1990s were made for free thanks to the unknown generosity of a former employer. Thanks Kinkos). Anyway, the point here is that this song is a kind of tragedy that also happens to be life affirming. You might lose some friends but you'll get to enjoy some very delicious cheesecakes. Wait, I'm not sure I know what I'm saying here. Look, it doesn't matter, just listen to the song and this last paragraph will make more sense.

#king missile #mystical shit #cheesecake truck #alternative rock #John S. Hall #ordered sound #Youtube

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chamerionwrites · 5 months

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A thought I have been idly turning over is that the argument can be made - and made pretty compellingly imo - in both directions that the changes from Cassian’s sketchy offscreen backstory in R1 to that presented in Andor serve to portray him as a more/less uncomplicatedly sympathetic hero and/or victim of imperial violence.

On the one hand “traumatized refugee orphan turned hustler, saddled with a juvenile record and nursing a self-protective apathy approach to politics, radicalized by the proverbial straw(s) that broke the camel’s back after a lifetime of survival in a system that wants to kill him” clearly complicates the narrative from “I’ve been in this fight since I was six years old.” And quite frankly, hard NOT to complicate the narrative when you’ve got an entire TV series to stretch your narrative legs in vs a single film with an ensemble cast. I don’t think it’s entirely fair to suggest that a story which has vastly more space to expand on an idea necessarily has smarter things to say so much as more space in which to say them - but I do respect the commitment to complication and interrogation, nonetheless.

On the other hand the implication of R1 - made extremely albeit briefly explicit in the offscreen references to, and I quote, Outer Rim “anarchist movements” and children “tossing rocks and bottles at Republic walkers” (no further comment at this time but like…oof) - is not, imo, a less thoughtful or complicated or potentially subversive story. Some of the complexities certainly lie in different places! But I don’t even think that such questions as “Does a slightly-selfish-on-the-surface grifter ask more from the audience than a dedicated idealist?” are as straightforward as they initially appear, within the broader context of a media landscape that is frequently far more comfortable lauding revolutionary action as a variation on a revenge plot (Everyman Hero just wanted to keep his head down and live his life until Evil Empire killed his girlfriend/family/best pal/etc etc) than as a natural outgrowth of ideological conviction (which is for Scary Radicals*). I also continue to find it UNBELIEVABLY tantalizing that R1!Cassian was explicitly described as, if not a Separatist himself (hard to describe a six year old that way or know how he would describe himself as an adult!), then unquestionably part of that ideological lineage, in that Star Wars as a franchise has never been willing to give more than halfhearted lip service to the idea of Separatists as anything but cartoonishly over the top villains - or, by extension, to the idea that the Republic was the Anakin Skywalker to the Empire’s Darth Vader. Even in highly abridged form, that’s a backstory that’s begging a lot of pointed and fascinating questions (What are the political fault lines within the Rebel Alliance? What does it mean that this franchise’s treatment of the Clone Wars has frequently boiled down to glibly setting up and knocking down arguments about Third World sovereignty and resource extraction? Can you as the audience imagine a political movement that contains both incredibly corrupt bad actors and grassroots liberation movements under the same broad ideological umbrella?)

ANYWAY TL;DR I think there’s a lot that’s spiky and unstraightforward and potentially subversive about both of those backstories, and I don’t think you need to dismiss the complexities of either in order to appreciate the other.

*I am OFC not saying that Andor doesn’t engage with ideological conviction, because it does! I am merely pointing out that - outside the audience demographic of broadly left-leaning people on tumble - a loveable rogue who wants to stay out of politics and survive does not necessarily read as less likable or morally upright than a revolutionary who’s fully prepared to Die For The Cause.

#i do think star wars has done one of these stories far more often but i don’t think either is uninteresting #also why does this feel like such hdu say we piss on the poor discourse bait lol #i am not discoursing lads i am contemplating. musing. idly analyzing. rotating thoughts in my brain.#andor #rogue one #star wars #cassian andor #my posts #my separatist feels

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deanwinchesterswitch · 3 months

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Forever's a Long Time

Pairing: Rick Flag x Female Reader

Summary: Rick made a mistake. Before he has a chance to fix it, he’s called away on a mission.

Warnings: Flangst; Canon divergence

Word Count: 3,523

Beta: None. I have no idea why I decided to die a warrior writer on this one, but here we are.

Author Notes: A long overdue ask and my first-ever Rick Flag fic. Once I got into the meat of this, I had a lot of fun writing it. Prompts were Rick Flag-Music-Making up

He fucked up big time.

He was supposed to meet you at the concert, but he’d run into some of his old army buddies. They’d persuaded him to join them for a drink at a nearby bar. One drink turned into two, two into three, and before he knew it, almost four hours had passed.

It wasn’t that he’d forgotten the significance of the day or where he was supposed to be. It was that he had just lost track of time. When he finally makes it to the arena, your seat is empty. He waits for a bit, hoping you’ve simply gone to get a drink or to the bathroom. After several minutes, he admits defeat, stomach muscles rippling with tension, realizing you aren’t coming back.

Breaking every speed limit to race home, he worries that this time might be the proverbial straw and you will leave. He drops his bag at the front door and hurries down the hallway to find you sitting on the end of the bed, crying. The simultaneous hit of relief and guilt makes his heart painfully clench. “I’m sorry,” he exclaims, a lump forming in his throat when you flinch hearing his voice.

“Just… leave me alone.”.

“Babe…”

“Go away!” you shout, turning away from him.

“Please, let me explain,” he begs.

“Go.” Your voice is thick and muffled, your body shaking as you sob.

Rick hesitates, wanting to go to you, fall to his knees, and beg your forgiveness, but the pain and anger in your tone is heartbreakingly clear. Any attempt to get you to listen to him now will only result in him screwing up further. He gently shuts the door behind him, making his way to the small bar in the living room.

He pours a hefty amount of scotch into a tumbler, gulping down half the contents in one go. Seconds after the smoky sweetness hits his taste buds, he turns and hefts the drink into the fireplace. “I’m a goddamn idiot,” he berates as glass shards and amber liquid reign down, sinking into cold ash.

The phone that vibrates in his pocket angers him further. He knows who’s calling before he even looks at the screen. She always has the worst possible timing. Turning to stare into the inky darkness beyond the window behind the bar, he answers the call with a fierce, “What do you want?”

Twenty minutes later, hands gripping the frame, he presses his forehead to the bedroom door …debating. He agreed to go on the mission. Honestly, he never has much of a choice with Waller, but this time, he called in—no, demanded—a favor in return. Even though she owes him, he knows he will end up paying for it in some way, but he doesn’t care if the outcome is what he’s hoping for.

The concern now is you. There are a couple of ways this will go, and he’s afraid of the worst.

While you have every right to be, you’ve never been this angry with him. If he tells you he’s leaving on a mission before things are settled between you, it could cause an even bigger fight. If he doesn’t tell you he’s leaving, the rift it causes could be irreparable.

What he’s hoping for is that by giving you some time and space, he’ll have a better chance of fixing the mess he’s made. Even though he knows that’s a chickenshit excuse he’s trying to convince himself with, he’s out of time. He has to leave.

“I’ll love you forever,” he whispers. The sentiment he voices every time he leaves on assignment, except this time, he won’t hear your reply.

After experiencing your first aftermath of a full-fledged mission, you made him promise that no matter what was going on in your relationship at the time, you would always let the other know how much you loved them before he left—an effort to assuage the unspoken fear of him possibly not coming back alive.

A couple of months later, he had to leave again. You weren’t speaking to him then, angry over a stupid comment he’d made. Just as he was ready to walk out the door, you grabbed him, pulling him into a passionate kiss. When you released the death grip on his jacket, lips parting from his, you’d whispered. “Do you know how much I love you? My heart is yours …always.”

He’d stroked your hair, held your face in his hands, kissed your forehead, and said, “I’ll love you forever.”

“Forever’s a long time,” you’d teased back, trying to hide the fear he knew you felt.

Getting caught up in the moment, he’d laughed, “And that’s how long I’ll love you,” but he knew then and there that he’d never said truer words.

After that, the little exchange had become a ritual before he would leave. Today will be the first time those promises won’t be shared.

Pushing off the frame, he steals his heart and closes his mind against the feelings with a deep breath. Grabbing the bag he’d left sitting unpacked in the foyer, he quietly closes the front door, a note left propped against an empty vase on the kitchen island.

Puffy, bloodshot eyes stare back at you, and salty tear tracks stain your cheeks. You’d fallen asleep infuriated but bereft. “How could he forget?” Your dejected reflection has no reply. The only person who can supply that information is him.

After doing your best to clear the remnants of heartbreak from your face, you pull on one of his hoodies and make your way out of the sanctuary of the bedroom. Expecting to find him passed out on the couch or sleeping in the spare bedroom, anxiety hits when you find he’s in neither location.

Finding his note turns the fear to ire, and the vase angrily swept from the counter to shatter like your heart.

After two days of unanswered calls and texts, your emotions running the gamut of rage to heartbreak to fear, then back to anger, you finally settle on remorse. Rick left, with you angry at him. You had each promised that he would never leave without talking first.

You want to continue to be angry with him, furious that he didn’t talk to you before he went out on assignment, but concern for his safety wars with your temper. You had refused to speak to him that night, kicking him out of your shared bedroom. Knowing him the way you do, you assume he felt it best to give you space. It doesn’t make it hurt any less or diminish the fear. If something happens to him during the mission … “NO,” you shout, reprimanding yourself. “He’ll come home safe.”

You know that trying to contact Waller will only increase your frustration—she won’t give you any answers.

Clutching the pillow that still smells like him, you curl into a ball and breathe into the dark silence of the room, “My heart is yours,” crying yourself to sleep for the third night in a row.

With still no word from Rick the following morning, you know you need a distraction, or you will have a nervous breakdown. After calling work to tell them you are taking the week off—you want to be here when he comes home—you decide to clean the house. Having seen the broken glass in the fireplace, you opt to clean that as well, making a thorough mess of yourself and your clothes.

Shutting off the hair dryer, you step out of the bathroom in clean, comfy leggings and one of Rick’s sweatshirts, feeling refreshed and a little less stressed, until the doorbell rings.

As you race to the entryway, your mind immediately latches onto the worst thought. You stop cold, hand hovering over the doorknob, picturing the uniformed men on the other side waiting to deliver that blow to your heart. “No, no, no,” you breathe, “it’s not that. It can’t be that.” You’d know before anyone told you. You would have felt it.

With a deep breath, you turn the knob and yank the door open, startling the person holding a huge arrangement of flowers.

“Oh, hello!” the young man exclaims, handing you the flowers, calling, “Have a good day,” as he rushes back to his delivery van.

Stunned by the size of the bouquet and the swiftness of the whole interaction, your belated “Thank you” is uttered to the rear of the vehicle as it pulls away from the curb.

Luckily, the flowers came in a vase as you’d broken the only one you had large enough to hold them. You shuffle into the kitchen, your nose buried in the fragrant bouquet, smiling as you think about Rick explaining to the florist exactly which flowers to include. Every stem was a species of flower you loved or held a special meaning for the two of you, and each blossom was your favorite color, accented by tiny white petals and greenery.

Setting the arrangement in the middle of the kitchen table, you grab the small envelope nestled in the blooms and sit as you open it. A laugh strangled by a sob catches in your throat at seeing Rick’s handwriting, I’ll love you forever, on the tiny card within.

The relief at knowing he’s alive tamps down the heartache and frustration still simmering within you. Flipping the card between your fingers, you find another message on the back. Pack a bag. A car will arrive in thirty. Glancing at the clock on the stove, you realize you have a little over twenty minutes if you go from the time the flowers arrived.

Jumping up from the chair, you race down the hallway. Yes, the two of you need to talk through what happened the other night, but excitement at seeing him pushes all other emotions aside. Tugging a small suitcase from your closet shelf, you laugh, realizing you have no idea where you’re going or what kind of weather you should pack for.

A peek at the clock on your nightstand tells you that you’re down to fifteen minutes. After quickly changing into a comfortable pair of jeans and a top, you toss a few basics into the luggage, hurling curses at the framed picture of him on your dresser for not giving you more time. Shoving your toiletries, passport, and wallet in the bag, you zip it closed and take a look around the room. You’re out of time, so you hope you have what you need, and if not, then you guess you’ll buy it when you get wherever you’re going.

With comfortable footwear in one hand, you roll your bag to the foyer. The doorbell rings just as you drop the shoes to the floor to slip them on. A smartly dressed woman is on the other side, holding a small bouquet of purple calla lilies.

“Hello,” you say, slightly stunned by yet more flowers. Apprehension settles in that he’s trying to compensate for something, hoping to soften a blow not yet delivered.

She greets you with a nod and a smile, “Good morning,” and hands you the flowers as she reaches for your luggage. “Let me get your bag for you.”

“Oh, sure.” You lock the door as she wheels the suitcase toward a large SUV. Asking reveals no destination other than the airport, where upon arrival, you are ushered onto a private plane …alone.

Rick is not aboard, but he seems to have ensured that the crew pampers you, and you wonder how he made this all happen and worry about what it will cost him with Waller. He may have some favors owed to him, but you’re pretty sure nothing of this caliber—another item to add to your growing list of questions.

Your final destination seems to be an off-limits topic. Either the crew genuinely doesn’t know or has been warned not to tell. So you decide to do the only thing you can do—relax and enjoy the luxury, sipping your favorite drink and nibbling on the fresh fruit, cheese, and chocolates from the platter set in front of you.

You hadn’t planned on falling asleep and are startled when the flight attendant taps your shoulder to let you know you’ll be landing in twenty. Looking at the time on your phone, you find it’s late afternoon and in a completely different time zone. A peek out the window reveals nothing but clear azure water below. Anticipation and anxiety kick your pulse up. Excitement at finally seeing him mixes with latent anger, so you take a few calming breaths.

Another car awaits you as you exit the plane onto a small landing strip, but still no Rick. You’re heart plummets, and your gut churns. What if this is some elaborate hoax? What if you are being kidnapped and will be held hostage as leverage against Rick? The logical side of your brain knows that the thought is a bit far-fetched, but you dig in your heels anyway.

“Where are you taking me?” you ask the driver waiting for you. “Where’s Rick?”

“I am not at liberty to say, Miss.” You have received the same rehearsed reply from everyone you’ve asked.

Fisting your hands, you widen your stance as Rick taught you, tone demanding as you shout, “I am not going any further until you tell me where I am and where Rick is!”

The man is imposing, a mountain of muscle, so you have to give him credit when he doesn’t laugh, even though a corner of his mouth quirks up. He does stare you down, though, gauging your demeanor for a long moment. “Cute.” With a nod and a wink, he reaches for your suitcase sitting next to you on the tarmac, putting it in the vehicle as he chuckles, “Nice form, though. Flag teach you that?”

Sighing in defeat at the amusement spreading over his features, you unfurl your fists and huff, “At least tell me where we are.”

“Private island.” Opening the front passenger door, he gestures inside. “Now, get in. He’s waiting.”

With a roll of your eyes, you stomp over to the vehicle and climb in. Thankfully, the drive is short as your companion seems to be the strong, silent type—not offering any other information, no matter how annoying you make yourself.

Helping you out of the Jeep, he sets your bag beside you and points to a tree-lined path. “Through there,” are his vague, gruffly given directions before he hops back in the vehicle and speeds off down the road.

“Good thing I wasn’t planning on tipping you,” you yell at the taillights, grumbling as you drag your suitcase behind you, “Gonna file a complaint with customer service is what I’m gonna do.”

Rounding a curve in the path, your eyebrows shoot up as your eyes bulge. “WOW!” Before you is a large stone facade villa. A wood plank veranda seemingly wraps around the entire building, surrounded by palm trees and lush vegetation. Rick still hasn’t made an appearance, and your ire starts to overshadow the peacefulness of your surroundings. Once inside the open-air foyer, you spin in place, taking in the clean lines and understated beauty of the place.

“Gorgeous,” you murmur, staring at the intricately detailed design.

“I agree.”

You spin to face the direction his husky voice came from and drop your gaze from the inlaid teak ceiling to find him leaning against the doorjamb of what appears to be a bedroom. His hair is damp, and a towel slung low on his hips.

“I meant you, by the way.” Pushing himself upright with a shoulder, he smiles. “You’re earlier than I expected, but damn, you’re a sight.” Uncrossing his arms, he opens them wide. “I missed you.”

“Missed you, too,’ you state, fighting the emotions to keep the tremor from your voice when you catch sight of the large bruise now visible on his left side.

As you get closer, your eyes take stock of his other injuries—the bruised cheek, the cut on his temple almost hidden in his hairline, the split in his bottom lip—reminding you of how dangerous his missions can be. It makes you suspicious of how close you came to losing him this time. “How close?”

He tilts his head with a slight shrug. “Too close,” adding quickly, “but I’m here and only slightly damaged.” He knows better than to try and sugarcoat it because it only makes you angrier, but he still always tries to deflect from the seriousness of any injuries.

Everything you’ve been feeling the past few days converges, driving you to swing your hand up and slap him hard when you’re within reach. Tears immediately well in your eyes, and your chest heaves with each intake of breath.

Rick drops his arms and flexes his jaw. He knows you. He knows how badly he hurt you, how scared you were when you couldn’t reach him, how angry you are for him leaving without talking to you first. His gaze never wavers from yours, but he doesn’t move, seemingly waiting for an onslaught of rage-fueled words or another hit.

But you can’t—the relief of seeing him alive and standing in front of you crests and consumes all other emotions. You bury your face in his chest and wrap your arms around him as you release all your feelings with your tears.

“I’m sorry, baby,” he rasps, cocooning you in his embrace. “So sorry.”

When you’ve calmed enough to look at him, you slip your hands around his neck and pull him down for a kiss, feeling the tension ease from him when you press up on your toes to get closer. When you pull away, he thumbs the remaining tears from your cheeks. “I-”

“No,” you shake your head, letting him know you don’t want to get into it right now. He nods in understanding and gives you a sexy little smirk as he spins the two of you around, backing you into the room.

“So, we have this place to ourselves for the rest of the week.” He grabs something off the small table next to the door, and the room is filled with the low, sultry tune of one of your favorite songs. Next, the lights dim, and candlelit shadows dance on the walls as the sun sinks lower.

“Smooth, Flag.” You gasp when he spins you away from him and giggle when he twirls you back into his embrace. “Very smooth.”

You rest your head on his shoulder as he dances the two of you around the room, getting lost in the music, his scent, and the feeling of his skin against yours. Talking can wait until tomorrow. Forgiveness will be found. Tonight, you just want to feel. You’re about to tell him exactly that when he breaks the silence first.

“I know you don’t want to talk about it right now, but-”

“Then shut up.” Your tone is mostly teasing, but he stills, tracing the line of your jaw before gently tilting your head up.

“I want to make it up to you.” He steps back, slipping his hands under your shirt, and you don’t resist when he pushes it up and off your body. Large hands smooth down your sides, fingers deftly undoing your jeans, working them down your legs until you can kick free of them. “Show you how sorry I am.”

“Then show me,” you pout.

He runs a finger under your bra strap before hooking it around the elastic and tugging the fabric off your shoulder. “I think you’re still a little overdressed, darlin’.” He slips the other strap off your shoulder, kissing along your clavicle.

Reaching behind your back, you unclasp the bra and let it fall to the floor. You don’t realize how close you are to the bed until he pushes a thigh between your legs and leans forward, falling with you onto the mattress. He lands on a forearm to keep from crushing you but grips your wrist with his free hand, pushing it above your head.

A salacious smile follows a sweet kiss to your forehead right before he nips your chin. Sliding over your body, he kisses a path between the valley of your breasts down to your belly button, the scruff on his chin tickling your flesh. Before he can go further, you grip the nape of his neck and tug.

The twinkle in his adoring gaze when he rests his chin on your stomach momentarily steals the words from your lips. Breath hitches as you ghost a finger near the cut at his temple, tears well as the pads of your fingers gently glide over his bruised cheek, lips tremble when your thumb drifts lightly over his damaged lip. He releases your wrist, entwining his fingers with yours, and you find your voice again.

“I’ll love you forever,” you manage to breathe.

He arches a brow, a silent inquiry for stealing his line, but replies with a smile, “Forever’s a long time.”

You smile in return, squeezing his hand. “And that’s how long I’ll love you.”

@princessmisery666

#dw's witch writes #rick flag x female reader #dc universe #021424

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theroyalsims · 6 months

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BREAKING: PRINCE FONSI IS OFF THE HOOK - ROYAL WEDDING IS OFF! EX-ROYAL FIANCEE SILENCED BY GAG ORDER

Prince Fonsi is officially back on the market!

The Selvadoradan Royal Court, via an official press release, confirmed today that the much-anticipated royal wedding between Prince Alfonso and his now ex-fiancée Felicity Nowhanne has been cancelled. The brief statement is replicated and translated below:

"After much thought and consideration, His Royal Highness Prince Alfonso and Miss Felicity Nowhanne have mutually decided to go their separate ways."

The Prince, who just yesterday went on an official joint outing with his brother, King Ishmael, has yet to be seen publicly following the announcement.

(Above: Just yesterday, Prince Fonsi accompanied his big brother, King Ishmael, to a joint outing at Queen Dayanna Park where they planted a tree in remembrance of their late mother.)

Rumours claim that the proverbial straw that broke the camel's back was the outcome of the paternity test that Prince Fonsi demanded from his ex. Sources say that while Felicity was indeed pregnant, the test revealed that Prince Fonsi could not have fathered the child. One insider claims:

"He's not the father. She's pregnant, but it's someone else's baby. I think she was pressured to actually be pregnant so as to make sure that Fonsi would push through with the wedding. He's had his doubts. When he found out he's not the father, he severed all ties with her, much to the King's delight."

"The entire engagement was awful. There were fights - screaming matches. She was jealous, she had very difficult demands. She even clashed with the Queen. And then there's him. He was always off playing polo. He spent a big chunk of the engagement abroad, save for when there were scheduled joint outings. I think he spent more time on his boat or with his horses than with her, if I'm being honest. The whole think was just bad from the very beginning. She wasn't a saint, but he was horrible, too."

Meanwhile, Miss Nowhanne has reportedly been silenced by a gag order. The source further reveals:

"She's been silenced... there's a gag order. She had to sign an NDA. But I have it on very, very good authority that money was involved. She was paid off. His Majesty didn't even think twice about shelling out the money. It was a small price to pay in exchange for his brother's freedom."

As much as we sympathise with Prince Fonsi, we can't help but feel bad for Felicity and her baby, too - such a stressful situation can't be good for them! And with the gag order in place, Felicity can't even defend herself an tell her side of the story.

There are, of course lessons to be learned here. Fidelity, of course, is right there at the very top, but for Prince Fonsi, especially, maybe be a little bit more discerning, next time? Think things through - especially something as important as marriage. Also, you're a grown man... act like it! And stop hiding behind your big brother, perhaps?

Seeing how problematic Prince Fonsi's love life is, we can't help but think that Anya was right all along to say "no thanks" to this hunky Selvadoradan Prince!

#ts4 #theroyalsims #ts4 simblr #simblr #ts4 royals #ts4 royalty #ts4 royal family #ts4 royal story #ts4 royal #ts4 royal legacy #mystory #selvadorada #alfonso #anya

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toomuchracket · 1 year

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I’m in desperate need of some matty comfort please T_T I have been so exhausted and overwhelmed lately and I just spilled my dog’s food which was of course the proverbial straw that has led to a 15 minute long sobbing session. Can I please PLEASE request some very fluffy matty fluff (birthday party verse is my favourite)

Thank you, you are an absolute angel regardless of weather you choose to do this. I love everything you write 💖

oh babe :(( i know the feeling! thank you for your support, here is mine to you mwah

i've been thinking a lot lately about how you and matty would fall into the rhythms and routines of being a couple after being friends for so long - you've been in the same circles since you both moved to london in 2015, i reckon. and because you know each other so well, it's easy from the literal get-go, the morning after you first sleep with matty and confess your love for each other and stay over cuddled in his arms that night. you wake up first, and spend a few minutes just staring at his pretty sleeping face, before nature calls (lol) and you have to wriggle out of his arms and out of bed. because of that time your best friend spilt her glass of wine onto you at a party at matty's a couple of years ago, you know which drawer he keeps his t-shirts in (because he dragged you upstairs immediately and let you pick one to wear while he washed your jumper for you) - you pull out the same one you wore that night, a soft white jeff buckley tee, and pull it on over your underwear. matty's still asleep when you return from the bathroom, but you don't wake him; the band have just finished a lengthy tour (the opening performance of which you saw months ago in america, where you were finishing your own tour with your latest book), so you know he needs his rest. instead, you go through to the living room to find mayhem, who's so fucking excited to see you (this is reciprocated), and let him outside before calling him into the kitchen with you. it takes you a minute to find the dog food, but you set out his breakfast for him before making yourself coffee and taking it into the living room with you, grabbing your handbag from the hallway as you go. mayhem follows you happily, and jumps onto the couch beside you so you can pet him - you're like "ok i can't remember if you're allowed up here or not, but if we get a row i'll take the blame. but in return you have to listen to this new essay i'm working on, because i haven't read it out loud yet and idk if it works. deal?", and mayhem just licks your hand happily and lets you get on with it lol. and that's how matty finds you when he appears a few minutes later, curled up in his clothes on his sofa, reading softly to his dog; the sight is so sweet and domestic and just taken verbatim from his dreams that he actually tears up a little bit lol. but he recovers before he clears his throat and walks over to you, preening at the way your face lights up when you see him - you're like "hi, angel, i hope you don't mind that i didn't wake you up. and also that i stole your shirt and fed your dog and used your coffee machine. but i figured you needed the sleep". and matty kisses the top of your head and he's like "don't mind at all, darlin', i like seeing you make yourself at home here", and steals a drink of your coffee; you go all blushy before you're like "i'll make you your own coffee, you know" and matty's like "i should be saying that to you lol you're the guest", and you're like "yeah but i wanna spoil you". matty kisses you deeply like "mmm, you already did last night. dreamt about my head between your-" before you clap a hand over his mouth and go "not in front of mayhem he's a BABY" - matty lightly bites at your hand to get you to move it, which makes you both giggle, and then you leave mayhem to his own devices so you can go and make out in peace in the kitchen and make breakfast (again, you already know where everything is, having spent so much time in matty's kitchen over the years) lol.

and while you both write in different forms, you and matty have a shared understanding of weird processes and working hours and writing when the inspiration strikes - you don't get exasperated with each other for staying up too late or not being able to go out, as has happened for both of you in other relationships. instead, you provide support and cups of tea and proofreading/listening and synonyms and orgasms and whatever else the other needs (matty is SO GOOD at calming you down when you have a little freak-out about a deadline or your work not being good enough, which he thinks you're insane for thinking lol - he'll just hug you tight and whisper sweet things and praises into your ear until you're calm, and he'll look over your work to reassure you everything will be fine); you go out together when you can, but you're still spending time together while you're writing (and getting the most intimate glimpses into each other's psyches as you do, which is just incredible), so you're happy. the flexibility of your job, especially, means you're free to go with matty on most of his travels, but - if his more rigid schedule allows - he'll follow you anywhere and everywhere you go to research and write and promote your work too. basically, aside from one weird little hiccup a couple of weeks into your relationship (which i'm writing a fic about), the whole thing just develops so perfectly it's kind of insane, but neither of you are going to question it lol <3

#mads muses #mads answers asks #matty asks #fluff asks #into the birthday partyverse

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weirdly-specific-but-ok · 3 months

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Hello mascot what do u look like please? What colors do u have? Are you just a big wheel with eyes and communicate with us through text because hearing your voice would literally crush our eardrums? Asking for a friend.

Well that is an ominous ask I'm so tempted to say yes indeed I am the wheel of god. But no, in fact, a lot of maggots have heard my voice I literally never shut up on here idhfnwiuef?? I love the sound of my own voice a little too much. You can probably find me singing a lot on my blog. And talking, that too.

We don't talk about the live audio reaction of me realising Michael Sheen was in Twilight. Yes, I did burst into desperate tears right in the middle of a restaurant and everyone was horrified. It had been a few days into the kidnapping and I was fRaGiLe okay. Michael Sheen being Aro in Twilight was the proverbial last fucking straw. SHHHHHHH (...een. hahaha. im funny.)

As for what colours I have, my personality is very black-silver-wood-pink. If that helps. It probably doesn't.

As for what I look like, well, a less cute and more long version of my pfp self-portrait, which isn't terribly cute to begin with. I have been told I give off tiktok fuckboy vibes in real life more frequently than I would have liked. I give Crowley vibes in terms of gait and posture, but more than 50% of the time it's Crowley on laudanum vibes, without the Scottish part. Though I'm sure I can work on the Scottish part too. Sorry, Scottish maggots, I will put in more effort for you.

The posture part is far too real. I have somehow pulled my leg muscle by just sitting in the chair. Which is extremely bewildering because I've been David Tennant-ing chairs since I was five. Why did something get injured now I didn't even do anything extra weird? All I do is sit or sleep.

It could have been my responding to my mum's begging to exercise by saying yoga the way someone would say parkour!, and trying to balance my foot above my head on the wardrobe while still crammed on the desk chair.

I realise that this was a very unhelpful answer. I'm rather proud of that.

#good omens mascot #good omens #weirdly specific but ok #asmi #maggots #crowley #david tennant #and his war against furniture #been part of it since i was a smol smol kid #michael sheen #twilight #aro twilight #oh these goddamn tags #yoga posture #kind of #bad posture #exercising #also kind of.#scottish crowley

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bunny584 · 5 days

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I started writing this long reflection about media analysis, JJK and the impact of it and this entire fandom and your story but it'll work better once H&H is complete and I can make it less ramble-y and coherent. (oh look I'm rambling again just like the now-saved draft)

Instead, let's just dip into the moments that left the biggest impact because I barely held it together.

The P word and I gasped. Thankfully no one was standing near me on the train platform.

“You’re always to my left, Suguru.”

Now I want to go back and see if that's always the case?

But Satoru has revoked Suguru’s access to his voice and mind space. He’s retreated to the steel entrapment in his head. Leaving Suguru to fend for himself.

The mystique over his "really good eyesight" and their silent communication is so delectable. And then this happened, I can feel it.

Suguru can read any page in any person’s book, no matter the language. But he can’t seem to decipher her expression.

I loved the moments of accuracy during the active trauma. But this felt the most writing from what you know and your training as a physician. (and the chuckle from the doctor over the phone later, poor boy was too stormy to catch that but a doctor would NEVER do that if it was bad news!)

The joy of Fatherhood, given and taken from him in a night.

I have not experienced this type of loss, but I know people who have. And that type of grief is so intense. You didn't overstate or linger on it too long to undercut the feelings and space.

Will they survive this?

I know they will because you've said as much. But that didn't make this any less impactful. The journey and all....

He fantasizes about your precious love child.

Of all this chapter held, this moment was the proverbial straw. Especially with the dream of a girl. And the precious love of dads and their daughters. And now I am going to lose it again, just thinking of my husband and how he would've felt. (he also would've chosen me over the fetus like The Boys).

Satoru fails to swallow a gasp, and the cords tethering Suguru’s brain to rational logic snap in half.

A deft touch here, appropriately use of the intense emptions of sex and touch. I hope it is not their last (not that we need visceral descriptions of it, you've had great pacing without needing to keep reminding us of time passage)

His addiction to being needed is one he’ll never recover from.

Oh Sugu, your doting and motherhen-ing is adorable and I can't get enough of it.

I just want to like, ramble on and on and on. Wine, snacks, and a big comfy couch.

Jen my little angel 🤍🩷. I love when you do this to me with your juicy analysis and questions that make me think.

Long Author POV below:

1. The P-word. This was left field but of course she’d be. The boys have been filling her reckless. And part of me feels like their bodies knew. The way they doted on her in the fluff flash back, both kneeling to put her shoes on. They’re like dogs who sense their human is pregnant. Now though, with the loss. They’re going to be INTENTIONALLY trying to make another one. Even more desperate when reader pushes them away for a bit.

2. A reader actually made a comment on AO3 that they can’t wait to see the boys communicate more. Because it’s true, I’ve written them so in sync I leave a lot of their dialogue to the reader’s imagination. It was fun to force them to try and figure out how to verbalize things when they’re off step with each other.

3. Suguru being unable to read the doctor’s expression. *sigh* gonna get emotional here. They try to teach us divine neutrality in med school and residency. Delivering bad news while being empathetic but distant. You should be able to call time of death one minute, then walk into the next room and give another patient your 150%. I struggle with this. Elia struggled with this. I hope I did it justice with how it’s written

4. Girl Dad Suguru 🥹 I struggled writing his and Satoru’s reactions. I just wanted to explore the complexities of yes they love reader, yes they want more of her, but ultimately reader, NOT baby, is their priority. Full stop.

5. Satosugu soft sex. I hope this didn’t feel TOO out of place. Mostly because grief is MESSY. It does things to short circuit brains. And sometimes it makes you want to make love with someone to feel in control and warm and intimate. They both were crying and confused through it. And Suguru was so desperate to feel close to Satoru again. Satoru didn’t verbalize it but his “I’m so lonely” and “no, stay” was my way of hinting at that.

#bunnyblabs #H&H #Chapter 15/MTP

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chattingwiththelightkeeper · 2 years

Text

Seeing Something And Speaking My Mind

Be still when you have nothing to say; when genuine passion moves you, say what you've got to say, and say it hot. - DH Lawrence

I dislike, heck, I despise drama and the internet is full of it and so is the real-life world but there is a difference between someone who is dishing drama and someone who has found the courage to speak up and share their truth, even if it might be unpopular in certain circles, cause them to be disparaged, or much worse. There have been some events recently in these parts where some brave folks found their voices and decided to tell their experiences with someone who holds themselves as a community leader.

When all of this first started bubbling up, I was going to make some popcorn and if I needed a break from the stresses of the day head over for a little “reality TV on Tumblr” however three things have happened that caused me to change my mind.

First is my own experience. I could be off with the year but it was in BC Time (Before Covid), perhaps 2016/17. At that time I considered BG72 a friend however that all blew up when I shared my passionate belief that a d-type who is married and cheating should never earn a person’s submission. I argued that the community needed to call these people out because they are predators just like those scum bums who are often unmasked by the so-called tribe. For me, how can someone who is supposed to lead a relationship where honesty is a cornerstone head up a partnership that has dishonesty built right in? I was shocked at how quickly spite was slung my way and the minions of 144 who were once friendly suddenly refused to speak to me and/or chose to hurl insults. These indignities always came “anonymously” to my ask box which looking back makes me think of the quote “McKinley has no more backbone than a chocolate éclair”. I have since learned that my offense was not that I shared a passionate opinion with vigor but their tribal leader was one of those people I was speaking up and out about because at the time they were married, unfaithful, and dishonest. Turns out the T.R. adorer is a McKinley rather than the big stick they claim to be. One of the blessings of growing up “geek” is that I knew the bullying directed at me would slack off once the clan found a new target of opportunity. Just keep my head down, keep doing my thing, ignore that clique, and I will be left alone.

Fast forward present day and two things happened that upon rumination, added weight to my desire to share my thoughts while absorbing another round of name-calling, sticks, stones, and whatever else these bullies can send my way.

The first act that stirred my mind to think about using my voice was BG72’s post that one of the women speaking up, according to her conversations with the marble-man 144, was having a mental health crisis, lashing out, and in need of prayers. I believe everyone has or will have mental health issues at some point in their lives. When I saw that BG along with 144 were trying to weaponize mental health it made me see them as dishonest, corrupt, and unethical. Especially since both of these individuals always tried to make the world think they gave a rat’s butt about the mental health of others but my truth is if two individuals truly care about mental health, they both know better than use it to throw bombs. It is shameful to attack someone sharing their truth by saying what amounts to nothing to see here other than the rantings of an unwell woman. It is twisted, sick, and bigoted.

The straw that broke the proverbial camel’s back leading you to see these words, is the screenshots showing 144 talking about one of the women who has stood up and spoken up. You see he had helped relocate them from an abusive and unsafe situation. While this sounds so noble, I feel that when a person offers to step in to help a cause, situation, or person the assistance is given because it is the right thing to do, rather than for personal gain. 144’s own words show that his “help” is not offered because it is the proper and noble thing but for his selfish gain.

Hell, I financed her escape from an abusive situation in __ and got her back home to __, I think she owed me a little bit.

I intentionally left the locations out as I believe it is not for me to share that information and while this is out in public view, I feel it is not my place to include it.

So I am writing today not because I am a saint, above reproach but due to the fact I am a flawed human who has f’d up a billion times. Some of my screw-ups may make me an asshat to some, yet with that said, it does not change that I believe those who pursue and choose to set themselves up as community leaders should never bully, use mental (or physical) health as a weapon, and finally if you are going to lead anything, when you extend your hand to help someone up, it should not be followed by holding out your other hand out for some sort of payment or repayment.

If someone reading this should be a member of the “tribe” or is considering following that clique, I want to end this with one of my Mom’s most popular words of wisdom, ”You are who your friends are” and from what I have seen out of this crew’s leader and top minion, with friends like those, you will not need any enemies.

Finally, thank you to @flamingdumpsterkittn and @accidental-muse for stepping forward to share their truths.

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