#[ pretend the whole thing is written like the first chunk. i was WAY too lazy to write that whole thing like that
Note
Another season sparks another letter; the idle but warm hearted chatter of a delicate cerulean scrawl once again having found its way into the Khaenri’ahn’s presence. There’s far less purpose to it this time beyond an open stream of consciousness tinged with endearing eccentricity - but Jean feels better for having sent it, all the same. A note to let him know she is thinking of him. A note to remind him that someone still cares.
Dear nameless breath stealer,
Can you believe it’s been another three months already? The seasons seem to be passing more and more quickly this year, with Autumn already bringing changes in on the breeze. I always thought Mondstadt was very much a city for Springtime, but as the leaves change to shades of orange and brown I can’t help but think perhaps I was mistaken. Perhaps next time you get a chance to steal away from your adventures, you’ll be able to walk with me and see it? I can’t promise I won’t be fully embracing my long forgotten youth and kicking my feet through piles of leaves, but I think you’d enjoy it. It’s peaceful and perhaps even homely.
Not that I would dare to presume you need consider it a home of course! I know your roots lie in other places, but should you have need of a haven, at least for a little while, I like to think as a nation we might carry just enough charm to make it a pleasant stay. (And yes, dear knight, I am aware that every letter I send you sounds more and more like a tourist brochure for singing Mondstadt’s praises.)
I think I just want to show you so many things and share with you the snippets of mundanity that make me smile, it’s become a second nature now. The amount of times I’ll have walked past a shop window or seen a particularly nice flower and thought, ‘I know who would love this…’ is almost embarrassing to admit. Although these days, particularly now the nights are drawing in, it’s often more after dark that I find you once again in my thoughts.
It’s definitely one of the perks of the Autumn season; knowing that the sky will drawn in a little bit earlier and the stars will once again twinkle to life. I still wholly stand by my belief you may well have fallen from those stars, but should the moon ever come looking for you, I’ll gladly throw hands to defend your honour, my starlight friend.
And yes, alright, perhaps I am talking nonsense now. It’s been a long day, but sharing these odd little thoughts with you makes the distance that bit more tolerable. Although on the bright side, at least as the season changes lantern rite creeps ever closer.
In another few months, we’ll be back in each other’s company and keeping our time honoured tradition alive. But until then, know that I…miss you. And I hope above all else, that you are happy, healthy and safe.
Stay out of trouble, starshine,
- J. x
The letter is somewhat STAINED, this time, and the handwriting quite MESSY in comparison to its writer's usual pretty cursive. Her letter finds him amidst a time he needs it MOST, and whether or not SHE knew that, or the gods are playing the game of MERCY with him again, he shan't take a blessing for granted. Perhaps he could have waited until he isn't struggling with himself so the letter could be completely legible, but reading her letter, and swiftly sitting down to RESPOND to it, means he may bask in the feelings and emotions she grants him with ease even longer.
The happiness may be shortlived, but he will cling to it, as he always does.
[ su nshine in dark ti mes ,
im sorry if this letter is a strug gle to deciph er. i fair les s th an well at p resent. do n o t worry , this wil l not kee p me fr om seein g you at the lant ern r i te. of that, iam cert ai n and pr omis e you.
The love and admiration you house for your nation is a pleasant comfort; in that regard, we are very similar. The times I have found myself in or around Mondstadt, I have always felt a sense of home and belonging. Perhaps it is because I know you are there, working tirelessly to ensure it continues to feel that way for both myself and the others who both live and travel there. Regardless, I can say for sure that, of all the nations I have visited, Mondstadt is the one that seems to care for its people the most.
Were I to ever settle down, unlikely though it may be, I am confident Mondstadt would be in my favored choices to do so.
My travels have taken me far from your wind-embraced home, but there is beauty in knowing we are gazing up at the same sky every night. It makes me feel like the distance betwixt us is not so heartbreakingly massive, even if the sun may banish the feeling come morning time.
That you would compare me to starlight is strange, but not unwelcomed. I have certainly fallen, yes, but not from the stars. I have fallen in a great many ways. If I am, indeed, some sort of fallen star, however, then it is befitting that you are the sun. The stars are always out, and whilst we cannot see them during the day, they are there. I like to think they find peace and respite when the sun comes up. A chance to have a break, to bask in the beauties and purities of the sun.
Then, nighttime falls and the sun retreats, bringing darkness and loneliness as the moon then rises to take its place. There, the stars shine again. I used to think I preferred the latter hours of the night, when all is quiet and I may exist undisturbed, though I am starting to enjoy the sun, too. It is blinding and powerful, but beneath it, I find peace. I can merely . . . be. ]
There is a tear beneath this section, where the force of his unsteady hand has ripped the paper. With how ABRUPTLY the letter then proceeds to end, 'tis evident he'd been afraid of tearing it entirely. He needed SOMETHING to send back to her. Something intact, something to let her know she hadn't been forgotten, and that she, too, was missed.
[ i mi ss y ou too. re m em ber to tak e car e of you rsel f, s unsh ine.
~ D . ]
@gunnhildred ;;
#gunnhildred#[ pretend the whole thing is written like the first chunk. i was WAY too lazy to write that whole thing like that#and dain had a lot to say to his bbygrl. ;) <3 ]#muse ;; DAINSLEIF ( ANSWERED ASK )#muse ;; DAINSLEIF ( ♥ JEAN . GUNNHILDRED )
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Rent the Space Inside My Mind
1 I 2 I 3 I 4 I 5 I 6
Pairing: Eddie Munson x Female!Reader
Summary: This is quite the eventful day your both having, huh? I wonder what winter wonderland delights await you in the evening.
A/N: Ha ha ha this took so long oh my god. I'm still not happy with this, but it is what it is. The format is a little funky but it's because this was written in chunks and also frankensteined together a bit. I do hope everyone has fun though! I'm almost done with the next part, mainly because this was such a struggle and I ended up writing ahead of myself. Thank you my lovelies!
Warnings: Nothing I can think of, just a little self love ;) still 18+ minors g t f o please
The dim blues of the too early morning paint the wall, a small patch of pink sunlight glinting off the tacks holding up the posters there. It’s 6am, a whole hour before you’d normally be up but you’d gone to bed late and it’s bled through with a night of restless sleep. Those first couple of bleary minutes the only time your brain feels quiet and still.
The chill of the morning lingers, tips of your fingers cold where you groggily try to move your arms and hands to warm them up against your stomach under your shirt.
It’s when the grogginess is gone but you’re eyes haven’t adjusted to the light that you start the little patterns, dragging your finger tips over your skin and slowly inching the hem of your t-shirt up. Under the blanket is warm and you wiggle in further to tuck your nose below the edge of the comforter. Fingers continue their featherlight dance across your ribs, pulling goosebumps up along their wake and in the quiet alone you have for another hour, you can pretend they’re not your own.
Heavier, bigger. Thumbs calloused, rough where they drag just under the swell of your breast and the shiver runs right up the back of your neck, over the crown of your head. A little sigh and one hand roams lower, splayed wide and flat against the soft skin of your belly. Traces over your hip and up your thigh where it digs into the supple skin there, pulls it out and down towards the bed. The hand still at your chest pulls up on the shirt to get a handful of your tits, rolls the already hard nipple between thumb and forefinger earning a low gasp from you.
Haven’t even gotten to the good part yet.
You’d asked Eddie once, jokingly, just what he was doing to keep these girls around.
“Need pointers?” He’d laughed when you’d pushed his shoulder. Shrugged all cool and casual, chewing on the straw of his drink for moment.
“Got a talent for eating out.” A smug grin across his face when you’d coughed, choking on the sip you’d just taken.
“What, too crass? Are you blushing?!”
That had turned into a night of secret spilling and Eddie finding out you’d slept with some ‘real fuckin’ losers’, his opinion.
“So they just like, never offered?”
“No? Why would they? We were already fucking.” You’d mumbled that into the worn cushion of the couch, face down to hide your embarrassment.
“Because it’s fun?”
Fun.
He’d said it was fun.
Head buried between thighs and mouth searching, hands grabbing.
Hands that move from the inside of your thigh to your underwear to slide under the band and dip right into the heat of you, running lazy fingers through your folds, dipping lower to tease and gather slick to pull back up and right over your clit. Your head slides to the edge of your pillow and you let it hang over the short edge while a string of curses float out of you.
You imagine him in a dozen different ways. Hovering over you, laying kisses from your cheek down your neck and finally to your chest. Nipple between teeth while he buries his fingers deep in you.
Or leaned back on his heels, watching himself spread you open while he lazily jerks off, heavy cock twitching in his palm, whispering all the things your desperate to hear him say.
Mostly you picture his halo of curls, laying soft across your lap. Thick fingers dug into the meat your thighs pulling you closer to his face, keeping you pinned to the bed. Tongue hot while he runs the point of it through your folds, smiling against you when that sigh escapes you again.
The slow circles you’ve been working over yourself speed up, hand still kneading your breast and you hone in on the things you are familiar with.
The heat of him standing close. How his hands feel against you. The smell of clean laundry and smoke and whatever the hell deodorant he wears. That impish grin with his stupid dimples bracketing his pink lips. His mouth that never fucking stops. All the little personal ways he hangs around your life you play on repeat.
The white noise of quiet in your room turns to ringing in your ears, drowns out the pathetic little whines and moans falling out of you. The heat that’s been building low finally breaks, burns up through your abdomen and licks up your spine. A breathy sigh of “Eddie” and the heat hits your face, the blush creeping in fast enough to make you feel lightheaded.
There’s a few minutes where you’re locked up, knees pulled in tight together and back arched up off the bed while you come back down to earth.
Under the covers is still warm. Your limbs are pliant now. Your brain is buzzing and awake.
The clock is loud when it goes off next to your head, pulling you out of any kind of daze you were lingering in. A sigh puffs the blanket up around your face and you ignore the knot of guilt starting to form under your ribs.
Cold bites through your open coat while you dig around the inside pockets for your zippo. The two of you are close, leaned up against the front of Eddie’s van to absorb the left over heat.
“I think I left it at home.” You look up and he flicks his lighter to life in front of you, grinning over the flame.
“Figured.”
Cupping your hand around it to shade it from the wind gives you a little kiss of warmth from the fire. The early morning sun warming the back of your neck where it peaks out of the clouds. The van warming your thigh through your jeans. It’s cozy, this little moment. A breath in and a puff of smoke escapes your lips. Eddie pockets his lighter but doesn’t lean away so you stay close too and ask him if he actually did his homework for English. Share the cigarette between the two of you, foggy breath and smoke mingle with your voices while he tells you about his essay.
“It’s probably fine, I got wordy again, you know how O’Donnell feels about that. Figure I can scrape a C out of it.”
“Just a C?”
“She fuckin’ hates me.” He laughs and you let your eyes wander over his smile, watching the cigarette move in the corner of his mouth. “You wanna see it?” He’s digging through his bag where it’s propped on the small hood.
“Yeah, lemme see it.”
His fingers brush yours again when you grab for the smoke and you think about your early morning solo tryst. You cast your face down briefly so he doesn’t catch the stupid little grin on your face. He’s unaware when he fishes out his notebook and flips it open for you to glance at. You scan the page fast, it looks like yours and honestly, he might slide a B out of this.
Maybe.
“I think this was just busy work before break, so you might get lucky.”
“For once in my life.” He scoffs and you let out a sour little laugh.
Oh, just once?
“What?”
“Aren’t you always getting lucky?”
“Oh come on.” His grin is shy and he reaches out and snatches the cigarette right out of your mouth, earning him a gasp.
“Excuse me?” You slap at his chest and mange to push his shoulder away from you but he’s planted firmly in place. He raises his eyebrows at you, still grinning and laughing. Another little push and you hold your hand out, waiting for him to drop the cigarette back between your fingers.
“It’s not all the time.”
“Oh only when she sends out the call to arms?”
Eddie just sighs at you. Shakes his head and takes one last pull before handing the cigarette back. Around a mouthful of smoke he says, “You can kill it.” He gathers up his bag, stuffing the notebook back in and starts to turn around the corner of the van.
“Hey, I wasn’t trying to upset you.” You’re voice is small behind him and your tug on his bag slung over his shoulder makes him pause to look back at you. “I was just teasin’.”
“I’m not upset, I promise.” His expression is soft.
“Come on, I don’t want O’Dick bitching at me for being late too.” He flicks his head toward the front of the school, setting off again and you stub out the smoke, hot on his heels.
Her footsteps are light in the crunch of the gravel walking over the trail that leads out to the picnic table in the woods. Normally she tries to not meet him during school, just sneaking over to his van after the last bell before anyone can see. Today though she’d slipped a note in his locker when the hallways were dead.
‘Picnic during 3rd?’
She’s not embarrassed to be seen with Eddie. Well, not exactly. He’s just not her type per se, if he’s anyone’s really. She just doesn’t want to be seen with him is all. It’ll cause a fight and everyone will talk and that’s the last thing she needs, especially if Mark is actually trying to ask her to prom.
Look. Eddie is just…Eddie. He’s loud and obnoxious and arrogant and always smells like cigarettes and his hair is too long and and and-
And what.
He’s a nice guy. He didn’t make fun of her like her teammates when she didn’t even know how to smoke. He’d talked her through how to roll it, how to smoke it, how to hold her breath in till it didn’t hurt. All smiles and small talk and by the end of it they were something like acquaintances.
So back she went, another $30 in hand, to the picnic table in the woods and he’d been all jokes again. Asked if she needed help again. Made her feel comfortable again.
And then he had to go and ask her out.
Not out-out. He knew better than that. This was one of those quiet things that she’d heard some of the other girls talk about.
Fool around when parents aren’t home kind of thing.
Date with the back of his van kind of thing.
A little stoned stargazing and wandering hands at the lake kind of thing.
Still, she’d said no. She didn’t want secondhand dates, she wanted Mark and his first class ones.
Mark and Gwen. Gwen and Mark.
But Mark hadn’t said anything yet, all she had were the cheer teams whispers and her own intuition to go on.
(Maybe she did want those dates.)
Cornering him at his van, angled so no one could see her, she’d gone back on her own promise.
“Does that offer still stand?”
Of course it did, and she was sure he could draw a map from memory of her room by now. Eddie was fun because he was nice and because he was different but she could see the pit just in front of her now. How easy it’d be to say fuck it and walk him out in public in front of everyone. Show him off to all her teammates and turn her nose up at anyone who scoffed. Take a swan dive right into the dark depths of that chasm. Eddie was nice and he was good, and he was very nice and very good to her. He could be her little trailer park boyfriend and when she would inevitably ship off to Barnard next year she could drag him with her to New York and then!
And then? What? That pit again. Eddie was good and nice but he was what, a drug dealer? A failing senior? A trailer park kid with a dad in jail and a dead mom? Eddie was a pit.
Mark’s mom was a librarian downtown and his dad was a property lawyer for Harrington Development. He lived in Loch Nora, two streets from her own home. He didn’t even smoke weed, that’s how committed he was to basketball and making varsity. He was gonna go to Purdue and be a Boilermaker.
Gwen stops short when the table comes into view and she sees the back of your head, dark locks spilling onto the splintered wood.
“Oh.” It falls from her mouth before she can really think and you spin around, eyes wide and cigarette hanging from your lips.
“Hey! Uh are you-“
“Did Eddie send you?” Gwen’s gripping the straps on her backpack in an attempt to stop her stomach from plummeting. Did he send you out here to…to what? Beat her up? She’s heard about your temper and how short your fuse is and-
“What? No, this is my free period I just snuck out to smoke.” You’re up now, holding the cigarette in front of you as evidence. Gwen unwinds a little. “I didn’t know you two were meeting out here, sorry. I’ll make myself scarce.” You shoot her a tight smile and go to grab your stuff, ready to head back the way she just came.
“Wait, please?”
You pause, eyebrows raised in question.
“Can I…ask you something? Or talk?” She doesn’t even know what she wants to say to you. Gwen’s interactions with you have been third party through Eddie and she’s gotten the vibe that she wasn’t quiet popular with you or the rest of the gang.
“Sure.”
“You and Eddie aren’t like-“
“I’m gonna stop you right there.” You hold a hand up to her. You look annoyed and now she’s starting to feel it too.
“I’m just asking.”
“I know, and I’m telling you. We’re not an item, never have been. Just friends.” You’ve shifted back to sitting, this time facing her, leaned forward on your arms. Gwen keeps watching the cherry on the cigarette your fiddling with between your clasped hands like it’s keeping her focused. “I get what it looks like but he doesn’t-we don’t feel that way about each other.” Her eyes snap up to yours and she swears she can see a hint of panic in the crease of your forehead.
He doesn’t he doesn’t he doesn’t.
Gwen nods lightly and makes for the opposite bench. A long sigh escapes when she sits down before looking up at you again.
“I know you don’t really like me.”
“I never said-“
“Let me finish. I know Eddie’s canceled some plans with you guys because of us and that isn’t going to win me any favors. I also know y’all aren’t stupid. You know what this is. I’m not part of your little group of misfits. He’s your friend first, I get it, and I’m not…I’m not his girlfriend,” another big sigh and she shakes her head to clear it, “and I-I don’t want to be.”
Oof.
The silence sticks like the snow clinging to the roots around the trees out here. Gwen is still looking at you, looking for a response. Anger maybe, on behalf of your friend who’s being used. Sadness or jealousy even, over something you’ll never have with him. What she’s not expecting is the loud laugh you bark out. Loud enough to startle a bird out of the tree near you two. You take a long drag and rub a hand over your eyes.
“Listen, Gwen. I don’t hate you, but you don’t belong here.” You gesture at the space between the two of you. “That little confession isn’t news, did you think Eddie was trying to go steady with you?” There’s no cruelty in your voice and that stuns her more than if there was.
“I-I mean-“
“Sorry I know how that sounds, but Eddie? This isn’t his first time playing this game with your type. You guys fool around for a while and then you dump him when prom rolls around, or some jock finally notices you and takes you on a real date.” It’s so matter of fact, like you’d read her mind on the walk over.
Am I that transparent?
“I mean, he’s like king of the nerds around here and still pulling cheerleaders. Do you really think he cares about having to also take you on a date?” Okay that one was a little harsh, Gwen can feel the teeth sinking in to bite.
“He did ask me out, that first time.” She snaps.
He did ask me out.
“I don’t doubt that. He still hasn’t learned his lesson from Francesca. You don’t date cheerleaders if you don’t have a Letter.”
Fran had been one of the girls who’d told Gwen about Eddie, albeit a little cruelly.
“I took his virginity, your welcome.” She’d giggled at Gwen over her lunch, swatting playfully at her hand. “He’s a lot of fun, but he gets all googly-eyed if you’re too nice to him. Gets it in his head he has a chance.” The group had laughed and Gwen had felt a little cold.
“I wasn’t trying to hurt him.”
You stub out your cig in front of you and neatly avoid her gaze.
“I didn’t think you were. It’s…look, you’re breaking it off right?”
She nods.
“Better offer?”
Gwen wishes you wouldn’t say it like that. There’s no pretense anymore though.
“Yeah.”
You hum and nod a few times and cast a look over her shoulder, past her into the woods.
“Is he nice?”
Gwen’s taken aback again. Why would you care?
“I think so. His name’s Mark. I don’t know if you know him, but he plays basketball and he’s….the JV…” She’s trying to keep the quiet at bay but just trails off softly. Feels stupid for talking.
You pick at the table, face screwed up in thought. You’re quiet for a little too long and it has her looking around, wondering if Eddie even got the note.
“I don’t hate you Gwen, I’m just…jealous?” That brings her head snapping back around and you wave her off with an air of avoidance. “Don’t read into that. I’m glad you found your basketball prince or whatever just, don’t be mean to Eddie.”
“I won’t.” She means it, she was just going to be truthful.
There’s a beat before you slap the table and stand up. “Okay, I’m gonna get the fuck out of here because I don’t really need to see that in person. Try not to ruin his whole day, yeah?” You’ve already gathered your bag and started towards the trail back to the baseball field. All Gwen can do is nod, the nerves seeping back in with the cold that’s climbing up her legs.
Ahead of you there’s the shuffling of dragging feet through gravel and the familiar huff of someone who never runs the mile in gym. Eddie sees you first though, coming to a stop a few feet ahead of you.
“Hey trouble, what are you doing out here?” His face is screwed up in confusion, wondering if he’s misunderstood who the note was from when he sees your face pull into a tight frown.
“Ditching the library but I ran into your girl.”
“She’s not my girl.” Too quick to respond and he sees you chuckle.
“Yeah not for long man.” He wouldn’t say it’s glee written across your face, but there isn’t any regret there that’s for sure.
“The hell does that mean?” Eddie has an idea, had a feeling in the pit of his stomach this morning when he woke up. He’d planned on telling Gwen it was over by Friday, but it looks like she’s beat him to it. There’s a small sympathetic smile on your lips and you cross the space between the two of you to clap a hand on his shoulder.
“Just let me know if you need to drink about it later.”
He nods and rolls his eyes, a big sigh working it’s way out of his chest. The knot that’d been sitting heavy loosens a little under the warmth of your fingers.
He wants to walk back up to the school with you, leave this sphere of guilt out in the woods where he can forget it. He could just slide your hand off his shoulder and link it with his to drag you back up the trail and the two of you don’t even need to go back to class. It’s cold out, but he still has blankets in the back of his van and he can think of a few ways to keep you two warm.
Another nod, this one final and he steps around you to go find Gwen out in the clearing.
You don’t see him again until lunch when you rush him. So engrossed with whatever Gareth is telling him he doesn’t hear the squeak of your converse barreling up beside to tackle him into the wall.
“Jesus Christ!” Eddie’s elbow comes down in the middle of your shoulders and you just laugh. Bent over and smushed up into his ribs you get a face full of leather and clean laundry. Gareth jumps away to avoid his flailing but he’s laughing. Everyone else around you seems unimpressed with the display. You give him a big squeeze before letting go.
“Oh unclench.” You say to a passing group, all holding on to their lunch trays like your gonna slap them on the floor.
“You coulda broken my ribs.” Eddie is rubbing his side, mock hurt pulling at his features.
“You have flipped me clean over your shoulder and I’m fine! You’ll live.” You see Gareth’s eyebrows raising and before he can open his mouth you shove his face away, eliciting another laugh from him.
“Don’t be a pervert.”
Eddie is uncharacteristically quiet during lunch, both Gareth and you keeping an eye on him. He told you two the gist of it, his little woodland meeting.
“She told me about Mark.” He sticks his tongue out. “I should have know, prom is right around the corner.” He’s creeping in on himself, shoulders pulling down. “It’s whatever. I was getting bored anyways.”
The way he says it sits weird with you.
“Bored with sex?” You’re trying to lighten the mood. Gareth laughs into his pudding cup and he’s just full of giggles today it would seem. Eddie kicks him under the table.
“No, that’s not what I said.” Eddie is blushing now, floundering for his next words. You keep looking at him and it keeps making him stumble and blush more and mission accomplished.
“What, were you gonna break up with her?” Gareth asks like it’s the dumbest thing in the world. Yeah, why would he break up with the hot cheerleader?
When he doesn’t answer or look up from his chips, Gareth drops the sarcasm.
“Oh shit you were.”
Eddie does shoot him a look then, a silent ‘shut up’ if you ever saw one.
You keep it to yourself, but there’s a warmth that grows up the inside of you with the knowledge that he’d made the decision this time before it was made for him.
The crumpled up paper all over his floor is a testament to his stupidity. At least he thinks so because why god why is it so hard to write a letter to someone. He’s tried every iteration of ‘I’m obsessed with you, will you please kiss me’. Some of them had turned into half ramblings about some dream he’d had and he’s absolutely not giving you some R rated fantasy to try to win you over.
(The thought keeps crossing his mind though.)
In desperation he’d even thought about trying to write out some kind of solo player campaign that involved a maze and a riddle. He’d been halfway to writing it, stressed and sleep deprived when he realized how long it’d take and this was supposed to be a love letter for fucks sake.
He hadn’t given himself a timeline really, had just been thinking in afters. After he called it off with Gwen. After he wrote you an epic poem. After he got his head out of his ass.
But one of the afters, the most important really, had kind of happened out of step and it left him adrift.
When would he tell you? He couldn’t let this go on much longer, he’d run out of little trinkets to steal from you. He’d collapse in on himself if he had to suppress any urge around you much longer. He figures two weeks off of school would give him time to clear his head. Get to the new year. Hell, maybe even make his and yours New Years Eve a nice memorable one for once.
With one after out of the way he thinks maybe he doesn’t need the others.
Maybe…maybe it didn’t need to be a letter. He could just tell you. Just lay himself out, heart on his sleeve.
(Head would be firmly out of ass too.)
Even if you said no he knows you wouldn’t be cruel, not to him.
What if she doesn’t want to be friends anymore?
No. No he won’t let that happen because he’s so good at pretending. Pretending everything is fine and pretending he’s okay and that nothing is going wrong ever for him. Pretending that he’d be over you in an instant.
She’s gonna see right through that, genius.
Okay new thought.
You say yes. Of course you’d say yes, it’s Eddie! You’re already up each others asses enough everyone thinks your dating anyways. You’re comfortable around each other, you share secrets like you share food and drinks (and that lollipop that one time.) There’s no one else he’d rather hang out with normally, except maybe Gareth but he’s never wanted to pin him up against a wall and kiss him till he can’t breathe.
He’s pacing his room, small little lazy circles in the cramped space, chewing on a hangnail on his thumb. He’s lost in thought enough that he almost misses the phone ringing and he bounds down the hallway to the kitchen.
“Hello?”
“Took you long enough. What, were you jerkin’ off? Too busy to answer me?” You joke around a mouthful of something. Eddie can hear the clink of a spoon in a bowl from your end.
“Ha ha.”
“Seriously, what are you up to?” You cut to the chase. It’s Thursday so both Wayne and your mom are working overnight and Eddie’s brain starts working overtime. Could just tell you tonight, force his own hand and spill his guts. Could be a Christmas miracle instead, one thing going his way for once.
“Nothing special. Wanna come over and waste a perfectly good evening?”
“I thought you’d never ask.”
20 minutes later he hears you outside, coming up the steps and before you can knock he swings the door open.
“Thanks for dressing up.” He smirks, looking you up and down. Ratty jeans under oversized hoodie under secondhand peacoat. You scoff hard, one of his favorite sounds you make.
“Oh fuck you Munson. I bring you booze and you critique my attire?” You half pull out a bottle from the folds of you coat to show him. “Like you’ve got any room to talk.”
“My apologies, I didn’t know we were partying.” His hand slaps against his chest and you push him out of the way, smiling as you filter into the trailer. The bottle goes on the kitchen counter and you toss your coat over the back of the recliner.
“I figure we could skip tomorrow. Last day before break, you know we aren’t doing shit. Also I figured you could use a drink or three.” You’re busying yourself in the kitchen, finding glasses and grabbing a soda out of his fridge. Eddie hasn’t said anything because he’s realizing a fatal flaw in his plan, where if he tells you how he feels then you’ll know how he feels. Having you in the same room as his thoughts makes it evident that he needs to figure his shit out.
“I told you I’m fine.”
“I know, but getting dumped for Mark the Hoop King can’t feel great.”
“I mean, honestly I wasn’t that invested.” He shrugs, coming over to lean on the outside of the counter and watching you crack open the fifth of jack you definitely stole from your mom. You shoot him a doubtful look under the cabinets. He feels like he might start vibrating if he keeps thinking about telling you anything ever.
“If you say so.” The glass you push towards him is more liquor than soda and Eddie grimaces before even taking a sip. Knows it’ll burn. Knows it’ll loosen his tongue. He downs half before he can talk himself out of it. You cheers the air in front of you and follow suit, sucking your teeth when the glass hits the countertop.
“What are we watching tonight?” The strain on your voice makes him chuckle, your own drink working against you.
“I got The Dead Zone if you want to watch something horror, and I also snagged the last copy of Year Without a Santa Claus because I know you can’t get enough of the snow miser.”
You let out a gasp and clap your hands together, gathering up your glass and shimmying over to the couch. You look at him expectantly where he’s still leaned up against the counter and gesture at the tv set.
“Well come on! Santa’s not gonna get fat without us.”
Eddie gives you another smile and heads to his room to grab the cassettes off of his dresser. On his way back into the living room he sees you pulling your feet up onto the cushion, adjusting around until you’re comfortable.
Down deep he lets himself have a moment.
He can pretend when he sits down next you he could snake his arm around you and pull you close. Smush his nose into your hair while some claymation character sings about the joy of the season.
Instead he grabs the bottle from the kitchen after getting the tape set up and drops down on the opposite side of you. Swings his legs up to shove his socked feet under your calf. You laugh through your nose and settle into the couch further and he supposes this is good too.
When the credits roll the both of you are tipsy, more so you since you’d taken Eddie up on his game. Any time you felt the need to recite along with the movie, he’d pour a little more into your glass, effectively turning it all into whiskey. He took a few swigs in solidarity with you but he was finding your rosy cheeks and giggles a little distracting, loosing count of how many sips behind he was.
“Laugh at me all you want, I love Rankin and Bass. There’s an Easter one I’m gonna make you watch in April.” You’ve stretched out alongside Eddie, feet wiggling beside his shoulder while you nurse the half full cup clasped between your hands.
“You’re not gonna make me do shit.” His laugh rumbles quiet in his chest. He sounds a little buzzed, voice deeper from the drinks. His own feet are stuffed behind your back and he moves them around, jostling you lightly. You laugh and tell him to stop, slapping his knee.
“I’m gonna spill my drink!”
He does it again and you dip your fingers into your cup and flick the liquid at him.
“That’s low!”
“Stop kicking me!”
He sits up and leans forward, hands reaching for your glass and you try to pull it away but he hooks a finger on the rim.
“Ed-!“ and tips it forward right into his lap. Neither of you jump to move out of the way, accepting the sticky fate right off. The hand you’ve slapped over your mouth is doing nothing to hide the laugh that’s shaking your shoulders. Eddie stares down at this lap and then back up to you which seems to send you into a harder fit of giggles.
“Here let me-“
“I just need to move my legs-“ It’s a scramble to get off the couch before anything sinks too deep into the cushion. You can see Eddie trying to hold back laughter himself but refusing to break a smile in front of you. He stands awkwardly in the middle of the living room with his hands out to his side and you just can’t seem to stop laughing at his awkwardness.
“Okay. I’m gonna go change, try not to make any more messes while I’m gone?”
“Me?!”
He’d shuffled around his room before heading into the bathroom and you’d taken the opportunity to switch the movie out. Standing in front of the tv waiting for the credits to roll you notice a wet patch on your hoodie that’s soaked through to your shirt. “Ah, Eddie what the shit.” Wobbling slightly down the hallway to his room to root around for a t-shirt that would fit, you hear the shower kick on.
It makes you pause, the haze of liquor whispering at you to lean forward. Press your ear up against the door lightly. There’s shuffling and a small bump followed by Eddie’s quiet cursing. The shower curtain pulling open and closed. The heavy thud of your heartbeat in your ear. You trail a finger down the door, hand hovering near the handle before you startle and pull your hand back.
What are you doing?
Getting a shirt. Yeah. A head shake to get your brain right, you aren’t even drunk what are you doing?
You shut the bedroom door behind you and strip off your sweatshirt and top, pulling open the bottom drawer of his dresser where all his shirts are shoved in haphazardly.
“How do you find anything in here.” Mumbling while shuffling through all his shit, you find a faded out ren fair shirt and when you stand up a glint of metal catches your eye. His little secret drawer he was gatekeeping his weed in is ajar and just inside is…your zippo? You’d thought you’d just left it at home this morning but now it’s here.
You shove the shirt on and open the drawer completely to see, yep, your silver VFW zippo slide fully into view.
Along with an assortment of things.
Frowning, you sift through some smaller hair clips that you swore you’d lost at school or in the chaos of your car. There’s two eyeliner pencils that you’ve replaced twice now. A lipstick you’d bitched about misplacing.
And your tiefling minifig.
Eddie had been adamant you hadn’t left it at his or Hellfire. Had said he hadn’t seen the little purple figure you’d spent a few hours painting delicately.
What the fuck.
You wrench the drawer open all the way and and see a handful of picks and two rings you reallythought you’d lost in the mayhem of the locker room after gym. Some folded up notes you’ve passed him in classes. There’s fabric bunched up at the back that you shake out. It’s the Dead Kennedys shirt you’ve been missing for months.
What the fuck Eddie.
You pick up the little wooden box, expecting to find more of your shit in it but it’s what’s underneath that catches your attention.
You only pause for a moment, an upside down polaroid could be anything, or anyone really, but you don’t care right now because he has a drawer of your shit and-
The edges are worn a little like it’s been handled frequently, a corner of the white tab bent just a little.
The wooden box is clutched against your chest, knuckles white with the tightness of your fist holding it to you.
You’ve never seen this photo. You’ve got an idea of when it was taken, you’ve only dressed up like Elvira the one time.
Your eyes are roaming the photo, looking for…what? Your hand in the bottom of the photo keeps snagging your attention. Dark nails dug into dark denim.
Is this how he saw you? There’s an itch at the base of your skull that feels like fire and your mind rolls in it. Maybe you weren’t crazy after all, pining after Eddie Munson. Your stomach does a somersault at the notion.
The trailer is quiet around you, some truck going by outside but otherwise nothing. The creak of the hinges being flexed under your hand where you’re blanking out in the quiet.
You don’t hear the bathroom door open or Eddie wandering out to living room to see you gone.
Mind going a mile a minute piecing the puzzle together.
This was last year, so he’s had this for a whole year and then a drawer full of shit he said he hadn’t seen and my zippo that I just talked about this morning did he take it out of my pocket-
“I see how it is, you snoop while I’m in the shower.” Eddie’s voice is a clear cut through the tornado sirens going off in your mind. The door opens behind you and you see him in the mirror toweling off his hair.
“I keep telling you you’re gonna find-“ He’s dropped the towel and pushed his hair out of his eyes to see your back to him, watching him in the reflection of his mirror. His eyes flick down to the top of his dresser where the contents of the drawer are sprawled out. Panic blooms over his face when his eyes find yours again and he notices your hands in the mirror, clutching the box and-
Oh my god no.
He thinks his heart has ceased beating, might even have brain leaking out of his ears. He watches you turn around, sees your eyebrows drawn together. He can’t tell if you’re angry or worried or scared? Maybe all three. Holds his breath till you say something because he hadn’t thought about this outcome. Had thought he’d been good about keeping it hidden, his stupid fucking crush on you. Tucked under boxes of weed or in pages of books. Under a mattress. In a breast pocket.
Eddie can hear the deep breaths you’re taking and he wonders how you’re finding oxygen in this room.
Your voice is quiet when your eyes search his, holding up the picture.
“Ed?”
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#Eddie Munson x reader#Eddie Munson x y/n#Eddie Munson#Eddie Munson fanfic#My Work#My Fic#Bitch this is long?#like long long??? shit#The weight is off my shoulders#I can finally get to the fuckin parts#Rentfic
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When Descriptions Turn Boring . . . (and How to Fix Them)
One time, years ago, I went to a writing conference, and while there, one group of people decided to organize a "first chapter" critique meet-up in the evening, where anyone could come and get feedback. It was great. But one of the people leading it brought up regularly that he hated description. Whenever someone read a description that was longer than two sentences, he commented that he hated description. Seemed a bit erroneous to me. I sort of worried that someone there would take his opinion to heart.
You see, I don't believe that most people hate description.
I believe that most people hate boring description.
A lot of people today blame technology for making readers unable to sit through a passage of description, and they argue that instant gratification has dulled their patience. This is only a half-truth.
Yes, technology plays a role in the way description should be written today, but not because we are all more lazy. Because of accessibility. You see, back in the day, the average person didn't have access to all the information we have now. A reader might not have actually known what a bayou in the South looked, smelled, and sounded like. They might never have been to the desert. They maybe had never tasted wasabi. Or seen a giraffe. Or heard an Irish accent.
Technology has made information and descriptions on these things all more accessible. And yes, more than technology has done this--I mean, I can go to any Japanese restaurant to experience wasabi--it's always there.
This is one of the reasons writers nowadays are sometimes discouraged from writing dialects like Mark Twain did; today, we all know what that accent sounds like. Instead, we just tell the reader they have an accent and then we sprinkle in some regional phrases here and there.
Technology didn't make us lazy (well, maybe it did in some sense); it made us more knowledgeable.
Which means . . .
- a long passage of description of something we all know all about already can get boring.
- Likewise, descriptions that are exactly what we would expect get boring.
- Descriptions that have generic, "vanilla," and unimportant details get boring.
- Descriptions that slow down the pacing of the story too much get boring.
- Descriptions that are stagnant get boring.
- And descriptions that are too abstract and vague, use too many adverbs and adjectives, or become purple prose can get boring . . . or at least, annoying.
To be honest, our taste for description has probably changed a lot over the last several decades.
But that doesn't mean that it's something everyone hates and should always be axed (like what was touched on at that meet-up). After all, appealing to the senses is still one of the most important writing rules to utilize. I mean, if the reader doesn't feel like they are experiencing the story, then the whole story might turn boring itself.
What it means, though, is that we probably need to approach descriptions somewhat differently today than in times past. We need to take our descriptions to the next level. Here are some tips to help with that.
Use the Amount of Description the Scene and Pacing Call for
Big, long chunks of description in a scene that focuses on a heated argument or that you plop into the middle of a fast-paced sword fight probably aren't going to be welcomed. They're going to be annoying. And they can derail the moment.
Consider the purpose of the scene. Is it a scene about a boy wizard entering a magical school for the first time? Or is it about an argument between the protagonist and her boss who just fired her? The first example calls for more descriptions. Raise your hand if you have actually ever been a boy wizard that entered a magical school for the first time. Anyone? Anyone? No one. If that is what that scene is about, then by all means, use more description in that scene, so that the audience can experience what that is like.
Have you ever been in a heated argument at work? How much of the setting and details did you notice? Now, let's stop for a moment. Because that's actually two things in one. Unless something unusual was going on in the workplace, you probably tuned out much (though not necessarily all) of the setting. But that doesn't mean you didn't notice anything. For example, you may have noticed the way a vein bulged on your boss's forehead. Or that his brown eyes are bloodshot. Or that you look stupid because of the lunch stain you just saw on your shirt. In any case, while there will be some description in here, it won't be as much as the prior example. And if you add as much, it will kill pacing--because that's not what the scene is about, that's not what the reader is here for.
Keep in mind that often pacing trumps description in priority. You can have the most riveting paragraph of description, but if it's bringing your sword fight to a grinding halt, it may need to go, or be whittled down to a single, brief sentence.
This is sort of a thing you have to develop an eye for, because in reality, I'm sure there is a sword fight out there somewhere that has a long paragraph of description that actually contributes instead of takes away from the appropriate pacing.
That's why these are guidelines. But in general, consider the purpose and the appropriate pacing of the scene.
Likewise, take into account how familiar or unfamiliar the audience is with the experience you are about to describe. The more familiar and mundane, the less description you probably need. The more unusual, the more you probably need. In general.
Use Description that Says More than What's on the Page
Like almost every aspect of great writing, great description often relays more to the audience than what is on the page. I've talked about this with subtext, I've talked about this with dialogue, and I've talked about this with developing side characters--a story is more satisfying when it's bigger than the text. A straightforward description that is all it appears to be is not as interesting as one that implies more.
For example, describing an ordinary pottery bowl doesn't tell me as much as one that has been repaired using gold (the Japanese art of kintsugi, if you are familiar with it).
Likewise, in Brandon Sanderson's Mistborn books, one character's library is described as having loads of scholarly and philosophical books, but all the spines are stiff and straight and none of the pages are dog-eared and each volume is dusty. Those are details that mean something. They go deeper than just the surface. They tell us about the character. He likes to talk and pretend to be scholarly, but he actually hasn't put in the work or research to be a scholar.
Describing a regular cement driveway is one thing. Describing one that is covered in chalk with misspelled words and a hangman game implies much more.
Description can only be straightforward for so long before getting boring. Make it do double duty.
Use Description to Give us Insight into the Viewpoint Character's Worldview and Feelings
Putting in description is one thing. Putting in description that is colored by your viewpoint character's experience and voice can be totally different.
Imagine how a dog-hater would describe a dog park different than a dog-lover, and still different from someone who is allergic to dogs. When you color the prose with viewpoint, description becomes much more interesting.
This can be a great way to communicate the world and the character to the audience all at once. (Again, notice how this leads to the description doing double duty). For speculative fiction, this can also provide the audience with more context.
Select Unique/Unusual/Unexpected Details to Describe
Describing a character wearing a white t-shirt or a school desk as having four legs is so boring, it's forgettable and might as well be left out of the text. Describing a school desk as having a lightning bolt carved into it, so that the protagonist's pencil consistently gets caught when he's trying to do math, is more interesting because it's unique.
Watch out for describing things that the audience will already imagine a certain way by default. For example, describing the desk as having four legs is boring because by default, the audience already imagines that school desks have four legs. Or describing the sky as being blue with the sun being bright and yellow is boring, because we all imagine it that way anyway (unless you are on an alien planet where it's usually different). When we constantly deliver exactly what the audience expects, they get bored (and this is true of other features of writing), but when something is unexpected, they become more interested. This goes back to what I talked about in the opening. Readers don't need a long description of what it's like to take a hot shower--most of them already know what that's like to do every day (well, every day here in the U.S.). However, you can get away with some of that if--once again--the description is doing double duty. If it's really not about describing the hot shower, but using the hot shower as an extended metaphor for something else--say becoming morally clean (a cliche, but it serves my point).
One caveat to this tip. The more unusual, the more focus it consumes. Meaning, if the point of the scene is about the protagonist arguing with a boss who just fired her, then a really wild, unexpected detail, may pull the reader's attention away from where it should actually be (the conversation). Sometimes you need description there but don't want it to distract from something else. In cases like that, it's okay to have a brief, more general description (but please don't have it be about the school desk having four legs). Remember, focus and pacing trump description. Description should contribute to controlling focus and pacing, not take away from them.
Utilize Movement and Change
Something that is not moving or changing can get boring fast. Sometimes we can describe everything we need to in a scene with some good blocking. Other times we can bring stationary elements to life by suggesting change or motion.
Blocking is a writing term borrowed from plays. It relates to everything the characters do in relation to setting and each other: walking across the room, cooking eggs on a stove, putting a hand on the other's shoulder--all of those are blocking. Every time the reader is introduced to a new setting, you don't need to grind the story to a halt and describe it. Instead, you can use blocking to weave in description over the course of the passage: "I open my mom's fridge, which looks like cupboard," "She washed her hands in an old copper sink," "I smoothed the wrinkles on his button-up shirt and brushed off a crumb," "He put out square plates that had gold on the edges."
With that said, I do want to note that when the viewpoint character is introduced to a new setting, it's more acceptable to pause for a moment and describe the place, since it's new to them--as long as it doesn't (again) take away from pacing. However, if the viewpoint character is being introduced to a setting the reader has already visited several times in the book, you might not need to stop and describe much (unless, let's say, it's doing double duty--like giving us insight into the viewpoint character). Follow the needs of the story.
In some descriptions, there may not be any inherent motion. For example, imagine describing the view of the Grand Canyon from a specific lookout. Unless there are birds flying or critters near your feet or wind hitting tree limbs, there isn't going to be much motion. It's brilliant. But it's not moving or really changing as you look a it. This can turn into a boring description. So instead, what you do, is give the impression of change and movement. You mention how bands of color dart through the walls, how one rock stretches up toward the sky, how the river once carved out the canyon. You can learn more methods such as this one, here.
Giving us a sense of history about the place can also help.
Elevate the Prose
Descriptions are more interesting when they are rendered in an elevated style. Keep in mind, this is NOT purple prose--writing that is trying (and failing) to be powerful and dramatic. I talk all about purple prose and how to write elevated prose in this article.
But real quick, I will mention a few points here. Elevated/poetic writing doesn't mean caking on the adjectives and adverbs and dramatic similes. It starts with one of these three things.
The Idea:
The best writers have fresh ideas. It might be their worldviews. Or it might be unique observations they've picked up from life.
And some of the best descriptions have unique ideas attached to them that make them beautiful, that make them significant, that make them feel like they could be poetry.
It's the fresh perspective of the thing you are describing that is interesting.
The Image:
The thing about purple prose is that it's taking something ordinary and trying to describe it in a way that sounds amazing.
You can do that sort of thing, but it's the image that counts. (Not all the fancy adjectives and adverbs you loaded onto it in purple prose.)
Great poets know it's the image itself that makes a moment amazing, not stacking on a bunch of modifiers.
I love the image of fog that J. Alfred Prufrock includes in his poem "The Love Song."
The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,
And seeing that it was a soft October night,
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.
Prufrock is making a stanza sound elevated by rendering an interesting image: how yellow fog is like an animal.
The Concept:
Some things feel dramatic, significant, or meaningful because of the concept. What the writer thought of to put on the page.
You could say this is similar to ideas, but to me, the ideas are the worldviews and insights attached to the description; concepts are the content of what is happening or exists. Concepts are more like the thing itself.
A tree trunk with a heart and initials is one thing, but a tree trunk with a suicide note carved into it is a concept that has more meaning to dig into.
It's hard to talk about writing in elevated prose succinctly because it's actually rather complicated to break down and so easy to do wrong. But if you want to learn more, read my purple prose post.
I would also say things like symbolism and extended metaphors help elevate the description as well, and therefore make it more interesting.
Finally, I want to briefly mention one other problem with descriptions that come up--descriptions that take away from the tone of the passage. Sometimes a description is bad because it doesn't fit the tone. You can learn all about tone, and that in particular, here.
And as always--don't forget about appealing to all five senses. We have more senses than sight.
Now go forth and write!
#writing tips#writing tips and tricks#writing reference#writing help#writing lesson#description#writeblr#writing advice
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DuckTales 2017 - “The Richest Duck In The World!”
Story by: Francisco Angones, Madison Bateman, Colleen Evanson, Christian Magalhaes, Bob Snow
Written by: Madison Bateman
Storyboard by: Stephanie Gonzaga, Vaughn Tada, Brandon Warren
Directed by: Matthew Humphreys
The calm before the moon-related storm.
Our episode begins with a flashback to the very day when Scrooge McDuck became the richest duck in the world. selling his entire mine of haveyouseenium to a man named Mr. Zee. Because of this deal, he became the richest duck in the world, and he gets surrounded by a pink aura that spreads across the land. No, not the kind of aura that would turn into a stapler, but an aura that will attract a certain "he" that Mr. Zee describes in a rhyming riddle.
Mr. Zee: He cannot be bought, he cannot be fought, though riches you've got, your life will be fraught, until you have earned the one thing you have not!
Scrooge: Who is "he"?
Mr. Zee: The Bombie! So long, no take backs!
I'd talk about who or what this Bombie is, but the episode makes us wait, too. All we see is Scrooge happily dancing, knowing very well that the threat of the Bombie should be nothing to him. He then looks at something that caused the earth to shake, and he makes a face that can only come before the theme song.
After the theme song, we cut to the present day, where Scrooge gets to hear the good news about all the money he's going to get from Louie after his successful plan. That is, none of it! Turns out, the title is not referring to the Richest Duck in the World we all know, but his nephew, who, in the Louie Inc. plot's big payoff, has inherited the McDuck fortune against Scrooge's will! Many would expect, including Zan Owlson in the show itself, that this would lead to a "sea monster ate my ice cream"-level tantrum from Scrooge.
Somehow, that tantrum doesn't happen, as he just walks away laughing at this, telling Louie that he can call him anytime to give back his title. Is this really the same Scrooge that went insane over 87 cents? Sure, he knows where the money went, which is half of the reason why he went insane in that episode, but still, this is Scrooge. Maybe he's just that genre-savvy that this will not last.
While all of this is happening, we finally get something that has some relation to the upcoming Moonvasion, which is still unknown to anyone on Earth. This even includes Della Duck, who is still making space-video-calls to her friend Captain Penumbra, who isn't calling back for some reason. However, nothing can stop Della Duck, so she decides to show off the children that aren't currently doing "complex business deals."
...and Dewey is dabbing. Unfortunately, Mark Beaks is not the only person who is willing to dab in public.
Unfortunately, Dewey ruins the moment, in an intentional-by-the-plot way, not a "why are they doing this" way, even more by knocking into the camera after trying way too hard to do a backflip. Oh, Dewey. This distresses Della, as she really needs to find someone with a camera! Huey and Webby get distressed as well, as Dewey is getting really excited at his own idea...
...a special moon-focused episode of Dewey Dew-Night, with special guest "Mom"! Even in-universe, it doesn’t exactly bring that much excitement to anyone, as her stories of being lonely on the moon for a significant chunk of her life are more downers than knee-slappers.
They go back and forth between this show and the main plot, and all that really happens is that Della is led to wonder if Penumbra is really her friend. Also, Webby tries to bring in a real raccoon. There's a running gag with that.
As the talk show of the century is happening, Zan Owlson gets to learn that going from a manchild to a literal child is not an upgrade. Louie is completely uninterested in her strategies to grow and maintain his newly-gained company. In his new suit made entirely of emeralds, he sits on his giant chair, and trying to find a comfortable position to put his legs.
Suddenly, Johnny and Randy of the Ottoman Empire show up, still mad at each other. That plotline with the Ottoman Empire's breakup does come up once in a blue moon in this season, and while I wasn't expecting a whole episode on the resolution to that, I was wondering if they would resolve it in this season. Turns out, they will, thanks to Louie convincing them to reunite with a heartwarming speech about comradery.
Just kidding, he offers them 100 million dollars, and they just can't refuse that kind of money even if they hate each other. Plotline over!
He then turns on his phone to play a song he definitely invested money into: Mo Money, No Problems! This song doesn't appear to have lyrics. I'd say that might be for the best, but that's still some missed potential.
The vulture capitalists aren't too happy about this recent $100 million dollar investment into the "Bring Back The Ottoman Empire, And Not That One, Djinn" business. Just like they were in the very first episode of this reboot, they suggest cutting funds to the "magical defense" in the unknown-because-Scrooge-struck-it-off-the-maps island in the Herod Sea. Louie agrees, probably just to get these old guys to hush about their nagging.
The very minute they press that button, Owlson shows up to tell Louie that something terrible has happened in the island in the Herod Sea. Louie eventually agrees.
As for the former richest duck in the world, he's going to try to be lazy like Louie. This potential for a plot lasts about a few seconds. As he's watching the fully funded return of the Ottoman Empire, just like Louie would do, he notices that Johnny and Randy are talking about the importance of work. They technically worked for that 100 million plus whatever else they made from being celebrities, as they did have to make that emerald-studded footstool, though they certainly wouldn't tell the audience that most of that is from one little rich kid.
With that speech about work, he almost immediately gives up the laziness, and sets out to remake his fortune. How? By shoe-shining, just like he did to get his Number One Dime. However, he's going to do this in a modern world where few people wear shoes. Even he realizes the problem with this eventually.
Back to Louie's first big adventure as a gajillionaire, he goes to the island with Owlson and Manny, with Launchpad as his pilot. He even convinced Launchpad to color the Sunchaser green. As Louie sits on his specially made footstool, ordering his headless horse to turn the pages on his magazine, they eventually make it onto the island, where Louie makes a big discovery...
...Scrooge was hiding yet another bin! It's the other, other bin of Scrooge McDuck, and Louie assumes Scrooge was hiding yet another fortune. Unfortunately, that bin has a big hole, and there's no money to be found. Launchpad suggests they should ask the green guy what happened to it.
Turns out, that "magical defense" that I thought was a reference to Magica in the first episode wasn't to keep her out, but to keep this guy in! Makes me wonder if that was always the intention for that; considering this show's knack for continuity, I would not be surprised if it was.
This episode introduces Bombie the Zombie to the DuckTales 2017 universe, and to animation in general. The Bombie, as he is called here, originated in the Scrooge McDuck comics as a zombie that gets sent after Scrooge. In this show, his origins are left unknown; he gets treated more like a force of nature that goes against the richest duck in the world.
As they didn't have any weapons to stop this beast, Louie and his employees run away with the help of Louie's plan to fake him out with Manny's fake Louie head. It's just like what he did in the last episode; some tricks are immortal, just like the Bombie is. Speaking of which, Louie decides to do some drastic measures against the Bombie: he calls up Bradford Buzzard, one of the vulture capitalists, to cut funding to the satellites.
This causes a whole bunch of satellites to fall on the island, causing a dramatic explosion. Hopefully those satellites aren't important, I say fully knowing that it will be a plot point in the next mega-episode.
Also, it doesn't work, as he ends up on the wing just like that Twilight Zone episode. Unlike that Twilight Zone episode, the Bombie is not willing to just drive some guy bananas, as he breaks in.
This is the last straw for Zan Owlson, who decides to quit her job just as dramatically as that explosion. She decides she’s going to become a better billionaire herself, and she starts with a plan to get this Bombie off of the plane. She tells everyone to grab a hold of something while he opens the Sunchaser's hatch. This causes the Bombie to fall into the ocean.
Unfortunately, Louie didn’t get the plan in time, as he ends up falling into the water, too. Even though she quit, she still has the heart to try to grab Louie from his watery and/or zombie-caused grave. That’s a neat touch to her character, in the last time we see her in the episode.
Good news: Louie does ends up living, and he even gets to keep his emerald ottoman. Louie is glad to know that the Bombie is probably stuck in the seaweed, leaving him to be to enjoy it.
Well, he is stuck in the seaweed, but that's not going to stop him.
As this threat looms over Louie, Scrooge finally gets one customer. Unfortunately, the customer is the Tenderfeet, who is just as much of a jerk to Scrooge as he was with Louie in that one episode I don't really want to think about.
Eventually, Louie shows up, running away from the Bombie and converging the two plots. Honestly, not much happened with the Scrooge plot anyway. He indirectly gets Scrooge into situations of harm, as he's getting in the way of the Bombie's undying journey to...murder the richest duck in the world? Come to think of it, if he murders the richest duck in the world, wouldn't that mean he would then go after the second richest, the third richest, and so on? Yeah, maybe this curse doesn't make a lot of sense from the viewpoint of the Bombie himself. Maybe whoever made this Bombie never thought of that.
Scrooge tells Louie all about this Bombie, including his name and that riddle he couldn't figure out. He doesn't really question why the Bombie was able to get out of his magical defenses, because he doesn't get the time to think about that.
Eventually, Louie's own billboard advertising the new owner of McDuck Enterprises gets broken off, with the giant Louie picture getting his arm broken in a way that suggests pointing to him. Somehow, this gets Louie to figure out that riddle: he just needs to admit that he can't do something.
Also, Louie offers the Bombie a shoe-shine, which he really needed. That might have been the solution, too. No richest person in the world has figured this riddle out since this "curse" began. Honestly, that is actually believable.
It doesn’t take a genius to realize this means Louie doesn’t want to be the richest duck in the world anymore, and he gives the money back. The aura even transfers over to Scrooge, as if this aura represents more than just the curse of the Bombie. This is a cool bit of symbolism.
The Louie Inc. plot finally reaches its merciful end. I'm not exactly mad, I'm just a little disappointed. I mean, we get a Doofus Drake plot, and a plot where Scrooge loses his money and just kind of accepts it. We did get a good Goldie story out of it, at least.
Oh yeah, and they give us a cliffhanger for the next episode, kind of undoing any drama that happened in the Dewey Dew-Night plot by revealing that Penumbra actually is friendly enough to let Della know that a Moonvasion is going to happen. One of the plots turned out to be pointless, but hey, we got a Moonvasion to get to!
How does it stack up?
Eh, it's okay. This is another case where I considered giving this a neutral. Unfortunately, I'm still considering it right now, as there's no real reason for me not to give it.
Next, the season finale.
← GlomTales! 🦆 Moonvasion! →
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A Real Boy - Chapter 6
Bruce Wayne was everything the media portrayed - and none of it. In the media, he was a dork - and that was Tim's conscience being nice. He would bumble his way through an interview while tripping over his own feet and laughed a little too loudly and too cheerfully for someone who was supposed to be in eternal mourning. Yet in the realm of his own house, under the gentle lighting and fading sunlight streaming into the kitchen nook that they were going to have tea at, he looked large and imposing and dark. Tim could feel the hair on his nape stood on end.
"Bruce! Look who got in!" Dick announced cheerfully, as Zitka huffed a little on his side. Bruce looked up from the large tablet he was holding, and Tim had to school his own thought to not think of this man as someone who would eliminate evil supernatural beings for fun and that he shouldn't be counted as evil. And by 'he' Tim meant himself. Nope, he's not. Tim was just a kid. Surely Bruce wouldn't think of him as a threat?
When he spoke, Tim was floored.
"Ah, the Boy Who Lives." he said in booming baritone, nary a hint of the high-pitched, vapid playboy persona he would display for the media.
Tim's eye-roll was involuntary, but Dick caught it and laughed. Even Jason was snickering at him.
"Really, Mr Wayne, of all the things you could call me..." Tim groaned.
"What? Dick made me watch the movies and then read the books - 'as reference,' he said." Bruce said. "And call me Bruce, please. 'Mr Wayne' made me sound old."
"You are," Tim blurted, and quickly added, "...older than I am, frankly. I mean it's just a sign of respect to call you mister and all. And my parents taught me manners and they're useful in the boardrooms and whatnot. But some people just..."
"Tim, breathe." Jason said. Tim breathed. "He's not gonna like, unsheathe a sword and lop your head off. So chill."
"Yes, I'm not gonna do any of those. First of all, I have no sword in my present right now. And foremost, Alfred does not appreciate bloodstains on his good China." Bruce pointed out. "Have a seat, both of you, please, indulge! It's rare that Dick and I have company during tea time!" he gestured toward the set of chairs across him. His eyes might not have focused solely on either of them, yet Tim realized that from where he sat, he could have seen the entirety of the kitchen from the indoor entrance to the backdoor exit. The large window next to him would have given him a good vantage point of the backyard.
A standard for warlocks, really. They would sit in a place where they could see threat coming in - from whatever form of threat. The house was heavily hexed and protected with a plethora of spells that would render any stranger uncomfortable - this Tim could feel right away, and the changes thereof once Alfred mentioned about adjusting it.
And somehow, it warmed his heart a little when he realized that Alfred was so willing to lower the house's defenses especially for him and Jason. Alfred was also manually pouring tea to cups for him and Jason. Whether the old man was humoring Jason, or knew that he could behave like a normal human being, Tim couldn't tell. But he didn't mind. He was certain that Jason, too, didn't mind.
The tea was hot and fragrant, and there were tartlets that Tim indulged happily - it has been a while since he'd eaten anything homemade; and he was quite certain that Alfred would have made the tartlets manually. They drink and ate somewhat a little quietly. Tim noticed that Dick was feeding Zitka chunks of fruit out of a basket, and that Jason was watching them with amusement in his eyes.
"Alright, then. Now that the formalities are done, boys are fed, how can I help you, Timothy?" Bruce asked.
"I..." Tim hesitated and looked at Jason. "Well, Jason brought me some news that he thought I should share with you..."
Bruce's eyes refocused on Jason. "From the Acres of All." he stated, not asked.
"From S'aru." Jason replied. "He's aware of the place I was trained at, and its proprietors. He's just never gotten a chance to go there." he added, telling Tim.
"Oh, okay..." Tim remarked. "Anyway... maybe Jason should reiterate..."
"No, it's your call." Jason sighed. "You should reveal things I've told you on your own discretion. I mean, it's not like you'll want to tell random strangers that you have pink toothbrush, right?"
Tim sent him a death glare as Dick snickered. "I do not have pink toothbrush!"
"Zitka said you looked familiar to her." Dick remarked.
"She did?" Tim perked up. "I mean, wow. I didn't even see her back then..."
"See her?"
"Uh... yeah... I was... I guess I should've told you first and foremost. I was there when... your parents--" Tim stammered, feeling his cheeks started to burn when Dick didn't say anything. "I'm sorry... I didn't mean to bring up bad memories..."
Dick smiled, "Oh no, I remember you, alright. You took a picture with us before we started the show, didn't you?"
Tim perked up again. "Yes! I mean, my parents and I did. It was..." he swallowed around the lump that suddenly appeared in his throat. "...well, the first and last time I went to a circus-- with my parents." he smiled, and knowing well that his smile was lame and forced; a distorted mirror of Dick's cheery smile.
"Sorry that your first ended up badly for you." he said. "But anyway, yeah, I guess you wouldn't have seen Zitka because I haven't earned her, yet. She came to be with me once I moved in with Bruce. It was a little soon, since I was only ten, but--" he shrugged. "Circumstances, you know how it goes. Plus, she was an inheritance from my mom."
"I imagine your warlock ancestors must be squirming in their graves that you brought in a magi-fae kid home..." Jason smirked at Bruce. The latter grinned back.
"I bet they were... lest they have ran out of squirms when my motherjoined the household." Bruce replied. "So, now that we've established our familiarites - no pun intended, Zitka - what was it, then, that brought you to my home?"
Tim inhaled slowly, rearranging the things Jason had told him a few nights ago. "'The rise of the Untitled is coming, and they're heading for Gotham to open the portal of the Underworld and bring forth the elimination of non-magickal beings.'" he quoted.
Bruce and Dick was quiet as they stared at each other, neither paid attention to when Zitka stole a whole apple from the table.
"That's... a heavy premonition." Bruce remarked.
"S'aru doesn't understand embellishment." Jason replied, shrugging. "He's like, the All-Seeing being. Only he's also a lazy bum who doesn't like to move around and too far away from his beloved hookah. Kind of like Alice in Wonderland's Caterpillar, only he doesn't change to butterfly." he told Tim.
Bruce raised an eyebrow. "I didn't know literature is a part of a familiar's training. Or did you pick that up from Tim?" he asked excitedly. Excitedly - to the point where Tim and Jason literally glared at him in confusion.
"Not all familiars - like not all mages - live in the medieval era, Mr. Wayne." Jason retorted. "Some of us enjoyed the outside world's depiction of our world, some even have their own technological stuff, like social media." Tim's head turned so fast toward Jason that his neck cricked. "What? Ever seen those cute or scary cats or other animal accounts on Photogram?"
"Seriously??" Tim and Dick chorused. Tim was almost sure that even Alfred's cool demeanor changed just a tick.
Jason exchanged his glares between the two of them. "Some of them may be the work of a human who has nothing to do than to pretend to be their cats, but some are..." he shrugged nonchalantly. "Anyway, yes, magnificent tea, Mr Pennyworth, since my magi seemed to have forgotten his manners." Jason told Alfred with a big, disarming smile that was almost as bright as Dick's.
"Wow... okay, Zitka, you don't plan to open your own Photogram account, do you?" Dick asked Zitka, who trumpeted softly. "Right, I'm..." Dick turned around to glare blankly at Bruce. "wow, Zitka said he's right. And I'm starting to worry about who my Photogram followers actually are."
"They don't follow anyone but their magi, Grayson... isn't that obvious?" Jason smirked.
"You're not thinking of having a Photogram account, do you?" Tim demanded to Jason. The latter shrugged.
"I don't see the benefit of it just yet. Maybe once you're settled, or my presence is announced or whatever. I'd love my own account to the BookNook, though." Jason beamed at him. Tim had to actually will himself not to gape.
"...You seriously read." he stated.
"Well, then, our library might be... entertaining for you." Bruce quipped, smirking slightly. "Right, Alfred?" On the side, Dick groaned.
"Yes, indeed. Master Richard may only liked written words that can be quickly summarized and preferably read-to for him. You, however, may prefer a physical form that can be..." Alfred suddenly quieted his voice for a moment before continuing. "...that is, if your Magi is alright with it? It is getting quite late, and I do not believe Master Tim's driver's license allowed him to drive at night."
Tim shrugged. "I can drive just fine."
"Yes, but my conscience would not allow me to look away from it," Bruce explained. "Plus, it's Gotham. It's... not safe out there for anyone to be out at night," he added, emphasizing on 'anyone'.
"You know I'm a magi, right?" Tim protested. "and I have my big and strong familiar with me..."
"It's not just the dangers from the real world, Timmers..." Dick intoned. "We... Bruce and I and some of our... allies - we have known that there is something brewing that's dangerous for everyone and everything we held dear. We sure won't wish you to stumble into it accidentally."
"It might help to allow these young men to understand your stance, Master Bruce..." Alfred suggested quietly. Bruce looked at Dick, probably to ask for his opinion.
"I dunno... he's still really young..." Dick sighed.
"As were you, Master Dick..." Alfred reminded. Dick grimaced. Tim thought that they might have had this kind of discussion a few times too many, as Dick opened his mouth to say something, only to be met with Alfred's cold glare and tick of eyebrow, and Dick deflated.
"Fine, fine... tell him." Dick grumbled.
Bruce nodded. "Alright, I hereby cordially ask you both to spend the night, gentlemen. There are... things that I would like to discuss with you that might require time, and as I've said before, I don't like you driving at night. So, will you stay?"
"I don't bring an overnight bag..." Tim still hedged, a little uncomfortable with the offer, in spite of realizing that Bruce had meant well and not likely to... do anything untoward. "It's just... I'm sorry, I don't mean to be rude. Just that it's kind of weird."
"Oh, I understand. Very well, then. At least stay for dinner, it should be in a few hours. Afterward, you can let me know if you would stay or not." Bruce remarked.
"What are we supposed to do in a few hours?" Tim couldn't resist asking.
"Well," Dick's grin was a little unsettling. "...we can always go play in the dungeons."
That strangely felt like a challenge. And Tim's brain, a millennial brain that never understood that it would be safer to back away from a challenge, overrode his self-preservation instincts and said, "Sounds great!" followed by an inward cringe and a glare toward Jason and a deep suspicion that Jason was the millennial voice agreeing to such mischievous and potentially-dangerous summon.
"Oh no, I did not say you may play in a dungeon! That was on you. I, on the contrary, prefer to roam about in the library!" Jason protested.
"You're not much help as a familiar, are you..." Tim groused.
"I can only do so much for a kid who has no self-preservation instincts, Timmy." Jason replied smugly.
"I do, too, have self-preservation instincts!" Tim protested. Lied.
"Suuure... anyway, if he does a bad touch, feel free to holler." Jason quipped. Dick chortled heartily.
"Oh, man! I think Babs would love you," he told Jason as he got up from the table. "Come on, guys! Let's meet the brain behind all of these magicks!"
#Tim Drake#Jason Todd#no-capeAU#Dick Grayson#Bruce Wayne#Alfred Pennyworth#Zitka#Batfam#Magi!AU#I forgot to title#-___-'
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This going to sound harsher than I mean it to but...I think there is a certain subset (and I really do think it is a subset and NOT the majority, far from it) of female fans who are in their own way as guilty in regards to Peter’s character as they are of what a subset (albeit a way more vocal and currently in charge subset) of male fans are guilty of in regards to MJ’s character.
They are very quick to throw the shade at the character (even throw him under a bus at times) without either properly contextualizing the specifics of a situation they are talking about or else not bothering to place themselves in his shoes and try to imagine realistically how me might feel.
Or else they simply don’t try to ask “Okay Spider-Man is doing this thing that seemingly makes him look bad. Let me consider if there is a believable enough justification for his actions before I commit to condemning the character.”
On tumblr I’ve seen that more and more among some posters in particular female ones (far from all of them though, like I said I believe them to be a minority) who clearly do LIKE Spider-Man, both as a series and as a character, nevertheless throw out shade along the lines of:
- Well he just makes such poor life decisions
- He’s such a MESS, God get your life together Peter
- What an asshole he was for not wanting to meet Mj because he didn’t realize she was pretty
- Peter has such an EGO, look at whenever he used to interact with other heroes
- Peter is so self-centred wow
- MJ and Felicia and Gwen are too good for Peter
Saying Peter makes poor life choices is untrue half the time and only true the other half of the time within the context of a dramatic entertainment series wherein it’d be boring if certain concessions were not made.
Saying his life is a mess is intrinsically idiotic for the same reasons saying MJ sucked for worrying about Peter and complaining about his life as Spider-Man the way she did in the 90s. If YOU were in either of their positions and had the same histories, the same emotional attachments would YOU be much different? Would YOUR life be totally in order when you spend a large chunk of your time being a superhero both to financially support yourself and you know for ENTIRELY ALTRUISTIC REASONS? Would YOU honestly NOT act the way MJ did in the 90s?
These sorts of attitudes to me demonstrate a really, really weird dismissal of the (relative) realities of life as or with a superhero. It’s like Peter being Spider-Man somehow ‘doesn’t count’, like he’s going out to play sports or something as opposed to actually being something important that should be taken into account when analyzing his life. Like...the entire premise of Spider-Man very much hinged upon the notion of showcasing the realities of life as a hero, how it came with a cost and didn’t fix everything. Like Spider-Man 2 and Spider-Man No More literally SHOW you that NOT being Spider-Man WOULD allow his life to NOT be a mess, but that’s the price he pays for making sure nobody else loses THEIR Uncle Ben.
Did Peter used to have an ego? Yeah...as did you know...EVERY Marvel hero under Stan Lee. Shit Silver age Superman had a humungous ego. It’s a trope something you don’t take 100% at face value. That smoothed out with his maturation and whilst he still had an ego at times, that was a debilitating flaw, just something that happened every once in a while as it would for a lot of people.
Not to mention after what he has lived through and how hard he is on himself most of the time SOME ego is surely forgivable, healthy even. Which brings me to the whole ‘he thinks everything revolves around him’ argument.
No...he doesn’t. He just holds himself to an incredibly high standard due to an obviously highly traumatic event he went thorugh growing up compounded by a few other similar events (Gwen’s death) as well as threats to his life and those around him by individuals specifically out to get him (Betty Brant was targeted at least 3 times in the Ditko run).
Is it any wonder he’d be somewhat self-centred? And not even self-centred in a selfish way, self-centred in a ‘I suck, I let everyone down, I should have done better.’ Kind of way which is a million miles away from say pre-heart injury Tony Stark kind of self-centred.
And finally the thing about not wanting to meet MJ...I’m sorry...how many male and female teenagers would NOT have been apprehensive over a blind date their old fashioned Mom set up for them out of fear that the date will be unattractive. Especially when in canon the qualities mostly pushed about her was that she would allegedly ‘make a good housewife’.
That isn’t a ‘Peter Parker is shallow’ thing or a ‘men are shallow’ thing. That’s a ‘teenagers who’re naturally immature and inexperienced with dating, romance, sex, etc tend to be shallow’ thing.
Don’t lie to me and pretend like the pre-Parallel Lives 14-18 year old Mary Jane herself would have been all for meeting her aunt’s neighbour’s geeky ass nephew. She wouldn’t have been and we all KNOW she wouldn’t have been. And that’s okay, that’d be realistic and entirely in keeping with how most teens (male or female) would feel in that situation.
Let me be clear there are MALE readers guilty of this too (especially on CBR) but maybe it’s because I spend more time here in my (admittedly far from comprehensive) observations the fans who say stuff like that tend to be female more often than male.
It’s nowhere near AS bad as the shit that unjustifiably gets thrown at Mary Jane mostly by male fans, but whilst collectively it might be worse each accusation is as equally unfounded.
And as someone who truly loves both those characters I loathe seeing either of them unfairly thrown under the bus that way by people who aren’t even bothering to TRY to justify what the characters are doing out of laziness, a desire to be snarky or just enjoying the act of ripping into them.
In much the same way a lot of Star Wars and Lord of the Rings fans these days have been defencive and protective of Luke and Frodo in light of the mass shade thrown at both characters, I’ve become more and more like that towards Spider-Man in recent years. I’ve been like that with Mj for ages but only recently have I felt it necessary to extend it to Peter too.
I don’t know WHY exactly these sort of ill considered, narrowminded, half assed criticisms are emerging more and more these days. I can’t blame it on the existence of other Spider characters because I’ve more frequently seen this stuff stem from people who didn’t even discuss guys like miles or Kaine or Spider-Gwen. Just Peter himself.
The hard truth is...I think gender might be the biggest factor.
Like I said I really do think this is a MINORITY of female fans who say the stuff I’ve discussed but I think for them there is a certain lack of empathy or at least attempt to honestly see through the eyes of Spider-Man himself because they are female and he is male.
Whilst this doesn’t seem to happen much at all in Harry Potter fandom (which might possibly be owed to Harry being a male character written by a woman), critically the HP narrative is mostly utterly dominated by seeing through Harry’s eyes it makes identifying with him less of a leap as compared to Spider-Man where there is more ‘distance’ between the character and the reader.
The Spider-Man series is mostly from Peter’s POV but whilst Harry Potter rarely deviates away from Harry is experiencing at any given moment within his own skin, Spider-Man cuts to other scenes and other characters and even presents scenes with Spider-Man from their POV very frequently. It’s perhaps the natural pay off to the comic book medium vs a novel. You do have to SEE your protagonist from the outside whereas with a novel you can much more easily be on the inside looking out.
I think because of that relative distance, for some (but far from all) female Spider-Man readers it becomes easier to emotionally/mentally not make the leap into his head and really questioning why he thinks, feels and acts in the ways that he does beyond what is on the surface level presented to us.
Peter talks back to the Fantastic Four when he first meets them. It must be because he’s an asshole and not because he’s you know, a teenager, who just lost his Dad, is desperate for cash, is somewhat naive and used to being an entertainer and wrestler
Although I think at the end of the day a character can be relatable and identifiable regardless of what their identity might be (skin colour, gender, etc), I do feel that male readers of Spider-Man are probably going to be more inclined towards empathising with Peter and inclined towards trying to see if there might be an explanation for his actions.
The reverse holds true as well. It’s painfully obvious that 90% of the garbage criticisms levelled against Mary Jane throughout her history stemmed from mostly (but again not all) male readers who were simply not even trying to put themselves in her shoes or else couldn’t.
Okay sure, you could argue institutionalized sexism or the larger proportion of male to female Spider-Man readers is the reason there seems to be way more male MJ bashers than female Peter bashers, as well as using that to explain why the female Peter bahsers still seem to like the character on some degree whereas MJ’s loudest bashers tend to just hate on the character.
However I’d also propose that a big reason for one group’s larger and more intense negative feelings compared to the other stems again from the genders involved.
Male readers are going to find it comparatively harder to make the jump into MJ’s head and seeing things from her POV than they would Peter’s simply because they are men and she is a female character.
It’s far from impossible and I think most male fans do make the jump. But it helps to explain why so many do not. The problem is exacerbated by MJ being a supporting cast member and thus her POV and panel time is given far less breathing space than Peter’s, who’s story and POV dominate the narrative. So when MJ is compalaining about Peter’s life as a hero to him in a scene from his POV it’s challenging for male readers to take a step back and consider HER pov.
I’m not even calling that some kind of soft core misandry or misogyny.
I just think it’s something that naturally occurs for a lot of people as a consequence of life and the style of storytelling weare discussing.
Doesn’t make it cool to do though.
Stop bashing MJ AND Peter and try to justify anything they do before you tear into them.
#Spider-Man#mary jane watson#Mary Jane Watson Parker#mjwatsonedit#MJ Watson#Peter Parker#Marvel#marvel comics
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so. I don´t even have a proper title. This is the Zessie drabble (probably more than that? since it´s over 4k...)
many endless thanks to @queerlyalex who betaed it. I´m so lucky to have someone as talented as them to help with my writing <33
Zayn/Bressie, 4041 words, rated explicit (well of course)
When Zayn gets into his room - after leaving the bathroom nearly nearly tripping over his own feet - he´s finally alone, and all his thoughts starts catching up on him, overwhelming him, making him sick. All the things he's just done. But it's not enough. He already wants more of it.
When Zayn emerges from the bathroom, Bressie is standing by the bed, mid-chat with Niall. His eyes snap towards Zayn immediately, his expression openly surprised before he manages to quickly transform it into something more neutral.
Zayn smirks to himself, shrugging on his cotton t-shirt, taking his time with the process. He slowly drags the fabric down his stomach, hoping that perhaps Bressie will get a good look.
“So, are you ready or what?” Zayn asks Niall, who is sprawled on the bed, guitar resting on his lap. He intentionally ignores Bressie, waiting for Niall to answer.
“Sure, mate,” Niall says happily, strumming his guitar mindlessly. “I’ll be ready in a sec.”
“Cool,” Zayn casually runs a hand through his already styled hair. “Meet you in the hall in ten,” he adds over his shoulder on the way out of Niall’s hotel room. It’s not easy to pretend that Bressie isn’t present since he’s always taking up a good chunk of the space. However, Bressie himself likes to overlook Zayn so why Zayn can’t do the same for once.
***
The club is full to the brim. And loud. Too many sweaty, drunk people crowded in a too small space. Zayn is kinda indifferent towards places like this. It’s not like he loves being squashed and pushed around by strangers, but sometimes the noise and bodies and dark can be comfortingly numbing. Easy to get yourself lost in it, to feel small and insignificant. Just another guy wanting to chill. To get laid. Maybe.
It’s not hard to get attention with his face. People don’t have to recognise him to hit on him. To chat him up. Girls and blokes alike. Tonight, he makes it his mission; engaging in meaningless conversations, letting people touch him casually without calling them out on it. It’s because from the other side of the room, he can practically feel Bressie’s eyes on him.
Or is that wishful thinking.
***
“You’re going to ruin your voice,” Zayn hears a deep rumble next to him, making him jump. He hates when someone sneaks up on him and startles him.
Of course, he knows whose voice it is before he looks up. So, he doesn’t. Either way, it’s still Bressie next to him, as surprising as that is. They´ve been dancing around each other for months now. A weird sort of a dance. Sometimes, Zayn´s sure he's imagined all the times he caught Bressie looking at him, or the times when Bressie left room only to avoid being alone with Zayn.
Zayn shrugs, taking an unnecessarily long pull from the cigarette between his lips.
“It’s not like we don’t do tons of things that could kill us every day.”
He can feel Bressie next to him. Imagines that he can smell Bressie's laundry detergent. His cologne mixed up with sweat.
Bressie lets out a laugh.
“Yea, you’re probably right.”
Zayn doesn’t intend to actually ask, but he says, “So why are you here, then? If you're not here to get closer to death by nicotine?” He squints somewhere behind Bressie´s shoulder to where people are crowding the little smoking area in the club´s beer garden. He doesn’t think he’s brave enough to really look at Bressie when they are alone. Well, alone without the other lads.
It’s Bressie´s turn to shrug. “Just getting some fresh air,” he crosses his arms over his chest, biceps bulging prominently - and Zayn isn’t even really looking! God, Bressie’s chest is, like, massive, pecs clearly visible where his grey t-shirt is stretching the soft fabric. And Zayn never wanted to be this affected by a man he barely knows, but he is.
Tipping his head back against the wall behind him, Zayn takes an extra care to blow out the greyish smoke as slowly as possible, hoping that if there’s even a slight chance that Bressie could fancy a bloke - fancy him - that along with the fresh air, he’s getting a good look at the column of Zayn’s throat and pursed lips. There’s no doubt it feels fucking weird to behave like this in front of someone who Zayn finds fit as hell, instead of flirting back with strangers he’s not interested in.
He doesn’t actually knows if this works. It’s just that he’s seen his own pictures in magazines, and knows what looks good. It’s fun, though - watching people’s reactions.
When Zayn dares to glance sideways, he finds Bressie occupied by his mobile phone - a teeny tiny thing in his giant paws, the screen illuminating his concentrated face, tapping away and then scrolling furiously, instead of showing any interest in Zayn. Brilliant. Fucking brilliant, Zayn winces soundlessly.
“So,” Bressie says suddenly, pocketing his phone. “How are ya finding the tour?”
And isn't that just the weirdest question?
Zayn raises his eyebrows, amused. He's also pleased to have Bressie´s attention back.
“Chill,” he says around the cigarette nonchalantly, giving Bressie a lazy look from under his eyelashes. The other man isn't able to hold it for long, shuffles on his feet, bits his lip with a little smile. Shit. It shouldn't be so cute, but Zayn does find it brutally attractive. He wants more of it, more of Bressie, now.
Zayn’s got everything he could ever dare to dream of, and more. Still, he’s been feeling oddly empty, alone and reckless in the most peculiar way. It’s the money, it’s the fame, they told him. Sitting with their band therapist. Maybe that makes it easier to grasp, but it's not less of a fact.
Bressie lets out another laugh, hearty and good-natured.
“That's what you say about fifty thousand people watching you on stage most of the nights?”
“It's less,” Zayn says and Bressie chuckles in response. “Usually,” he allows then, realising that this is the first time he’s talked to Bressie like mates would, that Bressie’s letting it happen, relaxing the usual vigilance he possesses when Zayn´s around.
“Oh, are ya good with Maths?” Bressie looks fake surprised, raising up his eyebrows comically.
The corners of Zayn´s mouth curve up, he shakes his head. It's a terrible line. If it's a line, he muses.
“Actually, I was more into English.”
In the next moment, a large group of severely tipsy people pass through, one of them manages to shove into Zayn hard, sending him tumbling right onto Bressie. For a fleeting second, Zayn is almost sure he's gonna smash his nose against Bressie´s sternum. Luckily, a pair of strong arms grab him, preventing the catastrophe.
“Sorry,” Zayn stutters, getting himself upright again. It takes Bressie a second longer than necessary to take his hands off of Zayn, while Zayn drags his eyes slowly up Bressie´s chest and neck and stubbly jaw. Unlike Bressie, he doesn't try to hide his interest -- something he usually masks with indifference.
“You alright?” Bressie asks, voice flat, already withdrawing himself, pulling away as if nothing happened.
Coward.
Zayn only nods, scratching at his eyebrow. He looks around, searching for something to concentrate on.
The awkwardness doesn’t last very long, out of nowhere Louis bounces towards them, practically jumping on Zayn's back to drag them back in, scolding them for disappearing.
Zayn jokes along, pinches Louis nipple and kisses his cheek sloppily. Bressie seems genuinely happy to answer Louis´ absolutely batshit stupid questions about rugby, and Zayn frowns from behind Louis shoulder.
For the whole night he doubles up his efforts - lets blokes chat him up and get close to him, buys drinks for pretty girls, while watching Bressie´s reactions from the corner of his eye. He thinks that Bressie can see right through that kind of facade.
***
Sometimes, you have to push really hard to get what you want. With that on his mind, Zayn knocks on the door of Niall’s room that he’s been sharing with Bressie for the length of his visit.
The door opens after a few moments and Zayn’s met with Bressie, all soft and sort of sleepy, in his tracksuit bottoms and a t-shirt, surprise clearly written all over his face.
“Hi,” he breathes out, leaning on the door with one arm.
“I- uhm, I think I’ve left my shampoo in the bathroom.” He licks his lips and Bressie´s eyes drop to his mouth without missing a beat.
It’s not really a lie, honestly, since Zayn did use their bathroom earlier that day.
Bressie steps away. “Oh, ok,” he says, and let's Zayn come in before shutting the door.
Zayn makes his way through the darkened room, a lamp by Bressie’s bed the only source of light. With pounding heart, he briefly notices Niall’s sleeping body under the duvet, then disappears in the en-suite.
When he switches on the lights there he grimaces at their sharp brightness, finally letting out a long exhale. Bloody hell, he didn’t even know if Bressie would open the door. If Niall would be already asleep. Why does he come up with the stupidest ideas that he actually intends to follow through with after getting spectacularly drunk?
There’s no time for serious plotting, Bressie steps in the room only mere moments after Zayn, the door clicking shut behind him.
Zayn jumps a good few inches, hand flying to clutch at his chest to stop his heart from hammering out of his chest.
“Jesus fuck,” he swears, turning around half-way before realising who the intruder is -- snapping back to face the mirror above the white stone finish counter once he does.
He looks pretty much how he’s feeling - eyes wide, shoulders rising and falling rapidly with his heavy breaths, pupils dilated from the shock and booze. He’s got pretty impressive bags under his eyes which - sucks. In the end none of that matters, because Bressie’s right behind him and the air is suddenly charged with this weird energy; tension, and so much more that Zayn isn’t able to describe yet.
“Looking for the shampoo?” Bressie’s voice asks, coming from much shorter distance than Zayn anticipated, all low and gravely. Keeping his head down, he doesn’t dare to glance in the mirror to check the proximity.
“It´s not here,” he babbles, swallowing. “I must have put it - somewhere else.”
It's strange to talk to someone with your body facing away, while they can watch you. A shiver runs down Zayn's back.
Zayn doesn't even think about the lost battle when he tries to leave, turning back from the mirror towards the exit.
Only his poor attempt to flee is thwarted by Bressie who simply doesn't budge up.
Zayn grips the edge of the counter top for a second, eyes squeezing shut. It takes one little movement to find out just how far behind him is Bressie standing. Or how close.
It doesn't take more than a couple of inches to come in contact with Bressie´s chest when Zayn leans back purposefully. He can feel every intake of Bressie´s breath against his nape.
“What - what are you doing, bro?” Zayn whispers harshly, well aware of sleeping Niall just behind the door. “Is this some kind of a joke?!”
The morning before, Zayn got a new haircut; Lou trimmed the sides according to his instructions, navigating the clippers with a sure hand. Zayn´d kept his hair kinda longish for quite some time so he´s been slowly adjusting to the new style. Having the now-vulnerable back of his neck fully exposed to Bressie´s eyes makes his skin crawl. Not in an entirely unpleasant way. He tenses up to stop himself from fidgeting.
Bressie´s hand brushes against Zayn´s hip; his stomach drops.
“So I reckon that you like people watchin´ you, don't ya. You like being the centre of attention. That's why you're in the band. That's why you were showing off in front of everyone in the club.”
Zayn wants to deny it quickly, but finds himself unable to speak up. Too taken aback by this whole situation, by Bressie so close to him. By Bressie acknowledging that he actually did notice what was going on in the club.
Yes, Zayn was showing off. But not for everyone. He was doing it to catch Bressie´s attention. Of course, without knowing that it would ever affect Bressie in any way, let alone made him act upon it. All the brief, barely existent touches Zayn had so carefully executed while passing Bressie at the bar. When going to the loo. When reaching for his new drink. Totally accidentally.
“Well, maybe for once I wanna have a look too.”
Zayn pulls in a sharp, surprised breath, and this time his eyes snap to the mirror so quickly he's barely able to process it -- he's staring right into Bressie´s in the mirror. While Zayn has no time to take in how he might look at the moment, he can clearly see Bressie's stern face -- determined with something that Zayn can't identify, since Bressie's more of a stranger than a mate to him.
Bressie rests his forehead on the nape of Zayn´s neck.
“Tell me I'm reading this wrong,” he whispers into the silence, voice barely audible, aimed to the floor.
Later, Zayn will be surprised how little it took to deliberately, with the highest level of confidence he could muster at that time, reach for the waistband of his tracksuit bottom and grab his own dick.
Chin pointed proudly up, Zayn´s teeth sink into his bottom lip. “Ready?” The single word sounds utterly wrecked already, cracked up and rough, very similar to how Zayn´s feeling right now, even though he is ready to give everything to cover it up.
Behind him, Bressie shuffles the last inch forward, pressing his chest against Zayn's back.
He hums appreciatively. “Eyes up, then.”
Zayn smirks at that. He has to. It's basically the last option left here, he thinks, hiding the desperation behind cockiness. And, well, isn't he master of that?
Their eyes meet in the mirror without any preamble, and it's almost like a challenge. Who´s gonna chicken out first.
Zayn begins to stroke himself slowly, without prompting, thinking of how fucking right Bressie was. He loves attention, alright? It gives him a bloody rush every time without exception, every time they perform or do photo shoots. Press is a different topic - if it goes Zayn´s way, he chooses not to speak all that much. He's always been more of an observer.
He'd changed into a t-shirt that he would normally sleep in - a washed out green thing with a Marvel picture printed on the front, threadbare and shrunk two sizes down from the tumble dryer. It's short enough to ride above his belly button while he keeps wanking himself, more purposeful now. The fabric only restricts his movements, so he pulls the waistband of his bottoms and pants down. For the view, he reckons, glancing at his own reflection.
“You look good,” Bressie says behind him, voice deep and hushed, as if to remind Zayn that he's still present. As if that could be forgotten.
Zayn wants to preen under the praise. When he looks up Bressie´s eyes are fixed on his midsection, greedy, tracking the movements of his arm; sliding lower to where the head of Zayn´s cock peeks out of the curl of his wrist.
Bressie´s cheeks are tinged pink and he looks desperate, like holding himself back, rigid against Zayn's back.
Zayn concentrates on breathing evenly; he wouldn't want this to end too soon. He leans against Bressie more heavily, hoping it might prompt Bressie to actually do something - to reassure him that it's ok if he decides to.
Bressie smells good, Zayn thinks fuzzily, it's driving him nuts. He's trying to keep his head clear, which proves to be mildly difficult with the amount of alcohol he´d consumed tonight.
As if sensing that Zayn might be zoning out slightly, Bressie speaks again, this time in a calm, slow voice.
“Gorgeous. You're fuckin´ hot,” he murmurs, loud enough for Zayn to hear, and his hand brushes the exposed skin on Zayn's belly, abdominal muscles jumping at the soft contact.
Bressie´s hand stays there, fingers splayed wide, thumb brushing Zayn´s sharp hipbone - and bloody hell how is his hand so fucking large, it easily covers most of Zayn´s tummy.
“You're perfect, sweetheart. Shit, ” Bressie says, and Zayn feels himself go warm with the sincerity of Bressie´s words.
Zayn would really, really like to be sensible and just keep quiet, but an unintentional moan makes it out of his mouth before he even notices. He flushes instantly, huffing out an annoyed sound -- he doesn't want to let Bressie know how much is this affecting him. That he's getting off on it as much as he hopes Bressie is. On the other hand, he very much wants to show him that he's enjoying himself.
He knows he looks hot. There's been months of exploration when he started masturbating, amazed with what his body could do - how it can look. It only escalated with Zayn´s sexual life. And like, of course he bloody wanted to see how he looks when he comes.
He concentrates on the feeling of a dry hand on his sensitive cock, squeezing around the dark pink head and prolonging the strokes. Tilting his head to the side and baring his neck to Bressie knowingly, he watches how his forearm muscles flex and jump.
A sudden noise of a thump comes from nowhere, cutting into the charged silence. They both freeze, Bressie´s hand flying away from Zayn´s tummy as they listen. After a few moments of complete stillness, they both decide that the noise must have come from a hall or one of the rooms around.
Zayn purses his lips in a pout, because clearly, this is going nowhere, and he's almost had enough of waiting. They are both very obviously into it (he hopes that Bressie is at least half as into it as Zayn is), so he goes back to wanking.
It´s easy to fall into a rhythm, so he doesn't wait for Bressie to catch up. Zayn´s ready to give him the show of his life.
He grips the counter with one hand to steady himself, his right hand going back to stroking. It feels fucking good, he only wishes that Bressie would participate in this, too.
The quiet, heavy breathing coming from behind him is lovely. And Zayn greedily drinks in the way Bressie's watching him, eyes flicking between Zayn's face and hand. His cock is not even fully in view but Bressie can’t seem to stop dropping his gaze there, eyebrows knitted together in bewilderment.
Zayn desperately wishes that Bressie would touch him again. Like, grab him by chin and kiss him, or grope his arse, or rough him up a bit in general. It never happens, though.
Until it does. Zayn sees from the corner of his eye Bressie´s hand move, he reaches up to brush Zayn's hair out of his face. The touch makes Zayn shiver, properly like. Shudder.
He leans into the touch a little, eyes falling shut on their own accord as he speeds up. He didn't even notice he's started sweating until Bressie touched him. Now he can feel the dampness in under his arms and on his neck. It's starting to be too much to bear, less possible to control his own actions - the low whimpers and surprised gasps when he manages a particularly good stroke.
He starts fucking into his own fist, hips flexing, and his arse keeps bumping against Bressie´s front every time he draws back, feeling the obvious bulge of Bressie´s cock.
And he definitely moans at that, no shame.
“Fuck, pet, this is -” Bressie groans, losing it as much as Zayn is, and he only arches the small of his back more, bowing it, resting the back of his head against Bressie´s shoulder lightly.
Bressie turns his head, unexpectedly. “Jesus,” he whispers, lips brushing against the side of Zayn´s neck. He drags them up to Zayn's ear, nuzzling the sensitive skin there.
“Fuck,” Zayn spits out, desperate to get himself to the finishing line as soon as possible, heat pooling in his belly and the bottom of his spine. “Just touch me. Touch me.”
Bressie looks beautiful and wrecked, as sweaty and as turned on as Zayn, but he won't listen.
Zayn sways forward, bangs his fist on the top of the counter. “Touch me,” he repeats, eyes shut and he wants. By now, he's managed to sweat through his t-shirt; it's sticking to his back uncomfortably. He makes another noise. Small and hurt. He just wants to come, badly, but needs that extra something.
Behind him, Bressie runs his hands through his hair helplessly, eyes flicking around wildly, and then - while sucking in a shaky breath - Zayn can see the moment he gives up - yes yes yes yes -
Bressie slips his giants hands past the waistbands of Zayn´s tracksuit bottoms and pants, palming his arsecheeks roughly, squeezing. His strong fingers dig in painfully, and it's so good.
Zayn hmmm´s deep in his throat, which accidentally comes off more like a whine. “Yes. Please,” he stutters pathetically.
“Eyes,” Bressie reminds him sternly, “eyes on me.”
Zayn shakes himself, ready to oblige.
Once met with Bressie´s hungry stare, Zayn couldn't look away even if he wanted to. There's so much written all over the man´s features, and it frustrates Zayn that he's unable to read it.
His pink lips are slightly parted, nostrils flaring. He's watching Zayn watch him, and it's so hot that Zayn can barely stand it. Zayn can see himself and he's beyond any attempts at pulling any extra sexy faces, really. He's biting on his lip - has been since the beginning, probably - his forehead is crinkling, skin around his eyes pulling tight at how hard he's fighting to keep them open when all they want is to close in pleasure.
He's going to come, he can feel it, tries to hold it back - just because - but Bressie decides to paw at his bum some more, massaging it while muttering things like, “So perfect, can't believe you are letting me,” which only half makes sense - a finger slides into Zayn´s crack, accidently, judging from the way they both gasp at the same time.
Zayn´s eyes go all wide and he gulps in a breath, tensing. It's impossibly dirty - letting a guy to do this to him, and liking it.
Bressie´s ready to withdraw, reading the signals all wrong. Zayn can see the shadow of worry, of doubt, run across his face.
“Don´t -” he fumes, “don't stop touching me. Just. Please.” Zayn pants again, needy.
Bressie makes a pleased noise in return, two of his fingertips slide back in tentatively, prodding at Zayn´s entrance, patting gently. They hold each other gazes the whole time, which is so unbelievably hot, Zayn tenses even more before finally letting go.
He literally whines, because keeping his eyes open at this point is almost impossible, but he wants to please Bressie. Everything's falling apart, he must be so noisy, but he can't do anything about it, until Bressie´s lips are suddenly on his, warm and persistent.
He's angling Zayn´s jaw delicately with careful fingers, trying to swallow his cries. Zayn´s whining through his nose, because that can't be helped, and somewhere in the back of his mind he's praying that Niall's asleep.
He rocks through his orgasm, breaths sharp and caught in the rhythm of his pounding heart. He can't feel Bressie's hands or lips on him anymore, and all of a sudden everything feels oddly cold and too real. There's jizz like, everywhere. On Zayn's hand and clothes, and a bit on the counter.
Head still spinning and only half-aware of his body, Zayn grabs a handful of tissues from the thing by the basin, wiping the counter listlessly with one hand, tucking his dick back in his pants with the other. It's not even a conscious decision to shoulder past Bressie, who´s standing there awkwardly, and just get out of there without a word.
#i might put this to ao3 too later#i hope this pairing witll get many MANY more fics#i guess i´m planning on writing more in this verse?#zessie#zayn#bressie#zayn/bressie
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