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hydrngea · 1 year

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Heyy!

Can you do a rafe cameron x reader fluff where she gets made fun of by some girls at the country club and rafe overhears and helps her?

Take your time and thx!

𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭𝐫𝐲 𝐜𝐥𝐮𝐛

a/n : thanks sm for the request 💕💕💕 sorry i took forever !!! hope you enjoy!

masterlist / latest rafe fic / ao3

—————

there were all sorts of talk about you and rafe cameron spreading around the country club.

everytime you went out to drop off an order at a table, you’d hear whispers of your name and feel heavy glares being burnt onto the back of your uniform.

you knew that the people were gonna talk. you were the kook-kings new girl and that was enough to rile up every girl in the obx, especially since you were a pogue.

the sharp voice of your boss pulled you out of your trance as you washed some dirty dishes.

“hey, y/n! switch places with jere at the bar so he can go on break.”

fuck

that was the last thing you needed today and might as well been your last straw. of course he had to switch you to the bar ten minutes before the end of your shift. you internally groan at his words, whilst putting forth your best country-club smile and pushing past the trap door.

the second you walk out you’re ushered over by a high pitched girl from the corner of the bar. great. of course it’s the assholes from school calling for you.

“hey, yoo-hoo! we need some refills over here.”

you hurry over to the group and forced greeting “how may i help?” you ask with a fiegned sweetnsss to your voice, silently praying under your breath that they won’t order anything too complex.

you definitely jinxed yourself.

“can we get 6 spicy margs with extra spice?”

you can’t help the disappointed sigh that escapes you- it’s probably going to take you past the end of your shift to finish mixing that many drinks.

it seems like your dissatisfaction is apparent to them, because the girl in the middle, bianca, you think, cocks her head to her left and pouts.

“is there a problem? you do realize this is your job right?”

you’re taken aback by her comment, even though it shouldn’t surpise you. she’s been kildare’s self appointed queen bee since elementary. her words aren’t very out of the ordinary for her, but they still sting at your chest.

another one scoffs, shrugging a shoulder as she combs her fingers through her freshly balayaged hair. “i know it’s hard for you pogues to be on your feet and work for your money, but what’s the point of the paycheck if you can’t even do your job enthusiastically?”

your clench your fist at your side, digging your fingernails into your palm while biting your tounge. you try not to make it seem like they’re getting to you, but you know by the burning feeling on your cheeks that your body is betraying you.

“so 6 spicy margaritas?” you attempt to end their shaming of you by clarifying the order, but they totally ignore you, continuing on with their degradation.

“really, y/n. if you want the tips you should at least act happy to be at your job.”

happy was the last thing you were feeling at the moment.

“i’ll take that into-“ you voice cracks in the middle of your sentence, your frustration catching up to you. suddenly, you feel small, small like you’re the size of the fire ants that strut over the ground; even smaller. “consideration.” you finish, muttering the last word.

you make to turn on your heel and start on the drinks, yet you hear your name fall from one of their lips once again. you try to focus on pouring the alcohol increments correctly, but you can’t stop yourself from tuning into what they have to say about you.

“i bet she’s gonna leave rafe the second she drains his bank account.”

“please; rafe will leave her once he finally realizes he deserves way better than a pogue. just a matter of time.”

the conversation just keeps getting worse, to the point you almost drop the marghertis as you carry them over towards them.

you let out a somewhat relieved sigh when you see rafe walking over towards the counter, twirling his car keys on his pointer finger.

“hiii rafe.” bianca says, her voice drippping with desperation that almost makes you gag. rafe acts as though she were on mute, completely ignoring her while he beelined in your direction.

he leans against the bar, offering a smile that’s reserved for just you “hey baby,” rafe greets. “ready to go home?”

“yea. let me just grab my stuff and i’ll be out quick.” you reply, quietly as you finish wiping down your work area.

rafe notices your hushed tone and your upset mood without you having to announce it; you have that angry look in your eyes and your skin is flushed scarlet with your jaw it taut. something’s up.

he watches as you trudge out the door and slightly juts out his lip in a small pout, wondering what’s going on with you right now. usually you’re all cheerful and happy when he comes to pick you up from work.

“of course y/n needs rafe to rescue her from work.“ his ears capture the annoying voice of one of the girls gathered together at the corner of the bar. he turns around, looking at them with his brow furrowed in disgust.

“god, i don’t know how he deals with he-“

“what’d you just say?” rafe pushes himself off the counter and stomps his way towards them, giving them all a glare made of steel. the girls all tense in their seats, voices piping down as they just look at him.

of course fucking bianca’s the one to open her mouth to try and respond. rafe doesn’t even give her the opportunity to say something, cutting her off before she can’t even start. “keep that mouth shut. especially if your gonna talk shut about my girl.” he threatens, eyes shooting daggers at her.

just then, you appear from the corner and rafe walks away from them, possessively wrapping an arm over you shoulder, pressing a firm kiss to your forhead and then your lips. “let’s get out of here, huh?” he whispers against your lips and you reply nod, giving him a small smile before you bring your fingers to interlock with his which rests by your bicep.

you can’t help the giggle which falls from you as he mutters a pointed comment towards the girls while you walk past them- loud enough that you’re sure they heard.

they definitely will be keeping their mouths shut from now on.

———

taglist : @maybankslover @mrsstarkey1 @of-many-fandomss @penny4yourthoughts @dearreader03

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seat-safety-switch · 2 months

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Ever think your job is futile, about to be replaced by high technology? I'm Ted Dialtone, master salesman for the Brother fax machine division. That's right. Fax machines. I bet you thought you were done with those suckers, and that's just what we wanted our competition to think. They ran away and made some dumb shit like "computers" that nobody actually wants. We sell sixty million of them a quarter.

You might ask yourself, surely this guy is a little biased towards the product he sells? Padding his numbers just a bit? Let me explain it this way: my wife and kids, in whatever state I left them before I started crossing the world endlessly in my quest to become the ultimate salesman, are eating very well because I am such a strong believer in the humble facsimile. Don't worry, they see me at Christmas. I bring them the greatest gift a father can offer: the newest Brother fax machines.

Folks think that it's easy to sell fax machines. You just go to the nearest government office and get drunk with the boss. Then, when their judgment is incapacitated, you make them sign a contract to buy a whole wad of colour multitransmits. Maybe take a few pictures for blackmail if they decide to go back on the deal. That might be how they do things over at Canon, sure, but we're beyond that kind of petty, cheap-assed, penny-ante trickery. We give the boss a rail of cocaine.

Why am I telling you all this? I'm looking for a new assistant. I can't do this job forever. No, it's not because the field is becoming obsolete. Folks will buy these machines until the sun explodes, I swear to your mother. My liver is starting to make concerning noises every time I down four travel margs in fifteen minutes at the airport Chili's. How do you get in touch, start your life on this new, exciting adventure? Email me your resume.

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abiimaryy · 7 months

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I sat and transcribed the Workin’ Boys programme as Matt Lang intended

Zoey Chambers (Henrietta) is humbled beyond words to be a part of this groundbreaking production. Zoey has been entrancing audiences for years with her portrayal of badass girl-bosses like Sandy from Grease and Fantine form Les Miserables. Zoey would like to thank her brother, Zack, for giving her the acting bug all the way back in the third grade! It’s ironic that Zack thought he was the actor of the family but Zoey would go on to completely overshadow him in every way. Sucks to suck doesn’t it Zachary? Zoey would also like to thank her roommate and fellow cast member, Hailey! Hailey is perfectly cast in her very small and inconsequential part. The role of Marge is just so uniteresting and one dimesntional that it helps mask Hailey’s limited range as an actress, as well as other flaws, such as not being pretty enough to pull off an ingenue. Enjoy show and ||be sure to check out Zoey’s Only Fans for spicy pics, JOIs and other lewd content.

Hailey Dilmore (Marge) is so lucky to be part of the best cast in the world! She has no idea how she managed to worm her way into this talented group of ladies! You may recognised Hailey as Pink Lady from Grease of Disciple #3 from Godspell! Hailey would like to thank her fellow cast member, Zoey Chambers. Zoey has been an inspiration, a mentor, and above all, a friend. She’d also like to thank her parents and her dog, Walter. Also she’d like to apologize to the cast once again for blowing up the bathroom every single day during rehearsal. She’s so sorry she made it stink so bad that everybody had to cross the street to use the toilet in the Bank of America. She really doesn’t know what’s happening to her bowels. She’s going to the doctors after the show closes to get everything sorted out. Enjoy the show!

Ruth Fleming (Secretary #4) is so fucking stoked for her acting debut! This is the best thing that’s ever happened to me I mean, her. Ruth ran the lights for her school’s shitty production of The Barbecue Monologues and was also the Assistant Stage Manager for The Wizard of Oz… it sucked. She got bulled and excluded by the whole cast, even thought her job was just as important as theirs. More important actually! Being in the cast is way better! You don’t have to think of an excuse to barge into the dressing room. You can just walk right in! Everyoby takes off their shirts and lets their titties tumble free! It’s the most awesome thing I’ve ever seen… I mean she’s ever seen. Anyways, Ruth doesn’t wanna thank anybody because nobody ever did anything for her.

Cassandra King (Eve) is elated to be present with you fellow vessels in these freeing moments. Everything has transpired exactly as the light in the sky foretold. Cassie has never been a believer in prophecy or the eternal spaces between… but she’s seen too much to deny their truth now. She no longer fears the visions or the pain that comes with their descent. Pain is the price of knowledge. Pain is the language that unites the children of Azzokish no matter which star they may hail from. Cassie wants to see what lies at the end of the cold half. She’s ready to see the face of the girl screaming in the dark. How did she find herself aboard? And what is the destination of such a significant ship? Is tonight the night Cassie departs? The lights do give no answer. And so she waits for deliverance. Cassie would also like to thank her boyfriend, Chris.

(Note: the spelling of Azzokish could be wrong it was blurry as hell)

#starkid #hatchetfield #workin boys #workin boys spoilers #team starkid

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denimbex1986 · 16 days

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We are lucky to be alive in the age of Andrew Scott, an actor of extraordinary breadth, skill and sensitivity, who can terrify as Jim Moriarty in Sherlock, make us fall in love (inappropriately) as the hot priest in Fleabag and cry in All of Us Strangers. He can also astonish, last year playing eight parts in a stage adaptation of Chekhov’s Uncle Vanya. He recently became the first actor to win the UK Critics’ Circle awards for best actor on stage and screen in the same year. And his latest project, Ripley, is a beautiful and chilling adaptation of the Patricia Highsmith novel The Talented Mr Ripley, with Scott playing the lead, dominating all eight one-hour episodes. It’s been a wild, crowning year for the 47-year-old Irish actor. But in March his mother, Nora, died of a sudden illness; she is who Scott has credited as being his foremost creative inspiration. His grief is fresh and intense and for the first half of the interview it seems to swim just beneath the surface of our conversation.

“We go through so many different types of emotional weather all the time,” he says. “And even on the saddest day of your life you might be hungry or have a laugh. Life just continues.” We are in a meeting room in his management company’s offices, talking about his ability, in his work, to modulate between emotions, to go from happy to sad, confused to scared, all within a matter of seconds. How does he do it? Scott laughs. “I would say that I have quite a scrutable face — is scrutable a word? — which is good or bad depending on what you are trying to achieve. But my job is to be as truthful as possible in the way that we are, and I don’t think that human beings are just one thing at any particular time. It is rare that we have one pure emotion.”

It’s an approach that is particularly appropriate for the playing of Tom Ripley, an acquisitive chameleon who inveigles his way into the lives of others (in this case Johnny Flynn, as the careless and wealthy Dickie Greenleaf, and his on-off girlfriend Marge, played by Dakota Fanning). “Ripley is witty, he is very talented. That’s gripping, to watch talent. I can’t call him evil — it is very easy to call people who do terrible things evil monsters, but they are not monsters, they are humans who do terrible things. Part of what she [Highsmith] is talking about is that if you dismiss a certain faction of society it has repercussions, and Ripley is someone who is completely unseen, he lives literally among the rats, and then there are these people who are gorgeous and not particularly talented and have the world at their feet but are not able to see the beauty that he can see.”

The show was written and directed by Steven Zaillian, the screenwriter of Schindler’s List. It’s set in Sixties New York and Italy, and filmed entirely in black-and-white, its chiaroscuro aesthetic evoking films of the Sixties — particularly those of Federico Fellini — while also offering an alternative to Anthony Minghella’s saturated late-Nineties iteration that starred Matt Damon and Jude Law. This has a darker flavour. “I found it challenging,” Scott says, “in the sense that he’s a solitary figure and ideologically we are very different. So you have to remove your judgment and try to find something that is vulnerable.”

It was a tough shoot, taking a year and filmed during lockdown. Scott was exhausted at the end of it and had intended to take a three-month break, but delays meant that he went straight from Ripley into All of Us Strangers. “Even though I was genuinely exhausted, it was energising because I was back in London, I was getting the Tube to work, there was sunshine,” he says. “I found it incredibly heartful, that film, there were so many different versions of love … I feel that all stories are love stories.”

All of Us Strangers, directed by Andrew Haigh, is about a screenwriter examining memories of his parents who died when he was 12. In it Scott’s character, Adam, returns to his family home, where his parents are still alive and as they were back in the Eighties. Adam is able to walk into the memory and to come out to his parents, finding the words that were unavailable to him as a boy. Some of it was filmed in Haigh’s childhood home, and there was a strong biographical element for him and his lead. Homosexuality was illegal in the Republic of Ireland until 1993, when Scott was 16. He did not come out to his parents until he was in his early twenties. I ask if he was working with his own childhood experiences in the film. “Of course, so in a sense it was painful, to a degree, but it was cathartic because you are doing it with people that you absolutely love and trust. I felt that it was going to be of use to people and I was right, it has been. The reaction to the movie has been genuinely extraordinary — it makes people feel and see things, and that isn’t an easy thing to achieve.”

The film is also a tender and erotic love story between Scott’s character and Harry, played by the Irish actor Paul Mescal. The two found a real-life kinship that made them a delight to watch on screen and off it, as a double act on the awards circuit. “I adore Paul, he’s so, so … continues to be …” Scott pauses. “Obviously it’s been a tough time recently and he just continues to be a wonderful friend. It’s everything. The more I work in the industry, I realise, you make some stuff that people love and you make some stuff that people don’t like, and all really that you are left with is the relationships that you make. I love him dearly.”

Scott and Mescal were also both notable on the red carpet for being extraordinarily well dressed. Scott loves fashion and has a big, well-organised wardrobe that he admits is in need of a cull. “I don’t like having too much stuff. I really believe that everything we have is borrowed — our stuff, our houses, we are borrowing it for a time. So I am trying to think of people who are the same size as me so I can give some of it away, and that’s a great thing to be able to do.” One of his favourite labels is Simone Rocha. “I love a bit of Simone Rocha. What a kind, glorious person she is. I just went to her show.” Fashion, he says, is in his DNA. “My mother was an art teacher, she was obsessed with all sorts of design. She loved jewellery and jewellery design. Anything that is visual, tactile, painting, drawing, is a big passion of mine, so I have tremendous respect for the creativity of designers.”

Today Scott is wearing Louis Vuitton trousers and a cropped Prada jacket, dressed up because he is collecting his Critics’ Circle award for best stage actor for Vanya. I ask how it feels to have won the double, a historic achievement. “Ah …” he says, looking at the table, going silent, having just been so voluble. “I’m sorry …” His voice cracks a little. “It’s bittersweet.”

At the ceremony Scott dedicated the award to his mother, saying of her “she was the source of practically every joyful thing in my life”. Is it difficult for him to carry on working in the circumstances, I wonder. “Well, you know, you have to — life goes on, you manage it day by day. It’s very recent, but I certainly can say that so much of it is surprising and unique, and there is so much that I will be able to speak about at some point.”

He is looking forward, he says, once promotion for Ripley is over, to taking some time off, going on holiday, going back to Ireland for a bit. He has homes in London and Dublin. To relax he walks his dog, a Boston terrier, dressed down in jeans and a hoodie “like a 12-year-old, skulking around the city” or goes to art galleries on the South Bank — he was considering a career as an artist until he was 17 and got a part in the Irish film Korea. He goes to the gym every day, “not, you know, to get …” he says, flexing his biceps. “More that it’s good for the head.” He is social, likes friends, likes a party. When I ask if he gave up drinking while doing Vanya, which required him to be on stage, alone, every night for almost two hours, he looks horrified. “Oh God, no! Easy tiger! Jesus … Although I didn’t drink much, I did have to look after myself. But we had a room downstairs in the theatre, a little buzzy bar, because otherwise I wouldn’t see anybody, so I was delighted to have people come down.”

Scott was formerly in a relationship with the screenwriter and playwright Stephen Beresford and is currently single, although this is not the sort of thing he likes to talk about. He is protective of his privacy, not wanting to reveal where he lives in London, or indeed the name of his dog — but he swerves such questions with a gentle good humour.

He is famous on set for being friendly and welcoming, for looking after other people. “The product is very important, but most of my time is spent in the process, so I want that to be as pleasant and kind as possible. I feel like it is possible to do that, that it is an honourable goal.” He is comfortable around people, with an easy charm — no one I have interviewed before has said my name so many times. And although when we talk he sometimes seems reflective or so very sad, there are also moments when he is exuberant, silly, putting on accents. “I feel like, as a person, I am quite near my emotions. I cry easily and I laugh easily, and there is nothing more pleasurable to me than laughing.”

Scott was raised a Catholic and is no longer practising, but says his view about religion is “ever changing — I definitely have a faith in things that cannot be proved”. When he was younger and felt overwhelmed, just before or after an audition, he would go to the Quaker Meeting House in central London and sit in silence, something that made its way into the second series of Fleabag, in which Scott’s priest takes Waller-Bridge’s character to that same meeting house. “It’s just around here,” he says, standing up, looking out of the window at Charing Cross Road. “When Phoebe and I first talked, we met at the Soho Theatre. We talked about love and religion, we walked all around here. And I said, ‘This is a place I go,’ so we called in and there was no one there, so we sat in there and we talked. It was a really magical day.”

Scott says he sees all the different characters that he has played as versions of himself. “It’s like, ‘What would this version of me look like?’ rather than, ‘Oh, I’m going to be somebody else.’ You filter it through you, and you discover more about yourself. I think that is a very lucky thing to be able to do, to find out more about yourself in the short time that we are here.”

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millie-multifics · 24 days

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Though I Yearn • Part 4

Masters of the Air

Secret Admirer x Reader

A string of anonymous letters causes a stir at Thorpe Abbotts. Who could be the author of the tender correspondence you have been receiving?

Warnings: Love Letters, mentions of stalking and cheating.

Word Count: ~1k

Masterlist Previous Next

x x x

“Though we face a perilous fight in the sky, I am most afflicted by you when my feet are on solid ground. Try as I might to evade your presence, I am only a man plagued by my jealousy and affections.”

His knuckles cramped as he gripped the pen, the words pouring onto the page, this time his printing was messy less concise. It obviously hadn’t worked the first time, writing a letter to relieve his thoughts, they still overwhelmed him. He was sure no one else had noticed you had been acting strange lately, maybe your friend but none of the men you interacted with. There was a curiosity in your gaze, as if you were always trying to decipher if they were him. He had left his last letter on your pillow, nearly getting trapped in the cabin as your group returned to base, being in there felt wrong, he would find other ways to leave any future letters. The letter he currently wrote would never be met by your eyes at all.

He knew he was being foolish, he could not feel such jealousy while he hid himself behind paper and ink. Yet, there you were in the window, simple but ever so captivating and unknowingly fuelling the growing fire. The letter he had tucked in his jacket pocket in a rush now felt like it was burning the skin underneath. You were distracted by the coffee, he tucked the paper beneath the ledge without you or anyone else around noticing.

Another party was in full swing, their mission had been successful- they had lost only one plane but they had made it to Scotland for Curt and his crew to land safely. You sat in an armchair in the corner, once again alone. Half of your job was to converse and boost morale so sometimes it was nice to have a little serenity; the girl wouldn’t let you stay alone in the billet, you had tried that. You had not noticed that Major Cleven was seated in the armchair beside you until you heard him chuckling along to the boisterous, out of tune ‘singing’ of John Egan.

“How does does a stoic man like you befriend someone like Major Egan?” You genuinely questioned, their difference more apparent than any similarities besides both men were talented pilots and great leaders.

Cleven glanced over to you, never really having an interaction unless he was getting a coffee in the morning. “He didn’t really give me the choice.”

“He is very social, especially with women yet you sit here alone. Are you married?” You knew that you were potentially overstepping but your curiosity had bested you.

“Not yet.”

The small longing smile and his tone told that he was thinking of someone back home fondly. “So there is a lucky lady awaiting you back home?”

“Marge.” He handed you the small photograph that he kept in his breast pocket. You studied her beauty, clear skin, perfect curls and joyous smile.

“She’s real pretty Major.” You returned the photograph, “And lucky to have someone so dedicated to her. I’m betting you that most of these men dancing around here tonight all have unsuspecting sweethearts waiting for them at home.”

The Major nodded, his eyes meeting those of his approaching friend, “I am not a betting man.”

Egan occupied the empty armchair on the other side of Cleven, wiping the sheen of sweat from his brow with a handkerchief, “Your bombardier is one of those men if I do recall.”

“Dougie and I are merely friends, sir.” You once again defended yourself, feeling less embarrassed and more adamant.

“No fella waiting at home?” Egan asked, having overheard your previous comments about the ever so lovely Marge.

“Not at home,” Suddenly the men’s gazes felt heavy on you, or maybe it was your heart in your chest that felt heavy. “I believe he’s across the continent now, and I am no longer his to consider.”

“Just means you can dance with any man here.” Egan shrugged it off, sensing the tenderness of the subject. “Say Brady, why don’t you take our girl for a spin around the floor?”

John Brady looked up with his wide eyes upon being volunteered.

“Oh, You don’t have to John, I am perfectly capable of finding my own dance partner.” You assured him but he was already tucking away his pipe but then you were interrupted by a frantic Douglass.

“Helen was telling me about some letters?” His voice was low but not quite a whisper, attracting the curiosity of the men around you.

“Please, excuse us.” You sent the group a tense smile before dragging the bombardier by his elbow into the quiet night air.

It seems like he’s trying to give you a stern look but it comes off more as concerned. “Why haven’t you told anyone?”

You scoffed, folding your arms across your chest. “They are just letters of admiration.”

“Are you positive about that?”

“Dougie, they’re just from some harmless airman who had nothing better to do.” You simply brushed off his concern over the matter.

“They are clearly depraved, watching you like that, taunting you.” He insisted, his voice lowering to a whisper as a small group approached to enter the hall. You led him further away from the entrance to keep anymore of your conversation away from prying ears.

“And when you were gonna tell me that you have a sweetheart at home?”

It was his turn to sigh, fidgeting uncomfortably at the topic. “That is complicated.”

He was not expecting your heel to harshly slam against his booted toe, pain exploding throughout his foot. “Ouch. What the hell was that for?”

“Stop being an idiot.”

“This isn’t about me, it is about these letters.”

“Which everyone knows about now, thanks to you.” Your voiced raised louder than you had heard it in months, your frustration with the situation reaching its limit. “Good night, Dougie.”

You left no room for the conversation to continue as you wandered off into the darkness. Your night had been ruined and no one could stop you from your serenity now.

x x x

Tags: @canyousmelltheflowers @jointherebellion215 @gretagerwigsmuse

#masters of the air #mota fanfic #mota #mota spoilers #bucky egan #james douglass #major gale cleven #john brady #everett blakely #major john bucky egan #curtis biddick #apple tv #austin butler #callum turner #benny demarco #mota x reader

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springfieldstills · 10 months

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#The Simpsons #season 4 #Marge Gets a Job #mr. burns #Waylon Smithers #Al Jolson

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jesusworesandals · 2 years

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#top 10 funniest homer lines #the simpsons #homer simpson #surly joe #marge gets a job #slanty shanty #now parge the lath #best #foundation repair

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bonefall · 4 months

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i think nightcloud's pannage is perfect, personally. it gives her a great opportunity to compare herself to the sow in her mind; perhaps she even goes behind onestar's back to try and reunite some of the humbugs with their mother?

Yeah, I think it's all coming together. It should be Nightcloud's Pannage. I was a little apprehensive of eliminating the stoats, but I think this will actually work better.

Now I can use the hog and her humbugs as a vehicle for conflict, create a really interesting comparison to herself and the demonized mother boar, and also establish the very cute little detail that she REALLY loves piggies just in case the opportunity to make Sowstar presents itself later.

Friendship Ended with Stoats; now Sow and Humbugs are my Best Friend

When a litter of humbugs get lost in the tunnels and start popping up all over the WindClan Moor, their mother comes to try and find them.

Mama Sow is actually going to get a name. The new "Head of Hunting" role has this as a major part of their job; they are meant to keep track of major individual predators in their territory, so they name notable animals.

DETOUR: I kinda want her name to be Rashma in Clanmew; in English that's Oxeye Daisy, or Moonpenny or Marguerite. I think calling her Marge is the funniest possible thing I can do here.

Marge is notorious for liking the taste of moonpenny, which makes prey taste awful.

So, she's never been hunted, has lived to the grand age of at least 5, and is known as a prolific, doting mother.

So I might actually have the Head of Hunting of ThunderClan, possibly the newly promoted Lionblaze, come to WindClan to warn them that Marge is on the loose.

Onestar is currently in one of the lower points of his arc, like canon. So he pretty bitterly dismisses this warning, and cuts Lionblaze off when he tries to offer ThunderClan's help if Marge becomes trouble.

(Or Lionblaze might be training under someone else, currently. I'm unsure. The last cat I have planned to be the Head of Hunting in ThunderClan is Willowpelt.)

After more scouting, WindClan comes to realize that Marge's humbugs are all over the moor. They're JUST big enough to put up a fight, but not big enough that the inexperienced WindClan can't win. About 3 or 4 months old.

I know that at least ONE of these humbugs is killed by WindClan.

It was awful to Nightcloud, like, so uncomfortably sloppy that it caused her to disassociate with raw fury and finish the job.

That's important because it's how I'd open up the first flashback of her childhood, that night.

As the Clan is roasting the humbug, congratulating her, singing high praises, she realizes she was reminded of a gruesome hunting incident when she was a kitten.

Each humbug would be tied to some sort of thought she has on her own life, so I can use them as a framing device.

She probably gets separated in the end because reuniting the humbugs with Marge brought her far away.

BTW I want to make sure Marge is still very much an animal. They can't become "friends" in the end lmaooo.

But Marge could "return the favor" without breaking that rule too much, I think. Maybe have Nightcloud get chased somewhere by a fox and Marge comes out of nowhere to kill it without even breaking a sweat, then moves on.

So far, something I'm kind of enjoying about Nightcloud's Pannage is the way it's just sort of reflective. It's about the hogs and dealing with them, but in TRUTH, it's just a window into WindClan during an interesting point in time.

Crowfeather is reeling from NOT being respected anymore, suddenly losing something that was very important to him, because he misused that power and felt entitled to it.

Realizing he has no friends or family left, because he was AWFUL to them.

The Clan is now looking to Nightcloud, giving her a sense of respect she doesn't really like very much. But she's exploring what that feels like, for the first time, as she comes to terms with her past.

Breezepelt/Dodderheart reaches a very low point in his life, and starts pushing people who love him away to set up where he's going in the next arc.

Onestar is ALSO at a low point. I should include him nonsensically snapping at Brushblaze after Galekit and Smokekit are born in this SE, so Nightcloud can grapple with how on edge her leader seems.

(Possible trigger where she also is immediately ported back to Hillrunner snapping at her for something equally "random")

Plus the supporting cast of interesting cats with their own feelings on this; Harespring who's trying to stay diplomatic, Heathertail who's frustrated, Willowclaw and her budding friendship to Nightcloud, etc.

Hmmmm.... you know, now that I'm writing this out, it's kinda striking me that Nightcloud's probably SO sensitive at this time in her life because, it's the first time she's actually felt safe.

You know that thing with PTSD where it all hits you at once? Because you're FINALLY in a place where you can unpack it?

So it all gets worse before it gets better?

I should keep that in mind with this one.

#Better Bones AU #Nightcloud's Pannage

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13as07 · 1 month

Text

Spitting Image Prequel

(Gaara Sabaku Smut)

[Artwork is not mine! Credit to Bev-Nap]

Requested by: Myself

Word Count: 4,240

Warnings and/or Pre-Notes:

Alcohol drinking/Drunk sex

Soft boi virgin Gaara

Praising/“Good Boy”

Hickeys/Scratch Marks

Mommy kink (you can’t convince me that Gaara doesn’t have a mommy kink)

Pleasure kink

Begging

Oral (female receiving)

Creampie

———————————————————————

The neon lights of the bar cut through the darkness, pulling me towards it like a moth. This day has sucked, this week has sucked, this month has sucked. Plus, the promise of cheap margaritas is almost impossible to deny. I'm a sucker for a cheap alcohol-induced night.

"Welcome in! Margaritas are two hundred yen a glass tonight!" The short-haired bartender calls out, a toothy grin on her face.

"Start me off with a strawberry margarita," I order, sliding into an empty barstool at the counter. "Then slide me a lime one once it's done."

"So start your second one as soon as I'm done with your first?" She asks a laugh following her words.

"Ya, pretty much," I giggle out too, slapping my ID onto the counter before laying six hundred yen on top. "Keep the extra as a tip, love."

"Damn, already sweet talking me. One strawberry and one lime marg coming up," the bartender says, snatching up my ID and the cash. She glances at my ID, checking my age before sliding it into the tab box alongside another twenty or thirty others.

It doesn’t take long for my drinks to come. As promised, I down the first one before taking my time with the second. As I’m sipping on the lime drink, the taste of it justifying the price, a voice rings out. “Sorry ma’am, but is this seat taken?”

I turn my head towards the voice, a shorter man with a head of shaggy red hair at the end of the sound. His hair interests me, it’s a dark red instead of the normal pale-red gingers tend to be. I wonder if it’s a dye job. “No, it’s not taking, sunshine.”

“O…oh,” the man stutters, slowly sliding into the stool next to me. “Thank you, for the seat,” he mumbles, a hand running through his hair. When his hair flips up because of the movement, a tattooed red mark is exposed on his forehead, only interesting me even more.

“Of course. No lady likes to drink alone,” I answer, the buzz of my margs setting in. “No girl likes to buy her drinks either.”

The man’s eyes blink slowly, exposing the black circles around his eyes. How cute, a hot ginger that’s good at eyeliner. “Would… would you like me to buy you a drink? Is that what you’re asking?”

I let out a deep laugh as a smile cracks across my face. “You don’t get hit on often do you?”

Another round of slow blinking before a soft “no” peeps out.

“Yes, I’m asking you to buy me a drink.”

The man’s face scrunches, nonexistent eyebrows smashed together. The red is totally a dye job. “What would you like to drink?”

“A mango margarita, please, sunshine.”

Mr Sunshine stumbles over his words as he orders a drink for himself and me. His eyes are wide and stuck on me as we wait for our drinks, the intenseness of his stare poking at my nerves. “So… I haven’t seen you around the village before. Are you from the Leaf or just passing through?”

“I am from the Village Hidden in the Sand.”

“Oh, that’s… cool. Whatcha doing here then?”

“I was meeting with your village’s Hokage,” he mutters, eyes flickering down to our drinks being set on the countertop.

“Oh, so you’re a Shinobi then?” I ask, my interest sparked even more. I’ll be the first one to admit I’m a bit of a band chaser. I don’t know what it is, but Shinobis just do it for me. Besides, they’re the best for one-night stands. There’s a million of them and they’re usually too busy for anything more than a rang and bang.

“Um… I guess so.”

“You guess so?” I ask, downing my drink quicker than I probably should. “Well, if I ask if your hair is naturally red are you going to say you guess so?” I add, shifting closer to the man.

“I… um… yes, I’m… I’m naturally a redhead,” the man stutters, his cheeks quickly growing the same shade as his hair. “And you… you’re really close to my face.”

I let out a hum, slowly backing away from the shinobi. “Sorry, I’m coming off a little strong,” I mutter, waving down the bartender, who goes into action starting another drink. What’s that? Number four? Maybe I should slow down. Mr Shinobi is still nursing drink number one. “Not much of a drinker are you?”

“No, I am not. I’m only here because my brother wants to ‘get blasted’ before his wedding,” the man says, the words ‘get blasted’ falling out of his mouth like it left a nasty taste behind. “I am just here because he said I have to be.”

“What is it that you don’t like about drinking?” I ask, trying to push the conversation forward.

“I do not like my senses being unbeneficial. Besides, most alcohol does not taste good.”

“Well duh, you ordered a double shot of whiskey. If you want something that tastes good you need to get something fruity, like my margaritas. Want to try?” I push my untouched glass towards him, encouraging him to try something different.

“My sister says margaritas are girly drinks.”

“So? Who cares what your sister thinks?”

The man’s eyes settle on me again, his eyes round and full of confusion. “Why are you talking to me?”

“Because I’m a little more than buzzed and you’re a little more than hot,” I answer honestly, shifting closer to him. I rest a hand on his knee, resting my head against his so I can whisper in his ear. “Besides, I love the sight of a ginger on his knees.”

“You wish to have sex?” The man asks, his eyes widened again and hands fluttering up and down my arms. “You… you wish for me…. To…?”

I let out a few giggles, pressing a kiss to his cheek before I settle in my seat again. “Yes, but not until I slow down or until you catch up a bit, Sunshine.”

The Shinobi blinks a couple of times before his focus shifts to the drink I pushed toward him. He picks it up, downing it in a few gulps before setting the glass back down. “I do not like mangoes.”

I laugh again, sliding my nails over the inside of his thigh as I do so. “We could have ordered you a different flavor you know. What fruits do you like?”

“Apples.”

“Then let’s get you an apple margarita, ya?”

“Okay,” he mumbles, leaning closer as his eyes glare into mine. The closeness and intensity spook me a bit. “You are a strange person.”

“Why do you say that?”

“People usually don’t enjoy my… company.”

“You’re pretty, I don’t know who wouldn’t enjoy your company. But enough about your looks, you got any hobbies?”

The boy seems even more confused like he’s never given his looks any thought. “Plants,” he races out, eyes glancing at the apple-mixed drink that the bartender has left on the counter.

“Oh ya? I love plants. Willow trees are my favorite though,” I say, going on a ramble about the planet. The man nods along with my rant, his eyes locked on me the whole time. They’re pretty, slit, and a soft opal color. Dear Lord, all I can imagine is those pretty eyes looking up at me as he sits on his knees. “What’s your favorite plant, sunshine?”

“Barrel cactus!” He races out, blinking at me on repeat again. I get the feeling the man has never talked about himself before. “I… I mean, barrel cactus,” he says in a softer tone this time.

“Ya? Why’s that?”

————————————

The Sand Shinobi clung to me is as red as his hair, cheeks heated as his head presses into my neck. “You are pretty,” he murmurs against my throat, his body weight pressed into me.

“You are hot,” I compliment back, swaying a bit because of the man’s weight and the alcohol flowing through my system.

“No, you are like really pretty and nice and your skin is so soft, and oh my that sounds murderous,” the redhead mumbles on and on, his hands sliding over my bare arms as he nuzzles his nose against me. “You are so nice. Did I tell you that? You have been really nice to me. I want you to feel nice. Let me make you feel nice. Please?”

The high-ranked shinobi’s ‘please’ comes out whiney, turning my gears even more as I unlock my front door. “Ya? You want to make me feel nice?” I mumble, throwing my things onto the table next to the front door.

“Please? I want you to feel nice, so bad. Let me make you feel nice,” the redhead begs, his hands wandering up and down my shirt, gripping the material like he might fall over without me.

While we were at the bar we talked about what he does for work. I don’t know what any of the things he said meant but he kept talking about the Kage palace so he must be some kind of high rank ninja. Having such a highly regarded shinobi begging to go down on me only turns me on more.

“You want to make me feel nice, sunshine?” I ask, shifting in his hold so we’re face-to-face. His head shakes like crazy, and his eyes are soft for the first time tonight but still locked on me like I’m the core of the Earth. “Be a good boy and kneel for me, okay?”

“Okay,” he breathes out, sinking to his knees, his hands sliding down to grip my hips as he moves.

“Dear lord,” I mutter, the sight of the shinobi looking up at me rushing arousal down my body. His head is lead against me, chin gently pressed against the waistband of my pants, eyes locked on me, and hands gripping my love handles. “You look so hot right now.”

“You are beautiful. You are the moon. You are the stars hung in the sky,” he mutters, eyes intensely on my face as he looks up at me. “But I do not know what I’m doing.”

“What?” I ask, toying with the ends of his hair. “Have you never gone down on a girl before?”

“I have never done… anything with… anyone,” he mutters, cheeks heating up again as his eyes flicker around. “But I do wish to make you feel nice. Tell me how to make you feel nice. Please?”

“Ah… are you sure?” I ask, tugging his arms off of me. “We’re both drunk. This isn’t how you want to lose your virginity,” I continue to ramble, walking away from the man kneeling on my floor.

“No, please. Pretty please?” The man begs, crawling across the floor after me. “You’ve made me feel good all night. Let me make you feel nice,” he begs, wrapping his arms around my hips again and burying his head into my stomach. “Please?”

I let out a sigh, toying with his hair again as he nuzzles my stomach. “Alright, sunshine. Let’s go into the bedroom though, okay?”

The Sand Shinobi lights up at my agreement, his hands sliding up, picking me off my feet as he stands up again. He’s a bit wobbly as he adjusts to his drunken balance and my added weight. He’s still a bit unbalanced as he tries the doors, opening the spare room packed full of storage before he opens the door to my room. “You’re really pretty,” he tells me again, settling me on the bed.

I lock my legs around his waist, keeping him stuck on top of me. “You’re really hot,” I echo, shoving my hands into his hair as I tug his face down.

I crash my lips against his, rubbing myself on his growing bulge. “Oh my… you’re… we’re…” the redhead mutters into my mouth, his hands crawling up and down my sides. I let out a giggle, using my hold on his hair to shift his head to the side. “You, you, you… you’re…” The words stumble out of him as I brush my lips across his neck, softly sucking on his skin every couple of kisses.

“Do you want me to stop?” I mumble, working a hand out of his hair to toy with the hem of his shirt.

“No! Please, no. Please keep going,” he gushes out, hands clinging to my hips, pressing me down against him as he takes over our humping. “I want… I want to make you feel good. Tell me… tell me how to make you feel good.”

“Slow down a bit, sunshine,” I hum, tugging his shirt up. My eyes flicker a bit, rolling over the outline of his stomach muscles. “Take your shirt off for me, okay?”

The man moves quickly, sliding his shirt off and tossing it to the ground before settling back in his spot. “Now what do I do?” He asks opal-eyes stuck on me as he waits for his directions.

“Keep moving your hips,” I order, the man going straight to rubbing against me again. I let out steady breaths, trying to keep my mind straight to work our way through this. “That’s it, you’re being such a good boy,” I mumble, tugging my shirt off too.

“I’m… I’m what?” He asks, soft eyes blinking like crazy as his pace picks up. His eyes flicker between my face and my chest, mouth almost watering as he looks at my boobs.

“You’re being a good boy,” I repeat, gripping his hair to tug his face toward my chest. “Keep being a good boy. Kiss and suck on my chest as you hump me, okay?”

“Yes… yes, ma’am,” he whispers, lips brushing against my chest, occasionally testing different ways of sucking on my skin. “It’s… there’s marks,” he whines, nose nuzzling me before he litters my boobs in more kisses. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to leave marks.”

“I like marks,” I coo, raking my fingers through his hair. “You can leave as many marks as you wish.”

“I… I want… take it off,” the Shinobi husks out, a hand sliding under the wire of my bra. “Please take it off. Pretty please? I want… I want to suck on… please?”

A smile slides onto my lips from the sound of the redhead’s desperation. I give into his wants, sliding my hands behind my back to unclasp my bra. An audible whimper spills from the hardass shinobi when my boobs tumble out, his eyes blown out and entangled in my chest. His eyes flicker up to mine, his question stuck on his lips. “Go ahead, sunshine.”

With the permission voiced, his head dips down, his tongue sliding out to cup my nipple before he sucks it into his mouth. My hand searches for his, gripping it and tugging it up to my free boob. “Fuck, sunshine,” I whimper, working my hips against his as he toys with my chest.

“Hey,” I hiss after a couple of minutes, tugging his mouth off of me.

“I’m sorry. Did I hurt you? I’m so sorry,” he rambles, his desperation soaking out from his eyes, quickly coating his face.

“Hey, hey, hey, calm down,” I soothe, gently pushing his head down my body. “You just sucked a little too long, it’s no biggie.”

More sorrys tumble out of him as he kisses down my stomach, both hands on my chest now, squeezing my boobs as his mouth coats my torso. “I… what do…?” A whine falls from him, his inexperience getting to him.

“Sunshine, please calm down. You’re working yourself up. I’ll walk you through it,” I tell him, my fingers sliding under my waistband to tug my pants off. The ginger’s fingers wrap around the band too, quickly tugging my pants down my legs.

Once he’s back between my legs, my hands fall on his hair, slowly shifting his head down. “Can… I want… please?”

“Do whatever you want, sunshine,” I coo, twirling his hair around my fingertips. He jumps right in, coating my thighs in kisses and soft suckles as his hands grip my legs. His fingers dig into my flesh, sifting my legs open and closed around his head.

“I…” he mutters, tapping his nose against my underwear. “I want…”

“What do you want, sunshine?” I ask, toying with him as I grind myself against him. “Use your words like a good boy.”

“I want to go down on you. I want to taste you. I want you to feel good. Please? Mommy please?” I snap his head away from me, the bedroom name ringing in my head. “I’m sorry,” he races out, his opal eyes shiny and wide as he looks at me. “I didn’t… I don’t know why I said that. It won’t happen again.”

“It’s… fine. It just called me off guard is all,” I mumble, shifting his head back into please. I let out a few deep breaths before letting my hands go gentle in his hair again. “You still want to make Mommy feel good?”

“Yes,” he races out, littering kisses across my panties. “Please?”

“Ya… ya, make… make me feel good, baby.”

Another whimper falls from the man between my legs, his lip hungrily kissing my thighs as he tugs my underwear off. “What do I do?” He asks, eyes scanning my exposition before jumping to my face. “I just… lick at you, right?”

“Kind of, ya. You can move your tongue in and out of me too, or if you can find my clit you can suck and lick at that.”

“And your clit does what?” He asks, bending back down to bury his head in my pussy before his tongue starts sliding between my folds.

“My clit is a bundle of nerves that make me feel really good - and that’s it,” I moan out the second half, clinging to the roots of his hair. “Right… right there, baby.”

The Shinobi’s eyes jump up, locking in my face as his tongue swirls around my clit, running over it again and again. After a couple of licks, he changes direction, sucking on the bundle as his eyes scan my face. “Fucking… lord, baby,” I moan out, my back arching as my climax crawls forward. “Don’t, don’t, don’t change anything, you hear me? Keep doing that?” I order, my breath picking up as the edge moves closer.

He does as told, continuing to suck and swirl his tongue around in the way I’m enjoying. “Fuck. God damn it. Baby,” I whine, shoving his head further into me as the band in my stomach snaps.

Once I settle down from my high, the shinobi pops up from between my legs, eyes sparkling, and face covered in my mess. “Did I do good? I did good, right? Mommy, right?”

“Right,” I mumble, trying to steady my breathing. “Come here,” I call, leading him up my body. “You did so good. You’re such a good boy,” I coo, littering his face in kisses. A smile small crosses his face, eyes soft but still intense as he looks at me. What a weird little sandman.

“What do I do now?” He asks, head decking down to cover my chest in kisses. “Can I do it again, Mommy? Can I go down on you again? Please? Mommy please?”

“Not right now, sunshine. I want you to fuck me, okay?”

“Really?” He asks, his breath airy as he asks the question. “Can I? Can I really?”

“Ya. Let me grab a condom first,” I answer, leaning over to snap open my side table drawer. I dig around the drawer, searching for a rubber. “Um… do you have a condom?” I ask, shifting around the drawer some more.

“No, do you not have one?”

I let out a sigh, snapping the drawer closed. “No, I don’t, I’m sorry. Maybe if you’re in the village tomorrow - ”

“No,” he whines, burying his head in my chest, nuzzling my boobs as he whimpers. “I have to leave tomorrow. Please? It’ll be fine, right? One time won’t do anything.”

“You do know that sex leads to - ”

“I know how kids are made. Come on! Please? Pretty please?”

“Alright, okay. Just… don’t finish in me,” I give in, hands dropping down to work him out of his pants. My cheeks heat up as my fingers slide over his length, the soft virgin boy being bigger than I thought he would be. “Lord,” I mutter, working his pants the rest of the way down. Well, he definitely is a natural ginger.

“What? What’s wrong?” The Shinobi starts to panic, his eyes jumping around my body. “What did I do?”

“Hey, calm down. You work yourself up too much. You’re just… bigger than I thought you were going to be,” I mumble, settling my hands on his waist to shift him around.

“Is that a bad thing?” He asks, the opal of his eyes pooling into my view. The shinobi stumbles a bit, finding his balance above me. His hands settle on the sides of my head, nose pressed against mine as he looks down at me.

“No,” I breathe out, slowly using my hold on him to push his penis into me. “It’s… it’s a good thing, baby. A really good thing.” His chest pumps as he slides into me, his eyes fluttering as he looks down at me. “Okay, okay, um… do you think that you can move yourself in and out?” He nods his head quickly, mouth hung open as he sucks in oxygen. “Use your words, baby.”

“Yes, Mommy. Yes, I can. I can… I can move myself,” he mutters, his hips moving back and forth, tugging his dick in and out of me. “Mommy,” he whines, head barring into my neck.

“Sunshine, move a little faster,” I ask, my nails digging into his waist. “Please, baby.”

“Yes, ya, whatever you want,” he races out, his pace picking up. I’m shifted up the bed because of his thrusts, the tip of his dick bullying its way into me. My nails race across his sides, tearing into his skin as I’m forced up the bed, the promise of scratch marks left behind. “Mommy, mommy, mommy, mommy,” he whines, his thrusts getting sloppy.

“Hey,” I call out, digging my nails into him harder. “You should probably…” a moan cuts off my next order, fingers digging deep enough that I can feel his blood trickling onto my fingertips.

“Damn it,” he whines, burying himself into me, his movements stalling as his hands jump down to cling to my sides. “I’m sorry, I didn’t… I didn’t mean to. I’m so sorry,” the redhead whines, head dipped onto my shoulder as he bottoms out in me. “I’m really sorry,” he whines again, the warmth of his cum filling me up.

————————————

My heart pounds as I push open the door to the convenience store. It's been a month... or two since I've had my period. I'm sure it's nothing, that the stress of life is just getting to me... but you can never be too sure.

The sound of my blood rushing rings in my ears as I stroll around the store, eyes flickering around for the aisle I need. It doesn't take long for me to find the family planning aisle, only increasing my heartbeat.

I feel like I'm going to throw up as I settle in front of the wall of pregnancy tests, quickly scanning over the pink boxes. I grab the cheapest one, figuring it’ll work just as well as the rest.

The sound of the test moving as I walk only makes my nausea worse. I’m sure I’m not pregnant, I’m sure it’s just stress. The test will come out negative. It’s just me crossing all my Ts and dotting all my Is.

“Hello! Did you find everything alright?” The cashier asks, an empty smile on her face.

“Ya, I did,” I mutter, placing the box on the counter.

The cashier’s eyes flicker between the box and me for a second before she scans it. “Would you like a bag?” She asks already placing it into one of the propped-up paper bags. “Your total is twenty-three hundred yen.”

I place the money on the counter, snatching the bag and the recite from the lady before turning on my heels. Panic and blood rush through me as I head toward the store bathroom. It’s going to be negative, this is just a precaution.

The lights of the bathroom are so bright that it almost blinds me, only adding to my stress. It’s just to check, it’s not going to be positive, it’s just to cross it off the possibility list.

I repeat the empty promises to myself as I take the test. My anxiety claws at my chest more and more as I wait for the test to process. How could I be so stupid? How could I let a one-night stand not use a condom? I always make them use one and then a hot sand shinobi shows up and all of a sudden my senses go out the window? What the hell? I can’t be a single mom. I can’t do this alone. But it’s fine because I’m not pregnant.

I shake the stick for a second, slowly opening my eyes to look down at it. “Well, shit.”

———————————————————————

#naruto shippuden #naruto shippuden oneshot #naruto shippuden x reader #naruto shippuden smut #gaara sabaku x reader #gaara x reader #gaara oneshot #gaara sabaku #gaara sabaku oneshot #gaara smut #gaara sabaku smut

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allieinarden · 3 months

Note

Been thinking on how Maggie would technically still be a brand new member of the Simpson family if the timeline wasn't however many seasons long. Don't know what to do with those thoughts but I have been having them.

I’m so glad you brought this up because it happens to be something I think about continuously. I need everybody to embrace my theory of The Simpsons where the family having an unexpected brand-new member is fundamental to all of the characters as we’re currently (constantly) perceiving them:

Marge’s difficulties with her, up to this point, uneventful marriage (tempted to have an affair a few episodes in!) are the result of all her hormones still resettling combined with the stress of the pregnancy itself where Homer struggled to come to terms with the fact that he had to go back to his old job, and wasn’t very emotionally supportive as a result. As her older two children grow up, she’s gaining a sense of her identity outside of motherhood, while the new baby is simultaneously tying her more closely to the heart of her home than ever. She’s both more rooted and more unsettled than she’s ever been before and that conflict is reflected in her episodes.

In the episode “Lisa the Simpson” we’re told that Bart was a good student when he was in Lisa’s year, before his grades took a rapid dive from which they never recovered. The episode attributes this to a “Simpson gene” which makes all the male members of the Simpson family lose their intelligence at the age of eight. I have not lost my intelligence and think it’s very obvious that Bart is still trying to recover from all the aforementioned sources of stress that would have occurred right around that exact point in time. He faced some upheaval shortly before we met him and the Bart we know now is still trying to get his head above water.

Lisa tends to feel neglected and overlooked, identifies herself with her intelligence to the point where she has an identity crisis any time she’s not the smartest person in the room, and is constantly embarking on socially disruptive moral crusades. All of the above are clearly the actions of a child who was the baby of the family for most of her life and is now actively engaged in determining her value beyond that designation.

And finally, Homer’s contribution to his family up to this point has been completely based on his role as the provider, having spent the better part of the past decade since he and his high school sweetheart had that accidental pregnancy paying off the family’s debts and looking forward to the time when he had definitively done right by them and could transition to a lower-paying job without worry. Instead, the presence of yet another unexpected baby and his transition to the role of safety inspector have forced him to an awareness of the fact that his responsibility is ongoing, that his other two children—at ages eight and ten—aren’t babies anymore, that it’s no longer going to be enough to clock in every day to provide for them and then clock out and nurse a well-earned beer, that they now need him in a way they didn’t before and that leaving all the parenting to Marge is no longer going to be enough. I think that this reflects a reality of life for many working parents whose primary duty hasn’t been at home, until suddenly their home starts to demand them. That’s why The Simpsons doesn’t take place in 1989 or 2024 or any year in between, it takes place in the year that Homer Simpson becomes a father.

#The Simpsons #awesomebutunpractical #TLDR Maggie is the catalyst for the entire series as we know it and everything that happens in it and all the characters being who they are #She’s the reason we’re looking at them at THIS point in their lives and not at any other

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jacksprostate · 4 months

Text

Bob in female fight club au. Thoughts

Probably named Marge

Rather than doing a direct inversion (ie making the character the exact opposite, much tits -> no tits, etc) I think sort of an analogue would work better riffing off the motherly role Bob has, in combination with the group being for uterine cancer/ovarian cancer

The women come together, and they cry, cry, cry, over lost husbands, who left them because they got cancer, because overwhelmingly, men leave if their wife gets cancer, over lost relationships with children, who stayed but resent them, over lost Motherhood, that thing you were told was your worth but now you are told you're shit. Remaining Women Together. Despite. Despite despite despite.

What is it, about purposes. Want to see misery, see women fed their own physical oppression as lost salvation.

Marge, whatever her name is, her husband divorced her, left her with the kids and medical bills stacked as high as she is tall. She is thankful she still has her kids, it makes her feel like she's still worth something. She's had to try and get back into the workforce. No one wants to hire dear former stay at home mother Marge. She shows you her kids in her wallet in her purse and there are no pictures of her. There's a picture of her old husband, which she keeps to show her kids if they ask. They're old enough to go to school now, which is good, because it gives her more time to work. Life is hard, but she's doing her best.

Marge, who is on hormone therapy so she doesn't get those "side effects" she's heard about from other total hysterectomy patients, the future of early dementia and degeneration and horror. Who does pelvic floor exercises in hopes it will minimise the fallout of the surgery. Who carefully rips every hair out of her upper lip and chin because even if it would be normal for a woman, a woman whose gone through menopause, a woman at all — she knows, it's probably the estrogen tipping back over into testosterone, and she can't handle any more losses. She compensates. They all do.

The support group is her Me Time. It is the single hour plus half hour commute she can afford once a week for herself. So she gets here, and she cries, cries, cries, and the others cry with her, all over how their lives have fallen apart since they got ovarian cancer, got breast cancer, and their lives derailed because they can't be proper women anymore.

They cry in their waterproof makeup. Another product to promise womanhood. Identify yourself via consumption. Identify yourself by covering yourself up.

And when she finds fight club. When she finds something that says, jesus fuck. You are more than your children. You are more than your ability to have kids. You aren't a failed woman, that's a sack of shit you've been sold wholesale. When she finds something that promises her she will grow, achieve personhood, not because she was the ultimate martyr mother, not because she played the game of human or woman, but because it promises a freedom from all that, identification and repulsion of such sickening chains. When she stops worrying about her slightly deepened voice, and works to keep her dose even keel for her health, to avoid the toxic highs of accidentally juicing, rather than the lesser effects of a black lip hair or two. When she has a photo, not of herself in her wallet, but of the things she makes with other women from fight club, of the one view of the sunset from that one parking lot that she always thought was wonderful, when she has things in her wallet for her and her enjoyment. When she has corded muscle and a built up spine, when she sits her kids down and explains why they only see dad one weekend every other month, all the fun holidays, because dad decided staying with her through cancer was too hard even when she stayed with him through four lost jobs pissed away in alcohol and lottery tickets.

And Marge, who gets shot by the police on a regulation chill-and-drill assignment for Project Mayhem. Whose obituary in the newspaper talks about the children she left behind, how she battled cancer and kept caring for them, how she was such a strong mother, whose kids would now be shipped off to their grieving father who is so, so brave and stunning for standing up and taking care of the kids he made and dropped as soon as his live-in servant had a few issues. Her name is Marge Paulson, and she was forty-eight years old. She was a person. She will be remembered in the annals of Project Mayhem, lest what little there was of her be stolen from the world. She was killed by Project Mayhem, but they're the only ones who will remember Marge Paulson.

#fight club #female fight club au #like. it's about how the male castration being the worst thing that could happen to a man as per gendered ideals gets reflected here.#being very clear; the motherhood focus should seem as immensely disturbing and disproportionate. if not much more tbh. as how the guys are #because like. yeah the male focus on balls is immense but the pressure to consider your entire worth and personhood and status as a being a #your reproductive capacity is Insane for women. and i think that would be uhhh highly relevant in female fight club #both as the logical mirror to the castration/emasculation thing #and also because it's inextricable from any sort of feminism demanding a backbone #yadda yadda yadda #the end is also interesting #the death and the name thing just cant quite be the same #its still horrifying because the Project did kill her #but god. so many women die and no one fucking remembers them #just what they did as mothers or servants #so. her name is marge paulson. would be important.#this is very specific and dear 2 me.#its not about hating the kids or saying fuck them or anything either #its just. shes a person. womanhood is not some step below (man) personhood

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