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cloud-based-and-rainpilled · 11 months

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Horrible opinion time ™, but honestly, season 2 of Good Omens really clinched it for me as a show to come back to (tl;dr at the bottom sorry essay post)

Overall season one is much better imo (higher stakes, better structured, more sarcastic and self aware, better set pieces, etc. Also I have a personal preference for the ensemble aspect of the show/presumably the book,) and of course this comes from it being a very good book. A lot of book to screen adaptations are awful but it's always good when the author has some kind of creative input

However, when I saw Every-- or more specifically, the rabid fandom (and author) reaction to Every-- I went from vague interest in watching GO to actively wanting to watch it, and then doing so. I still firmly believe Amazon did that shit on purpose and whoopsie it worked lol

So while overall I think season two is a bit more muddled and the stakes are far lower, the shift from macro issues being the primary conflict in season one with the Apocalypse (apparently the book is very much focused on this plot and the romantic aspects of ineffable husbands were bass-boosted in the series,) the micro interpersonal conflicts in season two are very compelling in a different way

Good Omens 1 was wrapped in a neat bow; it felt sweet, but because a lot of the ensemble aspect was cut, the ending with Adam didn't really quite hit the punch it needed imo (Real "You have no power over me!" Labyrinth moment, except not as cool.) Body switching was a fist pump in the air moment, but with that wine toast and the birds chirping, it felt over. I'd have thought back on it as, "Oh, that show! That was cute, maybe I'll watch it again someday."

But that fuckin cliffhanger and Crowley and Aziraphale's absolute despair really brings out the angst and conflict I love from media. Succession (yes I am still Succession brained, sorry) has plenty of money moves, but all the important psychologically devastating/funny aspects come from the characters' (and actors') interactions

People are upset about leaving on conflict but-- why? Conflict in a story is what makes it move. It's the only thing that motivates an actor or a character (thanks acting method, you will always be annoying as fuck) Their separation now emphasizes the truly terrible ambiguity of good and evil in Heaven and Hell and could possibly take it into a more philosophical and metaphysical direction that-- while may have existed in the book-- didn't really exist prominently in the first season

I know people overall want a beautiful resolution for ineffable husbands but you know what? I'll take the pining! I'll take the misery! When it's all wrapped up, the imagination stops. When there's always something looming, there's always something to come back to

tl;dr Aziraphale & Crowley failmarriage is so frustrating and has so much potential to explore deeper philosophical and psychological themes and y'all're cowards if you're mad lmao (no one really is tho tbh)

#no one will read this lol #good omens #good omens spoilers #good omens meta #i hope this doesn't seem like asslicking i just really got in my feelings about this season #aziraphale #crowley #ineffable husbands #good omens 2 #good omens 2 spoilers #good omens speculation #good omens analysis #succ brained sorry #succession

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kendallspatricide · 1 year

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like stewy has every reason to still be scathingly mad at kendall but there was no hostility on his end. just desperation. like for someone all about money he's glaringly less concerned about kendall's actual betrayal and more concerned with the why and ken himself

#succession #sorry not sorry kenstewy brain is activated #succession s4 #succession spoilers #i guess #wait ive been tsgging succ season 3 im sorry i just remembered this is the 4 season dkdkfkf #kenstewy #kenstew

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broareweabouttoviberightnow · 3 months

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jj and the way he is constantly bobbing and turning his head towards the loudest sound and playing with whatever he can get his hands on and chewing on his lip til the cut reopens and twisting his necklace around and draping himself over his friends and grabbing and pushing and constantly seeking seeking seeking and-

#im rlly so normal about this guy #sorry for my succ followers #but jj is rotting my brain from the inside out #obx #outerbanks #jj maybank

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oreganosbaby · 10 months

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What do you think of romans little cheap bracelets. I feel like they’re 100% Kieran’s but I just find it a very interesting part of his character. Like this Uber wealthy person has his gender affirming super cheap looking comfort bracelets he wears only 1) when going through a mental breakdown in the Caribbean 2) in La with his sibs 3) in the gym with his PT. I feel like Logan would def have some homophobic comment re the bracelets and it’s interesting that Roman never wears them in his presence

Sorry for answering this so late. I agree that it doesn't really matter whether or not it's just them letting Kieran wear them because what matters is that they're in the text now and they've never given us reason to disregard it. They are weirdly cheap-looking too and I'm not exactly sure what to make of that but, I do think they give us a bit of insight into perhaps how Roman dressed before the extremely tight suits and whatnot. The bracelets, especially with how cheap they look, are obviously incongruous with with the cold orderly aesthetic that the Waystar offices have and that Roman tries to match sartorially throughout the show. Of course, Roman's suits also demonstrate this pressure to conform to bourgeois masculinity. Again, masculinity and manhood is understood within the framework of capitalism so, wearing those in the Caribbean would reflect Roman's decision to really just give up on trying to be a "real man" in that sense. In the season premiere, we see Roman wear one single bracelet and I suppose this would be Roman loosening up tiny bit, cautiously. The only other thing I could say about the cheapness is that Roman doesn't really do the whole commodity fetishism thing like Kendall or even Connor. Roman (who wears Calvin Klein underwear) is, to some extent, similar to Shiv who often wears mid-luxury brands like Reiss, Ralph Lauren and Theory.

#succ sesh #dalia replies #sorry my brains been totally mush all summer 😭

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paddingtonfan69 · 1 year

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full brainrot so sorry but imagine being taylor swift intentionally leaking her breakup to the press and then sees it’s suddenly not trending anymore because some guy named logan?? roy?? died and she’s like “who tf is logan roy” and tree payne is like “you know who logan roy he does ATN, your dad is always watching ATN” and taylor smugly is like “I don’t watch ATN bc they said mean things about me after you need to calm down” and tree is like “okay you met shiv roy a few years back at a women making change event, it’s her dad” and Taylor’s like “I meet soooo many people at these events how am I supposed to remember some girls dad” and tree goes “okay remember when you went to the hamptons and saw naomi piece with that really sad man she was dating, that’s kendall, his son” and Taylor’s like “LOVE naomi can’t remember her bf” “that one dumb guy running for President?” “no ❤️” and this goes on until tree brings up that they successfully pivoted the private jet story a few months back by behind the scenes making the press focus on waystar using more PJs than any individual and the taylor gets a little pissy bc she doesn’t like it when people talk about the PJs but she still sends flowers to the roy family and is happy the next day when she’s trending again. months later, when sophie and iverson get VIP at the eras tour, Taylor asks tree why those kids look so sad and tree doesn’t have the heart to go over all this again

#sorry this is what my brain looks rn #imagining pop culture in the succ universe I think is the closest I will ever come to writing rpf #succession #succession spoilers #taylor swift

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sindumpster · 2 months

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Any unbirth thoughts or ideas that appeal to you? Just in general. I currently have an ub-session and love your ub stuff. 💗

"ub-session" made me snort. I love it.

But hokey I'm gonna jot some things down so sorry if this ends up more of a jumble of words than anything. Also obviously this one is gonna be hella nsfw

-Ngl a lot of my go-tos with it involve the UB being orgasm-triggered. Because something something vaginal contractions which idk if I likened that to peristalsis or if someone else inserted that into my brain. It been...a while since I refreshed my sex bio. But if cocks can eat people then I can grasp at my straws and pretend it triggers the vaginal succ-tion.

-...which would also make sense if the pred(?) is a biiiit of a size queen. A dicking devolves to fisting. Could just be the fisting that triggers the succ. Also my humor is dumb so I like it when the other char is marveling over how far their arm can sink in. Mentioning its getting harder to pull back. Oblivious to all the warning signs before its too late.

-tho I will also die on my hill of pushy prey so someone actively being like my arm has gone past the elbow and this *still* isn't working. I guess I will just push myself in there. Because also, my humor is broken so this being the first most obvious solution the prey thinks of is hilarious to me. Post nut clarity is gonna hit hard (or they like it. Or it was the plan all along because they're a kinky fuck)

-forreal tho prey that's a kinky fuck. Realizing how stretchy the pred is and want to try it. Or has done it before. Just taking the initiative.

-I'm realizing a lot of these are about my broken humor so I will also raise you--pregnancy jokes. Because I like them with vore and other situations where the char isn't pregnant but will just go along with it because it is the easier explanation (and like, I say this as someone with a preg kink. The joke just doesn't hit the same when its actual preg tho lmao). Also UB being extra prone to this because the prey is sitting in the right place (as opposed to oral vore where stomach sits higher up. As if people would notice this and care but I will also die on my stupid detail hill)

-but also I'm a sucker for combo kinks and also I like my separation of different stuffed...organs? Compartmentalization kink? as in life so in kink IDK point is UB pred following it up with a stuffing session. Or oral vores someone (esp if they are not a fan of preg jokes). There's a bit of a power play there if the pred's like "well what are you gonna do about it~". Prey getting increasingly cramped or complaining about the growing weight above them. Or feeling each other's struggles. Two different prey poking at each other through the fleshy walls. I just think it's neat.

-also orgasm being a release valve as well. Because you can fuck (or fist) someone from the inside (There's a "cum out" joke here somewhere).

-Which could also be a power play on the prey's part. Or throw in some public humiliation where prey tries to pleasure the pred in public, and the pred must hide how flustered it is making them. They don't need to come out from it, they can just fuck with (literally) the pred.

-I like competitions of any sort but I do not care who wins. Even my bois I equally enjoy them losing to clever prey (or a pyrrhic victory). Or just kinky fuck prey. This isn't specifically a UB thing but for me it applies just as well. Could also be funny if this devolved from some kind of stupid sex contest. The "whoever cums first loses" where prey gets increasingly desperate to win and this results in them shoving themselves up there.

-also I like the "getting your hand stuck in the cookie jar" joke.

-MULTIPLE PREY. Because why the fuck not. Uterus party guys everyone is invited. Or smol prey if a large tum isn't your jam (but I am biased. Sorry. Not sorry.)

-MASC PREDS. MASC UB. NOT ENOUGH PEOPLE REALIZE THIS POTENTIAL JOIN ME OR POINT ME TO THE ART.

-which I like it doesn't have to be a sex thing but the "motherhood" or "age regression" sides of the kink aren't my niche so sex is usually how I go. It can be peril or even fatal, or warm wholesome safe vibes. I like both. And should go without saying but even the kinkiest sex can be wholesome.

-tho also the impressive side-eye in the afterlife when you admit you got digested by a snatch. Went out with a bang. Got your dick stuck in a living vacuum cleaner. This isn't really an idea.

-ALSO REFORMING PREY. If fatal is your jam. Idk man I'm still working out the kinks(lol) of how the fatal pussy would work without getting into the dark details of any internal pred/prey kinks where digestion is actually the least of your problems. Except my Space!AU where everything can be a stomach if you're brave enough. Alien anatomy you can do whatever the fuck you want so that's where my wackiest kink mechanics go. (Because I'm still working on this notion that I am "realistic" and will not break these stupid rules I made up in normal canon for some reason??).

-Tho I guess with reform you can have your "rebirthing" stuff. (Personally with the caveat they reform as an adult. I don't mind preg or even warm cozy vibes but again...parenthood loses me sorry. But feel free to use it lol)

-Oh and also face-sitting [GONE WRONG][GONE SEXUAL]

-Or I guess if you're really into dicks eating people can have a CV pred fuck a UB pred and the prey just gets kinda shot up there.

///and I'm sure there's a fuckton of things I'm forgetting. But this is already way longer than I intended lmao

#asks #anonymous #I have...a lot of thoughts about this #a lot more than I thought I did #also sorry if this is rushed #but this did help get my writing engines going for a paper #def not your intention but I appreciate it all the same #earwiggy rambles #long post

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jeniffercheck · 10 months

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Okay bringing out the big guns…please give us your succ old guard x judaism headcanons…I feel like I see Gerri a lot but I could just as easily envision Karolina eating challah late on Friday nights with Oliver on her lap

WOOOOAHH. ok. firstly gerri???? absolutely jewish. im sorry you don't marry a man with the last name Kellman unless you're jewish or ready to be....& for her i think probably like they would've raised the girls decently religious and did the bat mitzvah's and stuff but i don't think she would practice as much on her own once baird's passed and the girls have moved out :( i could see her having sisters and doing the bigger holidays like normal but yeah

Frank???? jewish man. i think he would be as religious as any businessman has time to be but like knows all of his prayers and can still read hebrew and generally takes it seriously but wouldn't outwardly care if his family members were more secular. like i think he would do his very best to observe shabbat every week but obvi it's hard w a company like waystar, but i think he would try, probably has it ingrained in him and has fond memories of like saturdays w his brothers and parents <333

jewish karolina is absolutely crazy and big brained. if it were aligned with the usual ways we're out here imagining her i think she would not practice religiously, but i think that would be a point of contention for her. like the loss of culture that comes from assimilation and the burden & pressure to keep whatever flame of it that u can alive, and probably like the jewish guilt of like...all these ancestors dead for what??? u to be a dyke and not remember how to read their language?? our pretty edgelord i think she would think about that stuff and then like. watch Shiva Baby and sit on her couch and eat challah bread with oliver of course and maybe she has a mezuzah on her door :((((((

#karolina would connect w gerri over it #and gerri would like maybe find purpose in it again #like maybe telling karolina about things she might not remember and maybe feeling like it could be sacred for her again eventually #awwwwww #business trip during passover and frank runs them through a seder bc karolina told them she hadn't been to one since she was ten :((((#but i could also see a more religious side to karolina too the material is there for sure #answered #this is wild #succession

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frankcastlescumslut · 2 years

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Chapter Eight - The Observer and the Protector

I promise. He almost regrets those last words, knowing it was a difficult one to keep. How many people had suffered from mere association with the Punisher? The brunette bartender, the beloved Navy corpsman, the forgiving federal agent, the persistent journalist, his own flesh and blood- how many of his promises upheld their meaning?

Was he truly able to fulfill his vows, let alone worthy of making them?

summary: If you were truthful, you would have told him that everything was uncomfortable; the cold porcelain, the rushing water that rumbled against the bathtub, the scent of laundry detergent from the scratchy cotton towel, the blinding fluorescents- it was all uncomfortable. Unbearable. Too much.

warnings: depictions of depersonalization (out-of-body experiences), depictions of PTSD (anxiety attacks, hallucinations), depictions of drowning, descriptions of labor/birth, brief mentions of violence/blood/minor character death HURT/COMFORT

A/N: hiiii everyone! so sorry this chapter took forever to upload, it was incredibly difficult to write. this is a heavy chapter!!!! it could possibly be triggering, so please be mindful of the warnings before reading.

as always, comments/feedback/reblogs/likes are always welcome!!! please tell me what you like! please tell me what you hate! talk to me abt how dumb Frank is but such a good partner at the same time! I love interacting w everyone, and thank you for taking the time to interact w me <3

you do NOT have permission to steal, copy, repost, or translate my work!!!!! do not do it!!!

The inner spiral of a seashell engulfed your body while wet sand stuffed the orifices of your ears, muffling the sounds of rhythmic waves conforming around the shape of your frame. You were barely conscious, only noting the muted sound of your breath swirling against the soft palate on the roof of your mouth and opened throat, mimicking the sounds of a steady tide.

Every internal working of your body felt charged by some foreign electrical current, like you were surging through a riptide, desperately grabbing at something- anything, to pull yourself out of the inescapable force of mother nature, only to leave you with brittle fingernails stuffed with sand.

You knew he was calling for you; you could tell by the way his swollen lips moved to shape the vowels and consonants of your name, somewhere between a shout and a plea, to bring you back to him. A shout and a plea- were they not the same? Was his tone of voice not indicative of his desperation and willingness to reach inside of your chest and pump your disfigured heart with his bare hand? Were the tears that dropped selfishly onto the apples of your cheek not enough to convince you he would chip away pieces of your skull, just so his fingers could swirl in thoughtful patterns, creating new gorges and valleys in the squishy flesh of your brain? Were you too far gone, hidden away in a microscopic box filled with fog, an observer to your body, to notice the way he cupped your face while begging for any sign of life?

You’d like to believe it was your own will and determination, but it could’ve been anything that forced your muscles and tendons to stretch an inch. Whether it was the gentle rocking of Frank’s torso, the strength of a rogue wave or personified shame, the answer would remain a mystery.

“Hey sweetheart, can you hear me?” Yes. Yes, you could hear him- you could hear everything. “Can you hear me?” His palms cupped the back of your head like you were water in his hands.

Nothing fell on deaf ears; whether it was the slight tremble that caught in the itchy spot of his throat, the quick sniff as his defined nose twitched to the side, the distant rumbling that clogged your ear canals, or the faint hum that hid behind electrical conduits- it was as if your hearing was trained and primed to detect any sign of a threat. Waiting. Your senses burned with overcompensation.

“If you can hear me, I need you to tell me.” Your body flowed in rhythmic succession as his fear controlled his movements, rocking you with unrelenting waves. “Please, honey.”

Time didn’t exist, yet it felt like an eternity passed before your eyes moved mere millimeters, barely registering the man that held you.

Frank noticed, of course. The shells of his eyelids instantly dropped with relief as you studied the deeply etched line between his brows, completely missing the way he sighed in consolation. The once brooding, now broken man held your limp carcass. He held you, caressed you, cupped the entirety of you as if he was some bottomless chalice that could contain you, never allowing you to spill over, yet he overlooked the way the entirety of you emerged from your vessel and drifted towards the heavens.

The spikes of your spines kissed the charred ceiling as you observed the travesty below.

It was almost unbearable to watch; Frank mimicked a heartbroken boy who had discovered the missing piece of his soul, presumed dead, sprawled across the remnants of buried secrets, a significantly smaller skeleton laid next to your decaying body. How would he have known you were just frozen? Your heart betrayed you, only fluttering after you downed some mystical potion, hoping and praying to wake up in a world that would have mercy on your womb and deformed pumping organ.

Perhaps you were seeing ghosts or were being tormented by a higher power, you weren’t sure- the corpse of a woman who resembled you laid in his arms and burned deeper holes into the empty sockets above your cheeks.

The searing, white hot pain shot through your vacant cavities, traveling through ropes of connected nerve endings. It felt like the cool metal of a glistening blade, dripping with your lover’s crimson proclamation of loyalty, had lodged itself between the second intercostal space of your chest, and you deflated with a gasp.

You weren’t exactly awake per se, only responding to the uncomfortable dagger embedded in your side and the dull ache of Frank’s touch. He was gentle; his muscular arms wrapped around your corpse, holding you close to his own warmth, unaware of the burns he left on your skin. An invisible wave worked its way between your bodies, and you couldn’t help but wince as the salty water attempted to soothe your wounds, inadvertently pulling you away from the heat source.

“Hey, hey sweetheart,” he cooed, welcoming your presumed awareness while shoving his own hurt down his throat. “You’re okay.” He doesn’t know if he’s reassuring a corpse or himself.

Pin pricks and static flooded your limbs as you stretched the connective tissue that hugged your bones, the soles of your feet burning with miniscule jolts as they greeted the hardwood floor. Frank followed your lead, and the floorboards creaked as he shuffled his weight in anticipation.

You knew you were supposed to move, supposed to do something, but the cord that connected your consciousness to your vessel had been severed by a rusty pair of shears. Were you the corpse, the haunted woman, or were you a prisoner facing ramifications- sentenced to the same fate of a man you once loved, and the innocent lamb that frolicked around a fenced facade of freedom?

“Let’s get you cleaned up, that okay?” Frank announced his presence by clearing his throat, hoping to dislodge the wet sand that obstructed his airway.

The apartment was destroyed; black char coated the ceiling, the floorboards were splintered and warped, holes adorned the walls and glass sprinkled the ground, yet you didn’t perceive the damage. You floated towards the bathroom like a ghost patrolling its eternal residence.

Your reflection shocked you, though it shouldn’t; you’d observed the decaying woman many times before. She usually made herself known after the first weekend of every month, typically accompanied by the green dragon- though this time she is alone. She looks like you, with tired, lifeless eyes, looking but not quite seeing. Her cheeks are sunken and practically attached to the molars, and her chest rattles with each inhale. It was daunting to watch as she mimicked your motions, peeling back layers of rotting flesh as you shed your clothes, and you couldn’t help but bring a fleshy finger to the mirror, observing how a bony digit met the pad of your fingertip.

Frank watched from the doorframe, hesitant to interrupt your inspection. Your behavior- the depersonalization of your essence- wasn’t abnormal for him. Hell, he’s had the displeasure of acknowledging many versions of himself against his will, but it didn’t ease that familiar ache in his chest. The ache that grew when you returned from your trips with chunks of your body missing each time. How did he miss it? It was in his face the entire time- how did he miss it? How did he miss the slow decay of his lover?

The sound of running water pulled him from his guilt, and he watched as you bent in half over the bathtub.

“Hold on, hold on,” he cursed himself as he rushed in too quickly, startling you. “Let me get it. Sit down, sweetheart.”

You don’t process the chill of the porcelain as Frank gently presses you to sit on the toilet, but the bumps that litter your skin in response to the temperature betray you. He noticed, of course, and draped a soft towel over your hunched frame, attempting to soothe your discomfort.

If you were truthful, you would have told him that everything was uncomfortable; the cold porcelain, the rushing water that rumbled against the bathtub, the scent of laundry detergent from the scratchy cotton towel, the blinding fluorescents- it was all uncomfortable. Unbearable. Too much.

The ridged indentation of your sternum pressed against delicate skin, forcing itself through layers of toughened muscles and puffy scars that covered your chest. He watched the breath get stuck in your constricted lungs, looking to escape any way possible, even if it were a dagger-sized stab wound.

Crinkles adorned the corners of your eyes as you squeezed them to a pulp, desperately trying to block out the blinding spotlight that bounced off of the tile and illuminated your vessel. It burned. It ached. If you squeezed any tighter, you would eventually resemble the corpse in the mirror- lifeless and cold.

Lifeless.

Cold.

Dark.

It was dark, suddenly, even noticeable through your pressed lids; the faint click of the light switch flipping towards the bathroom floor signaled your brief reprieve.

Frank internally cursed himself for his mistake. He remembered, knew, how overwhelming the artificial light felt on your skin- how it strained and burned your retinas- spotlighting your shortcomings as a mother with each return, and quickly inserted a lightly dusted night light into a familiar socket.

He watched as the crinkles disappeared from your eyes, noticeable even as his vision adjusted to the quiet darkness.

Your body responds to the warm light automatically, like some invisible force pressed a random button in your control center, forcing your vessel to react while you observed from afar.

Water splashed against the bathtub as you disrupted the flow, stepping into what felt like an invocation for a holy source to wash away your sins- rinsing and purifying a barren womb that held remnants of your failures in the uterine lining.

“This okay?” You became entranced as your ankles disappeared under the running water before turning your head towards his voice, not exactly understanding Frank’s question. “The water,” he knelt beside you, his kneecaps protesting as they took the brunt of his weight against the tile. “Too hot? Too cold?”

It must have been hot; the pigmentation of your skin had changed as the growing water wrapped around your shins. You couldn’t feel it, though; not even when the back of your thighs melted against the bottom of the tub, invisible pinpricks kissing the supple flesh. Nor when the busted joints of your knuckles met the water, staining it a rusty shade of red.

Warm, muted light that escaped the small plug in cast lazy shadows across the room, illuminating Frank’s kneeling figure. He watched patiently, looking for any sign that your muscles would unravel in relaxation, begging an invisible deity to carry your burdens, only to swallow his own disappointment as you sat completely erect.

He didn’t know that you were being watched.

The haunted lady stares back at you from the metal faucet. Her face was distorted, pulled in awkward angles, and you thought you saw her jaw stretch as she laughed in mockery, but it could have been the poorly lit room playing tricks on your eyes. You wanted to believe it was the latter, but you knew better- you knew her.

“Sweetheart,” Frank cleared his throat, causing you to lose the staring contest. “‘M gonna wash you now, okay?” He waits for an answer, knowing he wouldn’t receive one.

This was the routine, your routine, he had perfected after the first incident. He was smart enough, experienced enough, to recognize signs of PTSD, survivor’s guilt, grief- whatever you wanted to call it- to know it was easier to follow orders when someone becomes a corpse- when you became a vessel. So, he learned you; your needs, thoughts, and triggers became a branded seal on his brain, committing the entirety of you to memory.

Even though you knew what was coming, you didn't expect the steady pour of water to feel so heavy, shoving your body forward as Frank poured a steady stream down your back. Although he was gentle, opting to use his palm instead of a washcloth, soap suds littered your body like infected pustules.

Frank could feel the knots under your skin- hardened personifications of guilt and shame that tucked neatly under a calloused shell. His own shame crept up the length of his esophagus and tried to escape through tear ducts as he searched your body, pressing his fingertips along the length of your arms and shoulders, near the crook of your neck and down your spine, wondering if he would find raised knots that spelled his name.

The tenderness burned. He unknowingly seared patterned swirls into your skin as his calloused fingers read your body, rubbing circles into your strained muscles, hoping to bring relief. It did the opposite, of course, but you couldn’t tell him that.

You couldn’t form a coherent thought, let alone string together words that would adequately describe what it felt like to be the Observer, so you plugged the orifices of your body with wet sand and choked on your discomfort.

Bubbles crept through ripples of water as Frank washed away your impurities, sticking to the borders of your body. You flinched as they popped against you with the intensity and loudness that resembled a gunshot.

It had been almost three years since your wrist bore the weight of a gun and your ears rang as bodies exploded in front of you, spraying your face with crimson justice. You wondered if your deceased fiancé heard the familiar ring, or if the air that left his lungs sounded like a leak in an aerosol spray can when he greeted the reaper with a bloody kiss.

Would your daughter recognize the wail of death? Would she mimic you and jump if a bubble landed on her finger, coating her squishy hand with a sticky sheen of soap? Would she hate the color red? Or would it produce feelings of familiarity for her, having hidden in the crimson confines of a padded womb after you bathed in the aftermath of punishment?

It must have been the decaying woman that submerged you; you don’t remember sinking yourself. The humps of your spine rested against the bottom of the tub, and your vision blurred as you watched tiny bubbles leak from your nostrils and float to the water’s surface. You counted them, watching them pop with relief, hardly noticing the slight burn that spread throughout your bronchial trees.

To your astonishment, ringlets of dark curls emerged from the lip of your acrylic casket. You watched expectantly, having already familiarized yourself with the intricate pattern of swirls, to know who would eventually peek over the side; so you waited as the pressure of the water blanketed your frame, relaxing you into a state of calmness.

The ringing in your ears faded as a piercing giggle erupted from the side of the tub. It was like music to you, even if the noise was muffled by wet sand stuffed in your ears. Her laugh was warm and inviting, and you felt it in the depths of your chest- the fuzziness spread throughout your body, swirling in your skull.

Long lashes brushed against the rounded edge of the bath, revealing a soft pair of brown eyes. They crinkled underneath the tiny waterline, puffy with unadulterated innocence, joy, and remembrance. Your eyes mirrored hers, the only difference being two-year-old crinkles etched along the corners.

Warm water filtered through your parted lips and drenched your scratchy throat as you smiled back at the toddler, incognizant of your swelling lungs. The heaviness in your chest was reminiscent of the 8 pound newborn that had been placed against your bare breast years ago, and you cherished the familiarity.

She emerged from her hiding, fully radiant, as if she had the ability to bend fragments of light, completely defying laws of reflection. Your heart fluttered in your chest as she stood on the tips of her toes, you assumed, to grab the water with chubby fingers.

“Mommy!” Your songbird sang.

She was so close; you practically felt the featherlight touch of tiny fingertips against your cheeks, beckoning you to close your eyes in relief. You gave in to the temptation, watching the wispy curls and round cheeks that were highlighted by warm light blur as darkness surrounded you.

“Mommy, wake up! Wake up, mommy! Wake up!”

“Goddamnit, wake up!”

It felt like an arctic wind slammed against your chest as Frank pulled you from the water, baptizing you and exorcizing the Observer.

Your body screams at you as you choke, coughing up dirty water that washed you of your inequities from the inside out. You felt- feel, everything. Every bruise, knotted muscle, strained tendon, pulse of blood flow- everything was intensified, and your barren womb contracted in remembrance.

“It’s okay, you’re alright,” he coos. “I’m not goin’ anywhere, I’m here.” His hand encompasses your face, fingers gripping into the ridge behind your ear.

You didn’t realize you had grabbed onto him, pulling him into your naked body like he would disappear, just as she had, if you loosened your grip. He understood, of course- the urgency and desperation indicative of a loss that neither of you cared to recount.

“Where is she?” The words burn as they leave your throat, risking infection as you cough up traces of polluted holy water.

“Where’s who, sweetheart?” Frank’s furrowed brow casts elongated shadows that cover his cheeks as he watches the way your eyes scan the bathroom for the two foot tall ghost.

He waits patiently, pulling away slightly to give you the space to confirm your dreaded reality.

It was real. It had to have been- she was right there. If you tried hard enough, squeezed your eyes tight enough, touched your cheek in just the right spot, you would feel the place where your delicate skin bubbled due to her warmth. So you try, practically scratching and digging at your cheek, only to find a trail of dried salt.

“I-” How do you explain what you saw? What you heard? What you felt? How do you tell him your daughter visited you, nudging you gently into reunion with her father?

“It’s okay, okay?” Frank spares you the embarrassment, knowing full well he had shared a dance with his wife while she remained nestled in fertile soil. “It’s gonna be okay,” he reassures you with a firm kiss to the crown of your head before pulling you into him, your bulging eyes frantically scanning his face like it would transform into someone else’s if you blinked. “I love you,” his breath fans across your cheeks as your foreheads pressed together, skin melting into skin, morphing into an indistinguishable life form.

Goosebumps litter your skin as heavy water droplets roll down the length of your limbs, exploding when they land in the contaminated tub, muffling Frank’s concern.

You were nothing- you feel like nothing, his biceps hardly contracting under your weight as his calloused palms fit under your arms, pulling you to your feet. Your joints groan, riddled with decay, as you find your footing outside of the acrylic grave, wondering if your daughter slept peacefully under the therapeutic pressure just behind you.

His heart pumps in a steady rhythm as the haunted lady stands in front of him, frantic eyes scanning the dim room for her offspring. The smell of rotting flesh drifts through the humid air, yet his crooked nose remains still as the stench infiltrates his olfactory center. He hardly reacts, completely accustomed, almost inviting, to the hordes of ghosts and monsters he has collected over the past several years. You were no different, practically translucent and decomposing under his touch, yet he handles you with tenderness.

“‘M sorry, sweetheart.” He apologizes as you grimace; the microfiber towel felt like sandpaper grinding against open wounds as he gently dried your body, creating microscopic tears in your flesh that burned and mimicked the one between your legs, now scarred over.

He winces, knowing it was too much, everything was too much for you, and there was nothing he could do except watch as his softness left purple and blue splotches along your body.

Your eyes trail over the residue of affection, landing on the place where the bones of your fingers intertwine and melt into the soft flesh of Frank’s. He’s gentle, squeezing lightly to encourage you to shuffle towards the confines of your bedroom, and you follow your orders seamlessly, robotically.

It was like falling into nothingness; a deep, vast, empty void engulfs you as your thighs meet the mattress. You struggle between wishing it would fold in half, swallowing you completely, or turning into a slab of sheet metal, splaying you open to carve your cavity in atonement. Neither of the two happen, to your dismay, and you watch as bath water drips onto the cotton sheets.

You try to ignore the uncomfortable tension growing in your abdomen and watch as Frank hunches over the dresser, rummaging through messy, unorganized drawers. He was tantalizing, even in his haste and worry, and your gaze lingers over his frame, studying the smooth muscles rippling underneath scarred skin, visible through the thin cotton shirt.

The solace was brief. A hint of raking fire burns within the depths of your belly, just behind your mons, and you instinctively grab at the damp sheets, your knuckles turning white in return. Your muscles stretch as ribs and organs rearrange in no particular order, and you constrict and contract around absolutely nothing. A shallow gasp leaves your throat dry and irritated as the pressure builds in your pelvis, causing you to steady yourself on swollen ankles.

Frank turns towards you immediately, watching as your face contorts and leaves permanent etch marks along your forehead. He watches the way your chest heaves as you grab onto your stomach, prodding and clawing as if you were stuck in some flesh suit.

“Hey, hey, hey,” he’s in front of you in two strides, holding your shoulders to keep you upright. “It’s okay, you’re okay. Just breathe.”

A gush of liquid fire escapes as you contract once more, consequently drawing the muscles of your neck to angle away from Frank and towards the source, hidden between the crevice of your thighs. There was a certain familiarity in the sensation, one you remember well, although it was more of a steady trickle when your daughter signaled her arrival. This time was abrupt, like some gloved hand reached inside your womb with a fishhook, poking and prodding until the floodgates burst with a pop, draining you from the inside.

“You’re okay.” Frank studies your face as you pant, wondering what sparked your panic. His gaze eventually trails to your apex after following the bend of your neck, finding nothing but slightly bowed legs.

You expect to watch a stream of amniotic fluid drench you in mockery, like a sticky reminder of childlessness coating your thighs, but you find nothing- only residual bath water dripped from your limbs and thunderously landed on the floor. It was overwhelming, arguably suffocating, even though your mouth hangs open as you inhale… exhale. Inhale… Exhale.

“In… and out,” Frank’s voice startles you, and you find him kneeling between your legs, watching your face with wide eyes. How long had he been there? “There you go, in and out, just like that.”

He wraps his large hands around your ankles, squeezing firmly, meticulously traveling up your shins and thighs. His fingertips act like suction cups, the deep pressure anchoring you to him, and you relax audibly, sighing as he pulls the burdens from your muscles with each squeeze.

“Attagirl,” he encourages, watching as you disperse your weight on each foot, continuously applying steady pressure.

The insides of your knees warm as his lips meet the soft skin, his hot breath fanning over the wet marks of his kiss, and you force your neck to bend, watching curiously through your lashes.

“Left foot,” he softly instructs you to lift your leg by gently tapping on the outside of your ankle, and he fits your underwear over you with ease. “Right foot.”

Goosebumps litter your skin as the fabric of your underwear trails up your legs, and Frank’s breath follows close behind as he adjusts them against your body with care.

“Arms up,” he calls gently, and you follow.

One of his shirts falls over your body, cascading like piles of ribbon, allowing you room to breathe. He wishes to touch you, to soothe you- but a part of him fears you. He fears the idea of prolonging your pain, so he watches as you smooth the shirt over your torso, noting how your hands cup an invisible belly.

There’s nothing there, you know that; no engorged belly, swollen from holding a floating life form. No trace of a somersaulting alien, rearranging and pressing against your ribs. You could press into your skin and it would be squishy and soft, adorned with translucent stripes that once reminded you of fire. You know that your flesh and blood is no longer homed in the safety of your womb, and yet you still reach for traces of her, trying to make sense of the phantom contractions and visions of tufted curls that peeked from the tub- the memory still burning behind closed eyelids.

You nearly drowned tonight, you tell yourself in the safety of your mind.

That was real, that was the truth. Your brain lacked oxygen, and you conjured the most humane scenario to welcome you into the afterlife- by your daughter’s hand. Your nervous system was triggered, and you survived by any means possible, even if that meant becoming the Observer. These are the facts, and that’s what you tell yourself to ease the gnawing sorrow that builds in your throat.

The reality of your night hits your body, and you grimace as your brain expands and contracts within the confines of your skull, the heaviness lolling you towards the comfort of your bed.

The pain eases as you sink into the mattress silently, curling into yourself and becoming as small as possible. Frank follows your lead, causing you to dip towards his warmth.

You look at him, failing to really see him, and miss the way his brown eyes trails over you. He studies your face, committing each line, ridge, curve, freckle, and mole to memory, like you were some world renowned exhibit, nestled safely behind a glass box.

“I love you, you know that?” The tip of his finger traces the shell or your ear at his confession. You know you should respond. It’s the absolute least you could do, but your tongue is heavy as it rests in your mouth.

You nod.

“I’m not leavin’.” He says matter-of-factly. “I don’t hate you. I can’t hate you. Especially when it comes to your daughter, alright?” Your stomach churns at the mention of her. “Never apologize for that, you hear me?” Brown eyes bore into yours.

“You did what you had to do.” It goes dark as you clamp your eyes shut, shuddering as his compassion blankets you. “Hey, listen to me- what I would have done. What I should have done,” he corrects himself, swallowing the lump in his throat. “You protected your baby girl. That makes you a good mom- that makes you a damn good mom.”

A single tear escapes, falling down the edge of your nose. Frank quickly thumbs away the saltiness and offers a smile, knowing his words only held so much weight in the grand scheme of things.

Tell me you hate me for making a choice you didn’t have!

He holds onto your previous sentence, feeling it grow in his chest and collecting on his waterline, wondering how long you believed that lie; what choice? Choosing to deny yourself the desires of your heart and the ability to mother your child, or choosing which headstone would look best with your daughter’s name engraved, and whether she would lie beside you or her father? Did you truly believe that? Did you truly believe that there was any other option?

Your heart stutters as you notice the way his eyes well with tears in the silence, and your throat constricts unrelentingly, hoarding your ability to ask what plagues his mind.

“You said you made a choice,” he clears his throat, dislodging the sadness, “and that I didn’t have one, with Lisa and Junior… but you didn’t have a choice either, sweetheart.” Your ribs expand as you breathe in the shared agony. “You were smart. Smarter than me,” He huffs, and a stray tear escapes from its holding and rolls down his uneven nose, disappearing underneath the pad of your thumb.

“You made the right choice, okay? And I’m gonna keep you safe- both of you. I’ll keep you safe, I promise.”

Was he truly able to fulfill his vows, let alone worthy of making them?

The ligaments of your elbow strain from their holding, possessed by an overwhelming need to touch him- to make sure he was real.

His weathered skin feels rough beneath your touch as you rub gentle lines into his cheeks. You watch as he deflates against you, his lashes tickling your fingertips as he relaxes, and his warmth burns the palm of your hand as you cup his face.

One, two, three taps of your thumb to his dampened cheek stir the embers of his heart, nearly burning a hole in his chest. It wasn’t much, hardly even a sentence, but it was sincere- meant with every fiber of your being.

One, two, three taps of his thumb to your dampened cheek sew a thread through your splitting heart, meticulously and microscopically pulling you together.

“I love you, too.” Your wandering thumb muffles his affections as you press gently into the soft curvature of his lips.

His promise was as real as he was, and you relax into him as he kisses your fingertip, an invitation for your heavy eyelids to find relief as they close with ease.

Frank waits patiently, internally counting how many seconds you inhale, hold, and exhale- watching the outline of your ribs flare and decompress in the dark. His own lungs burn from unconsciously restricting airflow, unwilling to become a disturbance and interrupt your much needed rest, and he studies the way your forehead slackens and jaw unclenches.

To say you looked peaceful would be an exaggeration; the exhaustion, grief, and humiliation practically wore you, even in your slumber, and his own guilt scraped a new line into his forehead.

How could he have done this to you? Every strained muscle of yours screamed his name, the tears that splattered against the sheets soaked his side of the bed, and every bullet shaped scar that littered your body could have been by his own hand.

It was wrong of him to have infiltrated your sacred world, forcing you to your knees in a bloody confession, piercing your palms and ankles in order to nail you to a tree, just so you could lick his wounds. It was wrong for him to have tied your hands behind your back, forcing the truth to seep from your mouth in gargles while he held a blade to your neck, giving you a false sense of choice. He knew these things- and yet it was the relief he felt that nearly crushed him.

Knowing you had remained faithful to him, loving him with everything you had, even if it was only breadcrumbs… it was all that you had to give, and you gave it to him with such a fervor that it forces him further into his shame.

Frank’s mortification weighs him down, causing the mattress to concave. You whimper in return, tensing as you adjust to the sudden movements, routinely extending an arm and outstretched fingers in search of him.

The simple gesture reignites some sense of personal obligation he secretly holds to shield you from the horrors of the world, and he collects you in his arms, relaxing as your breath fans across his exposed neck.

Perhaps it was an unspoken, humiliating need to be in control that forced his hand to become the Protector- your Protector, though he wasn’t entirely sure anymore. He would tell himself that he was crucial to your survival, an integral extension of safety that only he could provide, but he fears he has monumentally undermined you entirely.

He had discredited you, and the admission nearly strangles a sob out of him as the pad of his thumb rubs over a raised scar, just below your shoulder blade. It was one he had noticed before, but never gave much thought to; he knew you had worked with Homeland and figured the injuries were part of the job, an initiation of some sort, but you seldom swapped survival stories, leaving him to wonder if you collected gunshot wounds as a duty to your career or your daughter.

Frank feels the dreaded remorse swirl and transmute into that familiar burn that clouded his senses with rage. It wasn’t fair that you were dealt cards of death. It wasn’t fair that your autonomy, the ability to mother your child, was ripped from you, leaving you to mourn a dead man and a little girl that still had air in her lungs. It wasn’t fair that one of his decisions, one of his failures, haunted you, allowing a ghost to wreak havoc on your world.

If he really wanted to, he could conjure a string long enough that would connect his shortcomings to your current position- blaming every miscalculation and act of unadulterated retribution for the invisible target that hovered over you and your baby girl’s forehead. It was practically his own finger that lingered over the trigger.

You must’ve known or sensed the way his guilt manifested into waves of panic, even in your sleep; you stirred slightly, breathing deeply against him as his chest rose and collapsed in frantic pants. His body reacts first, tensing at your movements, afraid you would wake to find him drowning under his burdens, before he consciously deflates, cupping your head in order to bring you closer to him.

A gentle hum escapes your lips and pools below your cheek, collecting in between the large mounds of muscles that adorned his chest, and you burrow into him with ease. He decides, right then and there, that it was his responsibility to protect you from his shortcomings, no matter the implications. A means to an end.

His life was comparable to some great Shakespearean tragedy; the looming promise of calamity and death plagued him, yet he triumphed forward, only to be taunted by your pregnant-bellied corpse. If he could fulfill his duty, ridding the world of every insignificant threat… if he could pierce the clouds with calloused and bloody fingers, peeling them back to reveal the heavens and familiar faces… if he could reunite the childless mother with her orphan, he would undoubtedly.

And so, as much as it pained him to pull away from you, carefully disconnecting from your hold and allowing your body to melt into the soft mattress and disappear under billows of blankets, he had to leave, for your sake- for her.

Rough fabric rips under the serrated edge of a blade, causing a dried, yellow foam to spill from the gash. The material feels scratchy against Frank’s knuckles as he fishes around the opening, and he simultaneously cranes his neck, observing his surroundings and making note of any potential threat.

“C’mon, goddamnit,” he grumbles, feeling the cool plastic slip through his reach, his grunts reverberating throughout the empty van and dead street.

He latches onto the buried item and pulls it from its hiding with an exhausted sigh of relief before hoisting himself into the driver’s seat, relaxing into the abused cushion.

The cheap plastic phone feels like lead in the palm of his hand, threatening to pin him to the floor of the van. If he were lucky, it would have broken through the metal and cracked the earth’s crust, not stopping until he reached the burning core, punishing him for his involvement in your demise.

Realistically, he knows he isn’t to blame- not directly, at least. It wasn’t his fault that you were being hunted by a ghost, his ghost, but it was his fault for creating it.

Darkness encompasses him as he closes his eyes in defeat, his large fingers wrapping around the flip phone with disgust for what he is about to do.

An annoying, muffled dial tone rang for what felt like forever. He should have felt relief when the woman’s warm, accentuated voice infiltrated his ear, yet he was met with the familiar, suffocating feeling of a kevlar vest being tightened around his torso and decorated with bullets.

“Where is he?” He opted to bypass greetings.

“Good to hear from you too, Castle.” Her sarcasm leaked through the phone.

“Where is he?”

“It’s two in the morning-”

“If I wanted to know the time, I would look at a fuckin’ clock.” He didn’t mean for it to come out so harshly, but he was past formalities and pleasantries.

“What is this about?” Her tone becomes grave as she processes Frank’s bluntness.

His spine practically melts into the seat of his car as he confronts the grim reality, brown eyes traveling to the window of your shared bedroom. You were asleep, he hopes, finding some relief from the torment he unintentionally unleashed, and his guilt swarms the confines of the van.

“Frank,” she calls out. “What is this about?”

Your name stumbles from his lips, barely above a whisper, and the air stills. It was an admission of defeat, even the woman behind the phone could tell.

The monotonous, annoying ring of a dial tone echoes throughout the van, and the fluorescent light of the flip phone’s screen illuminates Frank’s sullen face, emphasizing the sunken contours and weathered lines as his gaze transfixed on the lonely window.

#frank castle #frank castle hurt/comfort #frank castle angst #frank castle fluff #frank castle x female reader #frank castle x reader #frank castle series #frank castle on the sea #on the sea #on the sea series #the punisher x female reader #the punisher series #the punisher fanfiction #frank castle fanfiction

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eastgaysian · 6 months

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tomshiv baldur's gate is such a beautiful mental image. I know their asses wouldn't be anything but completely normal humans but if you to get fun with it what would you do with their classes/races :3c?

unfortunately i don't have in-depth knowledge of forgotten realms worldbuilding and politics. and i refuse to learn. HOWEVER. i think it's always fun to place the roys in a medieval fantasy setting so i've got some thots.

tom is never not going to be a boring human fighter love her but this is the cold truth. it just can't happen the point is tom is 'normal' on the surface but insane in the brain. wasian succession can be kind of real if caroline is an elf and kendall, roman, and shiv are half-elves, i think pushing logan's mortality anxiety is fun :^) i think shiv is the most likely to cast spells and also the most likely to be willing to enter a warlock pact with some kind of archfey for them. though i know in my heart her charisma stat is not actually high enough to achieve her goals sorry flop girl...

ok now i have to go on a succession dragon age au tangent because i know more about da (though i am not a true Lore Understander) and have put a fair amount of thought into a succ da au before. unfortunately here the roys do all have to be human for sure, logan is from starkhaven but the roys are currently based in kirkwall, caroline is fereldan nobility but her family's wealth and power have dwindled due in part to past questionable associations with orlais.

in a dragon age au shiv has spent the last several years trying to get involved in the Game of orlesian politics. the rest of the family are fuzzy on the details and think of it as a tasteless rebellious phase that she'll get sick of eventually. but shiv may or may not have been undergoing training as a bard/spy and, in my heart, having some kind of toxic yuri situation with her mentor or a patron. Tom is just kind of A Fereldan though. sorry

#mingbox

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wellthatwasaletdown · 1 year

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This is gonna be very long i'm sorry

I'm gonna give an unpopular opinion harry edward styles is NOT dumb not only he's actually clever but calling him dumb is stripping him away of half of his faults. That man is not stupid at all, he was clever enough at 16 on the x factor to understand that if he wanted to be noticed he needed more than his talent, that's why he started flirting with all the female contestants around his age, and no don't say it was the x factor producers who told him to do that cause there were thousands cute young boys they had no reason to pick him, it was his idea, he was clever enough once in the band to meet producers, ceos of big labels/pr marketing and lick their asses and while it's easy to figure it out who the powerful are and where the money is at it's not easy to fall into their graces it requires and understanding of who people truly are and what they want and no morals or integrity to give it to them, harries love to say how hard working he was in the band and how much he did for them so that's why he was able to sign with the best label cause they clearly saw all his effort but it's a lie he never worked in favor of the band, he went to work reunions (even when he didn't have to, cause their pr team was taking care of it, even without the others) cause he was preparing his solo career, he was clever enough to understand since day 1 that boy bands don't last forever and don't last long so they needed to be his trampoline he used them and once he got the connection he wanted he dropped them and once out he started putting himself above them, sabotaging their images and their careers making them look like fools, look at how him and his team make sure to push the narrative of niall the second best AFTER styles, the second with more commercial succes, money, ecc but always second, look how they made sure louis didn't got the rolling stones cover he wanted for his promo even if styles had nothing to promote around that time, look how he and his team made the press talk shit about liam after he said he didn't understand the way he dressed, look how they made a fool out of zayn with the ringo joke,the unprofessional one and let's not forget having a legend like stevie nicks say that his music wasn't comparable to styles. He destroyed their images cause he knew it would take consequences on their careers and he knew he needed to get rid off competions in a sneaky way cause his talent on it's own wasn't enough. He was clever enough to never deny larries rumors (unlike louis) cause he knew they brought attention to him, they made him stand out from the others and while louis looked bad cause he kept denying and getting mad at fans while being in a serious relationship with a girl, styles looked like the poor angel victim of the mean team and of louis who wasn't brave enough to stand up for their love. So no he was never dumb he was always a machiavellian manipulator and it requires brain to do that, also he was clever enough to create this image of sweet kind guy even when he was still in the band so everything shitty he says or does is blamed on his team, tickets prices? His teams fault, not refoundimg the shows while a pandemic was going on and those money could've helped this people families? His teams fault, his inability to act? He just wanted to try something new and have fun so it's his teams faul if it went bad, being a homewrecker? Olivia's fault the list goesn on and on. That man is not dumb he's cruel and ready to sell his own mother for money and fame he knows what he's doing constantly he's not the puppet many think he is, he might not be the most cultured person in the industry but culture doens't make you clever it just make you cultured, everything is 100% his fault all the time, not his team, not the azoff, HIS.

You are giving him way more credit than he actually deserves. Yes, it's his fault in the sense that he has free will, but you're acting like he wasn't being advised along the way, especially early in his career.

Is he extremely ambitious? Yes, he absolutely is, and the people in the right positions of power saw that and used it to both their advantages. He shared in the blame, but he's not this brilliant mastermind. He was an ambitious kid willing to do whatever it took to be famous. And now he is an ambitious man willing to do whatever it takes to be famous.

And, as I have said countless times, both parties are to blame in an affair, so it wasn't just Olivia's fault. They are equally at fault. She's not innocent in this.

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oreganosbaby · 2 years

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man... i love shiv and roman... like as a duo... even just to compare and contrast...

#dalia writes #succ sesh #sorry my brain is exhausted from finishing that 80 billion year old draft abt reproduction and existential anxiety wrt shiv con and roman

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tsuki-sennin · 2 years

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Welcome back to "Tsuki acts like a dumbass while watching a television show intended for young Japanese children!"

Yeah, this is particularly late, but y'know, I was busy as hell, very tiring, had a lot of things to sort out, but I'm here now! Today, I had a plate of lombardi and potato chips for dinner and a bowl of vanilla ice cream for dessert. Only the healthiest eating here.

Spoilers, I guess...

-Ah yeah, Black Pepper! He's very obviously not Takumicchi!

-Pic-a-nic!

-...so, do we not eat lunch together at the schooool?

-Aaaaaah, Kokoneechan! Aren't you popular? This picnic is serious business for you, spicy sandwich lady!

-...and yes, before you ask, I have silly nicknames for everybody.

-Ahhhh, Kokone's DILF butler. Todoroki-san. I've not seen ya in a while. ...are you in the market for a boyfriend?

-So cool!

-Takumicchi!

-Sorry man, you aren't quite as cool as you'd like to be.

-...Idk if I've ever mentioned this, but like... this violin piece of background music, it's very Xenoblade-y. Like, it's got the vibe of something that'd play in Gormott. The score in general's very nice. I kinda miss all the steel drums and bright and sunny melodies from Tropical-Rouge, especially considering how damn hot it is around where I live rn, but this brings a pretty nice flavor. ...pun intended?

-Solomogu...? What kinda name is that.

-C'mon bitches, let's get our potato salad made!

-Ahhhhhh, memories.

-What kinda silly stuff we talkin', Your Princeliness?

-Kuropep?

-What the dog doin'?

-Ah, yep, her parents are out and about.

-Oh god, Pamu ate the everything.

-Bundoru, Bundoru?

-Narcistoru would absolutely be a Tumblr funnyman.

-Yeah, work on that, Secretoru. The phrase is catchy, but the

-Ranchi, ranchi~!

-...speaking of Ranchi, here we have Ranchi~! ...I thought of something else, but it had a very unfortunate origin, so now Ran-Ran is alternatively known as Ranchi.

-Hop step jump!

-Yuin, some things simply defy explanation.

-Kokoneechan's spreading the holy word of potato salad.

-My favorite TV show rn is this one tokusatsu program with a funny red mailman and his friends: a dog, a monkey, a bird, an oni, and Goku.

-My man's got a whole pizza!

-Treat yourself, king.

-No dance.

-Awww... that sucks.

-She's trying to make you feel better, don't correct her like that!

-Making a detour!

-A whole hot dog stand.

-Solomogu-san! He was with us all along!

-...hold on, is he not questioning the magical Fitbit his charge has? ...though then again, it does seem like the sort of thing she'd just have on standby, so.

-...come to think of it, can she access anything over then the Recipeppis and Curesta on that thing?

-Ah, never mind, Todoroki-san's very passionate about his hotdogs. Lots of really nicely rounded characters this season, goddamn.

-Aaah, free bowtie!

-Mmmm... lettuce...

-Yeah, that's a fuckin' hot dog right there.

-Pamu Pamu~!

-Giga Chad Behavior.

-Oh my god, Narcistoru's got heels.

-That motherfucker.

-He stole the Giga Chad Memory!

-Alright lassies, time for the ass-whoopin'! Smash that... fuckin'... coffee pot.

-These Ubau-zo designs are getting increasingly desperate.

-Oh, it do a succ.

-Hell yeah, Kokoneechan!

-Black Pepper Tuxedo Mask Man appears!

-Spiced out.

-Blue, spicy, and baked~! Just like that horrifying flavor of Takis!

-Well maybe if you didn't use your fuckin' coffee maker as a weapon.

-Ijit.

-Mmmm... that's some good dog.

-Ah, a plane!

-How nice!

-Bizza!

-What the dog doin'?

-That was nice :)

-Shit's like comfort food for me, man.

-Ahhhh, Ranchi. Focus for our good friend. ...she sad though, idk if I'm happy with that.

-I feel like I'm not being critical enough, but like... there's nothing I find really wrong with this show at all tbh. Uh...

-I guess maybe the plot about Takumi's feelings for Yui are kinda tacked on and will inevitably feel underdeveloped no matter what direction they take it in. Uh...

-Sometimes the humor's a bit too simple for my overdeveloped galaxy brain to find funny, the restaurant names are super generic to the point of being kinda distracting, and to my eternal disappointment none of the Cures hot moms or dads are single.

-There, I complained about things I don't like, now I have permission to enjoy this piece of media uncritically for the rest of my life. That's how this works, right? Anyways, can't wait until Saturday, when I put the whole series off until September of 3008, where they summon my spirit through a medium to ramble about a cartoon where a bunch of girls eat and subsequently fight and eat again like they're Einherjar in Valhalla.

-Ok bye

#depapre #delicious party pretty cure #delicious party precure #precure #pretty cure #if you receive a little kindness give them a large serving!

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tomwambsmilk · 2 years

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Hiiiiiii I’m continuing to go insane over my own tomgreg betrayal post, because I’ve had this idea bouncing around my head for the last couple of weeks of Logan as the closest thing Succession has to a classically Luciferian figure. By which I mean, for one thing, his uncanny ability to make people believe his lies even when they know they shouldn’t, to such an extent that characters in succession constantly have to question what is real. The fact that he’s the only character on the show to fully perceive evil things as good (what Aristotle’s ethics deems as the evilest a person can be) - mostly demonstrated by the way he values ‘being a killer’ and by the way he REVELS in chaos and sowing discord (see: "boar on the floor"), whereas other characters on the show do terrible things but express varying degrees of guilt and discomfort in doing so, and view it as a horrible necessity rather than a good in itself. The fact that he loves nothing more than he loves himself, even his children. The way in which he demands that Kendall sacrifice himself for him - an act of supreme selfishness that he frames as an act of love. The fact that he takes joy in corrupting the people around him, like Greg.

And most damning of all? One of the most famous literary depictions of Satan, Dante's "Inferno", paints the worst crime of all as betrayal, and traitors are in the lowest circle of hell. The worst betrayers, Brutus and Judas, are perpetually being chewed on by Satan. And when Logan demands loyalty, he demands it specifically in the form of betrayal. He demands that Roman betray Kendall in 1x06. He demands that Kendall betray Stewy in 1x10. He demands that someone betray the mole in 2x03, and he demands that Shiv betray Tom in 2x10. He effectively demands that Tom betray Shiv by giving up her location in 3x02, which Tom circumvents by claiming ignorance, and that Shiv betray Kendall in 3x03. He demands that Roman and Shiv betray Kendall in 3x09 and, failing that, demands that Roman alone betray both his siblings. While he doesn't demand that Tom betray Shiv in 3x09 it is what earns him Logan's favour. (ETA: When Roman refuses not only does he fly into a rage and mock the very concept of love, but reveals that he’s already persuaded their mother to betray all three of them - making “oh shit, mom, he got to you” one of the most heartbreaking lines of the series). The bonds of love that his children have for each other (and their spouses) are not sacred to him - on the contrary, they're something he has to actively root out and destroy, and we're made to understand that he's been actively pitting them against each other for their entire lives.

At some point I think I'm going to write a post that breaks it down more analytically, because I actually think Tom's journey through the Waystar ranks and into Logan's favour somewhat mirrors Dante's descent through the 9 circles of hell (Limbo, Lust, Gluttony, Greed, Wrath, Heresy, Violence, Fraud, Treachery) either in acts that he participates in or acts committed by others that he enables, culminating in his betrayal of Shiv. (It's Tom specifically because he's the only one we actually see go from being out of Logan's favour to in Logan's favour over the course of the show). It's not a perfect one-to-one (because I don't think this was intentional on the part of the writers), but there are enough parallels that it's really fascinating to me.

#sorry to inflict my liberal arts brain on you all #my degree gives me absolutely no peace #but yeah the more i think about tom betraying greg the more it makes sense on so many levels #which makes me CRAZY because yes i love the pain and the drama #but i also want tom to be happy dammit #also just to be clear i don't think the parallels to the inferno were intentional #BUT jesse armstrong has talked so much about taking inspiration from classic literature #and dante's inferno is based on aristotelian ethics #and aristotelian philosophy is also baked into a lot of the stories the succ writers are using as inspiration #which is why it kind of works #also I mentioned specifically shiv being asked to betray tom in 2x10 #but that breakfast convo on the yacht is basically betrayal Olympics #it’s telling that no one (but Connor) throws themselves on the grenade #instead they all throw each other under the bus #and Logan likes it that way

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