#you bastard the camel
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Camels have a very democratic approach to the human race. They hate every member of it, without making any distinctions for rank or creed.
Terry Pratchett, Pyramids
#you bastard the camel#teppic#pyramids#discworld#terry pratchett#camels#people#humanity#democratic#equality#hate#hatred#very democratic approach
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The "aggressive spider" post made me think of my favorite, most specialist, sweetest little bugs of all time, Sunspiders. (Who are not even spiders)
They are very much attracted to shade since they like to borrow under, like plants and stuff, but as a result, are often seen chasing people through the desert, which sounds goofy but ppl really hate it for them.
Ive noticed that solifugae in general are for some reason, incredibly vilified? (There are actually people who believe they kill and eat camels,,, how?) There are like countless misconceptions about these little guys :( but i love them forever and am kissing them in my heart
I deeply love solifuges! Unfortunately my first introduction to them was a chain email when I was in high school circa the early 2000s, maybe 2004 or so, that was some sort of weird pro-war-in-Iraq propaganda about "what our troops are dealing with over there." It included the below photo and a whole bunch of made up "facts" about camel spiders that made them sound absolutely terrifying.
For those who are unfamiliar, this photo uses false perspective and these two lil babes are each only about two inches long. Claims that they're venomous and somehow kill camels or chew their stomachs out are obviously not even close to reality. In fact, solifuges don't have venom at all. They look a little scary and alien if you're unfamiliar with them but they're fairly harmless!
Also they have adorable little faces...
An angel :') Photo by laurenzarate
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Feel free to ignore you've probably got a lot going on right now, but considering you know a lot about DOTC and Clear sky, I had a question...
We know that he's a terrible, misogynistic, woman beating and war mongering lunatic who was excused of all his actions because his equally misogynistic brother said " But-But he's nice! Deep down! This isn't the real him! "
But! In a world where the Hunters could write such a character, what do you think Clear Sky would look like as an actual sympathetic villain?
Idk if that makes sense, but what I've thought of doing is taking purely cannon Clear Sky and attempting to change him enough that he's still an antagonist, but not too far where only Reddit defends him.
I don't think he works as a sympathetic villain, on any level, ever. I think you're making a huge mistake to even try, and I have never seen an AU where it was done well nor am I interested in entertaining the thought.
Characters. Are. Tools. They exist to tell a story. The story that people tell me, by obsessing over some alternate universe where he was "ACTUALLY sympathetic and had a REAL redemption arc," is that they're not fucking interested in his dozens of victims. Nor do they actually care about the abusive impact he had on the minds and feelings of his family. They're JUST interested in Clear Sky himself.
Just like the Erins. Everything that happens in DOTC revolves around him. Everything. All his wives die so he can be sad about it. His brother defends all of his actions and BEGS you to sympathize with his pain so he can be 'redeemable.' One Eye comes out of nowhere so that there can be an example of "real" evil to contrast Clear Sky so he's less bad in hindsight.
The first three books of DOTC are bad, but the last three are fucking insufferable because SUDDENLY all that Gray Wing apologia pays off, and they take their main villain and throw him out a window. You CAN'T have "redeemable" Clear Sky and the plot of DOTC without dragging in someone else to drive the conflict, to BE the bigger threat to "unite" against. Slash and One Eye have to be conjured up out of thin air so Clear Sky can WHINE about how people only suck his toes instead of deepthroat them after he killed all their friends.
And yet, in spite of this absolute failure of an attempt, we continue to see this bullshit "redemption" be a mistake because Clear Sky is a fantastic villain, with major antagonist roles in nearly EVERY bit of follow-up material for DOTC that came after.
He's the most consistent monster in all of Warriors.
He's a fragile, egotistical, self-absorbed megalomaniac who ALWAYS sees himself as the victim, REFUSING to self-reflect and blaming everything else for all of his terrible choices. He will USE your love of him against you like it's a chain through your nose, step out of line and he will yank you into place with guilt trips, manipulation, public shaming, and violence.
He's a child abuser. He's a tyrant. He abandons the sick and disabled as soon as they're of no use to him, with grand speeches about "illness" and "weakness." He's a murderer who stands above the shredded corpse of his victim and bellows, "I'M NOT GREEDY! I'M JUST STRONG!"
And you'd write a "good" redemption arc for this, why?
Why are people so chronically unable to accept that there are LOTS of people like him, and you can't save your abuser? Why don't you ask yourselves why you're not interested in exploring Thunder, or Petal, or Gray Wing, and how his toxic influence impacts them? Why does the sympathy fall on Clear Sky? What about the DOZENS of victims who are dead by Book 3, and how THEY could have been saved?
Why ruin a perfectly good villain?
What's behind this trend where a billion people say to me, "Yes Clear Sky is a walking cavalcade of fucked up abuse apologia, and an incredibly realistic depiction of an abuser, but how would you change this while keeping it all the same?"
I wouldn't. You can't. It wouldn't be the same story, or it wouldn't be the same character. Never seen it done well, and I have seen it a lot. So I don't entertain this deeply frustrating "Well What If Clear Sky But Nice" impulse.
#The closest I'll ever get to that is Fallenleaf. And she lost it all#And spent years in the time-out tunnel#BAD KITTIES GO IN THE PEAR WIGGLER TO BE SUFFICIENTLY WIGGLED.#I don't think people in power typically change. If they do it's so rare it's not worth entertaining. Camel through the eye of a needle shit#and I mean ALL powers. this goes for abusive relationships too. I think they need to lose that power before they change.#When you have power. REAL power. You can fill those holes with it. You can force people to not leave.#so im actively hostile to stories that winge and cry about giving powerful people endless sympathy and chances#You've already shown me what you want to do with your power and as long as you keep it you haven't seen your consequences.#Power reveals.#It doesn't corrupt. It reveals.#DOTC hate#clear sky's redemption arc#If you're in an abusive relationship or under a terrible boss or in some other bad environment. You won't fix it.#You are not responsible for fixing it.#You can't fix it.#And they will not change. so GET OUTTA THERE#And that's who he functions best as. To me.#He's the bastard you need to escape.#And that's infinitely more compelling to me than Nice Clear Sky Attempt 32324#I don't write stories that beg you to sympathize with tyrants and keep your heart open to some maybe-change on the horizon#I write stories where they ruin everything they touch and have to be forcefully yanked out of power before they hurt more people.#And also screw every related take that's like 'ohhh after 5000 years of having his toes sucked he regrets it a bit :('#no he fucking wouldn't. he had his toes sucked for 5000 years. He's vindicated by how fondly he's remembered.#You can't fucking tell me that he doesnt REVEL in how violent the culture became. That him being offended about the clan's exile-#--was anything but him being offended his namesake was going away. That he wouldn't parade around like every choice he ever made was right.#''I made some vague mistakes which I will never name. BUT Im never wrong and always did it my way even if it was hard''#If you haven't met a person like that I envy you.#bone babble#Nothing makes me mad quite like this character#Again I yell about his brother a lot because he's widely loved by the fandom
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“It’s a mistake trying to cheer up camels. You may as well drop meringues into a black hole.”
- from Terry Pratchett’s Pyramids
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“There is also a beast called the elk, in form between a deer and a camel, which breeds in the land of the Celts. Of all the beasts we know it alone cannot be tracked or seen at a distance by man; sometimes, however, when men are out hunting other game they fall in with an elk by luck. Now they say that it smells man even at a great distance, and dashes down into ravines or the deepest caverns. So the hunters surround the plain or mountain in a circuit of at least a thousand stades, and, taking care not to break the circle, they keep on narrowing the area enclosed, and so catch all the beasts inside, the elks included. But if there chance to be no lair within, there is no other way of catching the elk”.
- Pausanias, Descriptions of Greece, [9.21.3] On Fabulous Animals
#pausanias#elk#ancient greece#i am tickled pink by the description of it being between a deer and a camel#oh elk#you mysterious bastards#celtics#history
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TF141 getting a boudoir photo album as a wedding gift ♡
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A/N: THIS WAS SO FUN!!! Great, absolutely phenomal idea, dear anon. Simon's part is very sappy (I cried) which might be ooc for him?? Idk, that's how I write him/interpret his character! :) let me know who's your favorite 👀
~Fi 🐝
《Warnings》: NSFW content. proceed with caution. PiV, creampie, cunnilingus, Johnny's oral fixation (yes, that is a warning.)
It's still very sweet and lovey dovey with all of them bc I'm a certified sap <3
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John would be grinning and smirking like a proper idiot when he lays his eyes on those delectable photos of you.
I imagine you had a date night at home, sipping wine on the couch and talking about your wedding that's supposed to take place in only 3 days. He's telling you how he can't wait to see you in your wedding dress and slip that ring onto your finger.
Be prepared to he called Mrs. Price the days leading up to the big day. John excuses it with "Need to practice, love. Don't wanna mess it up in front of anyone, eh?"
Sneaky bastard.
He knows what he's doing, you know what he's doing, all is well because if he only knew what that did to you. You're just talking, trying to get the nerves out now so you can go into your wedding with a clear mind and have a good time. When you tell him you have a gift for him, his eyebrows almost overshoot his forehead. Yeah, he knew that was a thing some people did, but he never gave it another thought.
In all honesty, marrying you was the best gift he could ever get. Which is why he feels slightly guilty that he doesn't have one for you (at least that's what you see, internally he's crushed) but that all goes out the window when you sit back down with a sleek beige photo album that has a little romantic quote on the front.
"And what's this, doll, hm?" His heart feels warm and fuzzy, thinking these are some lovely pictures of you together on holidays you went on, casual trips to the local pub or just some domestic shots you managed to sneak during his leave.
What he doesn't expect, however, is the angelic image of your plush body on full display, draped over a velvet chaise lounge with layered pearl necklaces hanging from your neck. This man is shell-shocked. If he wasn't frozen in place, he would've snapped the book shut.
You can basically see the connections to his brain frying. His jaw slacks, and only after what feels like 10 minutes he regains his ability to think and close his mouth. John is sweating and his cock is rock hard as he flips through the remaining pages.
He shoots you the occasional glance while he's trying not to hyperventilate. You just sit back and savor your wine, trying to hide your laugh behind the rim of your glass. You'd expected a reaction, of course, but you didn't think you'd render the John Price speechless just from a few suggestive photographs of you.
But what absolutely breaks the camels back (or John's, in this case) is the last picture of you. You're kneeling, slightly leaned back and supported by your arms, with one of his Flannels covering your soft tits. That alone would've been enough to drive him crazy, but the sight of his old dogtags sitting against your sternum has him groaning out loud.
The only other thing covering you is a simple pair of lace panties, cupping the soft curve and rolls of your tummy so beautifully, John was ready to take a bit out of that damn page.
He nearly misses the inscription underneath the photo;
To my John; the love of my life, the man of my dreams,
I love you.
You hold my heart and you will forever.
May I be so lucky to find my place in the stars by your side when the time comes, so we'll never have to be apart.
With all my love,
Mrs. Price
And that does it. The album snaps shut and you barely have time to put down your wine glass before John is all over you, taking handfuls of you, whatever he can reach. With how fast he smashes his lips on yours, he nearly gives you whiplash.
He's tugging and pulling at your clothes as well as his own, not saying a thing, just hungrily swallowing every one of your sounds and giggled objections before he decides the couch is uncomfortable and he moves you to the bedroom. You're hoisted up without a warning and you cling to his neck. Immediately, worried words start spilling from your lips, remembering how he'd complained about a sore back just today;
"John, baby, your back-"
"I don't give a flying fuck about my back, love."
He's heaving and grunting like a fucking animal, he's downright feral. Despite all of that, you're still laid down gently on the bed, John would never, ever be reckless with you. But he needs to be inside you now, he'll actually lose his mind.
Usually, he'd spent hours between your thighs first, but he just can't wait. He's pounding you into another dimension but with such gentleness in his gestures, it makes your head spin.
He's holding your hand, breathing sweet praises into your ear despite him filling you to the brim. His urge to claim you goes haywire and he fills you with his cum multiple times before he's sane enough again.
He's covered in sweat and his beard is wet from your spit from all the sloppy kisses he gave you. John will definitely make it up to you and eat you out for as long as you want after.
He'll make a copy of one of the photos and take it with him when he's on deployment, just for the nights he's feeling lonely.
His wedding gift to you are the hickeys on your thighs and tummy and new sheets because you two tore the other ones to absolute shreds.
♥︎
Johnny would probably have a boudoir album for you, too. You get at least one shirtless pic a day, so a whole album of his body on display or in suggestive poses basically screams Johnny. He's already drooling the second he spots that book because he knows what it is and that he's in for a treat.
He's buzzing with excitment.
You never really send nudes for privacy reasons, and then for you to do something like this hit him like a truck in the best way possible. You're standing opposite from him behind the kitchen counter, and you look so nervous to him.
Cue his signature shit-eating grin. You tap your fingers on the dark blue album before having enough of your nerves and just sliding it over to him with a few mumbled words of what it is.
"Awe, for me, mo leannan?" He's a teasing bastard, and he chuckles when you huff and turn your head, obviously flustered. Johnny is legit licking his lips, but when he opens the book, his grin fades so fast.
He knew it would be good, but holy shit, this was so much better than he expected. His pupils dilate as he takes in each of the pictures of you, all of you, all your curves and bumps.
Everything he loves about you. God, you're such a woman, he thinks to himself. Some with lingerie, some without. He's full on drooling at this point, and the only reason why he roughly wipes it away with the back of his hand is to not get it on these sacred images.
He smirks at the picture of you in a tub, all soapy, with pebbled nipples. An obvious dig at his nickname, but, god, does your ass look amazing when it's covered in a thin layer of bubbles. He loves lathering you up in the shower and feeling you up while you're all wet and slippery.
"Good thing I can hold my breath, aye, hen? Might even try to set a new personal record." He's grinning and chuckling meanwhile you give him a sharp glare. You can't deny that the idea intrigues you, though.
But this, oh, this one was him swallowing thickly. It's you in very sheer panties (they're barely even underwear) and his name patch is sewn onto the front. Your hair looks so nice, so do your thighs, he doesn't know whether to look at your eyes or your tits. The button on his jeans is about to pop off from his throbbing boner.
He can't take his eyes off that 'MacTavish' patch that sits right on your lower belly, with the slight curve it has to it from your soft tummy.
Johnny has to hold himself back from gripping the book too hard. He wouldn't want to ruin it.
"Steamin' bloody Jesus, bonnie..."
The album is shut and tucked under his arm, and Johnny jumps over the counter to get his hands on you. Or his mouth, more like. He has a huge oral fixation, so he loves sucking and biting on every inch of your skin. You're pushed back into the bedroom, even though you end up on the floor, and the book is thrown onto the bed.
He rips your shirt up and sucks at your tits and nipples, groaning and moaning at the taste of your skin, all while he's rubbing his clothes cock against your leg. You end up on your hands and knees with one of Johnny's hands on your lowerback while his face is buried in your cunt.
He's eating you out like he's been starved for years, and his stubble is already starting to irritate the skin of your thighs and ass.
You'll have the worst case of beard burn in the morning, but how could you care about that when his tongue is so deep inside of you?
Remember when I said he'd have a boudoir album too? Yeah, now you're in between his legs, your back pressed to his chest with Johnny's album in your shaky hands. And the way your engagement ring catches the dim light of the room has your eyes rolling back.
And Jesus christ, Johnny looks fucking phenomal. You clench around his fingers hard, and he doesn't even have to pull his head from your neck to know what photo you're looking at.
He's smirking and grinning like the ceshire cat, knowing that the image of him in a kilt with no shirt one is gracing your field of vision right about now.
"Ah knew ye'd like tha' one, bonnie..."
Johnny's cooing in your ear, telling you to keep looking at the pictures while he's knuckle deep in your pussy. His bare dick is pressed against your ass and you can feel him rocking his hips to get off.
He's mumbling all kinds of gibberish into your ear, but one of the few things you can make out is "mo bhean"* which pushes you over the edge. You won't be leaving that bed anytime soon.
*(My wife)
♥︎
Kyle is such a sweetheart. I've said it before, and I will say it again, he's such a cutie pie!!! But that doesn't mean he can't or won't get nasty.
He'd offered to make lunch, which was delicious as always, and now you're chatting casually about your day at your dining table. Your fingers are laced together, and he's wearing the biggest smile because all he can think of is how he gets to marry you in just a few days.
He's over the moon. He can't wait to see you walk down the aisle, say your vows to each other, and overall have a great time with all your friends and family.
But the thing Kyle is looking forward the most is the honeymoon. He'll have you to himself for 2 whole weeks and he's stoked. He can't wait to treat you to nice things, love on you, but he's the most excited to fuck you as your husband.
He may look sweet and 'innocent' but this man can fuck, okay. And he fucks well. He knows every little spot that has you mewling and he's so good at using them for his gain.
Kyle will fuck you into the mattress in the Hotel you booked, he's already made up his mind about that, but he wants to absolutely melt your brain by being so loving whole doing it that you can't help but cry out for him.
He has heart eyes at this point, watching you talk about all that happened today and he only snaps out of his dream world when you present the deep red album to him with a sweet smile.
He's got a hunch of what it is so there's a hint of a smirk on his lips. Still, he almost gets whiplash when he opens it.
There's no easing into it, just straight up tits, ass and tummy. And let me tell you, Kyle is loving every second of it. It's no secret that he loves your chub, and that fact that it's extenuated so beautifully in every shot makes his heart and his cock happy. He's a very balanced man after all.
He comments on every single photo because he think it's endearing how you get all flustered and giggly from his compliments.
One picture that has him taking a second, though, is one where you have a lacy band tied around your thigh, with a little golden 'Kyle' charm hanging from it. He's all smiley and giddy, but he does try to discreet adjust his trousers because, holy shit, that's hot.
"Have you still got that, dove? Would love to see it tied around your pretty neck."
All you answer is that he'll have to be patient and wait till the wedding night to find out. He's laughing and teasing now, but just what till you get to the last page, Gazy.
And the way his smile just melts off his face is priceless. His gaze is flitting between you on the page and you sitting across from him with a shot eating grin. All the blood that drained from his face went straight to his dick.
Not only are you wearing a set of lingerie in his favorite color, but you've got his iconic pair of sunglasses hooked on the center of your bra. And that's not all either, his eyes travel upwards and his base cap is sat on your head and you've got that beautiful smile of yours on your face.
He makes an audible noise, one that indicates you took his breath away, when he takes in the whole picture.
"How in hell did you manage to snatch my hat and my glasses from right under my nose?!"
"Skilled hands, babe."
He's laughing at you breathlessly because he's still enarmoured by the sight of you.
And Kyle will absolutely whisk you away and fuck you stupid in front of your bedroom mirror while you're wearing his hat.
It makes him feral, seeing you like that. He's got both of his arms wrapped around your middle and he's panting into your shoulder. He does look up from time to time to see your blissed out face all while still wearing his cap.
He lets out a strained moan everytime he looks at you in the mirror and his hips stutter ever so slightly.
Kyle is just spewing jumbled words of love because he's genuinely so happy. You make him so happy.
He honestly can't wait to give you your wedding gift. It's a little booklet filled with poems or quotes that reminded him of you, or of how you make him feel. And it will make you cry when he reads them to you.
Definitely not because he'll be ballsdeep inside of you while doing so...
♥︎
Simon, Simon, Simon.... first of all, he's completely blindsided by this. And he hasn't got a fucking clue what's in that black book you hand him one night when you're cuddling in bed.
There's just a giant question mark above his head. When you tell him it's a wedding gift, he goes silent and just looks at that album in his hands.
He never really got gifts, which obviously changed since he's been with you, but he's still not used to it. You're so thoughtful. And sweet. And kind, and perfect and-
he turns his head to you when you softly call his name and if you notice the slight sheen of tears in his big brown eyes, you don't mention it. You just encourage him to open the book. And when he does, a small huff and gentle smile leave him because how are you so perfect?
Yes, all of the pictures are all filthy, but they're all radiating of love and softness, and he can't get over it. How are you so soft? Simon can't get enough of you. You mess up his emotions in ways he never thought possible, and he can't help that his heart starts beating twice as fast.
That you did this for him means more than you could ever fathom, and he'll treasure this album until his end. He absent mindedly reaches for your hand as he flips through the pages, trying to tell you thank you when his words fail him, like they did so many times before with you.
He comes across a shot of your neck, a black leather collared fasten around it with a little silver skull charm. It makes him smile just a bit. He knows just how much meaning is behind it.
That you love him. All of him, which includes the Ghost. In cursive, 'Riley' is written right above your heart, and he gives your hand a squeeze.
Although you love the Ghost because it's a part of him, you've shown him that it's not all he is. That Simon is enough. That he should give Simon a chance and that he's not incapable anymore, like he was as a little boy. Ghost is sort of a protector of Simon, something not many people know, that's why he wears the mask outside of duty too. To shield himself.
But as much as the Ghost's service is appreciated, Simon can handle himself now. The Ghost will forever be with him, but so will you, and you'll wipe his bloody hands with a smile. You've shown him that you accept Ghost just as much as you accept Simon, and that means the world to him.
He sniffles ever so quietly, and you lean your head against his shoulder, pressing a kiss to his cheek. He moves on, gently turning the pages, and as much as his heart is touched by your kind gesture of this album, that doesn't stop his cock from stirring. It's pictures of your naked form, after all.
He loves every single inch of you and he's told you and shown you so many times, kissed all your insecurities away and took your mind off any bad thoughts about yourself by fucking you so well and lovingly to the point of tears.
Never, in a million years, had he expected you to return these efforts. You kissed all his scars and held him softly when reassuring any doubts he had. That's when he truly and fully fell in love with you.
He can feel himself getting hotter with every passing image of your soft body bent in different positions and clad in delicate garments, if any.
The best for last, as always, and it's a picture of you kneeling in front of a mirror, completely nude. A picture of Simon in full military regalia is tapped to the mirror and it's surrounded by a bunch of hearts drawn on with lipstick.
His name is written under the picture in your handwriting, and he can see you holding a lipstick, in the middle of finishing another heart. His breath hitches just for a split second.
He swears he'll burn this photo into the back of his eyelids.
It shows him just how great and raw your love for him is, and it makes him all fuzzy on the inside. The text at the bottom finishes it all off, and he's actively holding back tears, overwhelmed by so many feelings for you.
Dear Husband,
We're flawed; but that's how I like us. You're you, and I'm me, and I wouldn't change it for the world. You've made me a better version of myself, and that makes me love you so much more. I'm so proud of you, Simmy.
Love,
Your wife
"Thank you, my love. Thank you for this, and for loving me and for everything you've done for me. I love you"
His words are soft and painfully honest as he gently sets the album aside. You've made him a better man. A better Simon. A happier Simon. A Simon that's slowly starting to heal.
It starts off with a soft kiss that slowly turns more desperate and needy to the point you're gently being pushed back onto the bed, your clothes are discarded, and Simon absolutely worships you. He kisses every inch he can reach and touching you in all the ways he knows you like.
And, yeah, Simon can be rough and fuck you stupid for hours, but tonight, he just wants to feel close to you, and make you feel as good as you make him feel by simply loving him. He's talking you through it, holding you while he makes sure you take every inch of his cock.
His strokes are slow and deep, just like his love for you, and he revels in the way your eyes roll back each time he slides into you to the hilt. The drag of his dick against your walls has you moaning and whining, and when he presses down on your pudgy lower belly to intensify the sensation, you're putty.
You two fuck the whole night like this, no matter how sensitive you are, you need to be close to each other.
And in the morning, he'll wake you up with his face buried in your pussy because he's out of his sappy mood and his only goal now is to absolutely ruin you.
♡
Bonus: I can totally see Simon giving his dad the biggest middle finger known to man all the way in hell when he's standing by the altar on your wedding day. It just screams: 'fuck you, stupidly bastard. Despite all you've done to me and my family, despite all that's happened, I've persevered. I've overcome it all. Look at me now.'
Right after he's smiling up at the sky, knowing that his mum and brother are watching and that they would've loved you just as much as he does <3
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I hope you enjoyed!! I love all my boys <3
(If you find any typos, it's 2.am. give me a break pls)
#bumblebeesfromvenus#captain john price#john price x reader#captain john price x reader#soap x reader#john soap mactavish x reader#johnny mactavish x reader#john soap mctavish x reader#kyle gaz garrick x reader#gaz x reader#kyle gaz x reader#simon ghost riley x reader#simon riley x reader#simon ghost riley#ghost x reader#cod x reader#cod mw2
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WIBTA for dropping a friend for being cringe?
Obligatory "cringe culture is dead" or whatever people say to feel better about liking kids shows. I (22F) have this friend (21 NB), and we've been friends since high school. We're in college now. This friend of mine genuinely makes me cringe so much I don't think I can maintain this friendship anymore. At the time of writing this I've only been texting them to reply to anything they say, and even then it's a one word answer or an image at most.
They've always been cringe, but when you're a neurodivergent woc in one of the whitest states in the country, you take what you get in terms of friendship. Beggars can't be choosers or whatever. I don't know why I let the world let me think I'm a beggar though.
Anyways, It's a lot of things. They fucking dabbed, without a hint of irony, when I was walking up to them and I considered pretending I didn't know them and walking past. They have this comically nasal voice and are completely incapable of having an appropriate volume anywhere. Like fuck man how do you sound more autistic than me? Their style is so fucking ugly I feel sick looking at them sometimes. They're not dirty or smelly or anything but jesus fuck at least match a color. What I think broke the camel's back was going out to a movie with them. They would NOT shut the fuck up. Like goddamn fuck off I'm trying to enjoy the movie. Stop eating my fucking popcorn bitch. To their credit they did stop after I told them to. I feel embarrassed bringing them anywhere. My brother has asked me multiple times why I hang out with this individual, and I think this is what made me completely reconsider. He's neurotypical and more emotionally intelligent than me, and due to being younger will always keep it real with me, so I trust his judgment. I'm not an emotional person or anything so I can't say I feel much of a bond with people in the first place, so I don't feel bad ab potentially cutting this person off.
I realized I fall into this situation a lot as a neurodivergent woman of color, which is being friends with ugly white people I should know I'm too good to even look at. I've already had other friends tell me I'm too pretty to be seen with them. Objectively? They're right. I'd rather be friendless than interact with this bastard anymore. I've already dropped most of my former friends from before college for similar reasons.
What are these acronyms?
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#ABSOLUTELY LOSING MY SHIT AT THE THUMBNAIL FOR THIS VIDEO
#THE LEGO SHORT ITSELF IS HILARIOUS
#THE GRAND INQUISITOR DECIDES TO GET VADER A PRESENT
#AND THAT PRESENT IS OBI-WAN KENOBI
#DYING DYING THAT THAT’S WHAT PEOPLE WOULD GET VADER FOR SPACE CHRISTMAS
#OF COURSE THAT’S THE ONLY THING HE WANTS
#BUT THEN INSTEAD OBI-WAN TRICKS HIM
#AND SENDS HIS EOPIE INSTEAD
#SO NOW THIS IS OBI-WAN’S PRESENT TO VADER FOR CHRISTMAS
#THAT IS THE THUMBNAIL THEY DECIDED TO USE
#OBI-WAN GOT ANAKIN AN EOPIE FOR CHRISTMAS
#’SORRY ABOUT ALL THOSE TIMES I WOULDN’T LET YOU GET A PONY IN THE JEDI TEMPLE’
#’TO MAKE UP FOR IT HAVE A CHRISTMAS LIGHTS COVERED SPACE CAMEL FROM YOUR HOME PLANET’
#’IT’S VERY FRIENDLY AND WILL LICK YOUR FACE A LOT’
#’MERRY SPACE CHRISTMAS ANAKIN’
#THAT IS EXACTLY THE KIND OF GIFT OBI-WAN KENOBI WOULD GIVE DARTH VADER
#A KIND OF SWEET GESTURE AND A HILARIOUS BASTARD MOVE ALL IN ONE
#ANYWAY THESE TWO IDIOTS ARE AWFUL ABOUT EACH OTHERS’ SPACE CHRISTMAS GIFTS AND I LOVE THEM
#swedit#sw edit#obi wan kenobi#anakin skywalker#grand inquisitor#lego star wars#usermelanie#tuserhanna#tusermaura#userbariss
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OC vs A Cockroach
Rules: Rate your OCs on how well they’d fare against a cockroach
Thank you for the tags, @mysticstarlightduck and @gummybugg! I'll do this for the Invisible Girl crew :)
Fynn -- 9/10 Like with many things in his life, Fynn is an unwilling fighter. He'd spend a few seconds internally panicking and then grit his teeth and go look for a cup to capture the sad bug and release him someplace else.
Lewis -- 4/10 Wouldn't even notice the cockroach, either fortunately or not fortunately. lol.
Paris -- 3/10 I think the cockroach would be the straw that broke the camel's back for Paris, if the circumstances were bad enough. He'd be soldiering on, one step away from a mental breakdown, spot the cockroach, and just. lose it. The cockroach would be like "get me the fuck away from this humongous crying bastard" and it would be right.
Antonio -- 1/10 We are talking shrieking. Screaming, even. This is the only time Lewis notices bugs, because he rolls his eyes and comes to gently sweep said creatures back outside.
Velia -- 9/10 Velia would probably get down on her hands and knees and curiously inspect the bug before casually picking up the nearest thing and killing it without another thought.
Tags for anyone who sees this, and also @reneesbooks @eccaiia @talesfromaurea @autumnalwalker @indecentpause @willowiswriting and @sleepyowlwrites <3
Also putting the Invisible Girl Taglist under here 🏵
@blind-the-winds @drippingmoon @elgringo300 @thats-my-type-writer @sleepy-night-child @writing-is-a-martial-art @viskafrer @croctears @talesfromaurea @necros-writings @ashen-crest @teaflint @princeofthecactus @imaginationxlost @fiercely-raging-writer @memento-morri-writes @outpost51 @josephinegerardywriter @jellybeanswriting @stuffaboutwriting @reneesbooks @charlesjosephwrites @yejidoesthings @sparrow-orion-writes @somealienquill @theunboundwriter @lady-grace-pens (ask to be added or removed!)
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It's a mistake trying to cheer up camels. You may as well drop meringues into a black hole.
Terry Pratchett, Pyramids
#teppic#you bastard the camel#pyramids#discworld#terry pratchett#camels#cheer up#black hole#meringue#it's a mistake
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Obligatory insecurities Pt. I
This is a little angsty but mostly fluff, wasn't planning on separating it into parts at first but it just ended up being too long.
Whoops.
Lucifer
Behind pride, sits doubt. It lingers behind the day to day problems he has to chase after and solve, behind the piles upon piles of work he has to sift through each and every day, waiting for the straw to break the camel's back.
Only then does it come forth, bouncing in the space behind his eyes, demanding he think on his failures. Is he truly doing what's best for his brothers? Or is he really the tyrant they call him.
Would they be better without him? Back in the Celestial realm? All of this is his fault, he is the eldest, he can't make it okay.
That's when they come to him, the human who to him seems to suffer no such doubts. MC's gone and barrelled through the Devildom guns blazing like no human ever has, or ever will again.
They sit beside him, and merely hold him, cradling his head to their chest so he can hear the assured beat of their heart.
'You are perfect, you have done enough, we're okay. You're okay.'
Affirmations tumble from their lips, and as if by magic they overpower the bastard doubt echoing in his head, replaced with the warmth and assurance of them.
But the affirmations keep coming, doused with affection given without reservation or pride, until he can think of nothing but the peace they bring.
Mammon
It should be obvious what makes him break. One insult too many, misplaced blame too often, lack of trust from the demons he loves most.
He knows he's greedy, he can't help it. He wants to best, for himself, for his family, for the ones he loves to have everything they could ever want.
They don't see that, and one day, the witches get a little too close to violating parts of him which were never on the table.
Nobody cares though, because he got himself into this mess, he should suffer the consequences.
Nobody cares, but MC.
They've laughed at him being hung from the ceiling for something menial before, rolled their eyes at his pick pocketing gambling tendencies, but when they arrived to pick him up, their eyes were no joke.
For a second, he's sure they're going to snap at him, instead, they pull him in, and hug him like he can't ever remember being hugged before.
'Are you alright? Did she hurt you?'
'I...'m sorry, I just- I thought-'
He broke, and MC caught him, guiding him back to his room without speaking a word. If the witch had tried to stop them, he doubts she would've survived the attempt.
MC sat him on his sofa, brought him hot chocolate, put on music, and cuddled up next to him, all without a word.
He stares at the homemade hot drink in awe, he's not used to being taken care of like this, but when he looks up, there's that smile that's worth all the grimm in the Devildom.
'Don't be scared of calling me when you're in trouble, kay? I'll always come get you, no matter how you got yourself into it.'
Leviathan
Oh boy, where do we start here?
Envy is inherently insecure, he's always wanting things he doesn't have. The next season, a new merch line, all of it. Wanting, wanting, wanting.
It's endless, and exhausting. Being an Otaku is by far the most harmless of outlets he's had in his lifetime, but what's remained common, is his hatred of people.
People and their ability to socialise and make friends so easily. People who take those friends for granted and go forever without acknowledging them.
Between the want, and the hunt for more, his head is a mess of insecurity and desire, except in the presence of that one human.
MC just has to sit in his room with him, and suddenly, he envies no one, wants for nothing.
They bought themselves a bean bag and set it in his room, it's their space, a little piece of MC which stays in his room all the time. It even smells like them.
Even when they're not with him, he just glances at that purple bean bag, and smiles. He still wants, and chases, but the yawning chasm that once plagued him to get a better one, a bigger one, a faster one, was a little quieter, because he knows there's no improving on his best friend, on that little slice of peace that smiles at him from that bean bag and makes him lose when they look so dang cute.
Satan
His insecurities are...dangerous. He's learned that the hard way.
His wrath hurts people when he lets it out, hurts him when he bottles it up, and though he's had time to control it, sometimes, one's nature is unavoidable.
Wrath is not synonymous with control, he feels like all Hell has broken loose in his chest and throws everyone away.
Especially MC, if he hurt them, he'd never forgive himself.
He locked himself in his room, fighting not to rip the place to shreds, until something slid under his door.
A note, scented with chamomile, with three simple words in MC's handwriting.
I love you
At that moment, those words felt like the be all and end all, allowing him to slowly, carefully, bring himself out of his own head.
I love you, they wrote. They love him, despite his terrifying nature.
It must have been hours before he finally opened the door, and found MC, curled up in the hallway, resting on a pillow off their bed, sound asleep.
They'd been there all along, and would be every time he had an episode. They know they can't be near him, for both their sakes, if this is as close as they can get, they'll take it.
From then on, Satan knows he's not alone with his wrath.
Asmodeus
Pretty, pretty, pretty, has to be pretty. That's what they see, pretty Asmo, perfect, sexy, horny, lustful, and he is all of those things.
Is that all he is, though? Just...pretty. There's more to him than that...right?
He looks in the mirror, muttering affirmations to himself as he puts on his makeup, until he stops, and the tears start to fall. The mascara starts to run, and when next he looks up, it's with blurry eyes that he sees something so very ugly, but it's not his face.
There's nothing else to him, he fears, behind a pretty face, there's nothing else there.
Beside himself, he reaches out for someone, anyone, and MC answers the call in seconds.
They're at his side and cradling him like the most precious thing in the world, right there on the bathroom floor, as he blubbers his insecurities like a fool.
'Oh love, you've got so much more than beauty. You're so beautiful inside I wouldn't care if I could never see you again, I would still love you.'
'Re-really?'
'Abso-fucking-lutely. You bring me so much joy without even trying, you never judge and find beauty in so many things, the world is wonderful seen through your eyes.'
Sniffles replace his sobs and he melts into their embrace, laying affectionate kisses to their neck. 'Tell me more...please?'
#ah my aching heart what have I done#obey me shall we date#obey me mammon#obey me lucifer#obey me satan#obey me asmodeus#asmodeus x mc#satan x mc#lucifer x mc#mammon x mc#obey me leviathan#leviathan x mc
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🕷Head Over Heels🕷
Eddie Munson x Reader, One Shot
7.6k Words.
Summary: “Actually, I uh, I think we might have some new stuff, in the back.”
Eddies stunning grin gets your knees trembling weak.
“Might?” His resulting grin absolutely melts you. Oh that playful tone of his dropped right into your panties and got you good.
“Definitely. No we, definitely, have some new stuff in the back.” You decide quickly. You nod and laugh at your own dense stupidity.
Or;
The one where Eddie comes to visit you at the record store where you work. You end up making out in the storage room.
Anyone who stepped inside Nirvana Records could definitely attest to one very salient thing; it sure had texture.
An independently run store wedged between the parade of mom-and-pop businesses on Franklin Boulevard. As soon as the creaking door was shoved open, the atmosphere of this place seeped out to the doormat like water.
Tacky warm plastic of cassettes and musty paper from old vinyl sleeves smack like a wall as you come in. You couldn’t escape it.
It was decidedly more gross before you started working here, and you helped Sal tidy up this hole, dragging the place into the 1980’s.
It used to smell like an armpit that had smoked a dozen stale cigarettes. Draped in orange and seventies decor, with crappy sharp patchouli incense burning away in an ashtray, and hippy acid swirled Peace-Love posters poorly slapped all over the walls. A sad display of second hand tattered vinyl’s limp on the racks
You don’t know how you got the grouchy bastard to update, but somehow the fact that he made more money off the ‘new wave shit’ seemed to slowly evolve his mind.
You spent many a painful Saturday in here sorting and cataloguing genres, and desperately phoning around music wholesalers out of state. Finding entire armfuls of posters of Elvis, The Kinks, or the Beatles for pennies at the dollar store to just liven up the bullseye-red walls.
You’ve put your touch to this place. There’s no doubt about it. In the gold twinkle lights you tacked around the counter and some strung across the ceilings or along the backs of the racks.
The heartthrob red paint to pack a punch beating off every wall. The blue neon light sign of the store name you made him shell out for behind the till. It’s a bohemian space full of old layered rugs and vintage posters and it lends itself well to such a lived in feel now a bit of effort and time has been spent on it.
Music is eternally threaded through the air from the stereo sat by the till counter. Guitars of all shapes and sizes line the walls for sale. Acoustic, electric, and - much to your shame - some banjos too. Though thankfully you’ve never sold one.
There’s cassettes in the front. Vinyl in the back. The place isn’t huge and it’s rammed with narrow aisles of so much choice. Current music posters and vinyl’s fight for space up on the walls. Bruce Springsteen, Metallica, Wham!, Madonna and Bowie. The place is wall to wall sound.
When you duck into the place on Tuesday the sun is warm on the back of your neck, sweat skating down your skin, as the bell hooked over the door tinkled all bright with your arrival. Not that it did much to announce you to your boss. You clutch your car keys in your hand and wind through the aisles.
You’re not at all surprised by the deafening waterfall-fluid riff of Hendrix, and his psychedelic Red House filling up the air. You take your bag off your shoulder and head for the till.
You round the counter and your boss is to be found in his usual spot. Lanky frame all bones and sharp knees, swallowed up into the sagging leather chair squared onto a matted old wine-red flowery rug, just out of sight behind the counter.
He’s sat there being his usual slothful self in a silvery cloud of camel smoke. Inspecting the B side of a Jethro Tull.
He looked like a Fleetwood Mac roadie had a collision a Carnaby street throwback.
One leg bent onto the other. Those ridiculous Cuban heel boots on as per. Acid washed jeans, his rusty suede fringed jacket, and a faded Rolling Stones red lips tee hanging off his torso. Peace sign pendant sat on his craggy sternum over the shirt.
His usual blue and grey tie dye bandana pasted his stringy grey hair back from his forehead. Blue round-rim John Lennon glasses always perched on his aquiline nose. Cig burning low, stuck stubby between his lips.
He barely flicked his eyes to you as you came in. So used to your presence here, it was second nature. Never mind the fact this old hippy moved so slowly sometimes you think he was at serious risk of growing moss.
The smoke-grey record store cat, Ziggy, sat like the fat little lump she was on the counter. Getting fur all over a stack of vinyls. She flicked her yellow eyes across to you and twitched her tail as you stroked her head. She often sat stretched across the racks or tables. Fell asleep on the vinyls until someone had to nudge her aside in order to take a look.
You place your bag under the shelf at the bottom, wincing at the volume he has the stereo turned too.
“Are you trying to damage what little scrap of hearing you have left?” You ask him over the reduced din.
He acts like you hadn’t even spoken. Not maliciously. You could never be entirely certain what sunk in with him. It was 50/50 he was even listening. He dropped so much acid in the 60’s you’re amazed he’s still coherent at all.
“There was no one like Hendrix playing live, man, nothing.” He plucks his cigarette out his mouth and gestures towards you. Stating a point of fact. Speaking through smoke. “No one held the crowd like he could. He could transport you-“
That was his odd sort of way of saying hello. Bounce straight into a conversation about music. No niceties, no nothing. It usually ended up in you both taking unsubtle potshots at each other.
“Voodoo Child is better.” You argue back as you pick up the hefty box for restocking. Sal doesn’t bother with it. You turn your back and walk through the stacks. Thumbing through the new stuff. Little Walter, The Who, Rick James, The Zombies. Some Nina Simone blues.
“You’re a little late by the way.” He called at you. Now abandoned the album and nose deep into one of his obscure folk music magazines. Something about Woody Guthrie. He wasn’t partially paying attention.
“Class ran over.” You offer back. Slotting the blues albums into their alphabetised spaces. Neatening what had been messed up yesterday.
You weren’t gonna blab to Sal that the reason you were late it cause you hared it at such an illegal speed home.
Or, that it took you a clammy filled half hour after a shower rushing around like a mental patient, trying to choose what to wear in an attempt to appear effortless but totally cool. You didn’t want to dress for someone else, but you had to admit you weren’t sure your usual thrown-this-on look would be appealing to the eye.
You ended up on your boot cut jeans and green sneakers. You slick perfume on your wrists and behind your ears. A honey yellow bottle of scent Mom bought you back from her trip to Spain once.
You settled finally on a cute and fairly clingy violet ribbed sweater that was actually your mom’s too. You scooped your hair back again. Into a claw clip and had to rush out the door to make it here on time.
Linda almost tore your meniscus in your knee the way she nudged you to stop the nervous bouncing of your leg under the table in class this afternoon. Last period.
Jesus Christ, you’re so wired and twitchy today. What’s up your ass?
I swear there’s like, a jar of rat poison or snake venom where your heart should be.
She then bit your head off for the way your pencil eraser was tap-tap-tapping against your books as you kept your eyes glued to the clock hands in the classroom.
“You done something different with your hair, kid?” He calls through the store to you. His eyes still turned towards the mag.
You stop in your tracks. Turn back to him with the stack in your arms. You fidget a little. “Just-trying something out.” You blush.
You didn’t realise it was that obvious that you’d dressed up for your sort-of-not-really-a-date.
Sal peers at you over his blue specs. Knowing grey eyes piercing deep into you. You feel like you’ve been busted. Goddamn the guy.
He barely notices when you walk into a room and say his name ten times, voice migrating into a shout. But he’s a human fucking bloodhound for sniffing out when something minutely small about you has changed even slightly. It’s uncanny and as wildly strange as the rest of him.
You’re not in your paint scuffed jeans or your usual dressed down tees and plaid. Tonight, dare he say it, you look -altered. Dressing up all prettier than you usually do. Tight top. Ass hugging jeans.
“For a boy?” He asks. No hint of shame in his tone. He doesn’t even look phased by the fact.
You flounder in knowing how to answer.
“Or is it a girl? That’s cool too, man.” He states easily.
Glossing over the fact Sal would be totally cool with the fact you could come out as gay, you answer him with the actual truth.
“Maybe there’s a guy.” You answer.
One thin grey brow hooks up his forehead. Encouraged you on.
“He might be coming by tonight.” You offer trying to sound casual about it. You do hope Eddie will be swinging by. He’s theatric and manic, sure, but you hope he’s the type to stick to a arrangement when he’s made one. You pray he doesn’t flake cause that will be a huge downer for your night that’s got you so edgily excited.
“A guy?” He checks.
“A guy.” You repeat.
“A guy.” He nods. Getting the point.
There’s a beat of silence. He nods and makes an impressed face. Looking down at the magazine flopped open in his hands. He drags his cigarette slowly. Shakes flecks of ash off the glossy pages.
“I thought you hated all the guys at your school?”
“I do.” You say as you slot the Police cassette back to its rightful place in the P’s. Moving Queen’s ‘The Game’ out the way.
“You’re always going on about that Laura friend of yours and her idiot jockstrap.” He sniffs as he reads.
“Linda.” You correct. He was terrible with names. He’d taken three years to learn yours. And even now he still called you kid, or man.
“… and that every boy at your school is plucked straight from a JC Penny catalogue of unoriginal bullshit.” He quoted you directly.
“They are.” You smile at your own little quip of all those boring guys at your school. The ones who followed norms and never dared do to think or do anything different.
“What’s this kid like then?” He asks.
You think how best to sum up Eddie. You see him in your minds eye. Smiling that stunning grin at you across the school lot yesterday. The way that made your skin prickle with fiery heat.
Flickering smell of smoke caught in his dark jacket. Sunk into his shirt. The bourbon eyes that dipped right into yours and left you stunned drunk. The wannabe Mark Bolan hair falling in gentle waves around his face. The way he didn’t let Linda’s bitch attitude phase him for even one second. Her nastiness slipped off his leather jacket like oil slick. Wrapped his hair around his finger and went all squirly as he flirted with you.
“He is sweet. And different. And anything but boring.” You told Sal.
You don’t even dare turn and look at him cause you know you’ll blush even just talking about the boy you’re mad about. You idly pick at an Ella Fitzgerald tape.
Sal made a ‘mmmm’ noise of mild interest.
You snag a tape before walking back over to the counter. Alice Cooper. You punch Sals crap out the stereo, and replace it with that one. Steady rock pumps out and Alice’s sneering and enlivened vocals start to growl through the speakers. You loved his stage presence. The gothy dripping black eyes and the way he snarled the vocals along to guitar.
“Anyway why are you taking such an interest in my nonexistent love life?” You ask him.
You lean your elbows on it as you talked to him. The bell shrills as a couple people step inside. You turn your head and smile at them. Saying hello. Leaving them to browse.
He shrugs at your question. “Just curious.”
You make a face at him that he doesn’t turn to see.
“Don’t go thinking you can use my store room in the back for having sex. Those shelves won’t hold your weight. Trust me, I’ve been there.”
To say you winced was a massive outcry of an understatement.
“Jesus, Sal.” You lob a King Crimson cassette at him that he lets thud off his shoulder and to the couch cushion beside him. He doesn’t even acknowledge it. His reactions to stimulus weren’t the same for other normal people from this solar system.
More disturbing was the fact you didn’t want to even picture the type of person to try a sexual liaison with the bag of dusty bones in a stones t-shirt sat before you. You blink the thought away very quickly.
“And remember to tell your guy pulling out doesn’t work. Wrap it before you tap it kid. Safe sex ain’t no joke.” He warns.
You turn the stereo up. Right up. Anything but a lecture on safe sex from your boss. You shake your head at him. No no no.
“If you don’t shut up, Sal, I’m putting Richard Hell and the Voidoids on again.”
“Fucking hell.” He mumbles.
His tolerance for listening to anything Punk was about as short as yours was for his penchant of playing Joan Baez for hours and hours. You once had to stick your fingers in your ears and decried that you were going to phone social services.
You may punish him later and shove a bit of the Clash in the stereo. Just to make him pay.
The rest of your shift swings by without a hitch. The usual rounds of drudgery.
You help people out who come in looking for some specifics. Some very blood pressure raising enquires to deal with. Including a very safe looking middle aged woman in a cardigan and chunky gold earrings.
I don’t remember the name of the album. But it has a blue cover. Does that help?
You should ask Sal for a pay rise for your more than generous habit of not socking these people in the face.
You eventually help that woman find what’s she’s looking for. Ring up a Bing Crosby album for her and tried not to react too much when she said it was the best thing she’d ever heard.
Helped another kid find a few good cassettes. He wasn’t sure what to like. You steer him towards Blondie and some okay hits of The Police, and get him to stay away from Duran Duran. You also manage to convince him that T.Rex is actually pretty awesome too.
You play him a bit on the stereo and watch his face light up listening to it. You turn it up loud loud loud for him and laugh kindly when his eyes almost bug out his head.
You love to think that the Children of the Revolution will be blasting through his bedroom and pissing off his parents for weeks.
He eagerly buys all of your suggestions. You throw in the T.Rex for free.
A group of kids from your school come in too. Two sophomore cheerleaders and their inane boyfriends trailing behind them. They come in and immediately gawk at the decor and make fun of apparently everything about it, and you, for the mere fact you worked here.
You growl to yourself under your breath as they scan around all smug and snobby through the aisles.
You pay no attention to their snide remarks and carry on flicking through the out of date music magazines Sal kept cluttered around the place. You slam some Siouxsie and the Banshees into the stereo and let Cities in Dust bathe away some of your sourness from their presence.
You lean over the counter and resume your place in the magazine. Slowly swerving your jaw chewing your pink gum.
“Excuse me?” Comes a whiny voice across the counter at you. A cheerleader trills at you like Tweetie Pie with a too slick lipgloss smile.
“Do you work here?” She asks like it’s something amusing. She probably spends her time filing her nails at whatever beauty department store counter she worked at. Playing with lipsticks and nail polish, gossiping with her friend on the phone rather than helping anyone.
“It’s why I’m this side of the counter.” You grin nicely. Exposing too much teeth. You try and keep your tone neutral but you just knowyou don’t quite make it.
She scoffs at you with a sickly expression. “I’m looking for some party music.” She tells you like that should be obvious. Blinking her lashes at you.
You roll your gum on your tongue. Teeth gritting. “You’re in the right place then.” You flip your magazine closed. Rest your chipped nail polish on the paper.
“Do you even have any Madonna?” She dug at you like you’d decided to leave your brain at home when you clocked on.
You take a breath. Inhale slow and steady. You’d kill to steal one of Sal’s cigarettes right about now.
“We’re a record store. We have pretty much everything.�� You state.
“Madonna?” She asked again. Louder.
“Funnily enough it’s under the section labelled M.” You harp back with the same amount of detriment she threw at you. You nod towards the section where they’d find what they’re after.
“If you can’t find it, just do a high kick or wave some pom-poms at me. I’ll come running.” You assure her. You narrow your eyes just a little.
Her mouth drops open. She flips her perfectly highlighted hair over one shoulder and her friend glares daggers. You hear her bite out the word ‘Bitch’ as she goes in search of her terrible make-out music.
You chew your gum and round the desk after flipping your magazine shut. Let Sal serve them you’re done dealing with drippy cheer girls from your school.
“Cyndi Lauper is under C in case you get confused.” You breathe out as you wander to the back with a box of tapes that needed sorting. The needle eyes she shoots your way let’s you know you didn’t say it as quietly as you’d intended.
Fuck them. You’d offer them civility if they had any intention of talking to you like a damn human being. As it was, you were fine with being acidic.
You nudge Sal as you walk past the couch where he sat. “Sal. Customers. Your turn.” He makes a waving with his cigarette. A sort of ‘fine’ expression taking over his face.
He kills your Siouxsie tape and puts on Stairway to Heaven instead. You call through and tell him how rude that is.
You hide in amongst the vinyls whilst those guys from your school finish browsing. Like hell are you serving them. You hope Sal overcharges them for their tacky make out music.
You sigh as you shuffle the Vinyl and their sleeves into the places they belong. Flipping them forwards to slot behind. Balancing the heavy box on your hip. You hear the bell on the door shrill again. Over the sound of Led thrumming through the shop.
A burst of energy suddenly blazes your way.
Your curly maned metal head is throwing his arms across the rack your stood in front of. Leaning over from the other side. Twirling a vinyl in his hands. Big grin beaming at you. You can never tell which way the crazy Munson storm is coming from.
“Pardon me ma’am. Do you happen to know where I could find some truly terrible music? Really? I’m after some awful stuff, and I will need your guidance as an avid music expert.”
You smile. Whole body prickling with warmth and blushy awareness now that he was here.
He hadn’t dared to forget you. How could he forget his pencils?
You look to the front and see that same gaggle of guys from before at the front. The cheerleaders and their boyfriends side eyeing you like you’re a bunch of freaks, who belong together.
What’s amazing is how little you care.
Naturally you play along. “Of course, sir. There’s Donny Osmond and Musical Youth up the front there for you.” You nod forwards to the cassettes.
“Such great service.” He kisses his fingers like he’s tasted something sublime.
He peeks over and his curly hair drags down as he puts the vinyl in its proper place. Goes back to standing with his elbows leaning on the rack. The zips clack on his sleeves. You only just notice he’s attempted to mend the zipper on one side with three chains.
“Any other terrible music I can point your way? How about some Genesis?” You encourage. You reach across and nudge his elbow with the Vinyl of The Ronettes that you slip down. Your touch makes him smile wider.
“I’m all ears.” He tilts his head at you.
The stereo shifts behind you and you hear the too far familiar psych rock again. You turn back to Sal whose back on his slumped couch. He put Red house back on. “Not again?”
“It gets better the more you hear it.” Sal defends loudly.
Eddie pipes up. Really the boy is too sweet. “Nothing wrong with a little Hendrix. Bit too hippy hazy compared to the stuff I like, but the guy sure could play the shit out his Stratocaster-“
“Wait? This is the kid?” Sal asks. Another lit cigarette held between two fingers.
“He’s a metal head?”
“Shut up.” You chirp nicely. Aimed at your boss but you’re not looking at him. You’re looking at Eddie.
Eddies brows shoot up into his unruly bangs. A giddy smile suddenly curls.
“You’ve been talking about me, pencils? I am flattered.”
“Ignore the crusty old hippy.” You twirled a finger around your temple.
“Fried his braincells with too much acid in the 60’s. Doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”
“You soooo talked about me.” Eddie teases. Stopping to check out a W.A.S.P vinyl as he slipped past.
He smiles and cooed at Ziggy who’d hopped up near the vinyls to snooze. He chucks a finger under her chin and strokes her for a second.
You saunter back to the counter and place the box in front of Sal as you walk past. He picks through it with his cig hanging out his lips.
Clearly you’ve got a very personal-slash-hate relationship with your boss. There’s something he likes a lot about seeing your wit and sarcasm shine through.
He also absolutely caught the sway of your hips and ass in those blue denim jeans. If he said he didn’t stare for a hot second, he’d be lying. He swallows and rounds the counter as you come opposite. Snatching Sal’s Hendrix tape out, replacing it with Richard Hell and the Voidoids.
Sal scowls over at you. “You know what you did.” You held out. Let him stew in your gritty 1976 tapes.
“Punk huh?” Eddie smirks at you as he leans over the counter. “Never would’ve expected such an anti-establishment streak from you.” He shakes his head in a funny way that makes his hair sway.
“Comes with the territory of being on track for Art at indie state.” You shrug simply. Eddie smiles at your dream.
“I little punk attitude never hurts.” He figures.
“Plus did you know this guy actually helped set up the DIY ripped fashion of punk in the 70’s at CBGB’s? And his stuff was so sophisticated and immediate compared to the later bands who were just basically a load of kids screaming out any old shit and calling it new wave. This guy actually had some permanence with his message in music.” You point at the stereo with a thumb over your shoulder.
Elbows on the counter. Eddie is opposite. Pressed against it. Hands in his leather pockets. Listening to you talk about punk with that fascinated passion lighting up your whole face. He could and he would listen to you talk for hours-
“And-I’m getting carried away.” You say. Restricting your waterfall of words. Shrinking back. Clasping your hands together on the shiny magazine cover.
“I like carried away on you.” He smiles. And you did make it look good.
“Did you still want some terrible tapes?” You ask softly. You’re right over the counter.
He starts to lean in a little too.
You wet your lips cause those fucking brown eyes are disarming up close. He’s so damn pretty.
“You did come here for some music if my memory serves.” You say.
“It does. And I did.” He nods. Leaning in and bracing his elbows near to yours. “Maybe a little metal. Anything of the Death or Thrash persuasion.” He says.
He lies though. He’s got so many tapes.
He mostly came so he’d have an excuse to see you again. Hopefully kiss you some more if he could. Though he’d settle for not. Just spending time with you. Unravel more of what you’re like, and walk you to your car after your shift is over. Leave with a gentle goodnight kiss.
This is the thing about Eddie, he’s not expecting anymore than that. He settles for less and is more than shocked when he realised you wanted to offer more.
His fingers are crawling closer to yours.
You let them.
Fingertips of his stroking your knuckles a little before slipping between your spread fingers. Cold silver metal brushing your skin to tingle. You take the initiative to tangle your hand through his.
“I know we got Iron Maiden. Megadeath. Van Halen. Def Leppard, uh, Metallica, Led Zeppelin.” You rattle off a list.
“If you haven’t listened to Alice Cooper yet, I will have to tie you down not let you leave until you’ve listened to him, like, a lot. He’s insanely…great.”
You’re rambling, cause his hand is fully holding yours now. And your brain is on the ceiling. Your heart is rammed up your throat and your stomach is somewhere sailing north of the Dakota’s.
“Not gonna let me leave huh? Sounds real ominous.” He looks awful enamoured with the idea.
“Yeah. You should be very scared. You’d have to sleep here on Sal’s couch. And I’m willing to bet there is probably a bit of unaccounted for Mexican Sativa, lost down one of the cushions.”
“That doesn’t sound like such a bad time.” He supposes gleefully.
“Would give me a chance to hang out with some beautiful shapely looking chicks over there.” He gestures towards the guitars on the wall. Red and white. One black. One tiger striped.
He bites his lip as he looks. Waggles his brows.
Ah, his other weakness. Electric guitars.
“Shall I leave you alone for a moment? Put on some Barry White? candlelight?” You tease. Poking fun.
Where you lean over even more to twirl your fingers into his, he gets a neat view of the lacy strap of your blue bra that almost makes his heart squeeze to a stop.
“What’s your employee discount again, pencils?” His tongue tips out cheekily between his grin.
“Cold. Munson. Ouch.” You laugh. You nudge his hand with yours. But most importantly, you don’t let go.
“I’m only messin.” He promises.
“Besides, If you think I’m important enough for Sal to give me a discount. You’re gonna be disappointed. But I do have my methods of bribery.” You smirk.
Whilst that is true, he does let you sneak some things by. If he sees a new tape you’d like, he lets you slip a couple in your bag if you bring in some home baked goods sometimes. A tray of mac n cheese. Or bring him a sandwich or a pizza if you’re on a late one doing stock take. Something for the bony guy to soak up the weed and beers with.
He can’t complain. At the end of the day you’re a good kid. And you don’t mess him around and you work damn hard besides that. He can see you’re on track to your college. He cuts you some slack. Occasionally slips you the odd joint with your new cassettes. It’s a classic give and take.
“I knew under that arty persona lurked the canny wiles of a temptress.” Eddie flattered you.
“Temptress?” You smile. Not often you hear words like that bandied around. Then again, this guy does have his fantasy world lingo to play with.
“Completely. Like, I know I haven’t stopped thinking about that kiss from the other night. You’ve been stuck in here, pencils.” He taps the side of his head with his free hand.
“No getting you out.” He tells you honestly. Eyes gazing into yours.
“I was worried you’d think I kissed you only cause I was drunk.” You confessed.
He tips his head at you. “Actually. I had a theory about that-“ He began. Looking devious.
“A theory he says.” You sound impressed. His thumb strokes over your knuckles.
“I think we should try it again. Y’know. With you sober this time. In the interest of conducting a fair scientific test and all that.” He offered. “Just so we’re sure.”
Ohh, smooth.
You bite your lip and consider this sweet funny guy stood the other side of the counter asking politely if he can kiss you again.
Your smile is more than enough of an answer.
You clear your throat, a tad louder than necessary, and flick a look across in Sals vague direction. You chuck your pink gum in the bin. Wouldn’t be good to choke on it.
“Actually, I uh, I think we might have some new stuff, in the back.”
Eddies stunning grin gets your knees trembling weak.
“Might?” His resulting grin absolutely melts you. Oh that playful tone of his dropped right into your panties and got you good.
“Definitely. No we, definitely, have some new stuff in the back.” You decide quickly. You nod and laugh at your own dense stupidity.
There’s a shift from the leather couch as Sal gets up and wanders to the front. The smell of cheap Patchouli incense and cigarettes wafting after him as he moved.
“No fucking on my shelves. They’re rickety as hell, they won’t hold ya.”
Eddie has the temerity to blush. You scowl at the back of Sal’s bandana.
“Won’t be a sec. Just gonna see to those tapes.” You say, again, loudly, to your wayward boss who went to the front to flick through some tapes
You move around the counter. Walking through the vinyl. You check he’s not watching. No customers in. You shove a hand into Eddie’s denim jacket and pull him along after you. He stumbled along a little in his sneakers. Ever graceful.
You weaved the narrow aisle and ducked into the side door leading to the cold shadowy back store room.
He goes wherever you lead him. It’s awful cute.
You make sure his back is pressed against the door to open it better. Your hands still on his collar. He looks at you with nervousness blended with unsure excitement.
You do what you’ve wanted to do for three days now;
You lean up on your tiptoes, cup the front of his shirt in greedy fists and press your mouth to his. A proper hungry kiss.
You knock him back to the door with the force of it, and he steadies himself and muffled a moan into your mouth - only just - hand wrapping around the back of your waist and spread up onto the small of your back. His moan sends a reactive zing right the way down your spine
He’s stunned and you can tell you caught him off guard so suddenly.
And then you just melt to each other. All honey slow and gentle. His lips are so goddamn plush. You could mouth at them for hours upon hours and not even get bored.
You smile when you feel his arm cup you closer. Hand reaching up to cradle the side of your neck like you’re something precious to him. Warm skin and cold rings.
Your kiss slowly grows hungrier. His does too, he pressed back to you just as much as you were offering your lips to him. Slowly at first, and then moving to match the rhythm you gave him. Mouths sealed together.
You walk him back and try not to stumble him into anymore boxes in the dingy dark room. Waddling back with your legs tangled amongst each other’s. Knees and thighs brushing in your jeans. His wallet chain hitting your leg with a heavy thud.
Although you fail miserably when you catch the corner of your shin on a box that shudders and jerks out behind you. Clashing plastic clattering around as the box splits from the other side.
Eddie breaks away. Possibly to breathe, but more to check you’re alright. His lips are adorably kiss-pink.
“Shit, you ok?“ He breathes in a whisper. Chest hitching. His eyes are so round and wide. Trying to see the mess you made in the dark.
You’re addicted. He tastes like too sharp cigarettes and something tacky cherry sweet. More.
“Doesn’t matter.” You sigh quickly. Shake your head. Dazed and smiling so so so wide Eddie feels like it splits his soft heart open like a ripe mushy fruit.
You tug him to you. Close as you can possibly get. Kiss drunk. Reel him right in. So that in this stuffy closet, you’re up against the infamous shelves, it’s harsh edge digging into the middle of your back. Against the back of your head. But you don’t care.
So worth it.
He somehow noticed. Snuck his hand around the back of your nape. Cupped your head to hold you closer, made sure it didn’t hurt you.
He looks at you for a moment. You pant heavily against each other’s lips. Eyes flicking over each other’s faces. Cheeks glaring pink.
He makes the move this time. And it’s so explorative, but tentative.
His kiss numbs out the rest of the world beyond that door. The music. Sal. All of it. He leans in and you cup the back of his hair. Surrounded by the feel of him and never wanting to give it up.
Eddies other hand slithers impatiently around your back again. Needed the tactile touch of you. That little silky dip in the small of your back. Tasting the fruity gum on your tongue. Some smooth balm on your lips that’s trying to be strawberries or something- it’s nice.
Where he cups your head his elbow knocks another box. Just a nudge and some tapes clatter out of that. He has to avoid crushing them underfoot.
He twists against your mouth and hissed a groan. Tried to turn and look. You don’t wanna let him.
He half speaks into your kiss. Can’t get the words out. You’re interrupting him too much. Your lips pecking to his eagerly.
“I- fuck- mhmmm. Gonna… break-somethin…here-pencils.” He manages to sigh before you’re on him again.
You pull back and see the tapes scattered across the floor. You make out the artist name on the cover.
“Pet shop boys. Doesn’t matter.” You shut him up with another eager kiss and he rumbled a breathy laugh into it.
You moan impatiently. The sound makes his thighs quiver. Mouths way too spit wet but that’s what makes it so dirty-glorious. You’re needy for him and it’s frying his brain.
When you break apart to try and breathe again he grins like a fool. “Knew there was a reason I liked you so damn much.”
“Pure music snobbery-?“ You sigh all high and whiny as his mouth dove for your neck.
His hand at your head, slowly travelled downwards. Both resting at your waist instead. Fingertips skirting over the edge of where your top rode up over your hips. He touched your skin and the sensation bleeds straight through you like a live wire.
“Holy fuck.” You sigh all blissed. Trying not to moan too loud.
Your hand tangled in his hair. Nails scraping his scalp. You tip your head back to give him room, groan his name and he swears it’s better than any Metallica riff he’s ever heard.
“Something like that.” He hushes all softly and smiley against your hammering pulse point. Pecking it all sweet like you’re both innocent of anything naughty. Your toes are curling in your shoes.
One hand of yours slides down and finds the smooth of his hipbone under his shirt. You run your hand along his skin and you feel him shudder.
You’re willing to bet he has some sensitive patches of skin and some badass ink on those hips.
His hand slips under your sweater and cups up your back. Eye for an eye. Smoothly holds you as he works kisses into you neck.
“Easy. Don’t want me to give you a hickie, do you pencils?”
You smile and bite your lip, cause. “Do your worst, Munson.” That’s exactly what you desire from him.
“You not gonna freak about people-seeingit?“ Cause he can only imagine the outcome if you tell people that he was the one to put a sizeable love-bite on your neck. Him. The Satan of Hawkins High.
You slide your hand up through the back of his curly hair. Fluffy to the touch. Wrench his head away and speak against his lips so your noses almost brush. You love how blushy and dazed he looks. Lips so red and kiss stung.
“Don’t care who sees. Let them see.” You smirk. Kissing his lips again. Addictive lips of his.
That’s shooting an odd tingly sensation of pride right on through him. The fact you’re willing to be so visible when with him. Cause fuck this small minded town. Fuck their stuffy opinions and what the popular kids think. You’re not gonna start pretending you care what they think.
“All those rumours will be flying around that you’ve fallen under spell of my demonic powers.” He widens his eyes as he talks about it. Peppering kisses along your jaw. You feel his voice aswell as hear it.
You hum a pleased sound. You’re lip locked in your record store storage closet with Eddie Munson. Whatever repercussions or gossip come your way, at this point, are just all stupid fury and no sound.
“I can deal with that. Tell them I’ve sold you my soul for a very reasonable price.” You shrug openly. “And maybe a joint or two.” You add.
“Ahhh I see. So you’re signed up for the Eternal damnation package?” He jests.
“What does that involve?” You ask, acting all innocent.
“I’ll send you the literature but I think, entitles you to a whole lot more, of…uhm. Well. Something like this…”
As he spoke he moved closer and closer until he slanted his lips to yours again. Gently deepening it. You blush right down to your tits when his tongue flashes against the front of your teeth.
You only pull away to breathe, and even then it’s torture. Sloppy lips parting with a sticky moan coming from each of you.
“You got many others subscribed to this, ‘package’ of yours?” You ask with cheeky insinuation. Heart pulsing at your throat. Pulling for air and you’re not giving it much to go on. You’re more focused on his lips.
“Nah man. Just Gareth. And he’s a fuckin lousy kisser.” He rolls his eyes. Loves the way you light up with a laugh.
He kisses your neck with smacking wet pecks.
“I wish… I had more time. To keep…. Kissing you. Like this.” He says in-between smooches. Closing his eyes and breathing, wanting to live, in the way you sound and the heat of your perfume.
The world outside comes tumbling in to ruin your lust-crazed bubble, when you think how much longer you want to get away with kissing this beautiful guy. Hours and hours wouldn’t cover it.
You pull back to pant some more after an indulgent kiss and sigh at him. “Me too.”
This boy is pumping hard core strength indica directly into your heart, puffing it through your veins, and you just want all of it. Every bit of sensation of being around him.
You don’t want to unwrap your arms from each other but it appears you have too. You’re on the clock still, and the last thing you want is Sal coming back here to catch you both in the act.
You pet his hair around his face as he looks at you. Swipes his thumb over the back of your neck and up that tempting little dip in your lower back. Just a moment whilst you drink him and his closeness in. His lips are all cherry bright and his hair smells like some cheap apple shampoo. It’s near dangeroushow much you want him.
He’s way too pretty like this. Too much to resist.
“Come on.” You tug kindly on his leather jacket cuff and weave him through some boxes. “I can sneak you out.”
“Secret tunnel?” He quips. “Like that old movie. Very Steve McQueen.”
“Yeah. There’s a Triumph TR6 waiting for you out back, Steve.” You joke.
You love how spontaneous words just sprawl out his mouth. Big ball of energy attitude. It’s amusing to be around. Refreshing even. Your entire friendship with Linda is all pot-shots and unsubtle digs at each other.
“Your boss isn’t gonna wonder where the hell I, uh, went, is he?” He asks.
You turn and flash him a look. Make a noise between a snort and a scoff. Tilt your head. “Sal?” You ask him with meaning.
“I doubt he even knows what day or month it is, Munson.” You smile. He does too.
“Gotta love a hippy loop hole.” He remarks to make you laugh.
You come to the old warped fire door right at the back. Leaning heavily on the bar to jerk the door to open with a crunching whine. You pluck something off one of the shelves as you walk past.
You stand with your back against the door, holding it for him, as he brushed past you. The way his hand lingered on your stomach, made your thighs go all squirmy in your jeans. Makes you blush like some silly third grader.
He has to step careful cause there’s so many boxes in the way cause Sal is about as organised as he looks. Zero.
He stays near you. He doesn’t step past. His jacket almost brushing your hip. He doesn’t want the distance as much as you don’t. It’s nice, that.
You reach over to hold the back of his wrist, and press an Alice Cooper cassette tape into his hand. ‘Love it to Death.’
He smiles when he turns it around and sees the cover. “You really weren’t kidding.”
“I never joke about good music.” You grin. “Track two and five.”
“Yes ma’am.” He beams.
His pretty grin then turns devious. Eyes burn with it. He leans right in, his hand braced to the door by your arm.
“And here I thought you wanted to tie me down first?” He echoed back your earlier threat. One brow crooks up. “Should I admit I’m disappointed.”
“I’m all outta rope. I’d have to get creative and use cassette tape. Tie you down with ABBA or some shit like that.” You grin.
“I take that as a very personal attack, now Pencils.” He warns pointing a ring clad finger. But you know he doesn’t mean it.
You stand there. Grinning at each other like a pair of dozy braindead idiots.
“How about I make it up to you. Movie night? Sometime… my house. Pepperoni pizza extra cheese. Horror films. I’ll buy the jolly ranchers, to sweeten the deal?” You offer.
He takes you by surprise this time with a completely soft kiss.
His hand finds your belt buckle and he loops a finger through. Grounding him to your touch. Tethered to a piece of you cause he hates the idea of pulling away.
When he breaks apart, his nose brushes yours before he speaks.
“The deal of seeing you again is plenty sweet enough.” And he means it too. Those puppy eyes brim over with sincerity.
You part with one more kiss that makes your stomach soar. He slips away with a cheeky grin on his face, and you blush to know you’re the cause.
“Wait-“ Comes a pitchy cry from him.
He twirls back all sudden and pecks another kiss at your mouth before the door closes.
Leaning in with one hand on the frame. The other cupped the back of your neck. Pushing you backwards with it. Sighs when he comes up for air.
“Sorry. Had too. Just had too.” He winks. Grins. And then swirls away.
You’re such a goner.
When you finally shut the door, and come back inside out the storage closet, Sal is at the counter and not so subtly knocks a tape in to play on the stereo. He’d been waiting for you to come back in-
Japan’s ‘Adolescent Sex’ starts to filter through the speakers. He doesn’t look up from having his nose stuck in his magazine.
“You’re so hilarious.” You seethe at him. His smile curls up on one side.
Right. You stalk the stacks determined to find something along the lines of the Sex Pistols to really piss him off.
“You should be more mellow for someone who just got laid.” He calls out.
“We didn’t go near your goddamn shelves ok?! Go have a smoke you dusty old bone bag.”
~
🕷Next part to this is right here. Just in case you’re curious or whatnot🕷
#eddie munson#eddie my boy#EDDIE DESERVED BETTER#EDDIE MY BELOVED#eddie x oc#eddie munson x original character#eddie munson x reader#record store#records#vinyls#making out in the store room#making out#kissing#snogging if youre feeling gb about it#lots of snogging#this fic is for anyone who just wants to kiss eddie
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The epic full Discworld re-read has begun! I've been meaning to do this for ages.
Though I've been a fan since I was about 12, and have read all of them at least once, there are some that I've *only* read once, decades ago. Others (mostly those involving the Watch and Death) I have re-read extremely often.
I've decided to go by sub-series, and begin with the standalones, since they're the ones I'm least familiar with (apart from Monstrous Regiment, one of my absolute favourites!)
I'm now 60 pages into Pyramids, and have been reminded that the greatest mathematician in the world is a camel called You Bastard.
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one video game site describing the game's premise:
"In the trailer, Harker was perceived as a much more efficient and courageous vampire hunter, as opposed to the classic portrayal of Jonathan Harker in Bram Stoker’s books and films, including Dracula."
sir... sir... he literally killed dracula in the book...
You know.
I think this broke me just a little more. My camel back was already broken under so many straws, but I think this one made me collapse back in on myself.
So.
There's a lot to be said about the inspirational power of great works of media. Stories and masterpieces that spur wonder, love, and awe. The ones that give you a goal to aspire to in your own creative endeavors. The strive to match up to something great can do a lot.
But I'll tell you, friend. There is nothing quite as empowering as pure, unbridled spite. Just full-on loathing for every piece of half-assed, fan fictionified, self insert-riddled, character-botching, absolute shrug of a creative work that tries to hide under the disguise of a public domain title to cover for its inadequacies, and not only getting away with it because so much of the audience hasn't read the book, not only profiting off of it, but leaving a nigh irremovable stain on the entire pop cultural mind that is so hugely, categorically, monstrously Wrong, that the 'understanding' of the book and its characters is treated as offhand. Because 'everyone knows' it.
"Sure! Everyone knows Jonathan Harker doesn't have any real vampire hunting experience! That's all Van Helsing's shtick, what with him being the very definite for-real nemesis of Dracula, ha ha! Nice of these video game people to give the little guy a shot, eh?"
Just. Wow.
I am ready to make so, so much Jonathan Harker shit. Barking Harker? Sure. Absolutely. Doc's open right now. But maybe I'll do more. Love is my kindling, but bile is the fuel on the fire.
I can do Jonathan Harker as the Superior Dracula, complete with ripping Coppola's reincarnation love interest gimmick out his asshole and doing the Romantic Dracula Trope real justice. Why? BECAUSE IT'S ACTUALLY JONATHAN AND JONATHAN CAN PULL OFF THE WHITE-HAIRED PINING UNDEAD ROLE BETTER. How about that?
How about I make a whole ass script and screenplay for a Dracula series actually in line with the book? No creative license! No Dracula-wolf sex scenes or cheating fiancees or jealous suitors or dodging the el gee bee tee edges or turning Van Helsing into an anime man who saves the day! Just actual events that actually happened in the 125-year-old book that every modern adaptation is too cis-straight-scared to do! How about that?
How about I eat the heart out of every single Van Helsing-centric Monster Hunter series and anime and make it all about the Harkers, their friends, and/or their descendants? How about that?
How about the Harkers getting an eternal vampiric honeymoon after the Transylvanian trip goes bloodily south and they just go about their undead business forever and Dracula is nothing but a footnote in their story which he always was anyway? How about that?
HOW ABOUT I FLOOD THE WORLD WITH DRACULA CONTENT WHERE DRACULA IS NO MORE OR LESS THAN THE SADISTIC VILLAIN HE'S ALWAYS BEEN AND GETS HIS ASS KICKED AND HEAD CHOPPED LIKE THE LOSER BASTARD DESERVES???
HOW ABOUT THAT????
I WILL LIVE TO SEE A WORLD THAT REGISTERS EXACTLY HOW BADASS JONATHAN HARKER AND ALL OF THE HUMAN CAST IS, A WORLD THAT SEES DRACULA FOR THE UNDEAD UNDERWEAR STAIN HE ALWAYS WAS,
FOR I WILL CRAFT THAT WORLD MYSELF UPON THE BONES AND BLOOD OF THE INFINITE BASTARDIZATIONS THAT CAME BEFORE THEM!
I SHALL NOT SUFFER THESE ICE-COLD 'lol no I never touched the book but I kinda remember the wiki for the Coppola movie' TAKES FOR ALL ETERNITY. I WILL REWRITE THE PUBLIC OSMOSIS UNTIL ALL THEY KNOW OF DRACULA IS THAT JONATHAN HARKER KILLED HIM IN HIS DIRT BOX.
Anyway.
To all my Dracula Dailiers out there. I say again. Join me. While our little book club did wonders, the fact is, not a ton of people are going to ever bother with the dusty old novel. Spinoffs and sequels? Sure. But not (what they assume is) a dry old classic. Which leaves audiences and filmmakers caught in a perpetual profit and expectation-based loop.
People assume Dracula is Sexy-Suave Count Fuckula and that Mina hooks up with him while Van Helsing and [INSERT HUMAN NOBODIES HERE] are pushed to the sidelines. So that's what directors will keep churning out. Ditto for makers of books, comics, shows, and video games. It will just keep going in the same rut.
Unless we put some new blood out there. There are so many possibilities. So much that can be made to finally drag the spotlight away from the Count and give it back to the characters who deserve it.
So please. Please. Make that Dracula-derived thing you're unsure about. Even at its most indulgent and outlandish, you have read the book. And you know more about what you're doing than literally any so-called professional who's churned out their tired knockoffs of knockoffs. (Or the folks who take their opinions from the same.)
#sorry about all that Anon#had a rant building up for a while#dracula#dracula daily#jonathan harker#barking harker#my writing#inspiration
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Kong continues to throw one hook after another across Gryphon’s face. He couldn’t let up until the beast in front of him was killed.
The great ape roared in a furious rage as memories of recent events clouded him, the destruction of his new family of the Kongs, his home, and now… Jia. That last one made him roar out in anger slammed his massive fist and broke the chimeric alien’s nose. The giant super weapon skid to a halt with his damaged wings, growling in frustration as he focused on his wounded body with his hyper-regenerative abilities. It took a few minutes when he was getting assaulted by the King of Hollow Earth, but he took worse beatings before. He cracked his neck as his nose and all wounds were healed fully, to which, angered the mighty Titan.
“That was for Jia!” Kong roared.
Gryphon looked at him with a confused, but apathetic, look, “Who?”
“The human girl you murdered! My daughter!” Tears stung his eyes from the moment he let that word escape his lips.
“Oh? Have I learned that the death of a small child pains you so much, I would’ve killed that young ape as well,” Gryphon said with a sadistic grin, "What was his name... Suko, was it?"
That was enough to break the camel’s back. King’s brownish-orange eyes displayed before letting out an enraged and mighty roar, beating his chest before charging straight toward the alien superweapon. The fact he dared to mock the grief of one he cherished the most in the world, the closest one he could think that could stoop to this level would be the late Skar King. But, this bastard, Kong wanted him dead more than anything in the world.
Forget Gojira. Forget the Skullcrawlers. Forget Skar King. Gryphon was the one he hated the most and he wanted to make him feel pain the way Jia felt it. He refused to let the young Iwi’s death be in vain.
#fanfiction#Godzilla#Kong#Gryphon#jia#princess of skull island#kaiju#monsterverse#Legendary pictures#angst#Gryphon is a sick son of a bitch#Gryphon AU#Jia's dead and Gryphon enjoyed making Kong suffer
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I think we need a system like how Twitter has community notes below tweets or when they add in the actual information under tweets to combat misinformation 😂
** Readers added context they thought people might want to know**
The part in the books where Melisandre tells Jon that his sister is fleeing a marriage - the girl in grey on a dying horse - and heading towards him is about Arya Stark and not Sansa Stark
"Do not despair Lord Snow [...] Your sister is not lost to you."
"I have no sister." The words were knives. What do you know of my heart, priestess? What do you know of my sister?
Melisandre seemed amused. "What is her name, this little sister that you do not have?"
"Arya." His voice was hoarse. "My half-sister, truly..."
"... for you are bastard born. I had not forgotten. I have seen your sister in my fires, fleeing from this marriage they have made for her. Coming here, to you. A girl in grey on a dying horse, I have seen it plain as day. It has not happened yet, but it will." - Jon VI, ADwD
When Jon thinks that his men have found Arya Stark and brought her to the Wall
“Maester Aemon’s chambers, m’lord.” The men of Castle Black still called it that, though by now the old maester should be warm and safe in Oldtown. “Girl was blue from the cold, shivering like all get out, so Ty wanted Clydas to have a look at her.”
“That’s good.” Jon felt fifteen years old again. Little sister. He rose and donned his cloak.
He wanted to believe it would be Arya. He wanted to see her face again, to smile at her and muss her hair, to tell her she was safe. She won’t be safe, though. Winterfell is burned and broken and there are no more safe places. (--)
Jon stepped over a puddle of damp clothing. “Snow, Snow, Snow,” the ravens called down from above. The girl was curled up near the fire, wrapped in a black woolen cloak three times her size and fast asleep. She looked enough like Arya to give him pause, but only for a moment. A tall, skinny, coltish girl, all legs and elbows, her brown hair was woven in a thick braid and bound about with strips of leather. She had a long face, a pointy chin, small ears. (---)
She does look a bit like Arya, Jon thought. Starved and skinny, but her hair’s the same color, and her eyes. “I am told you have been asking after me. I am—” “—Jon Snow.” The girl tossed her braid back. “My house and yours are bound in blood and honor. Hear me, kinsman. My uncle Cregan is hard upon my trail. You must not let him take me back to Karhold.” Jon was staring. I know this girl. There was something about her eyes, the way she held herself, the way she talked. For a moment the memory eluded him. Then it came. “Alys Karstark.” (---) - Jon, ADwD
Jon turned to Alys Karstark. “My lady. Are you ready?”
“Yes. Oh, yes.”
“You’re not scared?”
The girl smiled in a way that reminded Jon so much of his little sister that it almost broke his heart. - Jon, ADwD
In the books, both Melisandre and Jon Snow think that the girl in grey is Arya Stark fleeing her marriage to Ramsay Bolton. It turns out to be Alys Karstark - a Karstark descended from Starks - and hence why Melisandre mistakes her for Arya in terms of looks. Jon ends up comparing her bravery, personality and smile to that of Arya’s, so much so that it almost breaks his heart.
Melisandre’s vision of Arya fleeing her marriage is also the impetus for Jon sending Mance and the spearwives to get her, which leads to the Pink Letter and Jon’s decision to go attack the Warden of the North, breaking all oaths of neutrality. This being the straw that breaks the camel’s back for the mutineers. And because Mel gets it wrong - mistaking Alys for Arya - this is also why Jon becomes vary of her visions and fails to take it seriously when she warns him of the ‘Daggers in the Dark’.
“Daggers in the dark. I know. You will forgive my doubts, my lady. A grey girl on a dying horse, fleeing from a marriage, that was what you said.”
“I was not wrong.”
“You were not right. Alys is not Arya.” - Jon, ADwD
These are important aspects of Jon’s story that explains the character’s decisions leading to that final, brutal assassination. To selectively mutilate and mangle the character’s story arc and narrative themes to shove Jonsa in there somehow.... Sigh.
Aren’t Jonsa shippers embarrassed to be taking away plot elements that’s about Jon Snow and Arya Stark in the books and making it about Jonsa and at the same time have the gall to undermine book Jon’s love for Arya?
To take away the author’s organic and deliberate, slow buildup of Jon’s arc at the Wall and his final decision, the huge chunks of text (too much to quote here) of him being worried for Arya, planning for Arya’s future, the way he misses her, the way he yearns to see her again given what Melisandre tells him and make that all about Sansa?
#Jon Snow#Arya Stark#Sansa Stark#The way Jonsa shippers so desperately want Arya's story for Sansa#ngl I would be embarrassed to be a Jonsa shipper
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