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thisapplepielife · 5 months

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Written for the @steddieholidaydrabbles December challenge.

Beautiful Boys

Prompt Day 23: Wayne Adopts Steve | Word Count: 1000 | Rating: T | CW: Lingering Injuries/Trauma | Tags: Post S4, Eddie Munson Lives, Good Uncle Wayne Munson, Wayne & Steve, Wayne POV

Wayne is in Hawkins Hardware, looking at the fence pickets. He definitely didn't expect them to have this many choices. He figured he'd come in and buy what he needed, from the only option available. In and out. Wallet a little lighter, but no choices to be made.

But, no. There are options. Decisions. And he isn't sure which style Eddie would prefer. He just wants Eddie to have a place he feels safe outdoors, again.

Wayne reaches out to touch the samples, again, when he hears clattering and an "oh my god, I'm so sorry" that sounds an awful lot like Steve Harrington.

Wayne pokes his head around the corner of the aisle, and Steve is gathering up a bunch of swag hooks off the floor, swiping them back into his handbasket.

"What're you doin' with those, kid?" Wayne asks, crouching down to help him.

"Eddie's plants," Steve says, standing back up, pushing his hair back and up, out of his eyes. These boys and their hair they can't keep contained. Wayne smiles. He remembers how his (now long-gone) hair was in the sixties. Different styles, sure, but just as impractical, at times.

"Eddie's plants," Wayne repeats with a smile, then asks, "You're gonna hang them from the ceiling?"

Steve nods, and Wayne grins, "That's a good idea, kid. He'll love that."

Eddie has gathered up a lot of houseplants recently, tending to them, taking care of them, babying them. The first ones were sent to the hospital by his friends, and Eddie latched onto them. And now, Steve drags a new one home every week or two as a gift. Eddie is still recovering, might always be recovering, but his plants make him smile and give him something to do.

Wayne doesn't quite understand it, not with the black thumb he has, but it's like everything else about Eddie. Wayne doesn't have to understand it, to support him. If Eddie wants plants, they can have a whole houseful of them.

Eddie survived something he still hasn't fully explained to Wayne, might never, so if he wants to fill the house with greenery, so be it.

If he wants to fill the house with Steve Harrington, too, that's also just fine by Wayne.

Steve smiles shyly, "If you don't care that I put holes in the ceiling, that is."

Wayne doesn't care. "I'll help. I've got a stud finder, so we won't have them falling and cracking us on the noggin."

Steve laughs, and nods, "Thanks. What are you doing here?"

Wayne waves him over, getting Steve to follow him.

"Trying to pick fencing for the backyard. If Eddie's gonna keep dragging home strays, we'll need a place to put them," Wayne says, and Steve blushes, just a little.

"I could make a tent work," Steve teases, and Wayne squeezes his shoulder. Steve is always, and will always, be welcome in the house.

"Good to know, but I was thinking more along the lines of dogs, cats, raccoons. You know how he is," Wayne drawls, and Steve smiles. It's wishful thinking, because they both know the real reason for the fence. Eddie doesn't want to leave the house these days.

"I just assumed I'd get dog-ears," Wayne says, pointing at the slightly-rounded piece of wood on display. "But there are choices."

Steve studies them all, finally saying "I think Eddie would like the pointed ones the most. Looks dangerous," Steve says.

Wayne nods. He was thinking the same thing.

"They're narrower, be more work to set," Wayne mutters.

Steve turns to look at him, "I'll help you, you know that."

Wayne nods. He knows Steve will. He's a good kid, who spends most of his time hanging out in their new little house, doting on Eddie in one way or another. Wayne isn't blind. He knows what this is, what these boys feel for each other, even if Eddie hasn't told him yet.

He will. Wayne just has to be patient.

"Sounds good, kid," Wayne says, and Steve grins, big and bright. Like he wasn't sure his help would be accepted.

"I don't know much about building a fence, but I can learn. I can follow instructions," Steve assures, and Wayne pats him on the back.

"Let's double-check my math here," Wayne says, pulling a small notepad out of his pocket, rerunning his figures.

Once he's got a good number, Wayne directs them towards the stain options. Steve picks one with a red tint, and Wayne nods. Looks good to him.

When they get to the counter, he takes Steve's basket and adds it to his.

"You don't have to do that," Steve says.

Wayne knows he doesn't, but it's for Eddie and it's just a few dollars worth of hooks and bolts. He's definitely gonna get his money back in fence-building help.

"I know, I want to," Wayne says, opening his wallet.

Outside, Steve helps the guys from the lumber department load up the trailer full of the pickets.

"See you at home?" Wayne questions, and Steve nods and smiles.

"Yeah, at home," he answers, walking towards his car, with his small sack of hardware.

And they spend days hanging the over-abundance of plants in front of every window in the house, so many that it seems like they're living in a greenhouse, and then they work on the fence. Putting it up, picket by picket, together.

Sometimes, Eddie comes and sits on the patio and watches, but it still takes a lot out of him, even now, months later. Wayne's worried he might never fully recover.

But, Steve works hard to entertain Eddie. Steve's funny, and he treats Eddie real good. That's all that will ever matter to Wayne. Eddie's his boy, and by extension, Steve's his boy now, too.

Eddie and Steve fight over the radio, a welcome sound, and Steve's won.

So, John Lennon's singing about a beautiful, beautiful, beautiful, beautiful boy.

Wayne knows that feeling well.

He's got two of those beautiful boys, now.

close your eyes, have no fear, the monster's gone, he's on the run and your daddy's here, beautiful, beautiful, beautiful, beautiful boy John Lennon, Beautiful Boy

If you want to write your own, or see more entries for this challenge, pop on over to @steddieholidaydrabbles and follow along with the fun!

If you want to see more of my entries into this month-long challenge, you can check them out in my Steddie Holiday Drabbles tag, right here!

#steddieholidaydrabbles #wayne adopts steve #wayne munson fic #good uncle wayne munson #wayne munson is always the best #wayne munson & steve harrington #eddie munson lives #steddie #steddie ficlet #wayne munson #steve harrington #eddie munson #thisapplepielife: short fic #thisapplepielife: steddieholidaydrabbles #Spotify

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lets-try-some-writing · 3 months

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i love it when people apply the whole “humans are space orcs” idea to transformer humans.

jack, miko and raf just doing regular, average day things that make the bots both extremely worried and unsettled gives me so much brainrot.

I got you here. I love this kind of lore/reaction ask.

Each of the children have a particular habit that bothers the team more than anything else. Can it be explained? Not really. All humans do the things they do. But for the bots, it is strange and out of sorts all the same.

Miko always carries around a bottle of sparkling water. She adores the stuff. The team, despite knowing it is not what the name implies, are still horrified with her drinking habits. Not to mention, they can't help but wonder where all the liquid goes. She drinks up to three whole bottles of water a day. In her own words "Hydrate or die." That in it of itself is concerning since the team, while well aware that humans need water, do not know how much they need exactly. The team are down right terrified of her ability to down water like a dry sponge. How can such a small fleshy even consume that much? They aren't entirely sure. Not only that, but if she drinks that much, then are Jack and Rafael getting enough? They can't be.

Not only does Miko down water like a bone dry houseplant, she also drinks just about anything else too. The team have seen her chug sodas which contain Primus knows how many strange chemicals and compounds. They've observed her willingly drink things that no other would on bets, including food that has been blended and watered down just because Jack wanted to see if it was possible for her to down hotdog cafeteria milk cheeto apple slurry.

Yes the team are terrified of humans and their ability to put anything inside themselves and walk it off. But more than any other, they fear Miko. Who knows what she's consumed.

All the kids do it, but Jack is the most notable since when he needs to go to the restroom, he makes it loud and clear mainly so that someone knows to keep an eye on Miko. The team are aware that organics have a need to manually handle removing waste since their systems are rather inefficient, however there is a certain level of mysteriousness surrounding the restrooms. The bots don't want to watch or even know HOW the humans get rid of waste, but they do know that THINGS happen in the restroom that seem to either be painful, emotional, refreshing, or aggravating. No one can really be sure what reaction will follow those who enter the space. Sometimes Jack or one of the other kids will go in there seemingly to just be alone.

It is a strange and almost sacred location where strange happenings occur. Miko went in once with bloody clothes and emerged with a fresh set before Ratchet could figure out what was wrong in the first place. Jack went in once and came out an hour later looking like he'd gone to war after he convinced Arcee to let him stop and get takeout the night before. Rafael took his charger and computer in there and hogged the space for a while to get away from the others once. The team does not know what happens in there, but it is mildly concerning since it either repairs or breaks a person.

Bulkhead theorizes that its a pocket dimension like the shadow zone. Ratchet refuses to think about it. Optimus will say nothing about whatever he knows. Arcee and Bee assume its a safe haven or sorts and Wheeljack is almost certain they keep weapons in there. Ultra Magnus and Smokescreen both agree that the restroom is simply a quiet space where a human can deal with personal issues in peace.

No bot is willing to try and confirm anything since humans flip out at any attempts to view the supposedly sacred ground.

Rafael is generally pretty good about flying under the radar most of the time, but he has a habit that has caught the team's attention. Humans have been noted doing what they can to clean themselves on their own. Its rather ineffective to clean one's own venting openings with digits considering the sheer amount of germs involved, but it is not out of the question to do so when a cleaning cloth is not available. Rafael occasionally and quietly trying to clean his nose is not what bothers the team.

No what horrifies them is the goop that he pulls out after his attempt at cleaning. What Ratchet has studied states that the goop is referred to by a number names, but is commonly called snot. Its the natural germ catcher humans have, but it still unsettles the team whenever Rafael quietly blows a few or when one of the others grabs a tissue and makes a rather disgusting sound as they try to clear their airways.

The goop reminds the team of any number of horrible things. But the sheer amount of GROSS within a small amount of the stuff has left the team all gagging whenever they find the stuff around base. Rafael is usually good about being clean, but sometimes he gets lazy and will use his chair to hide his cleaning attempts. Bumblebee has almost purged a few times seeing the marks on the chair from where Rafael may or may not have wiped his fingers.

Is he twelve? Yes. Is he fully mature? No. That much is evident just by looking at his chair.

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thesandsofelsweyr · 1 year

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THE SUS BOY NEXT DOOR

《 PART 2/3 // READ ON AO3 // TAG 》

After coming back from a terrible blind date your asshole neighbor is the last person you want to see right now. He doesn’t have his signature scowl for you tonight, however. Tonight he seems terrified.

《WORDS》 2,748 《CHAPTERS》 1 2 3

《PAIRING》 Arkhamverse Jason Todd x Female Reader

《TROPES》 Hurt/Comfort, First Meetings, Neighbors, Pre-Relationship

《WARNINGS》 Aftermath of Torture/Violence (canon typical), Panic Attacks, Scars, Blood and Injury, Swearing

《TAGLIST》 @tild3ath @iiirhiane-g

《NOTES》

This takes place immediately after Jason leaves his failed Batman confrontation and run-in with the Joker from Arkham Knight: Genesis Part 6.

Reader is a true crime addict who enjoys red wine 🍷

This is my first attempt at a reader-insert fic 🙃

Please consider reblogging if you enjoy the read ❤️ (Thanks for all the support you've given my lil story so far!)

《 ALSO ON AO3 》 (comments & kudos there are very much appreciated!)

You push yourself to your feet and hurry over to his kitchen, flipping on the recessed lighting overhead. The kitchen is as bare and spotless as the other rooms you’ve seen, its countertops clear of the usual clutter you’d expect. No rags nor paper towel roll. No knife block nor coffee maker nor toaster—the appliances are the ones that come standard with the unit. No stacks of unopened mail nor candles nor cookbooks nor a sink full of empty dishes. No signs of life except for the adorable houseplant and some liquid hand soap beside the sink (which is good—you need soap).

You pull open drawers and cabinets, feeling a twinge of guilt for invading his privacy like this but it can’t be helped. Even those are mostly empty, only containing the barest amount of necessities like cups, dishes, and flatware—run-of-the-mill kitchen items that were probably provided with the furnished unit. You do manage to find some clean rags and paper towels (and a coffee maker), but nothing like sandwich bags for the ice. On a whim, you check his freezer and bingo! No food or decapitated heads but plenty of ice packs along with an unopened bottle of vodka. You arch an eyebrow at the curious yet amusing stash. Perhaps coming home injured is a typical Friday night for him.

You turn on the sink faucet then tear off a few sheets of paper towels from the roll, wadding them up and wetting them before adding a few pumps of soap then working up a lather. You can’t get the sight of his bleeding face and swollen neck out of your head. It’s hard to imagine anyone doing that to him against his will. He’s an intimidating guy, to say the least. Over a head taller than you, powerfully built with broad shoulders and thick thighs (and a nice ass). Perhaps he got jumped on his walk home—an all too common occurrence on these crime-ridden streets—and his stubborn pride was too wounded to go to the ER. Or maybe it was a gang thing… some sort of hazing ritual? That could explain the bloody letter on his cheek, too, you suppose. But then you remember his shaking hands and fumbling fingers as he tried and failed to unlock his door, and how he jumped at the sound of your voice. He was scared, you realize, your heart swelling with sudden pity. He was more afraid of you than you were of him. Afraid, and probably hurting, too. That thought makes your heart swell even more. It also leaves you a bit shaken. What in God’s name could frighten him? You can only hope that whatever it is doesn’t plan to make a house call anytime soon.

With the items in hand—ice packs, wet and dry rags, soapy paper towel wads, paper towel roll—you return to his side. He still doesn’t appear to have stirred, which is troubling, you have to admit, but you put it out of your mind for now. You set the items down on the floor beside the corpse-like body before grabbing a throw pillow from his couch. (Yes, a throw pillow. There’s a throw blanket on the couch, too. It’s the strongest evidence yet supporting your furnished unit presumption, since he definitely doesn’t strike you as a throw pillow kind of guy.) You kneel down at his side, then, ever so gently, you slip an arm behind his neck and lift his head enough to pull back his hood and slide the pillow beneath him. Next you take off his cap, revealing a mop of sweat-damp black hair. You sweep the soft locks back from his forehead so that you can place a cold rag against that warm, sweat-slick skin.

That’s when you notice the scars. You’d never been close enough to him to see that his face is absolutely covered in them. Faint white lines that cut through his features: his dark brows, his full lips, his freckle-dusted cheeks, the bent bridge of his nose. The worst one (aside from the J on his cheek, that is) is a deep gash that slashes across his right cheek and his nose, all the way up to his forehead. Another knife wound? Is this guy a masochist with a knife fetish or is there some freak out there who gets off on slicing up this poor guy’s face? Those marks on his neck imply the latter—the more sinister of the two—and that sends a cold chill shuddering up your spine.

Almost magnetically your eyes are drawn back past the (cute) cleft in his chin to those sunken bands of red ringing his throat. A thin line of blood has surfaced along the outer edge of one of the bands, where whatever was used to strangle him had cut into his skin. As you wipe away the blood with one of the soapy paper towel wads you spot several scratches on his neck, and for a moment you wonder if the assailant also used his hands to choke him. But then you feel your own throat constrict as the horrible realization sets in: those are claw marks. Gouges from his own fingernails where he desperately struggled to pry the ligature away and free his windpipe so he could breathe. Defensive wounds where he fought for his life.

You set aside the wet wad, then, driven by some morbid curiosity, you find your fingers returning to his throat. Ever so delicately, as if trying not to wake a sleeping lion, you touch one of the raw indentations in his swollen flesh, tracing it with your fingertip, feeling how the abraded skin had folded inward around whatever had coiled around his neck and tried to choke the life out of him. His throat vibrates gently against your probing fingers, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows. You lay one of the dry rags across his throat, hiding the hideous damage, then place the ice pack on top, as instructed by the health article you Googled. You do the same for the back of his neck as well.

Now you turn your attention back to his scarred, haggard face. After swiping away the trickle of blood from the corner of his mouth you press the soapy paper towel to his cheek, which gradually turns from white to pink as it soaks up the blood seeping from the J carved into his flesh. Once you staunch the bleeding, you lift the towel to replace it with a fresh one, and you get an unimpeded view of what was hiding beneath the cut and the blood, beneath his hat and hood all of those times you passed him in the hallway, all of those times he ducked his head between hunched shoulders to avoid eye contact with you. You pull in a sharp breath. It’s not a J-shaped scar; it’s the letter J branded into his cheek. You can tell by how the skin is puckered around the too-precise curve of the raised letter, by its faint red outline, by how it seems to tug uncomfortably at his cheek.

Your mind rewinds to a few weeks back when you accidentally burned your neck with your curling iron. You’d shrieked like a banshee then thrown the damn thing across your bathroom. The blistered patch of seared skin had throbbed for the rest of the night, and was still sensitive to the touch for the following week. That was the result of hot ceramic glancing against your skin for maybe half a second, if that long. You can’t even begin to imagine how much it would’ve hurt to have held the infernal thing against your neck for long enough to melt a fucking letter into the flesh. And not just any flesh. His cheek; that tender skin right below the orbital bone, less than an inch from his eye. It probably felt like his eyeball was boiling in his eye socket from the immense heat. And the smell! His own flesh barbecuing like meat to be served at a cannibal cook-out…

You don’t want to think about it anymore. You can’t think about it anymore or else you’re gonna be sick. And luckily you don’t have to because a low moan slips from his lips and his lashes begin to flutter. A rush of relief floods through you at the small signs of life, and you absently begin to stroke his soft hair with your hand. Heavy eyelids strain to lift then glassy blue eyes are peeking out from between the slits. You smile down at him, your fingers caringly combing through his tousled hair, easing his way back into consciousness. You expect him to groggily ask where he is or what happened to him.

Instead his eyes snap open, and the romantic portrait you’ve painted inside your mind of this moment is ripped to shreds.

He bolts upright, sending rags and ice packs flying away from him, then that massive wall of muscular torso turns on you. Time seems to somehow speed up and slow down simultaneously as those large, dangerous hands of his are reaching for you, and in that terrible instant you know without a doubt that he means to strangle you. A tiny, panic-stricken sound—the choked cry of ensnared prey—comes from your mouth as you throw up your arms across your face and neck in an comically feeble attempt to defend yourself from certain death, and the thought that flashes through your mind—maybe the last thought you’ll ever have in this lifetime—is that you’ll never have the chance to open that bottle of merlot.

But his hands don’t wrap around your throat; they land on your shoulders, and then you’re sliding, falling backwards from the force of a violent shove, your vision flashing to black as your head bounces off the hardwood floor.

“Ow!” you squeal as a bright burst of pain rings through your skull, leaving you stunned for a split second until your fear takes over, clearing away the haze and stars. You push yourself up on your forearm, blood pounding through your ears as your eyes frantically search for your attacker, heart lurching as you find him.

The guy is scrambling backwards away from you on all fours like some frightened beast, slamming into a floor lamp in his haste to escape. The lamp reels drunkenly, throwing light madly around the room as it whirls, like a waving searchlight at a festival. Then he’s pressed into a corner, able to go no further, yet his hands and heels are gripping the floor for purchase, as if he’s trying to push himself into the walls. As the lamp settles, somehow still upright, its light illuminates the hulking figure backed into the corner behind it, and you notice for the first time that the front of his red hoodie is splattered with an even darker red.

You’re sitting up now, frozen like a deer in headlights, your fight or flight reflexes canceling each other out because you’ve realized that you’re the toothless predator, not the prey, and the guy you’re gaping at with his bloodless face and wild eyes is a cornered animal who’ll do anything to survive. Then, to your horror, that cornered animal seems to remember his claws and reaches for the gun that’s not there, and you thank the universe and every holy entity within it that you disarmed him.

His wide eyes narrow as they lock onto you, and the fear that had filled them only a heartbeat ago has vanished, replaced with a look so cold, so devoid of anything but shadows and darkness, that it turns the blood in your veins to ice.

“Who are you? What’re you doing in my apartment? What the fuck did you do with my gun?” Some of the wildness returns to his eyes as he shouts at you with a scarred voice, wheezing between each sentence. You shrink back, shocked that the guy can speak louder than a mumble, then your attention is caught by something more unnerving than his shouting, something that clutches at your insides. His eyes… The little hairs on the back of your neck stir again as you study those pale blue irises flecked with green, barely visible beneath his blown-out pupils yet still trained on you like a sniper’s laser sights. There’s something wrong with his eyes… But before you can figure it out he roars: “Answer me!” and you can’t help but jump at the hateful ferocity, his deadly strength palpable in his tone.

Your heart’s in your throat again, and your mind is racing out his door, terrified all 200-something pounds of him are about to pounce on you, so you’re surprised when you not only find your words, but shout them back at him, just as vicious.

“Take it easy! I'm your neighbor, remember? You passed out. I was trying to help you. I thought you were fucking dying!”

You see a flicker of recognition flash over his face before a coughing fit takes him. Then it hits you, like a punch to the gut as you watch him clutching at his blood-splattered chest again as he gasps for a breath. His eyes… they’re red where they should be white. All of the binged episodes of Forensic Files come flooding back to you and you even remember the term for it: petechial hemorrhaging. Burst blood vessels from strangulation. His strangulation.

The rush of pity that wells up in your chest at the awful realization calms your fear enough that you crawl a tiny bit closer to him. “You’re hurt,” you say gently, trying to keep your nerves from shaking your voice. “Your neck…”

You trail off as his eyes snap back to you, pupils still blown wide. You try to hold onto his skittish gaze, praying he won’t notice his gun behind you and lunge, but his eyes fall away to the floor. He raises his free hand to his neck, as slowly as if his wrists were chained to the floor, and touches one of the red furrows there. Then his trembling fingers move to his brand, where fresh beads of blood have surfaced. You hear him mutter something so low and tremulous it’s barely audible, but you think it sounded like… “Plan J”?

“I cleaned it with soap and water,” you reply as he stares blankly at his bloody fingertips. “But it’s deep. You may need stitches. I can bring you some Band-Aids,” you pause, feeling really fucking stupid for suggesting Band-Aids for the guy who’s been strangled and cut and branded. You blurt out the rest: “If you need them… for the time being.”

His eyes have glazed over, as if he’s gone somewhere far away. Somewhere terrible, because his rasping breath quickens and his whole body starts to shake, as though he’s reliving something. His attack? His branding? All of the times that monster of a person cut his face? You desperately want to reach for his hand, to pull him back from whatever hell he’s been sucked into, but you’re too scared to wake that cornered wild animal again.

Finally he snaps out of it, and his eyes close as his hand drops limply to the floor. You watch helplessly as the tension drains from his body and he sags forward, like he’s been crushed by whatever was waiting for him in that flashback.

“You should go,” he mumbles to the floor, barely louder than a whisper.

“Yeah,” you hear yourself agree. As you stand you remind yourself that you can finally have that glass of wine, but the notion isn’t as appealing as it was earlier in the night.

You gather up your phone and bag. You start to ask if you can get him anything before you go but you know his answer so you turn to leave.

“Thank you.” His small voice cracks like a little boy’s when he speaks, and you know he’s started to cry.

“Yeah, sure,” you say softly as you turn the knob and push open his door. You glance over your shoulder at him one last time. The sight of the broken boy—the boy whose name you still don’t know—huddled in a corner with his knees pulled to his chest, weeping into his hands, wrings your heart out like a wet rag, and you feel your own throat tighten up with tears. You hang your head as you shut the door softly behind you.

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natewriteslol · 10 months

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Remembering History

Summary: When Leona finds Cheka crying his reminded of his own childhood struggle. What will he do to comfort someone so unlike himself?

Characters: Leona Kingscholar, Cheka

Warnings: nothing really just a little sad :O

This should have been what he wanted, to see the young brat who snubbed him of the chance of being king. Leona was third to the crown, a child would have the opportunity to rule before him.

So why did he feel sadness?

The Amber eyes that typically could be found gleaming were prickling with tears and his mouth was pried open as he choked on his sobs. This wasn’t a regular temper tantrum, this was true hurt Cheka was experiencing.

He was most definitely caught off guard, Leona had never really comforted anyone let alone a child, “Why are you crying?” But this question seemed to further put salt in the wound of the young beastman.

So, Leona decided to soften his approach, only to stop this crying of course, delicately placing a hand upon the back of the child as he bawled in his corner of beanbags and plush toys. Allow him to cry, and maybe then he would be able to find the root of the problem.

Eventually Cheka had slightly calmed down and decided to look up at his uncle, his eyes stinging and swelled from the crying, “I-I was practicing with my tutor a-and I messed up on the problem and Mrs. A g-got super mad and said I was h-hopeless.” The five year olds hands retreated to his eyes, covering them in shame.

“A-and I know you think I’m a screw up too, Uncle.”

“I can’t do anything right.”

“The younger son is quite a handful isn’t he? But you can’t help but feel pity for him, he didn’t even inherit his father’s features” the servant gossiped to another, yet none of them knew that Leona was in a corner, playing a game of hide n seek.

“I mean it must feel horrible knowing the real truth at such a young age, though I feel like he’s in denial. But everyone knows no matter what, nothing will grant him the position of king…

“He can’t do anything right, not even be born at the correct time” the other servant giggled whilst folding the towels.

As Leona watched the display before him from behind a houseplant, yet despite hiding he couldn’t escape their scornful words. His heart began aching as he felt the same pressure on his chest as the day he watched Farena and his father secretly discuss his plans for the eldest son’s future. He could barely breathe, as his saliva soured in his mouth and the castle had never felt colder.

Farena tapped him, loudly giggling and shouting “Found you!”. Yet his brother was unphased by the touch instead looking at the servants with an hardened expression as they gazed in horror.

As Cheka cried, Leona began to see himself in the child, he thought his nephew would be unaware of pressure or immune to sadness due to the loving family he possessed, or the fact that he shall be king.

While he knew it was factual that he couldn’t be the king, causing a battle inside of him. However, Leona never thought that it would be obvious to others.

In every fairy tale one opens, the prince goes on to become to be king, so is he truly worth anything if he wasn’t king?

As the child’s tears seeped, creating a puddle in his shirt he realized how naive of him it was to think that. But instead being shrouded of regret and self pity Leona realized he needed to be with him now.

“That woman will no longer be teaching you, I will be sure of that,” Leona said, and for the first time he caressed the child’s soft red locks.

“I don’t wanna disappoint you,” the young boy murmured into his shirt, but the grown beast men’s ears picked up on it of course. But he was speechless, Leona had no issue being rude to his father or others.

He thought that he would have no problem with doing the same with Cheka, yet he found his stomach sinking, remembering that the young boy had been aware of the distaste he had for him all this time?

“You’re…you’re not a screw up, you have potential and…you’re a good kid,” Leona said, finally breaking the silence, it was tough to say but for once when no one was around, had to shoo away his built up ego for him.

“And…I do love you, you’re my only nephew.”

“Really?” The young boy replied, his eyes red but they had a gleam of happiness to them which made Leona smile.

Not wanting to be vulnerable with the adorable saucers of Cheka on him making him let out a tsk, he sighed “Yes, of course don’t press me for an answer too much.” Yet he couldn’t muster up more sass due to the soft arms wrapping around his shoulders, enveloping him into a hug.

As his green irises fell on the child clinging onto him, Leona wiped away a tear that had cascaded down his cheeks, not wanting to leave this evidence of emotion on him.

Yet, this happening had caused him to rethink.

Perhaps the whole point isn’t being prince, but to be a leader to those who need it, who need you the most.

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ekingston · 2 years

Note

For the ask game:

Supercorp fic where Lena runs a popular webseries/blog about plants and plant care and Kara (one of her avid subscribers) is absolutely hapless when it comes to keeping plants alive and is constantly asking Lena for help only to fail spectacularly. Lena is *convinced* Kara is fucking with her on purpose, and kinda sorta hates her virtual guts

(Now also on a03.)

Lena isn’t naive.

When she made the decision to set up a discord server for her plant vlog’s followers, she knew there was a possibility things might get messy. After all, even while remaining anonymous — she can practically hear her PR team screaming at the idea of Lena Luthor running her own verified social media account — her comment section has always been 45% earnest compliments and questions from beginner botanists and 55% unabashed thirst over her sexy hands and soothing voice. Lena imagined any possible frustration caused by having to sidestep the occasional untoward overture would be worth the satisfaction she gets from teaching fellow hobbyists to take better care of their plants. It’s nice to feel like she’s being appreciated, for a change, to be allowed to play hero in a small way, different from L-Corp’s high-stakes idealism or Supergirl’s histrionic stunts.

(She still hasn’t managed to set up a meeting with National City’s super-powered alien in residence, but she’s certain it will be any day now.)

Lena couldn’t have predicted that the most aggravating individual on her server wouldn’t turn out to be a persistent suitor, but rather a member of the plant-loving minority.

If the violence this ‘Kvers’ person routinely inflicts on their houseplants can be considered love.

Why are my plant’s leaves yellowing? had been this idiot’s first, innocuous ask. Moments later, they’d followed it up with a picture of the brown, crisp remains of what Lena had only vaguely recognized must at one point have been a vibrant green ZZ plant.

Because it’s fucking dead, Lena had wanted to reply, suggesting instead Is it possible it’s near a window where it gets too much direct light?

My place does get a good amount of sun, Kvers had responded. I kind of prefer it that way. Lena had given her a list of plants that would fare better in those conditions, and hoped that would be that.

But it didn't end there; it’s actually only gotten worse. Kvers is in Lena’s notifications what feels like every other day now with fresh doubts and queries. Why do you even have plants, Lena is tempted to respond half the time, when it’s obvious you’re too much of a moron to even be trusted to take care of yourself?

Are banana plants supposed to tear this easily? comes the next question, combined with a picture of a Dwarf Cavendish that looks to have been ripped to shreds by a wind stronger than the average tornado.

“What the fuck,” Lena mumbles to herself. Some tearing is to be expected, they’re pretty frail, she replies, before snapping and adding I advise placing it a little further away from that jet engine you must have set up in your living room, however in a disgruntled huff.

Kvers sends her only a 😳 in response.

A fresh victim is presented to her a few days later, along with Kvers’s desperate plea of Can this little guy still be saved?

Pictured is the saddest Boston fern Lena has seen in her entire life: it’s bruised grey-brown and beige where it should be a vivid emerald, and when Lena clicks the image to enlarge, she finds herself frowning at what looks like a dusting of frost still clinging to the fronds.

Ferns can recover from freezing conditions but only if their roots weren’t also affected, Lena replies very professionally, her fingers shaking with silent outrage. Though I don’t understand why you’d keep a potted fern outdoors when it’s that cold. She’s beginning to wonder if this Kvers person is a genuine imbecile or an abusive prankster. Where do you live that you’re dealing with these weather conditions in August? she demands.

Oh, um, Kvers replies and then, after a few starts and stops, Southern California.

So Kvers is absolutely fucking with her.

It takes a week before they’re asking for Lena’s input again. This buddy is looking a little rough today, they post, do you think a good soak could help perk it back up?

The miserable money tree pictured is barely clinging to life. Lena peers through the furious red haze descending over her vision and swears it looks like its few remaining leaves are singed.

Lena’s patience has run out. Are you serious? she asks. Did someone burn your building down?

Small kitchen accident Kvers has the audacity to reply.

It’s the final straw in every sense of the word. Lena will not stand for this blatant abuse a moment longer, especially if it’s done exclusively for the purpose of getting her attention. Before she can think too much about it, before her rage recedes, she sends Kvers a direct message announcing she’s coming by for a home consultation.

Where in SoCal are you exactly?

As it turns out, Kvers is right here, in National City.

She’s also a bafflingly attractive — though fidgety — blonde.

Blue eyes widen and pink lips part when she answers the door, her shoulders so broad and her arms so beefy she takes up most of the space in the doorway to her loft. Lena probably wouldn’t be able to see past her, at her endangered plants beyond, if she still wanted to.

But she can tell her loft is well-lit, like she’d mentioned — she’s framed by the sun’s dying rays, her hair and skin golden and shimmering in a way not entirely of this earth.

This explains so much, Lena realizes, relieved. The wind. The frost. The burns.

Her would-be adversary is wearing glasses and her hair is up, and her flustered demeanor seems so awkwardly genuine that Lena wonders if the image this woman projects when she’s dressed in her more familiar reds and blues is the act — if this awestruck, faded-jeans-clad cutie is the real person that’s hiding underneath.

She looks far more human than Lena would have imagined.

“You’re Lena Luthor,” she finally manages to stutter out.

Lena regards her evenly. “Good to finally meet you,” she says, and, dropping her voice a little, “Supergirl.”

#supercorp fan fiction #plant vlog au #supergirl fan fiction #fic by ekingston #who has two thumbs & managed to pen a clean 1000 word drabble for the first time in probably a decade?#👍 this guy! 👍#thank you for the incentive gaby! you’re a gem!#ask meme #deadbiwrites #fan ficlet #1k

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othervee · 1 year

Text

Meeting the Erikssons

Another little roundup of YR observations, this time focusing on the main non-royal family and what we learn about them that's shown, not said.

Let's start with Simon and Sara on the bus.

Even this tiny little snip tells us so much. They're taking goofy selfies where they both look stupid, compared to the shots we see Felice later posting, which are all carefully posed and curated to present the most ideal version of herself and her life, to the point of untruth. These two are presenting their authentic selves, and they're unafraid to hide their affection for one another. Following on from their earlier dialogue we understand that they're used to relying on each other and to some extent feeling separate to the rest of the world.

Rosh and Ayub give us another important insight into Simon (and themselves) which becomes important later when August keeps warning Wilhelm that Simon, and non-elites in general, will want to get close to him, to use their proximity to get attention and favours. But Simon and his friends genuinely do not give a crap about Wilhelm at all (at this stage anyway). They're not even interested. They poke fun at the GIF of the fight and ask with mild curiosity if he's the loser they think he is, but that's it. Like August, they see Wilhelm as inhabiting a different world to themselves, but it's not one they aspire to or want to know about. Unlike someone else present...

The dinner scene, like the palace press conference scene, sets the tone for how this family lives and relates to each other and the world. The room is small, but there are lots of large windows which let in natural light and also show these people aren't hiding. The room is dark but there are a number of lights switched on - at least three small lamps as well as the big light over the table - which gives a warm glow. There are plants all over the place, not sedate formal flower arrangements but green houseplants spilling their tendrils down the walls. There are what appear to be postcards or just small pictures on the walls haphazardly. It's a warm place filled with growth and life.

Ayub is staying for dinner; he's helping lay the table, which indicates he's a familiar face here, more family than guest. However Sara has to teach him the "correct" way to do it, which shows us that Ayub's own family don't do the formal dinner thing and also implies that Sara has only recently started being so specific about dinner etiquette.

And they're informal enough as a family that Simon can swear in front of both his mother and their guest. (Also, continuity error: there's already spaghetti in the bowls when Simon brings the pan in, but in the next shot they're empty).

Sara complains about the way Simon chews, and asks her mother to sit up straight in a reversal of the traditional mother-teen daughter dynamic, to the point where Linda even rolls her eyes a little.

While the boys snicker by Sara's new poshness, it shows us again how casual the Erikssons are that Sara can talk money, and Linda can reprimand her, in front of Ayub.

Sara scorns the 'diverse' crowd at her old school, but she kind of has a point - IF you define 'amounting to something' as economic success and can overlook her bluntness. Later when Simon tells Ayub and Rosh that he doesn't want to stay in Bjärstad all his life, things get a little awkward. Rosh and Ayub seem to be happy to stay there. Both Eriksson siblings aren't, but they have very different attitudes about where they want to be and how they want to get there. Simon wants to stand out with his talent and good grades; Sara wants to blend in by taking on as many signifiers of the elite world as she can.

A few other things that struck me rewatching this:

Sara is the only one using both a fork and spoon to twirl her spaghetti. Everyone else is just eating straight from the fork.

Simon asks his mother how her day was, showing a little of the 'man of the house' role that later becomes more obvious

Sara isn't incorrect. The cheaper items do wear out quicker. it's the Sam Vimes Boots Theory.

And we still have one more Eriksson to meet.

This scene is heartbreaking. And Micke's surroundings again tell us about him and his circumstances. It's noisy in his building. There are multiple locks on the door - he doesn't feel safe, probably because it's a high crime area.

From the way Simon glances around, it could be the first time he's actually been in this apartment. The couch is disheveled with a messy blanket - Micke sleeps there. There's a framed picture leaning against the wall, implying Micke either hasn't finished sorting his place out or doesn't have the room for all his stuff. Also, THERE IS A LITTLE BASKET OF SATSUMAS - did Simon pick up the taste for them from his dad?

(Another little thing that links the two of them - they both have artwork depicting faraway cities on their walls. Simon has a London poster, his dad has New York.)

Piles of mail, the TV remote, cigarettes and lighter and Micke even has the gas gun from the stove in here. Is that because he's sometimes too uncoordinated to flick the lighter cleanly, I wonder.

There are plants here too, but they're not doing well. They're straggly, not thriving. The apartment's disorder is of course reflected in Micke himself, unshaven, bloodshot eyes and crumpled grubby clothes. You can almost smell him.

The way they hug is uncoordinated. Micke desperately wants the contact with his child, but neither of them is used to it, they don't know how to fit together.

This was the first scene that made me marvel that that this was Omar's first acting job. Heartbreaking.

#young royals analysis #young royals meta #omar rudberg #simon eriksson #there is so much in this show! it contains multitudes!

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writingforatwistedworld · 1 year

Text

WARNINGS: Slightly hinted Yandere, kidnapping, isolation

I do not take any responsibility for you reading this no matter which age group you are from!

If you don't know me (Hi, how is it going? Nice to meet you) then you might wonder why I post this under the yandere tag even though there isn't much of that in here (yet). This is a sneak peek of a bigger story which definitely has elements of yandere so I want to make sure that people who don't like reading yandere don't accidentally get on my blog. I respect their choice and boundaries.

Malleus Draconia-Over the rose bush (Sneak peek Pt. I)

You would assume playing an Otome game made you know everything about it was set in, helping its’ people and becoming a hero for them. But who would have thought that there was an entire kingdom ruled by one of the most powerful mages, who was only implied to exist in the game, hiding from the players’ eyes by being mentioned NOT EVEN A SINGLE TIME??! Funny. Interesting. Absolutely maddening. Maddening like the raven that got you into the kingdom in the first place. Yeah, getting over a huge rose bush wasn’t exactly what you would call “easy”.

But who were you to judge? After all, you were only a small individual who was such a huge fan of the game that when you found out who the datable character of Sunset Savanna you almost threw the console out of the window. Huh. This reminded you your friend the raven threw you over an overgrown houseplant surrounding an entire country.

Meeting the young-looking individual whilst hiding in the woods after falling from the sky was something you most certainly had not expected to happen. Heck, you would have rather believed that a pink cloud would fly down on your level and start singing mind-numbing tunes. But you were someone from a world in which swords weren’t exactly “in fashion” in battle so you didn’t expect one of those sharp toothpicks on your throat.

And would you look at that? Apparently, you looked miserable enough that he didn’t just kidna- *ahem* “took you with him” but also took you with him to a cozy cabin in the middle of the woods. After throwing you over a huge fence made out of a rose bush. Did I mention the rose bush before?

Alas, TVs and technology did not exist here so the cabin started to feel… uh… small? Imprisoning? Maybe both? Maybe more than just those two?

This is the point when the smoll rose bush behind your house, not the big one trapping you on an island, became your best friend. No, a brotherhood. The brotherhood of abandoned souls in the middle of the woods. You named them Helga. The narrator of this story says “Hi Helga.”

Something you did not expect though was meeting someone out here (other than Lilia the little annoy-). Deciding to look after Helga you had stepped out of the house only to be met with a breathing wall staring down at Helga. Helga seemed even healthier in his presence. Helga, don’t you dare to turn traitor on the boasitmotw (brotherhood of abandoned souls in the middle of the woods). The stranger had even plucked one of their roses and yet they still bloomed flirtatiously in his direction. You swore to cut your friend a bit shorter after this. IF there was an “after this”.

Turning in your direction the wall casted his gaze upon you and holy shi- (the narrator shakes their head at your choice of words) was that a vibrant green. Helga, you have good taste. You didn’t even notice his horns. Oh don’t get annoyed with me. I am just the narrator. It’s your fault if you get weak at every pretty boy you see.

Standing there like the most foolish statue within any world, yours or this otome one, you continued to stare at him. The man must have taken notice of your mouth that was opening and closing like a fish gasping for air but thankfully he seemed graceful enough not to comment on it. In fact, he seemed surprised to see you as well.

“I was not aware there was another human other than Silver in here.” Silver. Silver… Silver? Who was that? The questions running absolutely amok in your head were soon stopped though, coming to a screeching halt, when he stepped closer to you. God, that wand of his looked like it could impale you… that needle of the spindle looked dangerously sharp.

“Tell me, child of man, how come you are in this place?” How were you supposed to explain that a small man threw you over the bigger cousin of Helga?

#yandere twisted wonderland #yandere twst #yandere twisted wonderland x reader #yandere twst x reader #twisted wonderland otome au #twisted wonderland x reader #twst x reader #yandere malleus #yandere malleus x reader #twst malleus x reader #malleus x reader #twst malleus #yandere malleus draconia #malleus draconia x reader #tw: yandere #tw: isolation #tw: kidnapping

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oh-hell-help-me · 10 months

Text

July 27: Take Your Houseplants For A Walk Day

Before moving into the Koopa Kingdom’s castle, Luigi took pride in the garden he cultivated next to his and Mario’s little house.

Most of his plants were useful herbs and power ups, although his eclectic tastes have led to him getting miniature Piranha Plants (who were such good girls as they wanted pets more than anything), some Nippers (who kept the garden mosquito-free as he waited for them to mature), and other various plants he and his brother encountered.

And then he married Bowser.

One thing led to another, but Luigi held little regret in practically transplanting his whole garden into a climate controlled greenhouse- practically screaming to anyone who knew Luigi that he had every intention of staying.

And he did, spending many years adding to the collection with potted native species like Heart Plants (gifted to him by Mario after a year in the Koopa Kingdom) and Calm Volcano Lotuses (as a wedding gift from Peach).

However, unlike the species of his original garden, native plants had a particularity of needing to be exposed to regular high temperatures and annual additions of volcanic soot. Both are unfortunately (or fortunately for him) not found inside the castle.

So, Luigi decided to break out the old wheelbarrow and wheel each potted plant outside the castle walls, placing them near the local cinder cones every week.

It was a routine he did alone- until Roy took up an interest in gardening.

While definitely a bit of a muscle head, what with his enthusiasm for fighting, the Koopaling had been equally fascinated by the quieter activities of feeding, potting, watering, and pruning of plants.

When asked, Roy would insist that it was because of the native plants- how they tended to have their own violent spunk in order to survive their natural habitat.

But, in the moments where he and Luigi were enclosed in the Royal Greenhouse, his attention lay with the plainer vegetation- herbs, berry bushes, nut trees, and especially sunflowers.

Privately, Luigi thinks it’s because sunflowers are the only large plants that don’t try to eat people’s faces off, but he’s sure that there’s another reason as well.

Whatever it may be, Luigi is likely the first to notice how the other Koopalings started to poke around as well- usually taking the time to ‘bother’ Roy with questions about certain plants, maybe even asking to help (which usually consists of collecting fruits and nuts).

Still, he loved the way Roy lit up at each question. How his eyes sparkled with seldom-seen excitement, and how his grin was more relaxed than the sharp-toothed smiles he gave to opponents.

It was little things like that which had him and his husband watch the kids in silence, sharing looks of fondness as the kids got absorbed into their bubble in the garden.

It was the main reason that Luigi loved and prided in his garden, and the motivation which he drew on for days that were a bit more difficult.

It was what made him wonder if he ever could get any happier than in moments like this.

#bowuigi #NATIONAL HOLIDAY #in which I am living off little time and many thoughts

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plainemmanem · 2 years

Note

steve thought of the day:

the group watching you bicker. they hate it cause the sexual tension is palpable 🙄

“What the hell kind of a question is that?”

“A perfectly reasonable one-“

“‘Would you still like me if I were a worm?’” Your yell echoed around the small confines of the car. “How am I even supposed to respond to that?” you scoff, shaking your head in disbelief.

“With a yes or no?”

Dustin’s forehead thumped against the cool window, trying to tune out Steve’s yelling. It had been non-stop bickering ever since he got in the backseat, and he was a second away from unbuckling and jumping out of the car, concussion be damned.

“A worm? I mean, where is this coming from?”

“Oh, right. What I should’ve asked is ‘would you still like me if I were a hedgehog.’” He spit the last word like it was venom, tearing his eyes away from the road to shoot a death glare to the passenger seat.

“Jesus. You call someone a hedgehog one time-“

“How could you possibly think my spirit animal is some spiky, little, rodent, thing. It’s insulting.”

The spirit animal debate was weeks ago, but Steve was still clutching onto his bitterness, making sure to bring it up in nearly every conversation, no matter how disconnected.

“Alright, fine.” You sigh, gazing out the passenger seat window. “What do you think you are?”

“Hawk.” Steve insisted without hesitation.

“A hawk? Please.” You roll your eyes, pulling down the sun visor to catch your reflection in the mirror. You fuss with your hair a bit and rub your tongue against your top row of teeth, then lean in to pick at something between your gums.

“Yes! It’s, like, it’s got crazy good eyesight and this really cool caw, like ‘cahhhhhhh.’” he screeches, releasing the wheel and holding his hands up in faux talons.

You lean over quickly, correcting the wheel before you all swerve onto the sidewalk, making Dustin’s heart race.

“Can we please save the hawk impressions for when we’re finished driving?” Dustin shouts, expression frantic.

“Sorry, sorry, my bad.” Steve peaks back at him in the rear view with a sheepish, apologetic look, hand coming up defensively. Dustin let’s out a huff before turning to face out the window.

You can’t help but snort at the interaction, Steve shooting you another annoyed look.

“Aren’t you supposed to be the parent, here?” You mumble towards the seat next to you, finally satisfied with your reflection and flipping the visor back up before leaning back in your seat once again. A small cringe comes over your features and you reach a hand out to change the radio station, but Steve is quick to smack you away.

“I’m actually pretty maternal, thank you very much. Been thinking of getting a pet. A turtle or a lizard or something I don’t know, I haven’t decided…” His sentence trails off as he turns onto Dustin’s street.

You snort again, then give Steve a suspicious look.

“You wanna get a pet. You couldn’t even keep my houseplants alive last summer.”

“And I said I was sorry about that-“

Dustin sighed, tuning out the conversation once again to fiddle with the radio in his hands. He flipped a few switches and tweaked a few settings, preparing to connect with Suzie later on that night.

In all honesty, Dustin really liked you. You were like another babysitter, just way cooler than Steve in almost every plausible way. He’d easily picked up that you two had the hots for each other about a month after you met, though he still has no idea how Steve’s tricked you into liking him in the first place. The next few months had been near constant attempts to set you up - for almost a year and a half - to no avail. You could never agree on anything. It’s almost as if you craved the fighting; like you guys enjoyed the weird tension that formed during every petty back-and-forth.

Again, Dustin really did like you, just not when you were bickering with Steve, which seemed to be almost all the time recently. It’s only a matter of time before the dam breaks and the younger boy can only pray he’s able to take cover when you two start sucking face.

He still thinks you could do better.

“Ok, ok fine. But what about my Songs From The Big Chair tape?” His lips press into a thin line and his eyebrows nearly touch hairline, fingers taping on the wheel anxiously.

The song on the radio was slowly reaching its crescendo, forcing Steve to raise his voice a light louder, talk a little higher, to get his point across. Dustin reached for the window, hoping to find a reprieve in the cool afternoon air, only to be stopped by the child safety locks… Stupid Steve.

“Uh, guys? Could we possibly turn down the radi-“

“No!” You and Steve both shout in unison, twisting your heads to give him annoyed expressions before turning back around.

“Honestly, I still don’t feel any remorse over your soft, baby tape. I mean Tears For Fears? Seriously? If anything, I did you a favor.” You reach for the window, now flushed from your squabbling, also finding it locked. You heave a sigh and slowly start loosening your seatbelt to lean across the center console. Now hovering a centimeter over Steve’s lap, you reach to flip the window lock on the driver’s side door.

The blush on Steve’s face was so bright, it could be seen in the rear view mirror, and all Dustin could do was sigh, resting his head against his palm and praying that the ride would be over soon.

“Well- hey, watch it- Well, sorry I don’t listen to your satanic metal music-“

“Oh, come on. You don’t actually believe in all that stuff, do you?”

“No, no, of course not. It’s just-“

“The only reason you don’t like my ‘satanic metal music’ is because Eddie listens to it.”

“Please.” He scoffs, trying to seem nonchalant. “Like I care what that freak listens to-“

“Eddie is not a freak. He’s actually cool. Unlike you.”

He mumbles to himself, lips barely moving, “Oh yeah, why don’t you marry him then?”

“What was that?” You quirk your eyebrow, assuming Steve’s murmur was some sort of taunt.

“Nope, nothing. Love the guy.” His expression is flurried and distracted as he scans the street for Dustin’s house.

“Right. Well, if you’re so cool, name one cool person you hang out with.”

Steve opened his mouth a little too quickly.

“And you can’t say Dustin.”

His mouth snaps closed just as fast. A chuckle leaves you at his deflated look.

Steve’s mouth opens again, as if he was ready to say something, but couldn’t quite find the words.

“U- uh- Um. Ah! Brenda Still!” He nods sagely.

A laugh shakes the car, your body doubling over.

“Brenda Still? Brenda fucking Still? Steve, your mom would have been a better choice!” You wheeze, wiping a stray tear from your eye.

“What?” His hands and shoulders go up frantically, his voice defensive. “Brenda’s totally cool! You don’t think she’s cool?”

“Um. No, Steve, I definitely do not think Brenda Still is considered cool.”

“Why not?”

“Ummm, maybe because you suggested a high school basketball game as your first date, and she agreed.” You give him a look as if it were obvious.

“Ok, it was Lucas’s championship game. You thought I was gonna miss that?”

His sincerity makes you chuckle, and you look back out the window to hide it.

There was a beat of charged silence. Dustin could feel the tension in the air. Steve was quick to shatter it.

“Like your dates are any better…” He was mumbling again, but you could hear him loud and clear. Steve wanted to rile you up.

“And what’s that supposed to mean?”

“I mean, fast food and a late night showing of Porky’s, seriously?”

“Leo was actually very sweet-“

“Or what about- what was his name again? Oh- Bobbie the Bowling King? I mean, come on? What kind of a name is Bobbie, anyways? And he wouldn’t even let you win-”

“Hey, he was very competitive!”

“Oh, oh, right! Or my personal favorite: Johnny ‘Slick’ Tucker. One kiss and he nearly jizzed his pants, if I remember correctly-“

“Hey!” You smack his arm, making him shield himself with a chuckle and a cocky smirk. “I told you that in confidence!”

“Jeez, you sure do know how to pick ‘em. Where are you finding these guys, anyways?”

“What? Think you could do a better job?” You side eye him curiously, testing the waters.

Steve nods his head resolutely, closing in on Dustin’s house.

“Uhhhh, yeah. Definitely. There’s been at least ten girls this week that have been begging me to take them out-“

“Ten girls? Seems pretty steep.”

“Well, I’m a master at my craft.”

“Right. Lemme guess. Dinner and a scary movie. You do the arm over the shoulder trick and feel her up in the back row. Then a romantic drive to Lover’s Lake and a quick boink in the backseat.” Steve pulls into Dustin’s driveway, keeping the poor boy captive until the doors are unlocked.

“Ok, don’t say ‘boink,’ that’s disgustin-“ He puts it in park and turns his sole focus onto you, completely forgetting Dustin.

“Well, what would you like me to call it?” You lean in just a tad, daring him.

“I dunno… ‘Lovemaking?’” He copies your movements, eyes scanning from your eyes, raking down to your lips. He wets his own with a quick swipe of his tongue.

You chuckle.

“‘Lovemaking?’ You’ve gotta be kidding-“

The distance between you keeps shrinking and Dustin is not prepared to see what comes next.

“Guys, can we please stop talking about Steve’s sex life? Or at least wait til I’m out of the car?” His voice is fearful and frantic, popping the tense bubble you two had formed in the front.

You both mumbled simultaneous agreements.

“Sure, yeah-“

“Fine, fine. Whatever.”

There’s a heated glance shared between you two, annoyed with something a little flirty hidden just below the surface. It’s gone as soon as it came, and Steve’s quickly reaching for the button to unlock the doors, gaze never leaving yours.

Dustin hops out in a rush, offering a quick goodbye before slamming the door shut. There’s still the faint sound of bickering as he walks around the car and up the walkway.

“Steve, can we get ice cream?”

“Oh yeah! Sure! With what money? You’re practically eating me out of house and home with how much damn ice cream you beg me fo-“

“Jesus, Steve, you act like you’re not completely loaded-“

“Well, I was, before you started asking for ice cream every time the temperature goes above sixty degrees-“

“Oh, please. Don’t even act like you don’t enjoy my company.”

“Fine… You’re right.”

“Yeah. I’m always right, hon.”

#steve harrington x you #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington

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livwritesstuff · 1 year

Text

plant dad steve my beloved

“Alright, Steve-o, I gotta head out,” Robin says, sticking a wrapped granola bar between her teeth so she has a free hand to grab Steve’s car keys off the kitchen counter, “I have something for you, though.”

She shoves the plain brown paper bag she’d been holding into Steve’s arms with an expectant look on her face.

Steve raises an eyebrow.

“Now?”

“Yes, now. I didn’t want to wait until later because — well, just look and you’ll get it.”

Steve opens the bag and knows instantly it’s a plant. He reaches inside and pulls it out by the plastic pot.

“Oh shit, an alocasia! Thanks, Rob, this is a good fuckin’ find.”

Robin doesn’t respond immediately, her eyes on the big, green leaves of the alocasia plant.

Steve glances up at her.

“You good?”

“Yeah, it’s just…you think those leaves kinda look like the Mind Flayer?”

“What the fu—” he stops, glancing at the alocasia again, “Shit, man, it kinda does.”

Robin starts to snicker, because it’s been seven years since the gates to the Upside Down were closed for good, seven years of growth and healing, so she can laugh about some of those things now and Steve can’t help a laugh either.

“Stop ruining shit for me, Rob.”

“I’m sorry. Pretend I didn’t say anything. Look — when I bought it the guy said it hasn’t been watered in a while and needs a new pot and all that kinda crap you get excited about so now you have a project for today to take your mind off of how you’re spending your birthday all alone.”

Steve smacks her arm.

“Don’t be a dick, you’re the reason we’re in Tacoma, anyways.”

“No,” Robin argued, moving towards the door, “I’m the reason we came to Tacoma. You’re the reason we’re still here and will be for another two goddamn years. I’ll be back at, like, four, and there better not be potting soil all over the place.”

“Whatever. That’s still better than your fuckin’ paint,” he fires back as she’s walking out the door, “Drive safe. Don’t crash my car.”

“Uh-huh,” she calls, already halfway down the hall, “Love ya!”

And then she’s gone.

Steve looks back to his new plant. It really does look like the Mind Flayer — something about the shape of the leaves, he thinks — but a plant, in his eyes, is still a plant no matter how many traumatic memories it may trigger, so it doesn’t take long for him to put on a mixtape Eddie had made for him a few weeks back that he’s been listening to pretty much nonstop and busy himself with the alocasia.

Steve had started caring for houseplants nearly five years ago now, when his advisor had given out small ferns at a course registration event during his sophomore year of college. He had expected the plant to wither away and die after only a few weeks but, to his own astonishment, it actually thrived under his care. Not long later, the nearby grocery store put out a little display of houseplants in colorful plastic pots so, with all the confidence of someone who'd successfully kept one plant alive for a month, Steve bought two.

Honestly, Steve hadn’t expected to have a green thumb in the way he apparently does. After all, each one of his plants has different needs from the next, different light or water or soil or some unique combination of the three. He hadn’t expected that he’d be able to keep it all straight in his (somewhat mangled) brain — the same brain that still hasn’t memorized his course schedule for this semester yet — but pursuing a doctorate in psychology has taught him that he’s actually good at learning when it's something he cares about, something he can find a passion in.

And he really does like the plants, too. They look nice in the apartment — they bring the cramped little space to life, he thinks, and it’s nice to be surrounded by life, to be cultivating life after everything he’s been through and everything he’s done. It’s nice to know he can keep things alive, that he can take care of something so it can grow and bloom, so he leans into it.

After those two grocery store plants (a pothos and a dracaena that are both still alive and kicking), his collection started to increase exponentially, hitting its peak about a year later when the apartment looked more like a forest than an actual living space. Eventually, it reached a point where even Robin had needed to put her foot down, and Steve had half-heartedly admitted she was correct. After a while of giving plants away (and the odd one dying every so often), it returned to a much more reasonable state.

Steve is halfway through moving the new alocasia plant that definitely doesn’t look like the Mind Flayer at all into a larger pot, his hands filthy with potting soil he’s valiantly trying to keep out of his hair, when the phone rings.

“Shit,” he mutters, dusting off his hands as best as he can before grabbing the phone, “Hello?”

“Do my ears deceive me or is that the birthday boy?”

Steve feels himself starting to smile at the sound of Eddie’s voice, his lips twisting up before he can even think about it.

“Hey,” he says.

“Hey yourself,” Eddie replies, “Happy birthday.”

“Thanks. Woulda been better if you were here.”

“Yeah, baby, I know. I wish I was there, too.”

“How’s Montana?” Steve asks, “Worth not being here?”

Eddie makes a noncommittal noise, “Not sure if traveling’s my thing. Nice to get outta Indiana, though.”

Steve hums his agreement.

CONTINUE ON AO3

#platonic stobin #steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #robin buckley #the satellite and the sky #please google 'alocasia frydek' and tell me it doesn't look like the mindflayer #because it absolutely does #bonus: robin desperately wants to be a plant guy too because she knows it's one of those things that actually adds some 'cool points' to ste #and she needs to be cooler than steve #but she cannot for the life of her become a plant guy because she kills ALL OF THEM #to the point where steve doesn't give her plants anymore and doesn't let her help him with his own plants #like he literally gave her a pothos (which is the easiest plant on the planet to take care of) and she somehow killed it in record time #she was henceforth banned from plant care in the buckley-harrington household

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furrbbyx · 1 year

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M👹NSTER March Day 17: Plant

Oooo. I can't take anything seriously.

Here's the sauce. A little fairy tale about a man who loves plants.

cis!male humanoid x gn sentient plant monster

nsft

cw: jizz in a plant

Do not reproduce, do not copy.

There once was a man who loved plants. And his plants loved him back.

Oh yes,

He traveled the world for seeds. He had a subscription to every catalog that had seeds in his region. He lived online on gardening forums.

When the the town he lived in decided to throw a gardening festival in the middle of the summer, the man entered into every category. Though he loved to show off his skills there was an element of his pride that brought him shame.

For he so loved the plants that he felt they were his lovers, his confidants, his most intimate partners in life. The more he hid his feelings the more unsettled he became. Not trusting himself to stick to the proper level of devotion when speaking about his gardening he withdrew from society.

He grew all of his treasures behind tall fence walls. He found obscure forums to lurk in. He spent days pouring through the catalogs and caressing the hand drawn illustrations of bulbous knobbly curibits, fluffy curling brassicas, and even the cultivated poppies, with their petals thrust open like a woman's skirt blown by the wind, caught his attention, his devotion.

Before withdrawing from the world completely he decided to take one last trip. Lured by a trader on one of the internet sites, the man prepared his garden beds and pressed a goodbye kiss to each houseplant before journeying into space.

On the OrbitalHub he finally felt some relief. The large space station was an enormous shopping complex and he, searching for exotic plants and heirloom seeds to cultivate for the next few decades, was one of the more innocuous shoppers. Aliens from many sectors offered goods here.

The man enjoyed his days aboard the OrbitalHub, especially when he finally met the trader, a merchant with plant wares. The seeds the Ereyctian brought to trade were exquisite. Yet the man felt his own pride with the strong Terran seeds he'd produced for his side of the trade. Of course exotic vegetables were being sought by the man, but it was the merchant's promise of a rarer treasure that made him sweat. A special type of plant that required a certain kind of genetic material so that it could reproduce.

When the deal was done the man made his way back planet-side. Not a single agent bat an eye at his customs slip. He started to breathe easy filling his lungs with organic atmosphere instead of the artificial one. And as soon as he stepped back into the foyer of his home he resumed his old life. With only a slight change. As the man laid down to sleep that night he placed his newest herbaceous acquisition on the bedside table.

In a shimmering obsidian octahedron, its fat roots clearly visible and glowing against the glass, was a babygirl plant from the marshes of G'leedur-5. It wasn't much more than writhing roots, a thick dark purple stalk, and a nodding closed flower head as large as a house cat. Quite shapely, and always fragrant, it was the man's new obsession and he refused to let it out of his sight until they got to know each other better.

The man laid down and fell into a contented sleep. When his consciousness slipped into deep slumber and the night grew very late, the alien flower began to start its blooming cycle. The smooth roots grew from their pot climbing up the walls, over the head board, and over the man. Once his form was detected all of the roots made their way to him.

The now ambulatory plant wasted no time in seeking out the genetic material that would help it complete its purpose. Each root tendril slithered down the mans body with teasing flicks and gropes. Soon they had his cock free and easy accessed. The flower head began to nod, bending the stalk even further and the roots held the man stiff helping to penetrate the tight furl of petals. In a haze of instinctual breeding frenzy the flower head began to suck and pulse around the mans cock. In no time it had produced a thick mucilage, lubricating the shaft trapped in its petals. It's roots palpitated and caressed the heavy sack of his balls seeking an optimal discharge.

The man awoke just minutes before his soul was nearly sucked from his body. He watched, fascinated, as his dreams finally played out in real life. Panting like a runner, he threw his head back with a long groan that seemed to rip through his body, bowing his back. He stayed there trembling and aching and cumming over and over.

He was thoroughly milked, yet the flower head remained tightly closed. The man gathered the plant into his arms with affection and tenderness.

"Don't worry my darling. You must need much more of my spunk to reach maturity" He told the plant. He fell back to sleep then, with his lover in his arms.

#terato #monster march #monster lover #monster fucker #exophilia #monster girlfriend #monster smut

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feraltuxedo · 10 months

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Saving Face

New fic alert! My contribution for this year's @fandomtrumpshate auction is live - a five part human AU featuring author Crowley and faceblind bookseller Aziraphale.

Saving Face by FeralTuxedo E, 1/5 chapters Summary: Bookseller Aziraphale has never had much of a green thumb, but when radio host A.J. Crowley's new book about houseplants arrives at the shop, he makes an effort to sell as many copies as possible. His job is on the line, after all. And a mysterious redheaded customer with a penchant for vandalism isn’t helping.

I was prompted by @comicgeekery to write a meet-cute get together fic in that setting and with Aziraphale's prosopagnosia complicating things. Since I have the condition, too, I was all over that idea. You can check out an excerpt from the first chapter below the cut:

Abandoning his mug of tea, Aziraphale stepped out onto the shop floor, where the redhead was perusing the display table with the new arrivals.

‘I wouldn’t get that one if I were you. Dreadful slog all throughout the second half and the killer couldn’t be more obvious if she walked around with a bloodstained knife in her hand.’

The man’s sunglasses flashed at him as he looked up with that mixture of delight and apprehension that had baffled Aziraphale for weeks now. Every time this particular customer sauntered into the shop, nerves barely concealed behind the swagger, he appeared rather more interested in the shop assistant than the books he was half-heartedly browsing.

It had taken a while for Aziraphale to acknowledge the flirting, even after Newt had made several allusions to it. But by the time he’d summarised every single Bond novel to the man, noticed him hanging onto his every word, only for him to off-handedly comment that he’d already read them all, he’d cottoned on. Which was for the best, or he would have been more than irritated by what Gabriel no doubt considered a colossal waste of his shop staff’s time.

‘D’you read all the books you sell?’ the customer asked now, mouth twitching at the corners.

‘Goodness, no. If only. That would be the quickest way to get my notice handed to me.’

‘Right.’ The man’s eyebrows shot above the stark line of his sunglasses, surprise evident on his sharp features. ‘Isn’t this your shop?’

The absurdity of the idea made Aziraphale laugh.

‘Mine? Oh no, far from it. I am but a humble shop assistant.’

He tapped the name badge pinned to his chest. The man didn’t look at it, but fumbled with the book in his hands.

‘Right, sorry. Just thought… ‘cause you’re in here all the time…’

‘I’m the only full-time staff member,’ Aziraphale explained. ‘Everyone else is part-time, except for the manager, and he works upstairs.’

He pointed at the ceiling, beyond which Gabriel sat in his first-floor office, presumably doing very little. Aziraphale preferred it that way. Once or twice each day, he would descend the stairs into the staff room to make a snide comment about sales figures or the correct way to lay out a shop window, and then disappear again.

‘Though, if I might be so bold as to admit, with him very much busy with his accounts—’ Aziraphale put the last word in air quotes— ‘I’m mostly left to do as I please. Which is for the best, really. If my manager was in charge of the displays, you’d see nothing but How to Win Friends and Influence People. I’m sure it’s the only book he’s ever read, not that it’s done him much good.’

The man’s laughter rang through the shop bright as a bell. Entirely charming. Encouraged, Aziraphale took a step closer and looked back over his shoulder to make sure Newt was not lurking in the doorway to the staff room. He gathered all his resolve, and to his own surprise, his smile was as steady as his voice when he spoke.

‘I was wondering, actually, if I might take you out for a coffee. There’s a lovely little place just around the corner, and I can take my break as early as in half an hour. I just need to let my colleague know. The thing is, I’d love to talk more about books with you. Or anything else, for that matter.’

The man stared at him through dark lenses, a deep frown forming beneath his widow’s peak. Well, that wasn’t at all a good sign. Had Aziraphale misread the signals? Was he being a creep?

This moment of building panic was interrupted by Newt, who stomped onto the shop floor with an armful of new releases.

‘Was it you who ordered a whole box of Yelling at Plants by A.J. Crowley?’

Aziraphale, grateful for the distraction, whipped around to relieve Newt of some of the books precariously balanced in his grip. They were bound in a striking black and green cover, with the title embossed in gold. Eye-catching.

‘Yes, I did. How exciting, I didn’t realise they’d already be here. We must clear a space for them, maybe over here?’

He bustled over to the large table in the centre and directed Newt to dump the pile of books on top of it. Prime real estate. As soon as the shop was empty, he’d make it look all nice. And then sneak a look at the book itself. He had been rather looking forward to this one.

Newt regarded the books with a shake of the head.

‘How on earth are we meant to shift thirty copies of a gardening book? Are you actually trying to get us both sacked?’

‘Don’t be silly. This is not just any gardening book. It’s A.J. Crowley’s literary debut.’

This statement was only met with confusion.

‘You don’t know him? Yelling at Plants, every Saturday morning on Radio 4?’

Lovely way to wake up, with the silky voice of A.J. Crowley coming through the airwaves, much less choleric than the name of the show suggested.

‘My nan listens to Radio 4,’ Newt said derisively.

‘Your nan clearly has better taste than you.’

#good omens #good omens fanfic #good omens au #my writing #fandom trumps hate

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zwy01 · 2 months

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Noble OCs - Elenor

Making five OCs for every clan!

Acacia Elenor: Non-Pureblood. Alive in the present day, belongs to the Previous Lord’s generation.

Acacia loves magic. She uses magic to shortcut her way through everything and sometimes forgets how to do the most basic things because she relies on her spells so much. She can’t even manually dress herself without getting all tangled up, so she just creates outfits with her noble powers and disintegrates them once she’s tired of what she’s wearing in favor of new ones. At some point she had to spend four hours teaching herself how to comb hair in order to do her daughter’s hairstyle for mother-daughter bonding time. Her daughter had requested that Mama does it herself because “it’s more special that way”, so Acacia had to learn. Acacia only starts to walk long distances instead of relying on teleportation spells all the time because her daughter is a very active person and she wants to be a part of her girl’s life as a good mom. Sometimes Acacia still wishes that she can just get things done in the snap of a finger but reminds herself not to because maybe it’s better to learn a few practical skills after all.

Fumnanya Elenor: Non-pureblood. Alive in the present day, belongs to the Previous Lord’s generation.

Fumnanya is a quality checker of noble goods. She evaluates everything made in Lukedonia before they’re delivered to noble households for personal use. She has a specific spell to check for any small cracks, dents, bumps, and other flaws that are too small for even the most perceptive eyes to notice. Fumnanya takes great pride in her work of making sure objects are of the utmost quality. Everything the Lord uses has to go through her. Some nobles complain about Fumnanya sending back more than half of their creations that are “perfectly fine” for no reason but nah, she just has her standards. That’s why the Previous Lord hired her for this job in the first place. Well, maybe he just thought that she was pretty funny and wanted to see where it’d go from there. The two of them were friends and the Previous Lord often teased Fumnanya about how she keeps damaging people’s self confidence in their craftsmanship. She just replies that if they can’t keep it up with the consistency and quality, then that’s their problem. Fumnanya has a broom which she uses to clean her residence and while she doesn’t fly on it, she thinks she’d look pretty cool if she does.

Cosmo Elenor: Non-pureblood. Entered eternal sleep, belonged to Gejutel’s generation.

Cosmo was one of Rozaria’s caretakers. He was kind and patient and let her practice her spells on him when no one else was available. Once Rozaria cried for several days because she didn’t have full grasp on one of her spells yet and turned Cosmo into a succulent instead of teleporting him to the room next door and the spell didn’t wear off until later. She carefully held and carried him around in her hands and even arranged a makeshift funeral for her new “houseplant” because she thought he wasn’t going to come back to her. Luckily, he did turn back, and smiled and thanked Rozaria for giving him a “short vacation”. Cosmo’s talent was using his magic to make enchanted stuffed animals and toys that could move around and interact with their surroundings, which Rozaria loved. Cosmo was one of Rurik Volo’s friends who hosted him during his couch surfing days.

Orpheus Elenor: Pureblood. Alive in the present day, belongs to the Previous Lord’s generation.

Orpheus is a poet and musician. He spends most of his youth outside of Lukedonia, as he leaves home as soon as he becomes independent to travel through the world looking for new magic to learn. At some point he comes across a three-quarters human, quarter-werewolf orphan boy on the brink of death from starvation and saves him. Orpheus adopts the boy and raises him as his own as he continues on with his journey. Now, it’s their journey. He teaches the boy magic, plays with him, and helps him live a fulfilling life. Eventually the boy becomes an old man and dies from natural causes due to his mostly human heritage and Orpheus is heartbroken. Orpheus finally returns to Lukedonia because only then would he not be overwhelmed by constant grief from being reminded of his “son” and the many memories they shared in the outside world. He never leaves Lukedonia again. To this day he still has auditory hallucinations of someone cheerfully calling him “Pa” every now and then and he turns his head around every time he hears children’s laughter. Orpheus’ most treasured item is a leather wizard hat that his human son made for him from the very first deer they hunted together.

Ixchel Elenor: Pureblood. Alive in the present day, belongs to Raskreia’s generation.

Ixchel is the niece of Orpheus. Like her uncle, she leaves home to explore the human world, except she doesn’t come back to Lukedonia and permanently resides in the human world instead. She does go back to visit sometimes, though she can’t stay in Lukedonia for more than five days without feeling bored. There’s just so much more fun outside and she likes having cool gadgets like phones and computers and whatnots. The signal here sucks, if there even is any. Ixchel currently lives in South Korea and makes a living as a tarot card reader. Her fortune telling business is a huge success and the lines are always super long. People think it’s amazing how she knows everything about everyone. In reality Ixchel just discreetly reads her customers’ minds and uses her noble powers to rearrange the cards so she’s simply saying what they really want to hear. Her already successful business brings in even more money around exam seasons when desperate parents and students arrive in hordes. Sometimes she also helps facilitate break ups when less-than-healthy couples come in. Might as well use her powers for good, she thinks. Ixchel’s partner is a human and one of her old customers whom she helped break up with his toxic ex. He offered to take her to a high-end BBQ restaurant as thanks, and she went because he’s cute and they clicked and started dating not long after. After Ixchel explains to her boyfriend that she is a noble, he asks her to make a bond with him because he wants to be with her forever. Currently, they live together happily with their seven cats, three dogs, two birds and a turtle.

Thank you for reading! Tradio is next!

#noblesse #manhwa #myart #original character #oc #acacia elenor #fumnanya elenor #cosmo elenor #orpheus elenor #ixchel elenor

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thegodthief · 8 months

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A question was asked:

Do you know people (humans) who are good at getting very nasty beings out of others/to leave them alone? I'm in a bit of trouble and me struggling seems to make it worse. Its been a year and a half.

I do not, me included. To be very fucking honest, it was such problems that drove me to looking into magic when the religious structures available to me, failed me miserably. I, and all the social spheres/circles/clutches that I'm adjacent to, are very much prone to handling it ourselves with as little third-party involvement as possible.

That might not be an optimal solution for you, though.

So while I am not able to recommend any services or classes, I can only tell you what worked for me:

Cultivate positive spiritual connections. This could be an ancestral practice. This could be entreating the spirits of your houseplants as guardians of your space. This could be making peace with the land(s) around you so you will always have a place to "sit". This could be religious practices if that religion makes space for it. The idea being, that you are not a solitary being, that you do not exist in a vacuum, and that when the problems are being loud, you know someone/something that can muffle that sound or just be louder.

Cultivate yourself. Do things that make you engage with the world on your terms. Have a frozen dessert. What's that one beverage that makes everything all right for a while. Go watch that one movie again. Interact with other people, in person and/or online. Yea, things are shit, but right now you're wearing your favorite slippers and your feet are happy so that problem can go wait in the corner for a while.

Examine your fears. What are you afraid of? Why? Is it something you can desensitize yourself to? Is it something that was frightened into you at a young age but you never got the chance to examine it? You already know what is expecting you to react, but is anyone else? Are you expecting it of yourself? Why? How can you use what you are afraid of to your advantage? Confront a little fear, and use that victory against a big fear. This is not a quick process, so any progress is big progress.

Know this will likely be an ongoing process for the rest of your life. Even after ejecting the problem spirit(s), there is still the matter of how your interior self was affected by that spirit. There might not be a "before-self" that you can go back to. There will always be a "current-self" that you need to take care of. You might need to perform purification rituals on the regular to keep yourself shored up and defended. You might need to change some part of your practice. You might need to walk away from certain folk in your life that seemed to be the best of allies at first, but co-dependency is a bitch and funny how you don't have certain problems until you've been around them for a while.

A third-party ritualist would be able to help rid you of anything immediate, but the aftercare would remain in your hands. Do not mistake a few-days relief as the end of an era. It is a pause in the cycle.

I know this isn't the answer you wanted. But it is the answer I have learned the hard way. If I could go back in time and advise my younger self how to survive the coming storms, the first mandate would be to trust my instincts because not everyone that declares themselves to be the good in my life is working for my personal good.

The second mandate would be to cultivate positive spiritual connections, because no person acts alone when it comes to these matters. You may only see one ritualist in the room, you don't see their myriad of connections and spiritual attendants that they are calling upon for your behalf.

The third mandate would be to fucking live, to get out from under the fear as soon as possible and as large as possible even if (especially because) they haven't been evicted yet. Because you're right, they want you to suffer. Shove joy into that maw and watch them choke.

Good luck to you. I wish you well.

#Keri answers an ask.

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aithusarosekiller · 10 months

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Hi Archie! How’s your day going?

The Crowley was Raphael theory? Tell me more Archie! I need to know more..

Hiiii

I'm pretty good actually :D how are you?

It's really late rn and I'm so tired sleeping this so ignore any mistakes haha!

I've rambled about this theory too much lately so I'm just gonna say random stuff and tag the theory tag so you can indulge in everyone else's thoughts but basically

Based on all the teasing in s2, I think we're getting a reveal in s3 and I think that either

1) Crowley will be revealed to have been the previously missing Raphael (which seems to line up well with a lot: the snake thing, the 'I think I understand better than you do' thing, the everyone knows him thing, the knows god personally thing, the 'Raphael seems to be conveniently not mentioned...maybe to hide heaven's institutional problems?' thing, the 'walks on earth and helps protect humans' thing, the 'is Lucifer Satan in this universe? And he says 'Lucifer and the guys at one point but who knows how he meant it' thing, the 'how do you know it wasn't me?' In reference to archangel power thing, the 'close enough to god to think he's safe asking questions' thing, the whole 'his bitterness towards Gabriel feeling distinctly sibling-y even if it was rooted in love for aziraphale' thing, something about the fact he keeps houseplants and terrifies them into submission while trying to keep them alive and 'perfect' feels like he can't deal with smth not being perfect or 'healed' as a lingering thing from his past- he pushes them to be healthy and perfect...can he not do that for them anymore?, the 'knowing when somebody is too far gone to heal' thing and the acceptance of human passing (that feels very important in s2 for some reason) thing, the 'are they making Lucifer a prince of heaven or were they on about someone else, how is this working?' Thing, the 'we know he was powerful so there's a small chance could be Raph thing, smth about the metatron wanting him back and as an Angel...is he luring him using Azi? Does he want Raph back to replace Gabriel?, the 'his cute prefall self gives off both Raph and Lucifer energy and it's so strong it is suffocating' thing, the way he didn't even hesitate when opening the file which suggests that he was RIGHT at the top bc if he was only just high enough he may have hesitated or considered other precautions put in place to stop him from spying, the SARAQAEL TRUSTED HIM SO QUICKLY??? Thing...they really hoped he remembered them???? That's weird..., something about the job story that I cannot articulate, the fact Raphael is MISSING (possibly thought to have just DISAPPEARED) in relation to the number of times Crowley suggests running away, he hates the idea of earth and human life ending for the start...does he want an endless cycle of growing and...gradual healing? Something something he protects people from before the beginning something something, etc)

2) Aziraphale will get his position as head archangel and BECOME the Raphael of the series bc of the name similarity, the healing thing, and the fact the name Raphael hasn't even been mentioned thus far, while Crowley is revealed to have been another angel, likely either Lucifer or Barachiel (both of which would be pretty cool)

I personally prefer option 1 but option two is looking prettyyyyy likely I will admit. I'd be happy with either but...Raph Crowley has a special spot in my heart

#good omens season two #good omens spoilers #crowley was raphael #technically he could be a lot of angels #but with the amount of focus he's gotta be a big name #likely Raph or Luci #idk 🤷‍♂️#we shall see

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