#Awkward Eugene | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

female-malice · 1 year

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Family farms are central to American political mythology. Smiling, attractive families working the land and tending animals are a staple of campaign commercials and stump speeches. Rural family life enjoys exceptional deference and celebration, fetishization even.

Our collective political mythology portrays the family farm as a form of reproduction that is authentic, healthy, and sustainable — the way we lived before modernity, urbanization, and industrialization corrupted both family life and farmland. Given the inhuman scale of ecological crises like climate change and food insecurity, family farming offers a seductive mythology, anchored in a fantasy of permanence and human scale. But it’s a mythology all the same, and one largely disconnected from the history of rural family life in America.

The truth is that life on farms from the Atlantic Seaboard to California bore little resemblance to the nostalgic ideal suggested by contemporary imaginings of the family farm. Populations were transient, families were chaotic and broken, sexual taboos were flouted, and the romanticism of “Little House on the Prairie” pioneering collapsed on its first contact with the material realities of violence, deprivation, disorder, loneliness, and longing that better characterized the peripheries of America’s agricultural empire.

Agrarianism has an enormous footprint in American history, dating back at least to Thomas Jefferson’s famous celebrations of the yeoman farmer in his “Notes on the State of Virginia.” Jefferson’s agrarian rhetoric was good politics even then. An enormous portion of the population labored in agriculture — freely and in bondage — and flattering smallholders with talk of intrinsic virtue built broad-based support for the policies of agricultural expansion.

The kind of agriculture to be expanded remained a source of vitriolic and politically defining dispute. Cotton monocultures, largely tended by slaves, rapidly depleted soil nutrients. With each passing decade, the epicenter of cotton production moved steadily westward, as slavers abandoned old plantations to start anew on unbroken land further west.

At the outbreak of the Civil War, the throne of the cotton kingdom sat in the Mississippi River Delta, but its frontiers extended well into Arkansas and Texas. Similarly, Northern settlers moved westward in waves, with farmers seeking fertile bottomland for bumper crops of corn, a crop they transformed into whiskey and pork for Eastern markets.

By the middle of the 19th century, an emergent grain-livestock complex stretched from Ohio to Colorado. In both North and South, agricultural expansion entailed the violent dispossession of indigenous populations, the managed integration of Western lands into settled agriculture, and the organization and importation of human populations necessary to both objectives.

Agricultural expansion depended not upon the settling of America, but on continuous and fitful cycles of dispossession, settling, unsettling, and resettling. Nineteenth-century populations were highly mobile, and they often carved out ecologies and communities that were precarious, fragile, and intentionally temporary. Many farmers planted on a particular plot of land always with an eye on the exit: the fantasy of cheap, fertile land out West. Others went West, and when they found it, immediately fled back East in shock.

For the millions of slaves laboring in Southern agriculture, the notion of permanent settlement ran afoul of the stark realities implicit in the traffic of souls: Slavers sold their slaves to cover debts, to hedge declining labor productivity as slaves aged, to dispose of difficult or rebellious slaves, and for a thousand other reasons. The movements of individual slaves often demonstrated a complex pattern not of settlement and permanence, but of internal flow, migration, and transience that follows precisely the trajectory of cotton cultivation: southwest and downriver. For indigenous populations, the history of agricultural expansion was the history of repeated dispossession and forced resettlement on increasingly marginal lands.

Such highly mobile populations meant that family structures tended toward flexibility and contingency on the frontiers of agricultural expansion. On Northern farms, the family retained centrality as the unit of labor organization and many people traveled West as families.

But these families bore little resemblance to the farmer-homemaker model we often falsely ascribe to family farms. Rather, such families were sprawling, maximalist, and multigenerational affairs with only rough notions of gendered divisions of labor. Men were responsible for staple and field crops, and women were responsible for dairying, poultry, produce, cooking, and cleaning. Ideally, men’s labor generated a lump sum at harvest that covered the cost of the next year’s planting; women’s labor, by contrast, generated a steady stream of income year round — sometimes called “egg” money — to cover daily expenses. Regardless, flexibility was the watchword of the day. With survival at stake, everyone worked — gendered ideals be damned — even if it meant women contributed field labor during harvest and men mended their own socks. Neighbors pooled labor, and farms took on regular hired hands, and this too created kinship beyond blood relations.

High morbidity rates, particularly during childbirth, meant that remarriage was common, and families might be composed of multiple primary couples or even the reassembled components of those pairs once severed by death or flight. Spouses often split over the decision to relocate. Other couples split and separately relocated as a solution to restrictive 19th-century divorce laws. As a consequence, casual, if quiet bigamists were commonplace in frontier communities.

Regardless, many settlers left families in the East and attempted to create new ones in the West. Constituting new families among the scattered and diverse population of the West often involved cross-class and cross-race marriages that would have been unthinkable in Eastern urban communities. Forced resettlement frequently shattered slave families and forced enslaved people to repeatedly reconstitute their families.

Rural people applied a make-do attitude not just to work and family, but to sexual intimacy as well. Camps, bunkhouses, lodges, taverns, and saloons were spaces rife with intimate and sexual relations that directly contravened dominant middle-class notions of sexual propriety: homosexuality, sexual barter and commerce, public and semi-public sex, and cross-dressing and gender fluidity.

Country folk were eager to pay for sex as well, and a distinctively rural infrastructure of sexual commerce met their desires. Brothels and prostitutes in rented rooms were common enough in frontier towns, but historians Estelle Freedman and John D’Emilio also describe euphemistically named “hog farms” — farms that also operated as brothels. Matching the mobility of rural populations, other enterprising sex merchants put their brothels on wheels. Many states worked to criminalize “cat wagons,” as the mobile brothels were known, forbidding prostitution in “any such prairie schooner, covered wagon or vehicle,” as a 1899 South Dakota law put it.

Rural spaces were also hotbeds for sexual diversity. Close quarters and cold nights meant that many men slept together, and in timber camps and other gatherings of migrant laborers, proximity led to sex. Historian Peter Boag surveyed reports about camps in the Pacific Northwest and found that reliable reports estimated incidences of same-sex intimacy among men (and often adolescent boys) ranged from common to pervasive.

Similarly, itinerant laborers were a constant source of sexual anxiety among the better sorts in agricultural communities: A hired man might corrupt the farmer’s daughter . . . or his son. Social reformers also fretted that constant exposure to animal sex on farms produced unnatural desires. The sociologist E. A. Ross memorably quoted a Wisconsinite who reported that farm boys “get together in the barn and while away the long winter evenings talking obscenity, telling filthy stories, recounting sex exploits, encouraging one another in vileness, perhaps indulging in unnatural practices.”

What precisely these “unnatural practices” entailed was left unsaid, but decades later Alfred Kinsey would report that homosexuality was most common “in particular rural communities in some of the more remote sections of the country . . . among ranchmen, cattle men, prospectors, lumbermen, and farming groups in general.” Such men often formed complex sexual communities with visible public components such as all-male “stag,” “bull,” and “cowboy” dances as well as stable intergenerational relationships between older “wolves” and “jockers” and younger “punks” and “lambs.”

Rural social events often scandalized middle-class observers. Rural people took the rare sociality afforded by fairs, festivals, and weddings to let loose. Such events rippled with gambling, drink, dance, and sex. Far from quaint, quiet, or orderly affairs, rural public events could be bawdy and rambunctious. Despairing of the corrupting effects of a “whisky, colored to resemble red lemonade,” an 1876 account from Dearborn, Ind., declared, “Thus did an agricultural fair, a promised event of sobriety and chastity, run to the resemblance of a drunken orgie.” Many fair associations responded to these problems by banning alcohol and gambling, but enough rowdiness persisted that in the 1920s the sociologist Alvin Good still bitterly complained, “Even the public dance in the rural community is usually sponsored by the immoral elements, and alcohol is usually consumed in abundance.”

At the turn of the century, such laments were entirely common. Commentators rarely looked out on rural families and communities as models of propriety, chastity, and virtue. Instead, they saw distressing disorder. The Social Gospel activist Josiah Strong captured the sentiment best in 1893. Observing the chaotic churn of populations in and out of rural communities, Strong announced he could “see no reason why isolation, irreligion, ignorance, vice and degradation should not increase in the country until we have a rural peasantry, illiterate and immoral, possessing the rights of citizenship, but utterly incapable of performing or comprehending its duties.” He called this endemic “degeneration and demoralization” in rural areas, and he prescribed a hearty reordering of rural family life as a tonic.

This reordering was broad-based, national, and highly invasive in its scope. It enrolled ministers, educators, reformers, and government officials. It produced numerous legal reforms such as the “cat wagon” laws as well as other prostitution, vice, and temperance reforms. Alongside these measures, reformers targeted rural public health and hygiene and decrepit country schoolhouses. But reformers also supported eugenic sterilization and marriage registry laws, justifying the measures by appealing to some rural families.

In addition to taking legal measures, rural civil society cracked down on degeneracy. Local vice and social hygiene committees bolstered clean and sober social opportunities, expelled immoral elements from dances and fairs, and provided moral supervision to impressionable farm youth. Agrarian reformer and journalist Henry Wallace, for example, implored his readers in 1911 to clean up their fairs such that they no longer “offer[ed] temptations to vice and immorality.” Similarly, the country church movement aimed to boost the presence and potency of an effective ministry in rural communities. As historian Colin Johnson notes, other reformers endeavored to reach even the most remote reprobates through mail-order social hygiene and anti-vice education schemes.

The Country Life Movement, helmed by President Theodore Roosevelt, invested federal resources in the effort. Its efforts bore the fruit of a federal educational agency called the Cooperative Extension Service, or CES, in 1914. The CES provided agricultural advice to farmers, but it also circulated moral proscriptions and organized youth clubs, later called 4-H clubs, that emphasized gender-appropriate labor, clean living, and supervised social events. By the 1930s, officials at the Department of Agriculture, the CES’s parent agency, bragged that 4-H clubs were teaching millions of rural youth how to build stable families in the countryside, families that fit the gendered order and social stability we only now impute to family farms. In fact, it was only at this moment in American history that the term “family farm” itself emerged as a celebratory ideal, and it did so primarily in the context of government officials and their allies’ rallying the public to reform rural family life.

In this sense, our contemporary political mythology built on the family farm is actually founded on a backlash to a much more complicated history. Our political mythology insistently suppresses that rich, if imperfect human history. Rural America — its landscapes and communities both — did not spring from a process of peaceful, orderly, or permanent settlement. Those processes were tumultuous, violent, and chaotic. What was settled needed to be resettled and resettled again — wave after wave of individuals and families crashing against a wall of grueling deprivation.

Farmers have always been at the cutting edge of North American territorial and ecological colonization. They have also frequently been among its victims. The story of rural America, then, is not that of the permanence we hope to capture in the family farm. It is a story of profound dislocation and loss, and it is the story of the very human struggle to form family, intimacy, and belonging — in all of their marvelous diversity — in the wake of that monumental violence.

#Teddy the Nazi strikes again #that awkward moment when you learn that 4-H was started by eugenics freaks #cc

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opalsiren · 2 years

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h2o disney princess costume party... cleo as belle... emma as elsa... bella as cinderella... charlotte as ariel... rikki insisting that tinkerbell counts as a disney princess since she's part of the same canon... so true

#sorry i just cannot see rikki dressing up as a disney princess without being forced but she would compromise #i can also see cleo as snow white but i think belle suits her personality more #bella could totally be rapunzel but the glass slipper is right there #miriam would make a great sleeping beauty. tiffany could be either rapunzel or tiana she would suit both #and charlotte IS the little mermaid argue with the wall #lewis would absolutely dress up as the beast for cleo #zane as peter pan is a concept but i can see him identifying with eugene from rapunzel and/#or prince eric since the latter is a badass. likely leading to an awkward exchange with charlotte lol #i can also see rikki as megara from hercules now that i think about it 🤔#nate would probably dress as john smith from pocahontas or something equally culturally insensitive #kim as alice in wonderland an adorable concept and of course she breaks the rules like rikki #emma and elliot in matching costumes as elsa and olaf... i'm thinking #h2o just add water #.txt #h2o #queue

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schittscreep994 · 2 years

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I think I have a slight crush on Eugene Levy, and I feel real awkward about it

#eugene levy #awkward #crushing #daddy issues

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suncakeartcive · 1 year

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If any of the Eugene enjoyers enjoy my Eugene X Olaf content - I just wanna let you guys know, my Olaf acts very specific and yes he's a smug and also a doofus cuz of it. But like, my Olaf is very... stoic??

It's hard to explain but basically Olaf also sees Eugene as a lil idiot man like we all do and sighed deeply while picking him up. He legit married this man.

Also they may or may not have adopted kids, so my Eugene may or may not count as a dilf I'm so sorry.

(it's been... Like a full year? Of me having this ship? And I don't have a ship name for them yet. Embarrassing.)

#🍓 lore #i?? do not know how to explain my olaf #cuz i know hes a smug #but like in my hcs of him he's such #an awkward guy that doesnt really talk like That?#so its kinda jarring seeing my idea of him next to 'canon'#listen I'm here to have fun #basically Olaf started as Eugene's neighbor that was his annoyed friend /t #and then Olaf caught feelings #and oops #olaf animal crossing #eugene animal crossing

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buzzsaw-burne · 7 months

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buzzsaw wanting friends but failing to recognize he probably doesnt have them because he brandishes axes in their face and yells way too much like i dunno what else to tell you my guy

#at this point i will pay for your therapy man like come on #theyre definitely gearing for redemption im sure but theyre doing it in such a clunky way #i cant even blame them too much like 7 episodes a season is pathetic #ill admit this was awkward given hes definitely at least like 5 or 6 years older than her what are the main cast like 14 15 #i think the show runner on twitter said eugene was like 17ish and buzzsaw is at least 2 years older than him #but i definitely think hes more like 21 at the earliest

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biglisbonnews · 1 year

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Eugene Levy steps out of his comfort zone in The Reluctant Traveler Well here's something I didn't know I needed in my life that I now need in my life. A new series is coming to Apple TV+ where the infamously indoorsy Eugene Levy is sent on wild adventures around the world. This is a guy who hates to even get his hair wet. — Read the rest https://boingboing.net/2023/01/24/eugene-levy-steps-out-of-his-comfort-zone-in-the-reluctant-traveler.html

#Post #Video #Apple TV #Eugene Levy #travelogues #well this is awkward #Gareth Branwyn #Boing Boing

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gutsby · 4 months

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Fake It Til You Make It (Or Drown)

Pairing: Daryl Dixon x Reader

Summary: Daryl finds out you faked an orgasm. Instead of getting mad, he decides to get even.

Warnings: NSFW. Every TWD character is drunk in this. Unprotected p-in-v. Soiling Michonne’s decorative towels and almost drowning Eugene. Carol-mandated makeup time with Daryl turns to edging and angry sex.

And the Oscar for Best Faked Orgasm goes to…

“Y/N,” Daryl groaned, shooting his load deep inside you.

You arched your back and curled your toes, even let out a sultry little gasp for good measure. Forced your walls to clench around his cock then pulse, periodically—you counted a silent one, two, squeeze in your head every so often and tried to make it so your tremors felt authentic. You practically had this shit down to a science by now.

Women like you weren’t built for quickies. You needed more time to cum, no matter the occasion.

You simply couldn’t and wouldn’t ever make it to climax with fifteen seconds of foreplay followed by Daryl throwing you up against the counter and jackhammering you hard on the edge for three minutes max. This wasn’t a porno, and you didn’t have a clit made of firecrackers.

Men like Daryl couldn’t stand the thought of you not cumming every time you had sex, though, so you sought to ease his mind on the matter during times you knew it was a physical impossibility to reach bliss. A liar you were not, but an occasional teller of euphoric fibs? Hell, you might’ve been tempted to dabble every now and then.

You adored the way he looked down at you when he finished, chocolate locks matted to his forehead and a smile shining bright on his face. He was tender and sweet, always gentle to pry you off of the sink, and he’d be watching you with admiration all the while.

Rick and Michonne’s booze-fueled pool parties had that effect on you both—always scrambling for a spare room to fuck in the second you arrived like you’d forgotten how good the other one looked dressed in swimwear.

Daryl shimmied the bottom half of your lime green bikini back up your legs and patted your rear with affection.

“I think Rick would be proud,” he said.

“I think Michonne would be pissed.”

You glanced down at the lovely little decorative towels Daryl had used as a sweat rag and made a mental note to wash those back at your place. You yelped when Daryl dropped his hand back down to your heat.

“Still sensitive?” he smiled.

“Uh huh.”

You were already trying to slide past his frame toward the bathroom door, where the sounds of the party outside were growing louder each minute. In truth, you knew that spot where Daryl’s fingers had almost grazed would have been a lot more sensitive had you actually just came, and that tell alone would have given your act away. You couldn’t have that, so you quickly pulled him in for a kiss and pushed his hands back up to your hips.

Daryl’s tongue traced the seal of your lips and parted them for a far more passionate kiss than you’d expected. You let his tongue roam anyway, but inside, you felt slightly confused as to why your boyfriend was still so…horny when he’d just blown his load a minute ago.

You moved languidly toward the door as Daryl continued to kiss you. He was touching your waist a little strangely, the more you came to think of it. Maybe frisky from the whiskey?

Your hand reached the doorknob the second his did. Daryl pulled away and let the corners of his mouth twist almost cruelly in a grin before turning the handle and nudging you out.

You shuffled a few awkward steps past the door. Daryl was hot on your heels, hand at the small of your back when his lips returned to your ear—just for a second, this time. He leaned in close, now, and murmured real low:

“I know you faked it.”

Then he pushed you forward again, only for you to trip over your own two feet trying to turn and face him.

“What?” you hissed. Playing dumb.

But if you could play dumb, Daryl was more than happy to play stupid as fuck. He ignored your outburst altogether and waved at someone behind you, pretending not to see you staring up at him with exasperation painting your face.

“Eugene! Swim trunks look great.”

Across the room, Eugene extended a lengthy ‘thank you’ and told Daryl that he, too, was looking snazzy, and you knew better than to try and pry Daryl’s attention away. Reluctantly, you turned around and made every effort not to show your present emotions on your face. In truth, you were nervous as fuck wondering what Daryl might do now that he knew you’d faked your climax.

You could try and make it up quick. Minimize the fallout.

The second Eugene departed, and it was just the two of you standing in the kitchen, you shamelessly reached for the outline of Daryl’s dick in his shorts.

Daryl swatted your hand away.

“My penis only goes where it’s appreciated,” he told you quietly, feigning that same stupid smile that signaled to everyone else who might pass by that things were fine.

They weren’t. Daryl probably hated your guts right now.

His seed was still dripping from your cunt, and you longed for the feeling of having him inside you, whole. But you got the sense that that wasn’t happening any time soon, as Daryl promptly greeted two more familiar faces and obliged you to mingle too. You faced Rosita and Abraham with a thinly veiled look of despair, and you gathered that the former picked up on it pretty fast.

“What’s up?” Rosita asked, pulling you to the side while Daryl and Abe chatted.

“I fucked up bad, like— legitimately screwed the pooch.”

“What did you do?”

You pursed your lips and felt the burn of Daryl’s glare over Rosita’s shoulder, sensing then that you’d probably be better off just keeping your mouth shut.

Hurriedly, you said under your breath,

“IfakedanorgasmandDaryl’sreallymad.”

“Daryl’s mad at what? Why?” Rosita said, shrill as ever.

You wanted to clamp your hand over her mouth, but it was too late. Daryl was quick to find your form lingering on his periphery and took your waist in one arm in a lasso-like motion. You guessed you’d be taken off to the slaughter any minute now—which was just getting chewed out by Daryl or given a half-dozen grumpy looks. You almost would’ve preferred the knife to the throat.

Confirming your worst fears, Daryl raised a beer with Abraham and suggested you all go for a swim.

That sounded like a setup if you’d ever heard one.

Perhaps overwrought with paranoia and a few too many Twisted Teas, you found your feet shuffling as slow as you could toward the thick sliding doors and Rosita at your rear asking what the hell was going on.

You made a big, fat ‘O’ with your hands and shook your head, hoping she’d understand—and Daryl wouldn’t see. It turned out neither of your wishes were to come true in that moment, and your boyfriend only pulled you closer to his side while the four of you strolled outside.

“Real mature,” he muttered.

“You’re one to talk,” you retorted.

“Could we please talk at a level most humans can hear?”

That last interjection was Eugene, sidling up to the group with his floaties already strapped to his biceps. You eyed the man, then his beer, then his bright red flotation devices, and hoped like hell Daryl wasn’t about to start playing drunk trivia now that your genius friend was plastered. Or worse yet, encourage him to swim.

“How many lies does the average woman tell in her life?”

You really needed to start keeping your hopes and dreams to yourself. You glared at Daryl.

Eugene was already devising some half-baked formula in his brain, or else retrieving another far-removed factoid that he’d learned on a game show in 2005, and presently answered Daryl’s question with a quirk of his brow.

“I…can’t say it’s a gender-dependent question, my friend. If I were to make an educated guess I’d give—”

“A million more for men,” Rosita interrupted, flashing a wry smile at Abraham, “Most men lie like they breathe.”

“Amen!” Carol called from the tiki bar. You loved and you hated Alexandria’s grown-up parties sometimes.

“Well maybe— maybe men lie more to get sex, but women lie about sex.” Daryl shot the most conspicuous look in your direction, and you’re fairly certain Rick and Michonne shared a look of, ‘Ah shit,’ simultaneously.

Inside, the two were secretly hoping they’d catch wind from the babysitter that Judith and RJ wanted to be picked up, or else learned that a horde of walkers had laid siege on one of the outer-facing walls, because they knew from experience that these fights never ended well. The last time you and Daryl ticked each other off in public there had come a very loud and very obnoxious karaoke rendition of Fleetwood Mac’s ‘Silver Springs’ sung drunkenly between the two of you, and frankly, no one at the party wanted to see a repeat of that.

You wrested your arm out of Daryl’s hold and took a seat opposite Carol at the bar. Nodding when she offered to pour you some tropical concoction with a lot of rum, then pretending not to see Sasha eye Daryl warily.

“Whiskey dick give him trouble?” she murmured to you.

“You say his brother’s name in bed?” Rosita quipped.

“First off, he’s dead,” you said, before dropping your voice to a whisper, “Second, it wasn’t the whiskey or anything, I just…couldn’t cum, so I faked it. That’s it!”

You figured if Daryl was airing out your dirty laundry for the whole group to hear, you might as well beat him to the punch when it came to your closest friends. You could tell Sasha was trying hard not to smirk.

“That’s…that’s it?” she reiterated.

“Just now,” you mumbled, “Don’t tell Rick and Michonne, but we were holed up in the bathroom an—”

“Anyway, okay, no details but you told a little lie, so what?” Sasha proceeded without a hitch.

Carol waved the margarita she was making in vehement agreement and handed it over to you. Telling you to drink, now, with her eyes as soon as she caught a glimpse of Daryl’s disgruntled expression across the way.

“Yeah, so what? You told a fib to keep his ego intact, what’s the harm?”

“I’m saying!” You pointed to her before taking a sip.

“I think honesty is the best policy,” Daryl declared out loud like he’d just discovered the Atlantic.

At his side, Eugene eyed him up and down as if to say, ‘What the fuck are we talking about?’ You surmised that probably only half the group understood what was going on between Daryl and you, but most got the gist that the two of you were beefing. Again. Carol proceeded to drain her piña colada like her life depended on it, and Abraham and Rick suddenly gained interest in something inside.

Daryl wasn’t backing down. In fact, he raised his voice.

“And if she’s willin’ ta lie once, who knows how many other times she—”

“Be fucking for real,” you rolled your eyes, “I wasn’t faking most other times, and you know it.”

“Most times? So ya did it other times?”

“Folks, I cannot say with utmost certainty that this is a healthy coping mechanism for a relationship like y—”

“Shut up, Eugene.”

You could tell just how incensed Daryl was by the color of his cheeks. In a world that almost never raised the hue above a baby pink, you were alarmed to see him turn a shade or two shy of crimson. You knew something lewd or unkind was likely to flare behind those cobalt eyes any second now.

“How many times for Spencer, then?” Daryl growled.

He knew that shit was off-limits. A happenstance situationship that started and ended long before you’d ever dated Daryl. Now he was just being mean.

“Alright, guys, how about we take a second to cool off?” Michonne was using the same voice she assumed whenever trying to talk Judith or RJ out of a cranky mood. You saw Daryl already had the insolent pout of the children down pat, that was for sure.

“Maybe if you’d asked Leah she would’ve said the same,” you spat.

Daryl abandoned his beer and moved closer to you, just narrowly checked by Sasha’s warning touch and even more persuasive gaze. He paused for a second, crinkled his nose, and seemed to be considering something a moment or two longer before finally deciding to be petty.

“At least I didn’t have to ask Leah to swallow.”

That was it. You reared back and chucked your bright pink strawberry marg directly at Daryl’s head, unleashing a string of unsavory names as you did so. Daryl easily side-stepped, and the next in line to receive the airborne drink was Eugene. Completely defenseless, per usual, and not at all prepared to be hit in the face by a plastic glass filled with syrup, liquor, and slush, the man was a sitting duck.

He shrieked the second it struck him below the eyebrow. His hand clamped over his eye, and he stumbled back a few steps.

“Eugene!” came more than one voice, including your own.

The mulleted man wailed and spun perilously on his heels, trying blindly to make a beeline for the house but ending up walking straight into the pool ahead of him. Your whole party jumped to their feet and scrambled after him.

Apart from the aid of his arm floaties, the man was completely unable to swim—and still blinking fiercely through a sheet of strawberry-flavored ice as he flailed about in the water and cried for help.

Sasha, Rosita, Michonne, and Daryl didn’t hesitate; all four dove head first into the pool to save their friend.

Two hours had passed, and you and Daryl were still in time-out—courtesy of Carol and Michonne.

Deprived of your right to drink, smoke, fight, or fuck (at least not with condoms), you and your boyfriend had been placed in indefinite non-solitary confinement sitting perched outside the hot tub with instructions to make up, or else. So far, no words had passed between the two of you, and it had just started to rain.

Daryl waved to the kitchen window, where Carol was watching you both with narrowed eyes.

“Can we come inside now?” he groaned, motioning to the storm clouds overhead.

Carol gave him one emphatic thumbs down and turned to stir her broth on the stove.

This was your group-imposed “getting along” punishment: stay outside until you make amends. You kicked your feet in the bubbling water and cursed yourself for ever thinking it was a wise idea to stroke a man’s ego and fake an orgasm in the first place.

Then you lowered yourself into the water, seeing as there was not much else to do.

“Ya tryna be human stew? Get out,” Daryl snapped.

“Great, maybe Carol can throw me in her soup and I won’t have to continue this stupid fucking conversation.” You knew the dangers of swimming in a rainstorm, but you didn’t want to give Daryl the satisfaction of knowing you’d stop for his sake. You sank deeper into the hot tub.

Daryl slid across the wet slab of rock and concrete and reached for your shoulder.

“Quit bein’ difficult.”

“Quit being pushy,” you said with an ineffectual splash in his direction. His fingertips still seared hot on your skin as he touched you just above the shoulder blade.

“Oh, was I also bein’ pushy—” Daryl cut himself short.

You looked up, curious. Still refusing to budge.

“Pushy when?”

“When you took your pretty ass outta this tub before you got struck by lightning.”

Daryl received an unamused scowl in return. When you pressed again, he bent down and took you underneath both armpits, hauling you out of the hot tub with infuriating ease.

“Or when I…wanted to have sex and you clearly didn’t.”

Ouch. You jumped back in the water with an even deeper frown.

“I still wanted to have sex, Daryl! I just couldn’t get off as quick as you.”

“So you lied.”

You hastened to the other side of the mini pool when Daryl climbed inside. Your back flattened on the rock, and your eyes shot him a critical look as if to say, ‘I ain’t coming out.’

“Technically, you never asked,” you shrugged.

Daryl scoffed and straightened his own posture on the opposite end of the hot tub, feigning amusement but likely inflamed with irritation inside.

“I touched— I rubbed your pussy to see if you were sensitive. Don’t that mean somethin’?”

“Means you didn’t ask me shit. I never said I came.” You folded your arms across your chest in defiance, but deep down, you knew that a lie by omission was still a lie. Daryl’s facial expression communicated as much as he swam in your direction.

“So you couldn’t…ask me to wait a little longer to help you finish?” Daryl approached you close enough to graze your knees, so you felt obliged to press yourself harder against the wall, “Ya know I’d eat the cum out yer pussy if I knew it’d get ya off, sweetheart.”

Indeed, you knew. You should’ve known better than to accuse him of selfishness or inadequate communication—Daryl was a generous lover, and one who was always willing to wait, whether that meant delaying his climax or putting a pause on sex altogether. You felt an unlikely shiver in the boiling hot water when your boyfriend’s frame slipped between your legs beneath the surface.

“Even if I’d finished first, ya know I’d lick ya clean and make that pretty pussy cum all over my face an’ fingers. Ya do know tha’, right?”

He wanted to hear you say it. His hands had just started to trail a slow course up your legs as you released a shaky breath and nodded your head.

“I know, baby, I just— I just like seeing how riled up and sweaty you get when you fuck me for a quickie. You always seem so…satisfied pulling out I just hate to make you get hard all over again on my account.” Your voice was quieter then, breaking off in the gentlest whimper when Daryl’s knuckles grazed your heat.

Then, with the other hand, he moved your fingers to feel how hard he was under his swim trunks.

“Thought ya knew me better’n tha’,” he tsked you softly as he rubbed your hand up and down the length of his clothed erection, “I’m always hard fer ya, honey.”

You swallowed and sighed the second you felt him throb in your hand underwater. You wanted him now.

When your fingers fumbled for the drawstring of his shorts, however, Daryl nudged your touch away. Brought his own to the bottom of the bright green bikini you were wearing and slipped a digit underneath the fabric.

“This poor little clit,” he lamented, circling just lightly enough to draw breathy mewls from your mouth.

You spread your legs even wider to allow him access. When he pulled you to his chest, you felt his heart thrumming as fast as yours was. The light drizzle of rain overhead was growing heavier by the second.

This was not the makeup session Carol or Michonne had envisioned when they’d sent the two of you off to talk. You and Daryl just happened to make amends a little differently than most—semi-publicly, sometimes.

“Can’t imagine how bad it’s been achin’ since I last fucked that pretty little hole,” Daryl continued, index and middle finger now rubbing lazy circles over the spot where he’d pried your bikini to the side.

You sat, spread eagle with your mouth ajar and your eyes on his. Oh, how he loved you like this: partly supine and looking so pathetic. His fingers worked even faster.

“Been needin’ daddy’s touch, has it?” he teased before moving his digits to your slick entrance. Then, pressing just a finger inside and feeling your walls instinctively contract, “Now tha’s a believable squeeze.”

He smiled and you realized he knew a real clench from a fake one by now. That dramatized show you’d put on for him earlier almost made you feel ashamed now, gathering just how good a proper fingerfucking felt when you actually gave your boyfriend the chance to try.

He pushed another finger inside and curled them both with expert precision. You let out a helpless moan the second he grazed your g-spot.

“Baby, I need it,” you whimpered, “I need to cum so, so badly.”

Daryl nodded as though feeling your pleasure—and pain. He worked a vicious rhythm against your cunt and let a smile spread across his lips the longer he watched you writhe and moan amidst the hot, churning waters. When your stomach started to flutter and your entrance gave a warning pulse, you didn’t even need to inform him of your impending climax; you closed your eyes and prepared for the sweet bliss in expectant silence.

That was, until, Daryl retracted his fingers and climbed out of the hot tub.

Sorely misled ecstasy withered before your eyes.

You whined. Louder than you meant to.

“Daryl!”

Your boyfriend had taken up a spot standing at the side of the hot tub, pretending to be so overcome with heat exhaustion that he just couldn’t stay in a second longer.

He wiped his brow and watched you smugly.

“You say sumn’, sugar?” he asked as he sat down on the water’s edge to plant a kiss at the top of your head.

“You’re sick,” you muttered, dodging any additional condescending smooches by scooting over. When Daryl slowly leaned down toward the water, you scowled.

Then he patted the wet slab of concrete beside him.

“Jus’ want you to cum on my tongue. C’mon.” He said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world—clearly he couldn’t eat you out underwater, so he was just being kind to give you a place to sit while he tonguefucked you silly.

You pretended not to notice the smirk twisting at the corners of his lips as you climbed out of the hot tub and reluctantly followed his motions.

Your legs spread just a little, now perched at the edge of the sauna while Daryl sank back in the water and positioned his head perfectly with your core. A sidelong glance to the nearest window showed that Carol had disappeared from the kitchen, but you knew you would have to make this quick.

Without ceremony, you yanked a tuft of Daryl’s wet hair and guided his face even closer to your heat. Far past the point of pleasantries, you pulled your bathing suit to the side and presented yourself, bare as ever, to Daryl’s eager tongue and lips.

Your boyfriend supplied you with both in an instant, dragging his tongue up the whole length of your slit with a groan. Wanting to savor the taste, were it not for your quiet pleas for him to finish this, please, Carol could be back any minute.

Daryl lapped between your folds, happy as ever, and left a series of suctioned kisses on the spots where he knew you needed him most. Gripped your thighs in either hand, pulled your bottoms so far he almost snapped the fabric in half, and practically devoured that needy cunt.

The man was a pussy-eating prodigy, to put it mildly. He dove deep between your thighs like oxygen was the furthest thing from his mind and sucked on your clit as if it were a lifeline. Your back arched out of instinct, legs clamping on either side of his head and chest rising and falling in stuttered breaths. You moaned and felt Daryl’s own grunts join the reverberations shaking your body; for a second, you thought you were almost seeing stars.

When Daryl inserted two fingers and swirled his tongue around that sensitive nub, you were certain that moment was soon to come.

“Mmm, just like that, baby, fuck,” you breathed, rutting your hips ever slightly against his face. Daryl, soaked with your arousal and waves of scalding water, just held his place and kept licking over, and over, and over.

Your grip fastened harsher in his hair the second a pleasant coil pulled tight along your tummy. You planted your calves on either side of Daryl’s neck, braced your body to the concrete, and felt a heady bliss make its second appearance of the night.

A quiet slurp marked the sudden disconnect between Daryl’s mouth and your aching core. You almost fell off the edge of the hot tub as your mind and body both stopped devastatingly short of full climax. This time, you almost shrieked.

“DARYL!”

“Got a tongue cramp. Sorry.”

Too bad he was grinning from ear-to-ear with no trace of a muscle spasm anywhere on his face. You splashed him with a massive wave and went scrambling to your feet.

“Fuck this. I’ve got a vibrator at home.” You were already pulling your panties back in place, muttering some less-than kind words under your breath, and kicking yourself twice for ever believing Daryl was mature enough to treat this as anything other than a game.

“Hey! Baby, wait!” Daryl called after you. Then he was getting up and getting out too.

“You blame me for fucking around, and you— you go and pull some shit like this?!”

You waved a silent, dismissive hand when Daryl started after you, trailing hot on your heels with a look that almost would’ve seemed apologetic had he not been fighting a laugh the entire time.

When his hands landed on your shoulders from behind, you moved to shrug him off and told him, with a finger supplanting your words, to get fucked. You groaned internally when Daryl pulled you in for a tight embrace.

“It’s called edging, sweetheart,” he hummed in your ear.

“It’s called being an asshole and shutting my orgasms down on purpose.” You wriggled to free yourself from his arms but found the man behind you unwilling to cooperate; in fact, the more you struggled, the more snug his grasp got. You battled against his far superior strength no longer than a minute or two before Daryl plucked you right off your feet and into a bridal hold.

“What do we say when we really wanna cum?” he asked, almost patronizing. Then, as if to put a finer point on it, he ambled toward the edge of the pool and swayed your soft, soaking frame over it.

“You’re fucking crazy!” you hissed, still wrestling against his chest.

You sensed that might not have been the wisest choice of words given your current predicament, but Daryl didn’t seem fazed in the slightest.

“Did I hear a ‘please’ in there?” he asked, rocking you back and forth over the water’s edge.

“Please put me down.” Your voice was low and importunate, eyes warning him just the same.

“O-kay.”

And down you went. Into the pool. Your boyfriend still cradling you in his arms while you thrashed and splashed and called him every profane name in the book.

You’d just swept the wet mass of hair from your forehead when Daryl pinned you to the wall. Your back was flush to his chest, and his breath was hot on your ear.

“Promise y’ain’t gonna fake it this time?” Daryl murmured through gritted teeth, one hand yanking your swimsuit bottoms to the side and the other pulling his own down his hips.

You gripped the side of the pool and cast a quick look to the kitchen. Carol was nowhere in sight, but who knew how much longer she—and everyone else—would be gone? You bit your lip when Daryl dragged the head of his cock between your legs.

“We can’t do this, Dar—”

“I said, are you gonna fake it? Pretty simple question.”

Your folds had already parted with his length in between them, hole pleading for his entry when all he had done was rut his hips in place and tease your slit. You pressed your ass right into him and tried hard not to whine as you sensed your cover could be blown at any moment. Daryl nipped at the skin behind your ear and repeated his question, this time enveloping your frame with his when he bent you over the side of the pool.

Your eyes flickered to the warm glow of the kitchen, and you felt the rain come down even harder—your vision, with the distance and the downpour, was almost totally obscured.

Fuck it.

“Promise I won’t— I swear.” Your voice now scarcely above a whisper.

That seemed to satisfy Daryl well enough. No more than a second later, he was plowing inside you, gripping your hip for support and your hand in his own for what seemed to be encouragement of sorts. You squeezed his fingers back as soon as the first influx of pleasure rolled through you.

“Quiet, quiet for me, baby,” Daryl warned close to your ear, gaze scanning the house for any new onlookers, “Jus’ stay. fuckin’. quiet.”

He wasted no time railing you from behind—an impressive feat for a man standing halfway underwater—and simultaneously kept a lookout for your friends inside. Before him, you’d folded like a lawn chair over the wet concrete, yielding to each thrust like you were born for this position and made to take his cock. Then your walls clenched around him, whimpers came loud and fast, and the rain beat a shrill cadence all around.

Daryl dropped a hand to your clit and smiled the second you whined and almost bucked him off. Finally, that sweet sensitivity was back.

He knew from two false starts and more hard edging than you ever would have liked to endure, you wouldn’t last long. You felt a pressure on your neck bringing you up to his chest and those same, ardent lips almost charring your skin when they pressed above your ear:

“Who’s a good girl?”

Another sharp thrust in your cunt.

“I am,” you cried, clawing at his wrist the second his fingers started tightening around your throat. Almost unable to bear it, but loving it all the same.

“Gonna be honest with daddy ‘bout those orgasms?” Daryl chided, “Make a mess of daddy’s cock like yer s’posed’a?”

You nodded as best you could with your throat trapped in his hold and your lips damn near turning blue the second he got to kissing them. Your back arched into his chest, and your body convulsed with pleasure the deeper he went. Daryl loved the way you watched him as he did.

That was what he’d missed. That was what he knew you couldn’t muster in your piss-poor performances of late, what had tipped him off to the truth of your euphoric state with times like today. This was what he needed to see every time he fucked you from now on—if he had to spend a lifetime or two trying to get you there, so be it.

Daryl caught your lips in a long, heated kiss before bottoming out inside you. The sharp nudge to your insides and the brush against your most delicate spot was more than enough to push you over the edge.

Bliss broke through your body like a bat out of hell, and your moans rang loud in Daryl’s mouth as he fucked you through it. And, sadistic motherfucker that he was, he actually smiled when your teeth sank through his lip and drew blood from the surface.

All he cared was that you came, no bullshit this time.

As a metallic tang and an ecstatic trance washed over you, your body went limp in Daryl’s arms. He pulled out, still hard, and rubbed a hand over your ass underwater.

You could feel him beaming with pride right behind you.

But, just when he moved to turn you around, a sight in the bushes sent your heart in your throat. One dark patch of foliage shook with unusual force a few yards away, and you heard some sticks break as someone, shielded by leaves, appeared to lose their balance.

Daryl’s grip on you locked, then tightened, then dropped altogether when a clumsy form came tumbling out.

“EUGENE!”

#daryl dixon #daryl dixon smut #daryl dixon one shot #daryl dixon imagine #daryl x reader #the walking dead #twd daryl #twd fanfiction #twd imagine #smut

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baandar · 1 year

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reading the dsm-5 and wow is it obvious how much psychologists look down on their patients

#i feel like treatment for mental illness should be structured around creating and sustaining independence and literally nothing else #the entry on autism literally reads like 'OMG THIS FREAK CAN'T MANAGE SMALL TALK ... '#'IF WE NORMALIZE THESE TRAITS OUR GOOD CHRISTIAN NATION WILL CRUMBLE TO THE SLAVERING HORDES OF THE SOCIALLY AWKWARD'#like ok. and. thats not really a symptom that needs correcting you weirdo #id say its one step away from social eugenics but given the dialogue around treatment it literally just is social eugenics

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faithshouseofchaos · 1 month

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Can you write something about Fernando Alonso and younger reader (age gap)

Forbidden — Fernando Alonso x Stroll! reader

Tagged— @ashy-kit @astraeaworld @67-angelofthelordme-67 @a-casual-romantic @alwayzbeenale @amatswimming @bblouifford @bbtoni @barcelonaloverf1life @badassturtle13 @charlesf1leclerc @crashingwavesofeuphoria @clowngirlsstuff @dark-night-sky-99 @dudenhaaa27 @eugene-emt-roe @embrosegraves @faithsotherhouseofchaos @formulas-bitch @f1ln4dr3cl16mv33 @hangmandruigandmav @hrts4scarr @hollie911 @ironcowboycopnickel @jeffs77 @lightdragonrayne @lollypop90907 @laura-naruto-fan1998 @ladymarvel27 @moss-on-tmblr @natailiatulls07 @norrisleclercf1 @omgsuperstarg @oconswrld @otako5811 @purplephantomwolf @scotlynaurora @starkwlkr @taylorswifts-cardigan @toasttt11 @vellicora @venusisnothere @vivwritesfics

Ever since you were a teenager you know you’d like older men. Maybe it was the daddy issues, maybe it wasn’t but still you knew. Fernando Alonso your Older brother teammate and your fathers Second Driver. You shouldn’t be so drawn to the older Spanish man but you were and how could you not. He was always around and there was no escaping him so you just gave in.

It started in 2022 the two of you had gotten drunk at George’s New Year’s party and you had hooked up. You woke up alone and hungover with no trace of the older driver and when you both talked about it you two had decided to go your separate ways but it was still awkward in a way. Every interaction there was this tension in the air that everyone could feel. And it stayed that way the rest of the year.

Until 2023 you found yourself at another one of George’s Halloween parties and the cycle repeated itself. Only difference this time is when you woke up Fernando was there. His back turned away from the sheets covering his hips and his tattoo on full display.

“Puedo sentirte mirando” Fernando said groggily, turning to face you.

“Can you blame me?” You asked.

“No, I can't,” Fernando replied, reaching his hand around and pulling you onto his chest. He brought you close. “But I know this is wrong”

“It might be wrong but it feels so right,” you said as you wrapped your arms around his neck, your hands running through his dark hair.

“I know” Fernando admitted, he couldn’t help but grin.

After a while Fernando spoke up “So now what?”

“Maybe we should just accept what we are to each other, a little more than friends” you said. Fernando looked at you and smiled.

“A lot more than friends,”He replied.

“Much more than friends” you added as you moved your hand down his hips.

“Much much more than friends” he repeated.

You kissed him deeply as you two shared the day together.

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hometoursandotherstuff · 2 months

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You KNOW there's no HOA here, so be free, purple lovers. All I can say is wow. 2004 contemporary home built in Eugene, Oregon has 4bds, 4ba, asking $1.85M. I know house prices are out of control, right now, but I swear this house looks no more than $765K, tops.

In this aerial view, it shows the house painted white on top, so which is it? Love the purple barn.

The large front porch. Purple doesn't go well w/some colors. I don't care for it w/black, too much, but I really don't like it with this brown floor.

The front room has the typical oak stairs with balcony. Is that a built-in cabinet in that weird little niche?

Not much of a grand living room for $1.85M. Oh, look, there's a shelf above the bump-out- you can put shit up there.

Very awkward layout. Interesting place for a fire extinguisher and bathroom, but it looks like someone is sleeping here.

This bath goes straight thru to the primary bedroom, so there's a share situation.

But, first there's a relatively small walk-in closet.

The primary bedroom has double doors that open to the front porch.

Open concept family room/kitchen. There's a wall of windows that open to a deck.

The kitchen's not bad. I wonder if the wisteria over the sink conveys.

Off the kitchen is a laundry room/pantry.

This area would serve as the dining room, since there's no other formal space for it, and you can see it opens to the deck.

There's a guest powder room. I like the sink.

Pretty big secondary bedroom. Looks like there's trap door access to the attic, in the ceiling.

This would be bath #2, with fish decals everywhere for an oceanic theme.

This bedroom is larger and has 2 mirrored closets.

This room is open to the mezzanine. It looks like it has a door and it does have an en-suite.

Quite a large en-suite.

And, finally, bd. #4.

There's a large family room space up in here. Look at the cubbies along the wall. You could probably sit in there, too.

The porch and wrap-around deck on the back of the house.

That's the Willamette River going by.

This is cute. Looks like a chicken coop. I hate when they put the dog house so far away, though.

There are 12.27 acres of land, so the description is calling it an estate. (The Poiple Manor House.)

https://www.zillow.com/homedetails/85627-Dilley-Ln-Eugene-OR-97405/48457156_zpid/?

#purple houses #contemporary architecture #houses #house tours #home tour

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ynbabe · 3 months

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Fake texts au- pt.16 bffs with the rookies+ revenge is a dish best served cold and glittery

When you woke up, you were tagged in many stories, almost all the drivers had put up stories in your support, chastising the paparazzi that had stormed you and asked inappropriate questions, even a lot of the Barcelona team (the ones you knew) were in your support.

Gavi is messaging you to complement your right hook, and Pedri to ask if you were okay.

The man you had punched was fired from his job and now wasn't allowed within 100 feet of you (courtesy of Max's lawyers), you had also gotten most of your things back, only left without your laptop.

And your 'friends'? Well, you knew just what to do to them. You still had some people you could trust back in the UK so you made them fill up all their dorm rooms with glitter and itching powder, and then blocked them everywhere, any and all communication would now be through Max's lawyers and man were you happy about that.

You were sure the next swing you took would be at them.

The university had allowed you to complete the rest of your course online, only giving the finals on ground, they were quite happy not to be spoken to by the lawyers knowing it was partially their security's fault to allow so many paparazzi to storm you in the first place.

You didn't feel comfortable going to the Las Vegas race and even Abu Dabi, just wanting a break but now? Oh now you were back for revenge, revenge on everyone who thought your life was theirs to judge.

You opened your group chat, you’d spent time FaceTiming and talking to the boys individually but it felt to awkward, to real to be in a group again but fuck that, these boys were your best friends! Lando, Charles and Max were like the older brothers you never had! Even Lorenzo checked up on you almost daily. You weren’t going to give all this up just because of some idiots.

You smiled as normalcy set into the atmosphere again. You called up a few people asking them if they could make and they all could, making you happier.

Things were finally getting better and now you could support your friends without feeling guilty about it.

You had missed the season end but had called Max to congratulate him, but hadn't felt safe enough to go to the party however much he asked but now you were going to be there for them, the people who've always been there for you.

This ones a lil shorter than usual but I needed a filler to move ahead😭

and we're back to the og texts!!! Hope yall like this one! Also I still can't comment idk why.

Taglist: @dark-night-sky-99 @cashtons-wife @i-wish-this-was-me @thehufflepuffavenger1 @eugene-emt-roe @fangirl-dot-com @landosgirlxoxo @aquangxl @sachaa-ff @tyna-19 @assholeinatrenchcoat @allenajade-ite @megatrilss1885 @squirreljoe @jsjcue @s4turnsl0ver @yl90 @elijahslover @trouble-sistar @notizzyj @chilwell-mount @hiireadstuff

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toournextadventure · 1 year

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everyone but her pt.2

a/n: here we go, the poor excuse of a plot thickens. wednesday will make a move. EDIT: previously titled everyone but her

Word Count: 3.1k Warnings: swearing, talk of injuries, usual threats of bodily harm from Wednesday Pairing: Wednesday Addams x Reader (Masterlist)

Enid was going to murder Wednesday. She was going to cut off her braids and hug her until she stopped breathing. A slow, agonising death in one of the worst ways Wednesday could possibly imagine. That’s what Enid was going to do to her because it shouldn’t be this complicated!

She had been so excited to see you show up to their dorm with a single rose and a vest that was to die for. For once, you had both listened to her and her very accurate, very helpful, foolproof advice. And now you were both finally going to go on a date and Enid knew she made a good cupid and-

“-You ready?” You asked, and her smile only grew bigger.

Enid heard Thing scrambling across the floor before he appeared on your shoulder. You offered him the rose and he almost blushed - if a hand could do that - before taking the flower and carrying it over to Enid’s desk, and her smile instantly dropped. She noticed he didn’t get anywhere near Wednesday, who was now glaring at the both of you.

“I’ll have him back by 9,” you said with a smirk directed right at Wednesday.

“Any later and I’ll pluck your feathers out one by one,” Wednesday said in a tone that would have frightened even the most hardened criminals.

“We already got a shovel talk,” you said to Thing, “guess she approves.”

Oh if looks could kill, Wednesday would have murdered you both right on the spot. You gave a quick “later!” before closing the door, taking Thing on what was supposed to be your date with Wednesday. All while Enid just stood there flabbergasted. How could that have gone so wrong?

“What was that?” Enid asked once she finally managed to pull her thoughts back together.

“A date,” Wednesday answered, quickly turning back to her typewriter. “I thought you knew what those were.”

“It was supposed to be a date with you,” Enid threw back. “Not Thing!”

“Yet here we are,” Wednesday said with a tone of finality.

“Ugh,” Enid groaned before throwing herself onto her bed. Why were you both so useless!

The door opened at a quarter to nine. Enid was still pouting in bed and Wednesday had gone out onto the balcony to play her cello. Thing crawled up onto the desk and swooned dramatically by the rose that was still there.

"How did it go, traitor?" Enid asked.

Thing answered, barely finishing before Enid threw her pillow as hard as she could at the desk and knocked him off.

"What do you mean you don't kiss and tell?!"

------

“This spot taken?” You asked as you sat across the table from Eugene. Sweet, misguided, awkward little Eugene.

“This making friends thing isn’t working,” he said before you could even get settled. “How do you do it?”

“You just… talk to them,” you said with a shrug.

You couldn’t count how many times you had told him all of this. It wasn’t that he didn’t listen; he hung onto every word that left your mouth. He was just… really bad at talking to people. Is this how Wednesday sees me and math? You thought to yourself with a slight frown. Well, that would surely be embarrassing.

“But how?” He asked again. “What do you even talk about?”

“Common interests,” you said around the handful of sunflower seeds you had just tossed into your mouth. “It’s an easy starting point.”

“No one has any interests with me,” he huffed. You almost felt sorry for him.

No, scratch that, you did feel sorry for him. He was just a kid. An awkward one, sure, but a kid nonetheless. Not that you were so incredibly old, but let’s be real, anyone younger than you is a kid. And even then, you could remember what it was like to be 13. It was rough, and it sucked, and you had always wished there had been someone to help you get through it.

You weren’t perfect, but you were willing to help as much as you could.

“Then make them up,” you finally said with a shrug.

“Lie?” Eugene asked.

“No, don’t lie,” you said with a huff and a small smile. “Just… make it up as you go along.”

“Have you done that before?” He asked, suddenly leaning forward across the table. He seemed far too interested.

“Once, yeah,” you answered.

“And it worked out?” He asked again, his voice matching the energy he was practically exuding.

“That’s a good book,” you said as you walked up to her in the library.

“Is it?” She asked; she had a cute smile. “I’m still undecided about it.”

“You should definitely read it,” you continued. “We can even read it together, that way you have someone to talk about it with,” you suggested with a shrug.

She looked you up and down and bit her bottom lip. It wasn’t just her smile that was cute, you decided. With any luck, she wouldn’t call your bluff on never having read the book. Hell, you didn’t even know what it was about. What was it even titled? Oh shit, it looked boring.

“I like that idea,” she said as she held her hand out to you. “I’m Ash.”

You reached out and took her hand. It was soft.

“Y/N.”

“I suppose it worked out alright,” you mumbled as your head fell back to the table. Suddenly, your lunch didn’t seem so appetising anymore.

Eugene started asking question after question, trying his hardest to cling to what you had said. How do you come up with things so quickly? Is it a trick he could learn? What if he couldn’t find a way to work things into a conversation? By the end of lunch, your head was reeling with questions that, quite frankly, you had no answer to.

“Eugene,” you started before he could ask another question, “there’s no deadline to learning this stuff.”

“I just… feel behind,” he said as his head hung low. Oh fuck me, you thought as his unintentional guilt trip started working against you.

“How about we talk about it some more over coffee,” you suggested.

“Really?” He asked, his head snapping up instantly. “Saturday at 11?”

“It’s a date,” you said with a soft smile.

“Thanks, Y/N!” Eugene shouted out as he stood up and ran off to whatever his next class was.

You sighed and looked down at the table again. A half-eaten apple, some sunflower seeds, your water. None of it even looked appetising anymore, what were you even supposed to-

“Another date?” Enid called out causing you to look up and meet her eyes. “Really?”

“Tell Addams you snooze, you lose,” you taunted as you stood up and grabbed your own stuff.

You could hear her obnoxiously loud groan follow you while you walked away. It almost made you laugh.

------

Enid was this close to giving up on you two. So far you had been on a date with Thing, Eugene, Xavier, Bianca, and even Ajax (though she knew it wasn’t really a date, she had essentially told him to join you for lunch anyway). But the one person you hadn’t gone on a date with yet? The only person who genuinely wanted a date with you?

Wednesday fucking Addams.

She had tried and begged and pleaded for Wednesday to just finally give in and ask you on a date. Just one date! That’s all it was going to take for her ship to sail! But no, Wednesday Addams had to be the most stubborn girl alive and refuse to do anything that she would deem too soft.

“Suck in your pride,” Enid begged once again after sitting across the booth from her roommate.

“That’s what weak people do,” Wednesday answered simply.

“What are you going to do if someone genuinely asks her on a date first?” Enid asked. She noticed her roommate’s hand falter before bringing the cup back up to her lips.

“No one will ever find their remains,” she answered.

Enid threw her hands up in the air. This was starting to get ridiculous. You both clearly liked each other even if you refused to admit it. Why was this so difficult for you both? Someone better make the first move before she lost her goddamn mind!

“Having a lovely date, ladies?”

She wanted to throw her coffee at your head to wipe that stupid, cocky smirk off your face. Maybe it would ruin that outfit that you had admitted you wore just for Wednesday. You needed to quit taunting her and just ask Wednesday out already!

“I’m getting another coffee,” Wednesday stated, promptly getting up and heading to the counter. You slid into the booth where she had just been sitting.

“Just ask her out already,” Enid whisper-shouted at you.

“Not until she asks me herself,” you whisper-shouted back. You grabbed the cup Wednesday had been drinking from and downed the rest of it. Like an animal, Enid thought with a grimace. “She needs to be humbled,” you finished, standing up just in time for Wednesday to come back to her spot.

“You’re going to drive me insane,” Enid accused you.

“I’ve heard it’s quite enjoyable,” Wednesday cut in. She did not have another cup of coffee with her. Liar.

“See, Sinclair?” You asked. “It’ll be fun.”

“Get out before I claw you,” Enid threatened; she hated that you laughed instead of acting scared like you were supposed to. You knew she needed the confidence boost.

“Easy, tiger,” you teased as you backed away, hands in the air in mock surrender, “enjoy the rest of your date.”

That was it. She was just going to throw herself off the balcony when she got home. She gave up.

------

Why did it always have to be hunters? They weren’t even monster hunters, they were just regular hunters? And yet, by some stroke of fate, they always managed to clip you. Maybe it should’ve been your sign to quit flying in the woods late at night. No, no you had every right to these woods. The hunters should quit walking around late at night.

But that distinction didn’t really matter at the moment. Not when y

our wing was now tucked over your arm to cover your injury and your body was brusied from the fall and you were desperately thinking of anyone that you would trust to help you patch it up. But who could you go to? No one, you thought once you started sneaking back onto school grounds.

There is one person, you thought again, looking up at the split circular window of Ophelia Hall.

“Fuck me,” you mumbled, but your feet didn’t really care what your mind was telling you. It cared more about getting you to safety than your own mental dilemma about life.

You knocked on the door your usual three times; you could hear the clacking of the typewriter stop. A bit of shuffling later and the door opened, with Wednesday now in her giant jacket and looking quite comfy for the night. She looked so adorable in that jacket. How would she look in your jacket, you wondered.

“You’re bleeding,” she said, bringing you out of your thoughts.

Oh yeah. That’s why you were even there in the first place.

“Is Enid here?” You asked as you trudged into the room, instantly glancing over to the brighter half. You missed the way Wednesday froze at your words.

“She and Thing are with Yoko,” she answered, “sorry to disappoint you.”

Shit, that wasn’t what you meant. Wait. That meant you were actually alone with Wednesday Addams. No, scratch that; you were injured and alone with Wednesday Addams. She could probably smell the fear on you. She probably knew how to patch you up, but would she even want to? Would she even care?

“Is there a particular reason that you’re bleeding out on my bedroom floor?” Wednesday asked, drawing you out of your thoughts again. Damn you were thinking too much.

“Well, it’s a little too cold to be bleeding out outside,” you answered immediately, turning around quickly to shoot her a smile; you regretted it when you felt your wound pull.

“Sit down in front of the bed,” Wednesday demanded. You didn’t argue.

It was awkward sitting with one wing in the harness and one wing out; it felt unnatural and restricting. You could feel Wednesday sit where she could have easy access to the wound on your shoulder. The bed squeaked underneath her as she shuffled around and reached out to check-

-your wings flinched as soon as the wind from her movements touched the feathers.

“Sorry,” you mumbled before pulling your knees up to your chest. Oh god, this was going to be humiliating. “They’re… sensitive.”

“There’s birdshot in it,” Wednesday said in an uncharacteristically soft voice, “but I’ll patch up your arm first.”

You let out a shaky breath as Wednesday got started picking buckshot out of your arm. She must have really been enjoying herself; you knew how much she loved taking things apart. Getting to dig around in flesh and muscle must have been a field day for her. It hurt like hell, but at least she was having fun, right?

“Stay still,” she commanded, and your body stilled as the tweezers dug a little deeper into your shoulder. “Got it.”

“You’re way too happy about my misery,” you finally accused in a strained voice as she wiped the wound down with something that stung.

“It’s almost as enjoyable as an autopsy,” she replied.

“Never heard that before,” you admitted with a small smile as you started attempting to rotate your shoulder. It hurt like a bitch, but at least it was all cleaned up.

“All that’s left is your wing,” Wednesday continued, causing you to freeze.

Any attempt to move it sent a shock up the bone and down your spine. There was no genuine way you could get all the birdshot out on your own; even if you could bend it far enough, there was no guarantee you would be able to get it all. But it was so uncomfortable for anyone to touch them, what if you panicked?

“You never let anyone near them,” she said; it wasn’t a question. “How do you want to do this?”

“I don’t…”

“It’s a demonic costume, Y/N,” your father argued with you once again, “take it off.”

“I told you I can’t,” you shot back. The tiny wings on your back fluttered with your words. “They won’t come off.”

“Then I’ll cut them off,” your father growled. He stood up and grabbed the scissors in the kitchen, walking back to where you stood with a scowl and a determination to-

“I’ll stay back,” Wednesday said, her voice drawing you out of your thoughts. “I’ll guide you.”

You looked up at her with glassy eyes. She was… still willing to help? Willing to guide you through fixing yourself up? It wasn’t going to upset her to not touch them? An uneasiness settled in your stomach; not one of neausea, but something entirely different. Maybe…

“You can fix it,” you said, so softly that you weren’t sure if she had heard you.

Your eyes stayed fixed to the floor as you stretched your wing out slightly, ignoring the jolt of pain that went down the length of the bone. With closed eyes and bated breath, you waited. It had been years since anyone had touched them, was it going to be painful? Was it going to make you panic? Was it-

-a shaky whine escaped your lips when Wednesday’s soft fingers brushed against the bend of your wing.

“Are you okay?” Wednesday asked, her fingers still resting against the sensitive wing.

“Mhmm,” you hummed and tucked your head into your knees, hoping she didn’t notice the rush of heat making it’s home on your face and neck.

She was being far too soft with her movements. Her fingers brushed too gently against the feathers, causing them to ruffle on their own. It was hard to focus on what she was muttering about when you were trying so damn hard to keep your wings still. It was like as soon as Wednesday touched them, they had a mind of their own.

“How do you even fly?” She finally asked loud enough for you to hear. You could tell she wasn’t even cleaning up the wound anymore.

“Apparently I don’t,” you grumbled as your injured wing twitched for emphasis. “Seems all I’m good for is falling instead.”

“Well, you’re fixed now,” she said, her fingers finally moving away.

You tucked your wing in quickly and pushed yourself to your feet, ignoring the ache that had finally settled in all your bruises. There was still a heat to your face that you refused to let Wednesday see. She could not know she had made you blush, even if it was the last thing you ever did.

“My services come with a cost,” Wednesday said. “You can buy me dinner tomorrow.”

You turned around slowly, your brows furrowed and the blush faded.

“Is… is this your way of asking me out?” You asked hesitantly. Now it was her turn to look away.

“What if it is?” She asked.

“Then I think I’m gonna need you to try a little harder,” you said with a small smirk. Her head spun to face you, all hesitancy on her face gone as she pointed at the door.

“You can leave the way you came in,” she said with a huff. It was pretty cute, you weren’t going to lie.

“Whatever you say, Addams,” you said in a soft voice. She was still glaring at you, but her eyes softened ever so slightly. You walked - or rather limped - over to the door and turned back just long enough to say “thank you.”

You stayed outside the door for a moment, a ridiculous smile on your lips. She had almost asked you out on a date. Maybe there was still hope. You might have been putty in her hands, but Wednesday Addams was going to cave and ask you out properly.

It was only a matter of time.

#wednesday addams x reader #wednesday x reader #wednesday addams

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madebycloud · 10 months

Text

Just the Two of Us

wednesday addams x reader — 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

summary: wednesday had her doubts about the arcade date, especially when your friends decided to tag along. but in the midst of a crowded place, she realizes that being alone with you makes all the difference. warnings/themes: fluff, arcade date (uhh, that's all i guess.. 🏃💨) words: 2.2k

Wednesday sat in the car, staring out the window. She couldn't help but feel annoyed by the noise all around her. She felt trapped in the middle seat, with Enid on one side and Yoko on the other.

She longed to be on the seat beside you, but, alas, Enid had claimed that spot before you had the chance. She couldn't help but begrudge Enid for taking it from you, even though it was probably an accident.

Tyler, the driver, turned on the radio, playing a pop song that the whole car started singing. Thing is tapping his fingers on top of her shoulder, trying to jam along.

Wednesday, however, remained silent, her shoulders slumped, and she looked out the window as the scenery flew by. You watched her, feeling a sense of guilt and shame. You know she wanted this date to be intimate and private, not a group outing that included your friends.

Wednesday tried to sink deeper into her seat. Enid, beside her, kept trying to talk to her, but she would barely respond. When she did, it was brief and blunt. Tyler turned off the radio, trying to get the girls to quiet down. Xavier and Eugene were sitting in the back of the car, playing a mobile game together.

You turn around to check on her, and she responds with a short, snappy, "I'm fine."

She just hopes the destination is worth it because this car ride is already making her regret coming along.

—

The car pulls up to the side of the street, and you step out, ready to open the door for your friends.

You extended your hand for Wednesday to take it, but she ignored it. You stood there with your hands still in the air for an awkward moment.

After a few uncomfortable moments, you close the door and catch up with the rest of your friends, walking towards the arcade. Enid is already running towards the arcade. "It's an arcade," she announced, like it was the greatest thing on earth.

Thing is inside the car, playing a mobile game that Eugene left behind for him. He couldn't come. Imagine a disabled hand wandering around—who would want that?

"Let's go bowling first, please?" Enid begged, and you and the others agreed to her request.

Once you gather in the bowling area, Wednesday picks up a ball and readies herself to strike the pins. As Wednesday begins to throw the ball, Bianca enters with a familiar, sarcastic tone. "Oh, look who decided to grace us with their presence."

"Wednesday and her pets," Bianca mocks, using air quotations.

"I think you mean my 'friends'," Wednesday countered, her eyes narrowing. "Oh, I don't think you have any real friends, Wednesday," Bianca taunted.

"I assure you, I have plenty of friends."

"Oh, I'm so sorry, I didn't realize you were counting your pets," Bianca sneered as she threw her head back in a laugh.

Even though you didn't hear the full conversation, it looks like it's getting more heated, so you walk up behind Wednesday, placing your hand on her back. She immediately recognizes your presence and follows your lead, allowing you to pull her away from Bianca.

You can hear Bianca's voice from afar, teasingly saying, "Bye, Wednesday!" But you ignore her and focus on leaving the scene before any more conflicts arise.

"Let's get that fiery temper of yours cooled down, shall we?" you suggested, leading Wednesday to an ice cream counter nearby.

You ordered ice cream for both of you and found a quiet corner to sit in. "My, my. I do suppose we are both alone, aren't we?" You muttered as you eyed the bustling crowd around you.

But she didn't budge, remaining quiet as she gazed upon the passersby.

You decided to let it go. Taking a bite of your ice cream, you continued munching away in silence.

And then, before you have a chance to fully process what's happening, her warm lips press against the corner of your mouth, leaving a faint taste of vanilla ice cream behind. "Don't you have any table manners?" she teases with a roll of her eyes.

"Careful now, my dear," you murmur, the corner of your mouth curling up in a small, teasing grin. "I just might eat messily if you kiss me like that again." Letting out a low chuckle, you placed a quick peck on her cheek.

She must've found your clumsy advances rather... adorable

—

You and Wednesday walk into an arcade, taking in all the flashing lights and game sounds. "Come on, let's play that one," you motion toward the basketball game, reaching for a ball, then you miss the basket... again and again.

She watches you play for a bit before rolling her eyes and muttering, "This is painful to watch."

"Help me out, babe," you coax, still taking aim. Wednesday scoffs, "Move," snatching the ball from you and effortlessly sinking the shot. You cheer her on, "Nice shot, Wednesday!"

In one smooth motion, she broke the high score, and the ticket dispenser springs to life, spitting out a string of tickets.

You move on to other games, such as skee ball, whack-a-mole, and air hockey. Both of you play for hours, and you try your hand at each game with more success than the last. Finally, you win a cute plush teddy bear from the claw machine, and you proudly present it to her, smiling.

—

Only one game remains at the arcade that you've yet to play, and that game is none other than Tekken.

The two of you sat down on the tiny chairs, and you began to explain the mechanics. "It's called Tekken, and it's a two-player game," you begin, gesturing to the screen. "We each pick a character and fight each other."

"So you're saying we get to fight each other?"

"Precisely." You nodded and gestured for her to choose a character, which she did without hesitation.

She scrolls through the roster, eventually selecting Devil Jin, the menacing-looking character that has wings and looks like it could tear you to shreds without even trying.

You select Lili since her cuteness would make Wednesday's defeat all the more satisfying.

The game began, and Wednesday was immediately on the offensive. She started throwing punches and kicks in your general direction, trying to hit you. But you were ready for her, and you easily dodged her attacks.

The game continued, and you could see Wednesday becoming more irritated by the second. She couldn't seem to lay a finger on you, and it was starting to get to her.

You, on the other hand, were having a great time. You couldn't help but tease her a bit, which only made her more frustrated.

After a particularly devastating combo, you emerged victorious. You stood up from the small chair and did a little victory dance, pointing at Wednesday and laughing. "Thank you, thank you!" as if you had just put on a great show for an imaginary audience in front of you.

"And what a battle it was! With my skills against hers, I managed to come out on top. I mean... it wasn't even close," you say with a wink, clearly mocking Wednesday's poor performance.

"You're so obnoxious," Wednesday grumbles. She wasn't used to losing, especially to somebody who was clearly just trying to make her more frustrated.

"Hey, don't be mad. I'm just better than you, that's all," you say with a smirk. You know that this is only going to make Wednesday more irritated, but you can't help yourself.

"Rematch."

Wednesday begins to figure out your plan as you keep playing and she starts to score more hits. But still, you come out on top.

"I hate you," Wednesday mutters under her breath as you take the final round.

You leaned over and whispered in her ear, "Too bad, so sad." Wednesday's eyes narrowed, and she looked at you with a glare. "Fine," she said, "but I'm not giving up yet."

"Rematch. Again."

The two of you continued playing, with Wednesday getting better and better with each round. Eventually, she finally managed to beat you.

"Not bad, not bad," you say, nodding. "But don't get too cocky. I still have ten wins under my belt, and you have only one." You give her a quick kiss on the cheek, and the game resumes.

"Whatever," she says, but her smile betrays her words.

—

You and Wednesday head to the counter to exchange your tickets for prizes. You gestured at the three pink manicure sets behind the counter, "I suggest we trade our tickets for that Barbie... manicure set over there."

Wednesday eyes the prizes with a critical gaze, "If you teach me how to play Tekken, we have a deal."

You chuckle at her response. "Very well then, let’s get that for Thing." You hand over the tickets to the attendant, who begins to count them slowly.

While you wait, you glance around the arcade and see Enid playing the dance game, Xavier and Tyler competing against each other in air hockey, and Eugene and Yoko engaged in the shooting game.

Just when you think it's going to be a long wait, you notice a photo booth in the corner of your eye.

"Look at that... it will take them forever. Come on, let's just get a quick picture." You pull Wednesday by the arm, not bothering to ask for permission, and drag her toward it.

You stood before the photo booth, eyeing it with curiosity. The black curtain was draped over the entrance, and upon closer inspection, you discovered that it only had one seat.

Without hesitation, you sat down on it and motioned for her to join you. She obliged, climbing onto your lap as if she belonged there. With her back toward you, you wrapped your arms tightly around her waist.

"What's next?"

You pulled out a ten-dollar bill from your pocket and handed it to her, pointing to the slot for inserting the money. She followed your instructions without saying a word, and the screen of the machine opened, revealing a reflection of the two of you.

With a smirk, you leaned back," Click the button when I say 'cheese.'"

You took a deep breath, preparing to say the magic word. "Cheese," you told her with a wink, grinning wildly.

She rolled her eyes and pressed the button, causing the flash to go off.

On the next one, Wednesday didn't budge an inch, but you went ahead and made a ridiculous pose, as if you were about to eat her ear. "Snap it," you demanded, and she complied, but not without an eye roll.

Determined to liven things up, you leaned over and whispered, "Make some poses." She groaned, but you weren't about to let her off so easily. "Like this," you demonstrated, holding up a peace sign.

Wednesday gave you a deadpan glance and obediently adopted the same pose, but you could tell by the twitch of her lips that she was trying to hold back a smile.

"Last one," you said, and Wednesday leaned back into you, the back of her body pressing against your chest. You planted a soft kiss on her cheek. The camera flashed once more.

The screen revealed the stickers and filters available, and Wednesday immediately pointed to the knife and skull stickers.

You went wild with the stickers and mustaches, even adding an eye patch to Wednesday's face. After you were done, the machine spat out two copies of the photo, one for each of you. You reached out for the copies, handing one to Wednesday and keeping one for yourself.

"Now let's go claim that manicure set before someone else does."

—

Wednesday's gaze remained fixed on the window, where she watched as the moon peeked in and out of the clouds. The sound of the bumps and creaks of the vehicle made it very difficult to sleep, but she wasn't planning on closing her eyes anytime soon anyway.

Tyler drove with precision, not letting the long and winding roads throw him off. Wednesday remained alert, taking note of everything he did—how he turned, how he changed lanes, how he accelerated and decelerated. She found it intriguing, the way he controlled the vehicle with such ease.

"If You Leave Me Now" by Chicago played on the radio, and Wednesday couldn't help but hum along, her fingers tapping to the rhythm. She wasn't singing or dancing, but she found herself in a sort of hypnotic trance, enjoying the feeling of your head resting on her shoulder.

Your breath stirred the air with every inhale and exhale, and she found herself listening to it, the sound of it soothing her nerves. She could tell you were tired, your breath was slow and heavy, and she was glad you could rest so peacefully on her shoulder.

With her free hand, she lightly runs her fingers over the lines in your palm and plays with your fingers. The touch feels reassuring. She quietly kisses the top of your head in a rare display of affection.

Tyler remains laser-focused on the road, oblivious to the tender moment unfolding in the back seat.

Wednesday takes out the photos from the photo booth earlier and relishes the memories of the day you spent together.

The silly poses you made in comparison to her expressionless gaze were amusing. The stickers you put on her were hilarious, especially the pirate eye patch. And who could forget that kiss on the last one?

She didn't regret coming along after all, not even a little bit.

Note: so i wrote this out at midnight bc i had to pull an all-nighter. it might sound a bit wonky or something, idk 🤷‍♀️ (im questioning the meaning of life right now)

#wednesday #wednesday addams #wednesday netflix #wednesday x reader #jenna ortega #wednesday addams x reader #wednesday x fem!reader #wednesday addams x you #wednesday x you #wednesday addams imagine #wednesday imagine #fluff #jenna ortega x reader

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