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mpregfrance · 5 months

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pls tell us about your take on spamano im on my hands and knees 🙏🧎

just dropped a long post homie <3 but im going to shove random headcanons at u now thanks for enabling my current hyperfixation. also sorry i accidentally posted this before it was ready so i had to take it down and fixed it teehee :3

• i feel like they'd get married on a yacht. i also love when they have a provincial lil life on a farm in the countryside but i just i have this vision of them in their tuxes on this classy ass boat over calm waters on a clear summer's day, popping prosecco with all their guests cheering and toasting them 🥺🥺

• when asked what his favourite part of one another is, toni would say some gay shit like "the way your eyes twinkle when you smirk" and lovi would just be like. "your ass"

• lovi is more uptight about cleanliness but he usually can't be arsed to actually do anything about it. toni can be forgetful and kinda messy, leaving the most random stuff out and making their house cluttered. aka they're both lazy. but they try to split chores pretty evenly and have scheduled cleaning days to make sure their space doesn't get out of hand. they put on their lil aprons and listen to music and always end up dancing 🥺🥺

• they're the couple who will call each other from across the entire house when they need something. toni puts on his sweet voice and lovi screams back at him.

• when antonio serenades lovino with his guitar and soulful singing voice it actually evokes tears in the man. this is not easy to do. we've seen lovino cry in canon but i actually think toni is a wayyy bigger crybaby.

• lovino is a cruel tease; antonio is a coy tease.

• their styles and sizes are pretty similar, so they share clothes often. lovino's fashion sense is slightly more polished, but he's also the kinda guy who sits around in his underwear. except on special occasions, antonio usually dresses more for comfort (think lots of linen and cotton) but of course he looks stunning in anything.

• so as a catholic i'm biased but i do view them (also north italy and france) as devout catholics. their home is covered in intimidating religious imagery. italians do not play when it comes to bleeding crucified jesus figurines.

• antonio is clingy and hates being apart from his husband for too long. they're not allowed (read: can't cope) to eat without one another. no matter how late it'll be after a long day, they need to sit down for a home cooked dinner together.

#ask and ye shall receive #hetalia headcanons #spamano #romaspa #romain #aph spain #hws spain #aph romano #hws romano #aph south italy #hws south italy

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leezlelatch · 1 year

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Copia x Female Reader: Sick Day

Fall finally descends on the Ministry. Torrential rains have already plucked away the lovely reds and oranges which had lined the well-trod pathways through the courtyards and gardens hidden within the church's walls, much to the chagrin of the Siblings of Sin who spent the uncharacteristically warm weather sprawled beneath fluttering leaves.

Now, the cold weather set in, bundling everyone into cloaks and scarves. Fireplaces roar pleasantly in nearly every corner of the building, central heating not quite up to date within the charming, yet antiquated abbey. Even Papa's sermons have taken a yuletide turn, urging his flock to find warmth in the joys of giving and receiving over the winter months. Clothing optional.

However, with weather changes inevitably comes illness.

You open your eyes with a groan, swallowing thickly several times and taking stock of the burning in your throat. Reaching out a hand haphazardly, you fumble around for your bottle of water, leaning on your elbow as you chug the drink, your expression souring as you realize that yes, it is a sore throat. '

"You don't look well," your roommate chimes from her side of the room, glancing at you through the mirror she stands at as she adjusts her outfit for the day.

Habits are...optional. You have one, and wear it for mass, or various other Ministry dealings where necessary, but the entire point of your religion is freedom of expression. The Ministry may have many Catholic similarities, intentionally so, but they aren't quite so austere as Frankie's institution.

"I don't feel well," you respond, laying your head heavily on the pillow, feeling a cough tickle at the back of your throat that you try desperately to stifle, and fail.

"You've been coughing a little the last few days, did you take anything to help?"

"No, but I should have known better," you sigh. "My consequences."

Your roommate walks over to her bedside table, grabbing her phone. Her side of the room is an entire juxtaposition to yours, very neutral, minimalist. Yours is cluttered with Ghost posters, vinyl, books, and other odds and ends you find very important to keep. Let someone take your 90s troll doll from your cold, dead hands.

"I've got to go, but...feel better?" Your roommate says, making her way to the door. You wave at her without saying anything. Your relationship is friendly without the important aspect of an actual relationship. You sleep in the same room. It doesn't go much beyond that.

Lying in abject misery for several seconds, your eyes suddenly widen as you grip your phone, staring at the time on the screen. You're supposed to meet with the Cardinal today after novitiate classes. Ever since you've begun to spend time with him in the illustrious presence of the rat Portobello, you and Cardinal Copia have become quite close, and are growing ever closer. He is sweet, not merely in his personality, but his actions. He remembers things about you - a favorite drink, snack, film, something silly you mention off hand, and will often show up to your little meetings with a treat or a happy thought about your special interests that absolutely tickle you pink.

Copia likes to make puns, often leaving you in a fit of giggles from the absurd and sometimes vulgar things that come out of that man's mouth. And yet, everytime you laugh, that same look of wonderment passes over his features, as if he cannot possibly believe that you find his jokes funny. You often want to hug him in those moments, but physical touch begins and ends with an occasional touch of his gloved hand against yours or with the gentle way he enjoys escorting you around the abbey - his hand at the small of your back, ensuring no obstacles impede your steps.

Today, you offered to help him with a little organization work in his office. Copia has a computer, he can use it, and he has a phone, which he can also use despite texting as if he's never seen one, but when it comes to the more intricate workings of a Ministry attempting to hurtle into the 21st century, he has his difficulties.

"It's a generational thing," you had attempted to explain one evening. "Nothing to be ashamed of."

Copia had merely ducked his head, "Must I be so much older than you, cara mia?"

You had sat back, surprised and distressed by the mournful way he spoke, as if his age had any bearing on how you saw him. As if his age hindered the fluttering in your chest every single time he looked at you. You spent the rest of that evening trying to pull him out of his melancholy, to reassure him that his age merely allowed him to know and share with you a great many things you didn't, that you didn't mind your age gap at all. He had chuckled at that. But you knew he didn't believe you, or at least, didn't believe himself.

Hastily finding his name in your phone, Copia picks up on the second ring, his tone jovial as he greets you by name, the lilting way his accent wraps around the letters making you smile despite the unpleasant sting in your throat.

"I did not see you at breakfast," he continues happily. "I was surprised not to see a piccolo topo at the donut table, so I picked you up a few before they were all gone."

You thrill at the little nickname he gives you, knowing your penchant for sweets, and you sigh at his thoughtfulness that, unfortunately, transforms into a cough.

You can almost see Copia stop wherever he is walking, "Are you well?"

"Copia, I'm so sorry," you say, your voice rough. "I think I have a cold. I woke up feeling terrible."

"Oh no, do not apologize, cara," he clicks his tongue, a string of Italian escaping his lips. "I should have addressed that little cough of yours."

You almost laugh, "That's entirely my fault. I should have known it would turn into something."

"Have you taken anything?"

"I don't have any medicine here," you say, glancing around the room as if something would appear. You cough again, wincing, "My throat is pretty raw."

"Tesoro," Copia breathes into the phone. You're nearly alarmed with how upset he sounds, the endearment new as well. "You need to take something."

"I'll try to go down to see Matron, I just really don't want to get up right now."

"...are you alone?"

"Yes?" You furrow your brow at his anxious tone.

Copia breathes out slowly, "Your Cardinal will bring you something."

Click! The call ends. You pull the phone away from your face and stare at it incredulously, all at once surprised, panicked that he'll see you in this state, and completely, all consumingly flustered by "Your Cardinal." Jumping out of bed, you sway, your head fit to explode from a headache, and attempt to make yourself and your room presentable. What does he mean he's bringing you something!? You can hardly imagine Cardinal Copia in your small dormitory room as if you haven't been in his rooms a few times already.

"That's different," you mutter to yourself, throwing a discarded shirt previously on the floor in the hamper. It really wasn't any different, but you're sick, you aren't going to admit to shit.

Your urgency is unneeded as the dreaded knock on your door does not occur until nearly 30 minutes later. You slowly open the door, the squeak of the old wood perfect for your current mental state. Copia stands just beyond, dressed in his black cassock, a paper bag in one hand, thermas peaking out, and Portobello's small cage in the other.

"Hello, cara," Copia says in that small voice that is simultaneously high-pitched and deep in his throat. He shifts on his feet, lips parted slightly as he gazes at you, eyes trailing over your features as if he's analyzing you for visible injuries.

"Copia," you sigh his name, voice weak. "You brought our baby!"

Your enthusiasm sends you into another coughing fit, and you hastily back away and cover your mouth, your throat positively punishing you for it. You glance up at him sheepishly after, whispering a quiet apology. Copia looks around in a panic for a moment before finding a place to carefully lay Portobello's cage down, placing the bag near it.

Copia holds his hands up, index fingers pointed up as he shakes his head, "No, no! No apologizing, cara, huh? You are sick. And you should be in bed," he gestures to your bed as if he's waving you off. "Go on, or you will not get to see our child."

You nearly scramble to your bed and flop down, hearing him chuckle behind you as he bends down to rummage through the bag he brought.

"How did you know which bed was mine?" You can't help but ask.

Copia merely tilts his head up at you and raises a brow, "I know you." He leans back down, letting out a hum, "Also I very much doubt your roommate would have a poster of me."

You feel your stomach drop out from under you as you turn with a deadpan expression to stare at the tour poster on your wall.

"Would you like me to sign it?" Copia snickers, standing back up.

"Don't perceive me," you groan. "I am ill."

You lay back and pull the covers over your face, blushing furiously at the Cardinal's soft laughter. He is entirely pleased, warmth spreading through his chest to combat the worry he feels over your sickness. You like his music. Copia is suddenly struck with a feeling of accomplishment and pride that he had yet to feel since taking over the Ghost Project. The standards set by the Papas is intimidating at best, the expectations often debilitating, but knowing you keep his image? Oh, amata mia.

You suddenly feel something heavy on your stomach and peak over the edge of your blanket to see Portobello sniffing at the covers, little noises escaping him as he explores. Copia pulls your desk chair very close to your bedside, using your end table as a makeshift work space as he places several water bottles, medicine, and thermas on the surface.

You snuggle Portobello close to your chest, gently stroking his head as you continue to blush up at the Cardinal who appears very focused on his task. You watch as he carefully extracts the medicine from the packet, opening a bottle of water before turning to you with a tut and a soft smile as he takes in the sight of you and Portobello.

"Come now, 'Bello, your mother must take her medicine," he murmurs, carefully exchanging the rat for your medicine and water.

You once, accidentally, heard Copia refer to himself as "Daddy" to his little charges, and to his immense mortification, you were delighted and ran like hell with it. Portobello was both your baby, so...

Taking your medicine, you glance curiously at the thermas, "What's in there?"

Copia blushes, "It is, uh, soup. Soup for you. Chicken noodle. It is good when you are sick, no?"

Placing Portobello back on your chest, who promptly began to snooze, Copia unscrews the cap and carefully deposits the steaming soup into it, pulling out a spoon from his bag. You take it gratefully, your fingers brushing the Cardinal's, his index finger reaching out to linger against the back of your hand before pulling away.

You take a sip, sighing happily. It tastes so good, and you'll take the burning against your throat for this anyday.

"Where did you get it?"

"I...made it."

You look up at Copia, spoon halfway to your lips. He isn't looking at you, rather at the wall, his fingers drumming quickly against his thigh.

"Copia," you smile. "Thank you for taking care of me."

He looks at you then, urgently, leaning forward, his brow furrowing as he places an inquisitive hand on your arm. You nod, and his grip tightens.

"I will always care for you," he whispers. He looks so vulnerable in this moment, his eyes shining with some unsaid emotion. You are both on a precipice, hands clasped, ready to fall. The only question is, will someone step first? Or will you fall together?

"I don't want to infect you," you giggle softly, freeing a hand to gently place yours over his.

With a twinkle in his eye, Copia flips his hand so it is firmly grasping yours. He is here, with you, the rat that set you both on this path sleeping between you, and that is bliss.

"It is a chance I am willing to take," he smiles. "Now eat your soup."

#the band ghost #cardinal copia #cardinal copia x reader #papa emeritus iv #papa iv #papa emeritus iv x reader #female reader #reader insert #prequelle #impera #copia #papa emeritus x reader

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angeltreasure · 5 months

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Hi, I'm Protestant, but could you explain how you "offer up" suffering for souls in purgatory? In fact, could I be a pain in the rear and ask for any and all info you have about purgatory? I've found myself fascinated ever since I learned that offering up your suffering was a thing. Thank you!

Good Evening my brother or sister in Christ!, thank you so much for visiting me. I have a treasure trove of info on Purgatory I will link you here and of course if you have any other questions on Purgatory I’d love to hear back! My asks are always open. That link includes all the texts from what the Catholic Church teaches about Purgatory right from one of our books called the Catechism. I’ve also included my favorite talks on Purgatory by priests and even a course you can take if you want a real theology deep dive. Although the Bible doesn’t directly mention Purgatory, the Catholic Church believes it must exist because no one can enter Heaven without first being cleansed of all their sin. Think of Purgatory as a place of purification.

Now as for offering up our suffering, we must first recognize that pain in itself is a gift. That might sound strange, but, when we unite our pain with Jesus who suffered on the cross to die for us, we can lift up our heart to God and say that we want to offer our pain or deed to lessen the pain of someone suffering in Purgatory. When we do this, it will help push that person/people faster into Heaven (the amount of people and time is not known to us right now).

You can offer up pretty much any pain or action (no matter how little it may seem) to lessen the suffering of souls in Purgatory. Pain for example: the moment you realize you get a paper cut, accidentally stubbing your toe on the coffee table, a migraine, arthritis, going through chemotherapy and radiation for cancer, fibromyalgia, etc, etc.

Good deeds, for example: cleaning your room, helping mom and dad to clean up after a party without being asked to help, picking up a piece of trash outside and throwing it away properly, picking up a fallen pencil from your desk, organizing a cluttered bookshelf, holding the door open for someone, help someone across the street, etc, etc.

Since God is outside of time, He can use your prayers for so many in Purgatory that you’ll never would even expect. You can help your family get to Heaven faster. You can read a prayer already printed or make one up from your heart to offer up that particular good deed or pain. No matter how old you are, no matter your personal disposition if you are disabled or abled bodied, you can make a difference. May God bless you!

#asks #thanks for the ask!#and the icing on the cake is that they pray for you in return

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butchdiaz · 6 months

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fuck it friday

tagged by @exhuastedpigeon i wasn't gonna post anything but nova asked for fleabag crumbs so fleabag crumbs they will get. happy now? @goldenbcnes

He takes a seat in the dusty, cluttered backroom as Eddie scurries off again, mumbling something about ‘Vanilla Earl Grey.’ Buck doesn’t even like tea, but no way in hell is he gonna turn down more time with Eddie. He’d drink toothpaste if Eddie poured it into his cup. He looks around the space, half-office, half-storage room, overflowing boxes of blankets and files stacked in the corner. The table is strewn with stuffed animals and empty mugs and what looks like a large variety of party decorations. His eyes catch on a painting on the wall. There's a woman kneeling at the feet of Jesus, half naked with one hand holding on to the scrap of loincloth that covers his dick. Jesus. Well, he guesses the catholics have to get their horniness out somehow. There’s a clatter from the next room and then Eddie’s nudging open the door with his elbow carrying a tray with a tea set that Buck swears his grandmother owns. He’s shed the fancy robe to reveal a simple black button down and dress pants. Buck pointedly does not stare at his ass, no matter how good it looks in those pants, because that’s a priest, thank you very much. He redirects his eyes to Eddie’s face, and then they find the little white collar around his neck and that’s — that’s worse, somehow, because suddenly his mind is conjuring a vivid image of Eddie wearing nothing but that white collar and — no. Not going there. He is in a church.

tagging @eddiebabygirldiaz @jeeyuns @anxieteandbiscuits @bucks118 @911onabc @shitouttabuck for a very late fuck it friday or inspiration saturday <3

#i havent properly written anything for this in so long she's hibernating #i just have notes on notes on notes #fleabag au #my fic #tag games

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nek-ros · 6 months

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ive been looking up stuff for my state mandated religion class, god i hope my search results wont be cluttered with nothing but catholic ads now

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admaioremdeigloriam · 8 months

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#catholic #catholicism #catholic academia #catholic church #catholics #catholic aesthetic #christianity #religion #christian #catholic clutter #catholic clutter core

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thelostlisbonsister · 7 months

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at-the-depths · 6 months

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#catholic clutter core #catholic aesthetic #mine #at the depths #southern gothic #catholic core #creepy #goth aesthetic #churchcore

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steviewashere · 4 months

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Death Embraces You as I Kiss Your Skin

(also on ao3)

CW: Mild Cannibalism (Just Steve savoring a droplet of Eddie's blood), Major Character Death (They both die in the end), Unhappy Ending, Minor Religious Imagery, Canon Typical Blood/Gore

Rating: Mature!!!!

WC: 1,783

Tags: Secret Relationship, Breaking Obtuse Promises, Steve Asks That Eddie Doesn't Forgive Him, Vecna is Defeated, Grieving Steve Harrington, Loving Something That Death Can Touch

Relationships: Steve Harrington/Eddie Munson, Robin Buckley & Steve Harrington

Characters: Steve Harrington, Eddie Munson, Robin Buckley, Dustin Henderson, Background Nancy Wheeler

------------------------- It goes like this:

Steve and Eddie have had a private—extremely private—relationship in the background between Steve and Nancy's breakup to 1986: The Spring Break Showdown. Kept secret even from Robin.

They've made plans. For the future. Things involving leaving Hawkins in the rearview mirror. Finding a quaint little apartment. Stuffing the rooms with furniture and decorations and clutter—more than Steve's ever been able to have in his childhood home. Making holiday meals and celebrating joint holidays, like Hanukkah and Christmas; Steve was raised catholic and Eddie's born into a Jewish family and it didn't make sense to either of them to erase histories. Going to schools or finding a band, working minimum wage jobs, coming home to each other's waiting arms. Getting kissed on the forehead and cuddles and something more when they get to the bedroom. Maybe adopting a few pets. Getting married, if America ever allows it. Having children. Retiring to California to enjoy the warm beach and cool, glistening ocean. Dying some days apart.

They've planned it all.

But, in comes March of 1986.

Steve's always known that Eddie's little "gig" of drug dealing was going to crumble to pieces sooner or later. Though, he didn't imagine it happening by means of him possibly killing Chrissy Cunningham. And, it may seem unfaithful, but for a very long while (knowing what he knows) Steve believes Eddie actually did. He's strong. Can carry upwards of 120 pounds on his own. And Steve's seen Chrissy—she's petite, easy to throw in the air at basketball games, flexible and maneuverable. So to believe Eddie could kill, that's less of a breech of trust, but more a welcome of pure and simple logic.

Dustin convinces him otherwise. Meaning that, Steve is forced to be on the lookout. Forced to bring supplies. Forced to find Eddie.

And they do, and that's great! However, it's relieving to see the fear in Eddie's eyes, well as relieving as vomiting profusely, nonstop, for days on end. To finally explain himself—the bruises and blood and loose nails alongside a weapon of a baseball bat and why Steve knows so many children. "It's unnerving, Stevie," Eddie had said, "That the nerds I attend school with are, somehow, in your social circle. Don't make me think you're a creep.” They had laughed.

So they band together. And they traverse the Upside Down. The heavy comfort of Eddie's denim laid across Steve's back. Eddie's closeness. His warm breath. But he tries to convince Steve to go back to Nancy, and not because of true love actions or whatever garbage he tries to say at first, but because Eddie thinks he won't make it out of this. "But you will, Eds," Steve promised, "I'll make sure of it."

He breaks that promise. Because of course he does.

The axe falls from his grip. Heavily to the ground. His hand burns from the tightness he held onto the handle. Palm a dull red, fingers aching. His body trembles, knees weak and legs like splintering tree trunks, ready to land sideways on the dusty, dirt ground.

At his feet is Eddie's mangled, bleeding, cold corpse. Eyes glazed and far away. Mouth agape, lips parted enough for mumbles to fall through. Hair fanned around his head like the saint halo depicted on Saint Francis' portraits. Blood. There's so much blood.

Dustin's off to one of his sides. Mumbling and sobbing and dry heaving. Saying something like, "He was saving us. It was—He died for us."

And there's nothing in Steve's power that he can do to remedy the horror. He carefully shifts the necklace from around Eddie's neck to go above his tangle of hair, loosely fisted in Steve's hand, and passes the guitar pick off to Dustin.

"Get him through the portal," Steve tells Nancy and Robin, head jerking to Dustin. Voice short, firm, demanding. ”I’m going through with Eddie's body."

"Steve—" Robin calls out to him. His back is turned to them. Eyes wet and downwards at Eddie. "It's no use. He's just going to be extra weight. We need to make sure Lucas and Max are okay,” she attempts to persuade.

He stiffens. Shoulders hunching to his ears. "Then...Then—Nancy will drop me off at my house with Eddie first. You guys will check on the others. I can't do this right now."

"Steve, it's—There's no po—"

"Robin," he growls. He sighs through his nose and looks warily, though exhausted, though heartbroken over his shoulder. Ribs cracking under his skin, heart shriveling, stomach bursting with bile. She looks so devastated. She looks like she wants to reach out. She looks at Steve like he’s an untouchable, gravely injured dog. ”He was my everything," Steve whispers, "This is—I promised to make sure he'd be safe. He's everything to me. You have to understand that."

From where Steve can see, he takes in that Robin slumps defeated. She is no longer pleading, however. Rather, at a nasty fork in the conversation. Her eyes lock with his. No longer determined. Sad, though. Sympathetic. Her head jerks once in a nod of finality. "I'll make sure Nancy knows that there was a change in plans. I hold myself to that," she promises, devotes more like.

With nothing else to say, the words caught on Steve's forked tongue, he turns back to Eddie. Leaves his supplies adrift on the dirty ground. And kneels to his side. He's able to see the sinew of Eddie's insides. His moist muscle. His young bones. His tattoos, the ones Steve was present for. The ones he'll never get to trace again, when they're warm. When Eddie's skin is supple.

He lays his finger along Eddie's newest one. It wraps around the left side of his ribcage, hiding underneath his back. A dragon. One he drew himself. Scaly and long. Breathing fire. Fanged, sharp teeth. Steve thought it was the prettiest thing Eddie had ever sketched. He draws the tip of his finger around the large, left eyeball of the creature's face. It appears to be crying blood, Eddie's blood. The blood Steve promised to keep below the surface. In the moment, his tongue craves the intimacy of knowing Eddie's skin. Knowing who he is, his everything about him. Carefully, a still dewy drop of blood on his finger, Steve brings it to his chapped mouth. Laving the fluid. Savoring it around his wet insides. Feeling cohesive, congruent, melodized with Eddie's soul. But it’s enough, even if it never will be.

Steve is gentle when he lifts Eddie’s corpse. As if he’d simply fallen asleep. Like he does—used to—on the sofa. As if he’s being carried to bed. He’s heavier because of his clothes. Lighter, at the same time, because of the blood and the chewed holes in his skin. He’s mine, Steve laments, He was mine. Not the demobats’. Not Vecna’s. Nobody else’s but Steve’s.

It’s trouble, getting him through. Relying on Robin and Nancy to catch Eddie’s body. To lift him from the mattress and give him back what’s his. Steve can feel their eyes. Imploring. Burning into him.

In the back of the RV, he lays Eddie on the couch. Pets his hair. Runs his knuckles over Eddie’s right cheek. Kisses his forehead. And at his home, carries Eddie through the door, lays him out on his bed, and gazes.

He looks…peaceful, oddly. Satiated almost. Asleep.

The bandana wrapped around his head is still colored as if fresh from the wash. Steve takes it in his weak grasp and wipes away at the blood. At the dried spit at the corners of his mouth. He lays the now dirtied rag in his lap, hands stained a dark, deep red—different from when the axe was in his grip.

Steve doesn’t know what to do. To bury Eddie’s body would be like burying half of his soul. Leaving him to decompose would be a sorry fate, Steve wouldn’t be able to leave the room. He’d have to keep his body glued to the edge of his mattress as Eddie turns green and marbled and all to bones.

He thought he finally had it. The love he sought after since childhood. Something that rooted him to the soil and wrapped in tendrils over his naked body. And in a way, he surely did. Because Eddie doted. He loved with his whole body—in sex and hugging and simply holding hands and words so soft they get lost in the dark and kisses so gentle, Steve could cry. They planned. They promised a lifetime and a half to each other. But Steve would give Eddie everything, all of forever, the moon if only he could grab it with his bare hands.

Maybe it’s me, Steve ponders mournfully. Maybe it’s his body and his heart and his brain. It’s his voice in a quiet, dark room. It’s the way his eyes trace the rain on his window. Over naked bodies and how his fingers trace pubic hair and hip bones and scars from falling accidents. It’s him and him and him, it has to be.

What fate is worse than death?

Loving him, apparently. To love and want love. To hold and cherish. To hunger with great need.

Steve cups Eddie’s uninjured cheek. “I’m sorry, honey,” he whispers brokenly. Throat twitching with his breath. It’s almost incredible how he’s managed to keep himself sewn together. And now, in a room he’s never favored, on a bed he’s shared with only two people, after a long strenuous night of near death impulses—he bursts, unravelling. He cries and cries. Softly and whimpering. Unable to keep his eyes open with the weight of his eyelids. The weight of all that this means. His future, dissipated. His love, lost. “Don’t forgive me,” he murmurs. His free hand wraps around Eddie’s. Palm cold. Fingers limp. Skin pale.

He thinks, at this moment, he finally understands the ending to Romeo & Juliet.

If only. If only this were the play. And they were performing their parts.

Steve lays on his side, tucked under Eddie’s lifeless arm. Head cozied to his shoulder. His own wounds uncovered and bleeding onto his sheets. A hand on Eddie’s stilled stomach.

He never thought of a life after Eddie. He always thought he was going to die first. Considering his history. He thought it would be anticlimactic and beautiful all at once. He never thought Eddie was something that death could touch.

“My love, you were everything,” he whispers to…nobody.

But maybe, if it was only believable after all he’s seen and all he’s lost and all he couldn’t save, God delivers messages.

------------------------ First time writing an unhappy ending, oops. Hopefully this was good, though.

#stranger things #steddie #fanfiction #steve harrington #eddie munson #angst #tragedy #major character death #minor religious imagery #unhappy ending #secret relationship #loving something death can touch

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sampsonstorm-critical · 5 months

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Alright. So as you can see from the explosion of my blog, I'm back. So I did in fact see the new episode of Helluva boss and the music video and I'm not gonna talk about them. Why? Because they both encase the same fucking issues as EVERYTHING else.

What I am gonna talk about however is the basics of what I personally enjoy about Helluva Boss, why I have that opinion, AND what I don't like, and why I have that opinion as well.

What I do like:

- I enjoy, unlike some others, the colors. I do love saturated colors. I think it is beautiful and one reason I'm so disappointed in the show, because I can't enjoy it with everything else. I like this because it reminded nds me of the Legend of Spyro the first two games anyway. I love those games because the scenery was gorgeous to look at. The gameplay was a bitch so I'm at least happy I had nice stuff to look at while I was PISSED.

- I do enjoy the lack of censorship and honestly I wish it had more. Not gonna lie before the show pooped it's pants in the race, I was expecting nudity or sex scenes? I'm from the furry community soooo. I was also expecting real adult topics but we'll get to that. I was expecting that because, nudity and sex is part of life. And sex actually plays a huge role in personal personality traits in a character imo.

- I enjoy the voice actors and their talents. It's hard to find, or it used to be hard to find good voice actors in indie animation. I'm not big on celebrity promotion because I think personally indie should be pulling some fresh talent to its feet and helping those who really want to but can't get in the "professional Hollywood scene"

- I enjoy the animation cause holy crap, do these animators have talent. Some of the designs and effects they have to do, like in the music video, are beautiful.

NOW

What I don't like

- the designs. Character designs are supposed to say something about a character, convey them as people, or tell you something about the environment. Now I understand everyone has an art style but bodies and faces vary even in style, and especially in a fantasy world. Same goes for clothing and accessories, UNLESS the fashion for a certain time calls for similarities. All of the characters in Helluva Boss have the same features AND they are over-cluttered with un necessary add one. Why I don't like that- because characters SHOULD be varied for at least 1 reason: 1 because looks define a character on the outside, maybe the inside too but good writing can sell a narrative that is composed of (what I look like on the outside and who I truly am on the inside).

- the swearing. Good god. I swear LIKE A TRUCKER. I DONT CARE ABOUT PROFANITY OR SEX JOKES. However, in a piece of media, yet again, a character's dialogue, body language, and how they speak tells you something about the character and or their environment. For Example from Lackadaisy pilot: all of the characters. ALL OF THEM except for one, looks bad sounds like they belong there. The character who doesn't seem like they fit in? ROCKY! BUT THATS GOOD! Because from what I've seen, he's a black sheep. He seems like hes not supposed to fit in. That seems to be his whole struggle. Now For example from Helluva Boss: Blitzo swearing is good. He's a profane dickhead. It fits him. However Moxie? Moxie is portrayed to be innocent and kinda soft. He should stay that way to foil Blitzos character. Striker swearing? Fine but watch what he says. Country folk swear differently than City folk. Stolas swearing? The aristocratic rich try to swear different than the poor because they have a level of decorum to follow amongst one another. They see themselves as better than you so they try and act like it. They try to hide their profane ways. If youre gonna have swearing and sex jokes make sure whatever swear or joke is coming out of someone's mouth fits their personality. If it's out of character, then have that character have a reaction. Like a Catholic who says God damn for the first time in a heated argument.

- the callous attitude toward serious problems. I'll list a few big ones. 1: sexual assault. 2: alcoholism. 3: Classism. 4: Incest?. I don't like the joking manner of sexual assault, the callous disregard for a plot based on coerced rape, the jokes on alcoholism, or the jokes and callous disregard for how the show portrays Classism. why? 1: I was a sexual assault victim along with MANY of my friends. 2: my dad just struggled with alcoholism and died of liver failure and it is much more graphic and heart breaking than people understand. Nothing will make you feel more defeated than battling with an alcoholic, still loving them, then watching them die while your whole family suffers. 3: I'm a poor person who struggles against Classism. I'm not a minority but from what I see other minorities suffer and say about this, and what I know about the history of racism in my country, this needs to be addressed especially when adding Classism and coerced rape into the mix. 4: it seems like there are A LOT of incest implications in the second season. Obvious reasons to not like it. Now it it was played on well, and ADRESSED narratively?

- the behind the scenes allegations. Obvious reasons why I don't like that, but I have now way to know what true and what isn't. However, you can tell A LOT about a creator by what they write and more importantly HOW they write it.

And one more note: I wouldn't care about this shows flaws at all if it wasn't trying to take itself seriously and ouch us into liking these irredeemable characters. If it WAS just a raunchy, shock humor comedy like say Robot Chicken? Then weeeeeee have fun. Robot Chicken IS. NASTY. and I love it! But it doesn't have a serious plot. Even when Family Guy tries to do serious plots, the tone still remains where it is when it needs to. Brian was a dickhead but it was genuinely sad the way they portrayed his death. And the show was good in it's first seasons imo. In my OPINION. I used to like the show but...it ran too long. And that's Helluva Bosses problem. It's running too long. It was supposed to be a short comedy focused on IMP. AND then they tried to make it a plot to run for a while. If done well, great, it could've been great. But it is clear the writers DO NOT have the life experience and or the reflection and maturity to write these seriously heavy topics. Helluva Boss comes off as a fetish comic, the ones I'm not unused to seeing in the furry community. Don't get me wrong, some comics are actually pretty good buuuuut it's obviously porn so the story gets lost alot lol. This show shouldn't feel like an E621/ Yaoi comic/hentai. But it does...

SO yeah. That's my opinion on the whole show so far and honestly I'm not sure if gonna even watch it anymore. We shall see.

#helluva critical #helluva criticism #helluva critique

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quordleona03 · 4 months

Text

Not quite a Christmas story

My mother was born in 1935. In 1940, she and her mother went as refugees from WWII to Canada, where my mother spent the next five years in a Catholic boarding school and my grandmother worked in a munitions factory and they saw each other on Sundays. My grandfather was in the navy. After the war, my grandparents had two more children, hated each other, and divorced in 1969 when their youngest child turned 18.

My mother came to Scotland in 1959, taught school for a year, met my father, went back to Canada to get married, and came back to Scotland in 1964. She had three children, and when we were young, she gave us a wonderful childhood with - moments.

At Christmas she would devise each of us a stocking with small presents she had bought through the year, just right as stocking-stuffers, and also always fruit and nuts tucked into the toe. She taught each of us to cook - I have been baking expertly since I was eight years old. She taught each of us to read, and never banned us from reading any of the books that crowded our family home. She gave fantastic birthday parties, and because my birthday falls inside the Christmas holiday season when everybody is partied out, she also used to organise a second party for me elsewhen in the year - at Hallowe'en, or in the summer holidays. She liked to give thoughtful perfect presents but when I made clear my favourite present was a book token and an afternoon in the biggest children's bookshop, that's what she gave me, plus oddments to unwrap so it wasn't just booktoken envelopes to open on the day. She took us to a cottage in the Borders every summer, a 4-room cottage with no electricity, water heated by the fire in the living-room, and we spent golden weeks there.

She got me my first set of adult library cards, two years early, when she realised I had literally run out of books to read in the children's library. She gave me blank lined notebooks for journals, and my first two manual typewriters, and bought me paper and pens. She read aloud to me: The Once And Future King, and Ivanhoe, and The Lord of the Rings.

And then there was a birthday party that was cancelled at the last minute because my mother realised she had left too much undone and couldn't do it: the teacher told the class and told me separately and sent me home early and must have told the children not to tease me about it. There was any number of times I got screamed at for offences I didn't understand at the time (and only sometimes understand now). There was the strange distancing that happened between ten and seventeen, as I became less and less able to fit the mold of the daughter she wanted. I came out to her at seventeen - she was almost the first person I told: and she was horrified, and I lived for the next two years in an atmosphere of unremitting disapproval. The disapproval didn't end when I was 19: I left home.

My mother was homophobic til the day she lost consciousness: she just got better at hiding it over the years. The measure of her love for me is that despite wishing all of her life that I would stop being a lesbian, she never could bring herself to disown me.

My mother dealt with my neurodivergence - I am dysphraxic - by deciding it wasn't real: I spent decades of my life not sure why I was always so clumsy and so kackhanded with anything requiring delicate coordination. She didn't want me dysphraxic any more than she wanted me lesbian.

I found a page in one of her journals, a Christmas fantasy of her family in ten years time: of her oldest child married and with kids, her youngest child married with another kid. I was not in this fantasy: the unsatisfactory daughter.

My mother was a hoarder: it took me months to clear her last home of stuff. I found the teddy bear she'd had since she was five, tucked away in the clutter, and gave it to the undertaker to include in her coffin at the funeral. It seemed to me she should go with one of the things she'd loved and kept in life. My mother hoarded things. She and my father, who died ten months before her, lived in a large flat that was cluttered wall to wall with things - with books, of course, and with food, with clothes she no longer wore, gifts she had never given, inheritances and things picked up in charity shops, the once-useful and the might-be-useful and the someday-useful. And papers. And journals. And spent lottery tickets. She hadn't held down a job since the 1980s, and she had - from her journals - sometimes elaborate fantasies about what she'd do when she won.

We were waiting for the paramedics to take my mother to the hospital after the last bad fall she had, and because it wasn't an emergency they were very late. I made us cocoa and toasted cheese sandwiches in my mother's kitchen, while we were waiting. The last meal I made for her. I can't remember what the first one was, when she first showed me how to cook.

A couple of months later, I invited a couple of volunteers from a soup kitchen/food bank to come over and take what they wanted from the kitchen. I had meant to have it better organised but when they came, they looked at me, and at my mother's kitchen, and one said "You haven't been able to get started on this, have you?" and I said no, and they said "we'll do it". They boxed up everything they could take with them, and sorted the rest into cardboard boxes of what a charity shop would likely take and what should just go to the dump, and somewhere, I hope, some of that hoard of mugs are still in use, being drunk from with hot tea by someone who could really use a cuppa.

My mother died on this day, on 23rd December 2015, and over the years I have dealt with the anniversary of her death in different ways: I've gone on holiday, I've gone swimming, I've gone for a walk, I've gone to see Cats the Movie, I even one year worked a full day at work because Christmas fell on a Sunday and they were offering full hours to anyone who wanted to work the last Friday.

This year, I'm tired and in recovery from COVID. I've made bread, done laundry, done the dishes, had two naps, tried to read a Mira Grant novel, changed the cat litter trays, taken the rubbish out, gone for as long a walk as I could manage, and I'm still sitting here, contemplating my mother's life and death and legacy and wishing for, I don't know what.

My father's life is so much easier: he had a happy childhood, work he loved, a retirement spent writing and walking and caring for his wife. My father's life makes a satisfying story: he wrote some of it down in a memoir for his children.

My mother's life was strange and muddled and broken and full of cluttered things and unfocussed anger and a lot of misery. And yet: I still miss how she would say my name, sudden and joyous, "Oh, it's you!"

#my mother's life #my mother's death #unsatisfactory daughter #loved daughter

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