#Battered Wife

[mavidin]

Paalin ah run, Zay? Basi magbuhay pat ah imaw.

~Doc D

[biggest-bara-tiddies]

I feel like one of the themes the writers of Kevin Can F Himself are going for is that sitcom-style presentation softens clear abuse to the point that it becomes hard to notice. Like as long as there is a laugh track, most people would struggle to clock Kevin as being abusive. But honestly I could tell from the first episode just by how he treated the coffee table in the living room. Allison got that coffee table on major discount from pottery barn and she is proud of it. Getting a table that nice for cheap is an achievement and it's clearly the nicest thing she owns, but none of this matters to Kevin, in fact, the very reason of her valuing the table is openly mocked by Kevin. He goes on to put drinks without coasters on it, puts his feet up on it, and stands on it eventually breaking it only crudely fixing it with duct tape to restore it's basic function as a coffee table and to lower it to his level. Kevin treats it with such disdain and abandon it's honestly instantly clear that nothing Allison values matters to him and that it's essentially open season on everything that makes Allison herself and not just Mrs. McRoberts or Mrs. Worcester Wild Dude. I love that you can analyze something as mundane as a coffee table in this show and see it as a microcosm of Allison and Kevin's marriage and a representation of Kevin's abusive treatment of Allison

[starspangledbatter]

⭐️ “Dead Wife Rag”???: The Amazing Digital Circus Theory ⭐️

⭐️ About a day or two ago, Gooseworx released the entire soundtrack of episodes 3 and 4. Excited, I went and prepared to explore each and every one of the tracks individually. That is, until something strange caught my eye. This thing specifically, was a name for one of the latest tracks titled “Dead Wife Rag”. ⭐️

Now, this name could simply just mean rag. Rag as in a syncopated rhythm. But what if “Dead Wife Rag” is actually a double entendre? Let me explain…

🌟 You see, Gooseworx seems to title her tracks based off of the scene her tunes takes place in. “Character Quirks” plays during the living room scene where the characters show off what happens when they don’t breathe. “Still Friends” plays during the moment where Zooble comforts Gangle and admits that they are still Gangle’s friend, regardless of what happened at Spudsy’s. ⭐️

Now, knowing this information, the time and place where Gooseworx’s tracks take place seem to hold prominence in the track’s title names. So, knowing this, where exactly does “Dead Wife Rag” play within the series?

⭐️ Here. This is the scene where this track plays. The scene where a dead wife, Martha Mildenhall, explains to Ragatha that her husband accidentally kills her with his gun, while telling her about men and their “silliest priorities”. This scene follows with Ragatha turning to Jax, agreeing with Martha that she knows the feeling of dealing with a man who puts his own feelings over anyone else’s. ⭐️

Now, why does this matter? Well, what if I were to tell you that “Dead Wife Rag” actually means “Dead Wife Ragatha”, and that’s what makes the name a double entendre. This isn’t just my Bunnydoll bias speaking here. I actually mean it. Consider this.

⭐️ Jax’s episode is described as “guns!”. A gun is the thing that Baron uses to kill Martha, resulting in her demise ⭐️

⭐️ Gooseworx has said in the past that she “apologizes to the Bunnydoll shippers”, meaning that there’s something that could happen in the future that may strain their relationship, which could possibly involve abstraction. ⭐️

⭐️ When asked how Jax would react towards Ragatha abstracting or going missing, Michael Kovach responds with a tragic but surprising response (go to the 1:25:45 mark). He states that if Jax realized that Ragatha abstracted, he would be devastated. This is because Ragatha was someone he knew the entire time during his time at the circus. He would then continue to repress these feelings and pretend that everything is fine (like he did with Kaufmo, the stressful aftermath at Spudsy’s etc). ⭐️

⭐️ Jax’s episode (the gun episode) will explore each and every character, showing the audience how their personalities have changed amongst being at the circus. Maybe Ragatha and Jax used to be closer in the past? Maybe they weren’t always at each other’s throats? ⭐️

⭐️ So, where does this all lead to? What does all of this mean? Well, what if Jax does something in the future that hurts Ragatha emotionally. Something irredeemable, something unforgiving. What if Jax causes Ragatha to accidentally abstract, leaving the circus to cope with the death of one of their longest-surviving members? ⭐️

⭐️ Like Kinger said “In this world, the worst thing you can do is... make someone think they're not wanted or loved”. The worst thing you can do to Ragatha is make her feel hated or unloved. She doesn’t want Jax to hate her, despite how she feels about him and his actions. Jax always seems to push away others and constantly uses them for his entertainment. The only time he actually thinks about anyone but himself is during times that lack distraction. Maybe he says something that convinces Ragatha that he hates her. She believes in the one thing she can’t live with acknowledging. ⭐️

The guns aren’t actually guns. The guns are a symbol for a device or an event that leads to the accidental demise of a loved one. Kinger isn’t the only parallel to Baron. Jax is Baron. Ragatha is Martha. She’s “Dead Wife Rag” and he’ll have to live with what he has done. For the rest of his life.

[sdfrot]

samdean | diet mountain dew

[tsarjozinzbazin]

him

[fork99]

the batter joins the party

[atticwifesam]

teary-eyed, battered, bruised, and still pretty 🤍

[yoku-yukihime]

some weirdos

[dickgraysonsptsd]

batman/scarecrow year one is truly the battered spousified dick grayson text of all time. like the choice to portray bruce performing a nerve pinch on dick as a direct visual parallel to a man beating his wife to transition between scenes is just—there is such deliberate framing here!! in a comic where dick is consistently acting as bruce's emotional sounding board, trying to get him to sleep at night, and later even joking with bruce about wanting to have a baby... whatever the hell bruce jones and sean murphy were on i want it injected directly into my veins

[lambmotifz]

jared was so real for saying he finds attractive the fact that sam wants to restrain his power. one of the hottest things about samdean is that sam, despite being taller and bigger, prefers to submit to dean and lets him beat the living shit out of him and urges him to beat him some more if he sees that dean isn’t satisfied. all while he stands there and takes everything dean gives him. this aspect of their dynamic should honestly be appreciated/acknowledged more

[quietwingsinthesky]

i love when dean winchester beats his brother like he’s his wife

[waytooinvested]

Alex: Kara? What's wrong? You look like you're about to cry.

Kara: No, nothing. It's just... something that happened with Lena.

Alex: What did she do? Is she evil after all? Did she cheat on you? Do I need to kill her??

Kara: *sniffling* She just- she-

Alex: Woah, hey it's okay. Take a breath, then tell me what happened.

Kara: We were baking a cake for when Ruby and Sam come to visit. Everything was going great, we were having so much fun, and then I turned round and saw it...

Alex: You saw WHAT Kara???

Kara: The bowl! In the sink! Full of water!

Kara: I'd maybe have understood if she'd scraped it out herself rather than sharing it with me, but she didn't even eat it! She just... washed it up.

Kara: All that lovely cake batter, washed away down the drain like it was nothing. I'm not sure I can ever see her quite the same way after this.

Alex:

Alex: ...you eat the raw cake mix?

Kara: *clutching her heart dramatically* ET TU BRUTE?!

[toxintouch]

yk how in veres likes on his character sheet it says he like cooking (badly)…… WHY HAS NO ONE DONE A FIC ABOUT THAT YET‼️⁉️⁉️ THAT SHOULD NOTTT BE A WASTED OPPORTUNITY. i’m not even joking im ab to send this to so many people because i can’t let this go to waste 😞

Here u are anon!  For the record, you are completely free to send this prompt around wherever you’d like!  It was such a fun idea, I’d love to see more takes on it. ^^

Warnings: Vere talking Innuendos? Innuendos.  So many, and I don’t guarantee that they are funny lol.  Just a general silly vibe and imo: absolutely  tooth rotting fluff.

‧₊˚ ⋅ 𓐐𓎩 ‧₊˚ ⋅SOUS CHEF ‧₊˚♡₊˚

You find yourself wandering through Lowtown during the lunch hour, trying to decide what sounds like a good meal.

Your mouth waters at the scents being carried on the breeze, a plethora of pleasant aromas wafting out of the eateries nestled inside the Amaryllis District, so fragrant that you can smell them all the way down on the bustling streets of Lowtown as long as you stay downwind.

However, if there’s one nice thing about knowing Leander it's that you also know you don’t have to go that far (or spend that much) for a delicious lunch. 

Near enough to the Wet Wick, there’s a series of side streets that make up an eclectic amalgamation of Lowtown and the Amaryllis District, and in it: a small and inconspicuous eatery.  The menu changes often, though you aren’t sure if that’s out of innovation or necessity, but the food is always filling and reasonably priced.

You follow the winding streets, getting lost for a brief moment before correcting your course, traveling until you see colorful chipped girih tiles and wide, clean windows.  You let yourself into the shop, the now familiar sound of hinges in need of an oiling welcoming you.  

There’s an assortment of goods on display–jars of honey and spiced fruit and loaves of braided bread with seeds–all kept safely locked away beneath an enchanted pane of glass.

Looking around, though, you don’t see anyone selling said fantastic wares.

You call out, expecting the shop keep or her wife to come running but instead you hear…silence.

Followed by a loud metallic clatter.

You freeze, unsure what to do, what the threat is–if there’s even a threat?–but before you can make up your mind, you’re greeted by a most unexpected sight.

Vere comes out of the kitchen area, his hair swept into an artfully stunning up-do that reveals the long line of his neck and clavicle, blemished only by the heavy collar locked around his throat. 

He’s wearing a weighty linen apron over his clothing, presumably to protect his outfit, though–his long gossamer sleeves are completely discordant with the notion, making you think that maybe the apron is more of an aesthetic choice.

“What’s this–?  A mouse?  In my kitchen?” Vere asks playfully as you continue to stare, dumbfounded.  He wields a spatula in his hand like a weapon–swatching it into his off-hand like a riding crop with a decisive snap.

“Where is–?”

“–The shop keep?  Wherever she pleases–the shop’s closed on Mondays.”

(You really don’t like the way he’s watching you…  Or the way he keeps inching closer…)

You take a step backwards, your eyes never leaving his.  “Oh,” you say, bandaged hands reaching blindly behind you.  “I didn’t realize.  The door was unlocked, so…”  You trail off.

You find the doorknob at last.  You attempt to turn it only to find that it won’t budge.

“Was it?”

Vere saunters up to you, tail swaying behind him.  You manage to tear your eyes away from his predator stare to search for possible exits, though you know for a fact you won’t be fast enough.   You look back and he’s already in your space, crowding you against the entryway.

(He smells really good, actually.  Like leather and spice and the subtle cling of perfume and incense.  And beneath that, something–earthy–animalistic, but in a way that’s intoxicating as opposed to unpleasant.)

“I was just about to make myself a snack–how nice that a snack came to me.”

“Stop playing around.” You try to steel yourself and inject the perfect amount of scolding into your voice while combating his heated stare.  “I know you’re just fucking with me to try and get a reaction; you and I both know you’re not going to eat me.” 

If he was, he would have done it by now.  Sometime within the weeks you’ve known him.  …Probably. 

Unless he just likes to play with his food.

“I didn’t realize you knew me so well,”  he says, looking amused.  “Perhaps I didn’t plan to, but now I simply can’t resist.  You look so absolutely delectable, how could I possibly contain myself?”

You don’t get the chance to reply.  Vere’s countenance changes suddenly–you watch his ears flatten a second before you hear the screaming whistle of a teapot.  His ears twitch in annoyance at the sound, his perfectly sculpted face showing a sour sneer.  He gives you a sideways glance, calculating.

“Then again.  I find myself in need of a sous chef.  Congratulations on your promotion.  Come along now.”  He hooks a finger into your cloak and pulls you easily into the kitchen.  (To be fair, you don’t struggle.  Anyone would want to see where this is going, right?)

He releases you once you’ve crossed over the threshold, waving his fingers uncaringly towards a second apron affixed to a hook on the wall as he beelines to remove a glass teapot from the stove and stifle the noise.  He moves quickly as you watch, casually throwing aside the spatula in his hand in favor of an ornate silver teaspoon.  He measures a vibrantly colored tea into the inlaid steeping container of the equally ornate teapot and takes a pleased inhale as the tea’s fragrance blooms, humming as he flips over a delicate hourglass to keep track of the steeping time.

There’s silence for a moment–

Him watching the teapot and you watching him.

“Well?”  He asks, without looking up.  You’ve seen this look before, you think – this pensive, almost lonesome look that makes your heart ache against all better judgment.  “Staying or going?”

He grins when you put on the apron.  You search his face for some sincerity, but he’s all sharp teeth and tall ears, covering any glimpses of deeper emotion with a sheen of smugness.  He circles you once you have the apron on, taking in the image.

“Mm, don’t you just look adorable.  Very domesticated.”

You’re pretty sure that the word he��s looking for is domestic. But of course, he knows what he said and he meant to say it.  You decide that he’s probably betting on your correction, already armed with a witty retort.  You smooth the apron down while pointedly looking away, deciding that you won’t give him the satisfaction.  You hear him chuckle.

Since you’re avoiding looking at Vere, you look around the kitchen for the first time.

It’s a spacious workspace–moreso than the storefront, even.  There’s a large iron stove unlike anything you’ve ever seen, covered with magical runes and dials, with a large hearth built into the belly of it.  A plethora of pots and pans have been placed on the burners, left to sizzle and pop in the red hot heat.  

Oil is singing from the heated, shallow basins but you don’t see anything cooking inside.  

There’s a slab of meat diced into neat squares and a heaping bowl of lumpy batter set to the side of the stove top.

“What are you making?”  You ask, trying to make sense of the scene.

“Panko crusted fish filet.  And there’s a pasta in the oven.  For dessert, I was thinking–” he gives you a sly look, one that makes your ears feel warm, “hmm, well.  I just had a much better idea in regards to dessert.”  He makes a show of licking his fangs, the movements of his tongue slow and sensual.

You think you tied your apron too tight; your airway is feeling a little constricted.  It seems to be getting worse the longer you watch.

You clear your throat, tearing your eyes away.  More ingredients, most partially prepared, and a host of dirtied pots and pans greet you.  You turn your back to him as you explore, fully engrossed in all of the views that the mess of a kitchen has to offer.  You’re almost afraid to ask: “So, what am I here to help with?”

“Oh?”  You don’t hear Vere come up next to you, but you feel him brushing up against you.  “Does my darling sous chef require…instruction?  A guiding hand, so to speak?”  You freeze, feeling his breath against your ear, shivers running down your spine at his light and teasing chuckle.

But then he’s breezing past you, making a wide dramatic gesture toward the large tome perched surreptitiously on the counter.  “Lucky for you, I’ve a recipe.”  His tail wags swishes elegantly behind him as he beams with pride.

His tail knocks the whisk out of the mystery batter beside the fish filet but he takes no notice.

Vere hops gracefully up onto the counter, reaching for the batter.  He does an impressive twist in order to grab hold of another whisk and you take the time to appreciate that.  Then, with Vere occupied and seemingly ignoring you, you take a look at the recipe book.  

The text is old and withered with the occasional dash of sprawling spidery script painting the margins.  (Said writing is utterly illegible–you’re actually not sure if it’s in a language you can read, though if you squint you think you can see something that looks like the word ‘cake’.)  The page it’s opened to is ripped in half, rendering precious steps of the recipe lost to time.  You spot a mysterious bite mark piercing through the corner of the leather cover.

And can’t stop yourself from surreptitiously glancing over at Vere.  He’s moved on from the batter (which looks as lumpy as it did a minute ago) and is now eating skewers of raw fish with his nails.

“You’re not supposed to eat while you cook,” you say, the time worn words out of your mouth before you can examine your personal stance on them.

“Says who?  Some limp dick?  No shame in indulging, pet.”

“You’re not even gonna have anything left to cook,” you warn.

“Hum, sounds like my sous chef should get to work covering them in batter instead of just standing there before I eat them all.”

You roll your eyes, but follow through with instructions.  The space is unfamiliar and your movements are slow and unsure with Vere looming over you from his perch on high, watching.

One of the pans of oil gives an ominous pop.  “Hmm, sounds like it’s hot enough,” says Vere.  “Move over.”

“Is that safe?”

“For me,” Vere says simply.  “And it’s faster.  Now stand further back or you'll get splattered–and not in the fun way.”  Idly, he tosses a batter covered filet into the shallow pan.  The resulting hiss makes you both cringe.

As if on queue, the hourglass for the tea gives a gentle chime, lighting up with a golden glow.  (You’re beginning to wonder how this humble shop can afford all these magical items, but then again this is the city of secrets.  You’re probably better off not knowing.)  Vere’s ears perk up, pleased.  He tosses the remaining fillets in the pan without a fuss, setting lids on top of each to contain the oil, acting as if doing so is going to stop any potential disaster.

Main course forgotten, he moves on to digging something out from inside one of the many cupboards.  “Be a dear and cut this for me, will you?”  He hands you a delicate peach before heading to the tea pot, stirring the contents and adding what must be a priceless amount of honey.

The peach in your hand is overripe but still vibrant–amazing, as you haven’t seen fresh fruit at all since you came to Eridia.  Your mouth waters anew as you remember what led you here in the first place–your quest for a meal–and you’re almost tempted to take a bite, follow Vere’s advice and sink your teeth in.

“My, my.  I’m almost jealous.  I thought you only looked at me like that.”

Vere shushes the denial from your lips, bossing you around regarding how he wants the peach sliced before shooing you out of his way and finishing his remaining tea preparations,with the look of an artist at work.  The tea is a warm oolong color, made only more alluring once the infusion of peach is complete.

It’s refreshing, too, once Vere serves it to you over ice.

You can almost ignore the great plumes of smoke coming from the oven.

Vere cooks how others might enjoy a leisurely stroll. 

Which is to say, he seems to be having fun, but you’re not convinced he intends on really going anywhere.  Still, there’s a rhythm to it–a dance, though he leads you in expected loops and turns, changes the tune at a moment's notice.  He’ll get bored of the task at hand and find some new spice to peruse, demand you taste test an ingredient or give your opinion on a dizzying new flavor he’s concocted.

(He manages to convince you to sample a bit of cucumber soup from the cold box.  You retch, proclaiming it salty, downing another glass of delicious peach oolong–

“I can still taste it in the back of my throat…!”–and he cackles wildly.)

Thick locks of hair are falling out of his up-do by the time he’s satisfied, framing his face and bringing your attention, again to the inviting line of his clavicle.  He tosses his loose hair over his shoulder, preening.

The recipe book is basically ruined, and the pasta is null and void, but some of the fillets look mildly edible.  The artful garnish is beautiful, at least.  The kale and orange slices really bring out the crispy burnt bits.  Vere seems to enjoy plating the food a great deal, humming and rearranging and circling the display until he deems it arranged to perfection.

He’s elegant when he takes a bite, biting down with a crunch.  His tail goes very still for a moment, then shivers microscopically as he chews.  He swallows in a manner that you can only describe as dignified, dabbing his lips with a napkin.  You wait in anticipation, but Vere says nothing for a long time.  Then, he quietly takes the old recipe book and throws it away.

Thankfully, he doesn’t insist on you trying it too.

You end up snacking on some of the pre-made goods, drinking the remaining tea and lounging at one of the shop’s cozy little tables.  The mood is light and easy, and the view is magnificent.  Outside, there’s nothing but trash littered streets and urchins, but inside…the afternoon glow coming from the window illuminates Vere like a sunset, painting him in dazzling shades of gold and red and bronze.

Vere hums, peering at you pointedly through his sooty lashes.  “So, dessert?”

You can’t imagine the look that comes across your face–whatever it is, it makes Vere laugh.

“What are you giving me that look for?  My intentions are pure.” His voice is a masterclass in syrupy false-innocence.  “As clean as Leander’s bed sheets after–”

“Please don’t finish that sentence and give me any mental images,” you beg.  “I have to sleep there tonight, I’d rather not know.”

“Ignorance is bliss.”  Vere agrees, closing his eyes and appearing to bask in the sun for a moment.  His face does something that you don’t quite catch��some hidden expression–but then, he’s smiling easily.  He must really be relaxed if he can still smile seconds after thinking about Leander.  You’re still admiring him when the shadows against the walls flicker, and suddenly he isn’t sitting next to you any more.

Instead, he’s returning from the kitchen, a tray in hand.

He sets it down in front of you, revealing an assortment of strawberries and an ornate silver porringer of what appears to be melted chocolate.  Vere sets it down on the table, plucking the small dessert spoon from the chocolate once he’s seated across from you again.

“Occasionally, life does offer up something sweet to savor–only for those willing to go out and take it.”  His tongue darts out to lick the chocolate off the spoon in his hand.  He maintains eye contact as his tongue laves across the basin and–embarrassingly–you think you get a little lightheaded from the intensity with which your blood rushes to your face.  The crinkles at the corners of his eyes tell you that he know exactly where your mind has gone.

Setting the spoon down, Vere instead picks up a bare strawberry, leaning in closer to press it gently to your mouth.

The chocolate is overly bitter–a little burnt, perhaps, but you can’t find it in yourself to care when you’re tasting the remnants of it on Vere’s lips.

(Before leaving, you plop a few coins down on the counter as payment.  You brought enough to cover your food…but definitely not enough to cover the mess in the kitchen.  There’s really nothing you can do about that.  

You hope you don’t get blacklisted.  You’d like to come back next Monday.)

Hope you enjoyed if you made it this far! ⸜(｡˃ ᵕ ˂ )⸝♡

[silly-billy-skilly]

Sometimes a cutie patootie is a oddly huge mass murderer [ I love him dearly thank you for giving birth to such a beautiful son @mothscotch :3 ]

[atticwifesam]

this sounds like the start of a noncon fic ..

[buncoreclown]

One more thing before I (try to) go to bed:

Late seasons Sam is so battered wife-core it isn't even funny. The flinching his faces and I just want to thank Jared Padalecki for doing that since the writers just fucking forgot.