#you damn kids get off my lawn

[catgirlcalling]

I feel like I keep having to check which blog I’m logged into- I haven’t seen this much hate in a fandom towards a Love Interest since Supernatural 🙄

[impossibleprincess35]

Me when I see fanfic writers charging for commissions.

[sweaterkittensahoy]

::through gritted teeth::

Youths

[officialgleamstar]

okay now that ive been harassed (joke. fond.) by a gaggle of teenagers in the middle of the night, i need to get some sleep. gnight yall ^-^!!!

[a-tenno-called-prin]

If one more person calls Albrecht's pager a flip phone, I am going to spontaneously die of old age.

[ncc-42069]

HJ is an abbreviation of "hand job" which is a slang term for manually stimulating a partner's genitalia.

And anyone who says different is wrong.

Me: I'm a cool adult who's in touch with the youth and won't denigrate their slang.

The Youth: *use 'pos' to mean 'positive'*

Me: The lord is testing me.

[forlix]

· . ˚ 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐛𝐢𝐭𝐬 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐞

— the little mannerisms you pick up from the members of stray kids over the course of your relationship.

words・3.7k / pairings・ot8 x gn!reader / genres・fluff, humor, borderline crack, intentional lowercase, established relationship(s) / warnings・minsung’s are suggestive, touch of anxiety in felix's, jeongin's is lowkey gross LMFAO

a/n・massive shoutout to @/http.dwaekkii on tiktok for their edits about the boys' habits, which i consulted for chan, changbin, seungmin, and jeongin (and to @astraystayyh for beta reading hehe. what would i do without u). these were sooooo fun to write, hope u guys enjoy (｡˃ ᵕ ˂ )

chan + getting shy easily. poor thing gets embarrassed so quickly as it is. throw you into the mix and it’s just critical hit after critical hit. defense lowered. no health potions left. he folds like a lawn chair with a massive smile and a whiny “stooooop” every time you say something even remotely affectionate. the habit is adorable, and you love it to pieces.

but you like poking fun at it even more. “god forbid i find my literal underwear model of a boyfriend attractive,” you’d say, or something along those lines, which of course only triples his embarrassment and on more than one occasion results in him starfishing on your kitchen floor, his hood pulled over his face.

fast forward however many months. he’s still the worst compliment-receiver you know, but you discover one arbitrary afternoon that it’s rubbed off on you.

the two of you are cuddled together on the living room couch in your usual fashion, your legs thrown over his thighs and his hands tracing absently over your shins as you relay to him something you overheard on the subway. the conversation is painfully normal. you’re almost bored. you pause to take a breath, and he murmurs, out of nowhere, in the dreamiest tone: “so damn beautiful.”

“wha—huh? what is?”

“you. your voice, your face, everything. i‘m lucky.”

your expression of bewilderment persists for around ten seconds, and then slowly, so slowly, you begin to sandwich your head between your knees, balling yourself up like a spooked armadillo. chan wonders if he should call an ambulance.

“love?” no response. “what, uh, what’s happening right now, exactly?”

no response. no response. then, hoarsely, “you can’t...say shit like that…randomly.”

he notices two things after that. one, your skin is burning hot enough to fry something upon, and two, you’ve formed a fist in the fabric of his hoodie, which you only do when you’re pretending to be annoyed at him. the puzzle pieces fall into place, and he starts grinning like a madman.

“you’re…embarrassed?”

the guttural groan you emit is more than enough of an answer, and the cute aggression that overcomes chan is fucking debilitating. he wraps his arms around you and hauls you entirely off the couch and onto his lap, littering kisses over your face until it finally resigns into a matching smile. all intent to continue feigning grumpiness erased with the drop of a hat. you drape an arm over his neck.

“you’re so good to me, channie,” you sigh helplessly. “i love you.”

“love you more, baby.” he imprints these words directly upon your lips, then pulls away, giggles. “that was very me of you, by the way.”

“i know, right? i was just about to say.”

minho + butt touching. it’s quite simple, really. if lee minho is within proximity of someone’s buttocks, he will, as he lives and breathes, make it known. will it be a coy little swat or a yelp-eliciting, full-bodied grab? nobody ever knows, not even him. the unpredictability is what makes it exciting.

but it takes a while before this starts applying to you, because the way minho touches you is…different. doting. there’s no other way to describe how he always holds the nape of your neck while kissing you, how he rests a hand against the small of your back whenever he leads you somewhere, how during the nights you can’t sleep he guides you to the place on his chest where he knows his heartbeat is loudest. he even drags you into his trademark headlocks the same way one would hold an invaluable treasure. he’s so obsessed with all of you that he never thinks to pay just your butt special attention (though it is, indeed, a special butt).

you take it into your own hands. literally.

you don’t know what prompts it—maybe you’ve simply seen minho slap his members’ asses one too many times, or maybe you’re still thinking of the specific time minho slapped changbin’s ass in passing and it fucking echoed, or maybe minho just looks especially fine in this practice outfit, a skintight tee and washed sweatpants that hug him in all the right places—but you feel a new urge today as your boyfriend swings his duffel over his shoulder, circles around the kitchen counter.

he puckers up as he nears you, silently requesting his goodbye; you give it to him, relishing for a moment in the familiar, soft plush of his lips beneath yours. then he pulls away and turns to leave, and your hand acquires its target.

“go get ‘em, tiger.” thwack!

minho jumps a foot into the air. clutches his pearls and his left butt cheek. becomes the splitting image of that perplexed blonde lady surrounded by geometry.

but when he turns around to stare at you, the smirk melting across his face betrays how he really feels about what you’ve just done. good. really good.

you, meanwhile, look genuinely confused. “it’s like it moved on its own.”

minho beams. steps towards you daintily, intentionally, like a cat catching sight of a laser beam. brings a hand to your hip, murmurs, “that’s what we’re doing now?” kisses you again, for longer this time.

you fully foresee his fingers wandering to your ass to give it a gentle squeeze, but you reach up to cuff his shoulder when it happens anyways, and his laugh vibrates against your mouth. it seems you’ll be reaping what you’ve sown from now on.

(good luck.)

changbin + the Cackle™. yes, you said something exceptionally funny. yes, you expected changbin to find it funny too. but you couldn’t expect the godforsaken noise that left his mouth as he threw himself straight into the tree planter behind you.

your mind spun with frantic questions as you helped him out of the dirt. had the spirit of spongebob just usurped his vocal cords? were you on a date with the wicked witch of the west? most importantly—

“are you well?” you sputtered, which only made him laugh harder and his laugh so much crazier, so you started laughing, too. and you were goners, falling over each other until you’d been reduced to watery eyes and sore cheeks, your giggling interrupted only by the sound of you slapping his thigh every so often, heartily enough to reverberate around the little park in which you concluded your second date.

that’s how you fall for seo changbin: laughing. with a reckless, breathless abandon you didn’t think possible. stumbling across empty sidewalks, spitting noodles across dining tables, begging for mercy on studio couches. wrestling under tear-stained comforters, starting (and re-starting) silly stories, huffing into beaming kisses. the list goes on.

you never quite get used to that chortle of his, too busy enjoying its insanity to notice how your own chuckles grow shorter and shriller, how they gradually develop an edge like the chittering of a forest dweller.

you complete your transformation on your ninety-eighth date. 

no, changbin doesn’t say anything exceptionally funny. no, he doesn’t expect you to find it exceptionally funny, either. he expects least of all for you to fold over the kitchen island and start cackling like cruella de vil on helium.

jisung turns around from his seat on the couch. chan’s footsteps come to a halt as he emerges from the bathroom. both of them have fear in their eyes as they witness your undoing.

the only thing on changbin’s face, though, is unfettered delight.

“b-baby,” he sputters with a growing smile. “are you—”

you lift your face off the marble surface and turn to face him. the entirety of your forehead and the point of your nose is covered in flour. you blow a cloud of the stuff out of your mouth like a dragon awoken from slumber.

he loses it.

the two of you make your way onto the floor in slow motion, ending in a tangled heap against the side of the counter. changbin tries to clean off the flour and smears it all over your cheeks instead. you are zero help whatsoever, smacking his bicep like that’ll help you catch your breath. your synchronized, diabolical laughter reaches every corner of the apartment. your happiness reaches every nerve ending.

chan and jisung look at each other and sigh. jisung takes a video.

hyunjin + side-eyeing. this man is so god awful at controlling his face, bless him…and DAMN HIM.

on one hand, you love how in tune with his emotions he is, how confidently he puts them on display. and you love your synergy. you come closer to believing in soulmates every time you glance his way and discover your exact feelings written all over his features; it’s a special type of happiness, sharing a brain with your favorite person in the world.

on the other hand, you think there’s a time and place for candor, and he tends, well, not to think at all. during many a precarious situation, you’ll catch him wearing an expression so transparent that he might as well arrange the words THIS IS STUPID AND I HATE ALL OF YOU over his head in neon lights. cue a dig of your heel into his toe, a hiss of pain cut short by your piercing glare. if you’d known ahead of time that dating hwang hyunjin would have you doing so much damage control…you’d still date him, let’s be real. but you do get stressed at times.

the night the tables turn, you’re at a celebratory dinner for your coworker’s birthday. small caveat: you can’t stand her. she’s the type to spontaneously combust if she goes two minutes without talking about herself. certainly doesn’t help that she’s downing champagne like water, and her lips are looser than ever.

hyunjin comes with you, fortunately. or not. he spends the whole evening trying so hard not to laugh: snorting into his bread, excusing himself to “cough.” you think he actually starts doing breathing exercises at some point. you’re so, so grateful that he’s here, but you’re also deathly afraid that he’s gonna bring out those neon lights in front of your entire office.

then, she flirts with him.

from the opposite end of the table. perfectly wasted but still knowing perfectly well that he’s yours. the whole patio goes silent. hyunjin’s jaw hits the table.

your fork clatters to your plate.

FUCK time and place.

the side-eye you give her is devastating. truly masterful. your brow furrows. your eyes turn to slits. your gaze does the up-down-up of unadulterated incredulity. hyunjin recognizes the motions straightaway and starts smiling so hard his whole face hurts.

you take your boyfriend’s wrist and stand up. he follows suit. you don’t say a thing as you leave the restaurant, and you don’t have to. the intensity of your disdain was more than enough; anything more and she might’ve started crying.

once you’re on the curb outside, hyunjin pulls on your interlocked hands, brings you close. his lips brush against the shell of your ear. you hear laughter and his smirk in his voice: “you might be the sexiest person on earth."

jisung + how he applies lip balm. that han jisung is the pioneer of modern day babygirlism is the worst kept secret in the world. that han jisung applies lip balm the riveting way he does, however, is unknown even to you. until one morning.

you pop into the bathroom and make your usual beeline for your toothbrush, only to end up motionless in front of the sink, staring. jisung is a bit off to the side, hair pinned back by a cinnamoroll headband, eyes glued to his phone, hand holding a tube of chapstick that you can actually see getting shorter in real time. he looks so pensive, so concentrated. how long has it been since he last blinked? you’ve half a mind to pull out a stopwatch.

finally, he rubs his lips together, recaps the chapstick, and makes eye contact with you in the mirror. a smile crosses his face, equal parts confused and amused.

“baby, your mouth is open.”

you close it. then you open it again, and your words come out in a barely-contained laugh: “what on earth did you just do?”

“what do you mean?”

“the—” you point at his mouth, then do your best impression of an elementary schooler trying to color inside the lines. “—that.”

jisung looks aghast. “that was LIP BALM.”

“no, i know what it—you’re so—i meant, why do you apply it like that?”

jisung continues to look aghast. “like what?”

“like you’re one of socrates’ prized pupils and the answer to the universe’s formation lies at the bottom of—” you step in close, reach into the pocket of his sweatpants. “—this tube!”

it might be the craziest thing you’ve ever said to him. he bursts into laughter, the kind that leaves him no recollection of what he does with his limbs, and when he can see straight again he discovers he’s pressed you gently against the counter. his fingers latched around the hem of your top, his grin inches away from yours. can’t stay away from you to save his life, this one.

“do i actually?”

“yes! holy shit, it’s so cute.” your arms circle around his neck, also without an ounce of thought, also through a fit of giggles. “no way you’ve always done that, right?”

“i don’t know. i’ve never thought about it.” a pause. a tilt of his head, with purpose. “am i…doing it wrong?”

the question is a trap and you realize it too late. your gaze drops from his eyes to his lips—a ray of sunlight glistens off the pink plush like a paid actor—then back to his eyes. let’s find out.

you lean in. so does he. and his mouth tastes and feels like melted fucking sugar. it’s such a pleasant surprise that you actually moan, and he chuckles against you. lifts you onto the edge of the sink. your mind really goes empty after that, save for one thought. i have to start doing that.

felix + checking his own pulse. you saw it from afar, the first time.

he stood by the stage’s entrance just before curtain up, pointer and middle finger pressed against the side of his neck. eyelids sealed closed, chest heaving. you tilted your head, puzzled. worried. then the concert began, and you pushed the image to the back of your mind.

it returned to the forefront right before bed.

“you do it when you’re nervous?”

“yeah. forces me to ground myself. turns off the world for a bit.” the hand rubbing circles into your back paused. “wanna give it a go?”

“what, checking my pulse?”

“mine.”

you lifted your head off the pillow. felix took your hand from where it sat upon his ribs, isolating two fingers and nestling them over his jugular. his quickened heartbeat pressed into your skin like the world’s gentlest tattoo.

the sixty seconds began and concluded in total silence.

“well?” he whispered.

“ninety-three,” you answered, lightheaded from the sheer intimacy of it all. “you’re nervous right now?”

“something like that,” he hummed. pulled you down, kissed you deeply. there were no more words exchanged that night.

the habit surfaced more than you knew. while driving to visit your parents. after a stupid argument with a bouquet of flowers tucked beneath his free arm. you started doing it for him in the times he couldn’t, and he’d cover your hand with his own and kiss the top of your head silently, gratefully.

two years have passed since, and you’ve vanished from the dinner table.

felix asks the nearest waiter for directions to the restrooms. you don’t notice when the door swings open, unmoving in your spot over the sink, your pointer and middle finger pressed against the side of your neck. 

his hand finds your hip. you let him turn you around and bring you to his chest; he glances at the crystalline droplets studding your lashes and falling from your cheeks. his eyes convey what his mouth doesn’t need to, not anymore.

let me.

you do.

his fingers replace yours the moment you drop them from under your jaw, the movement like clockwork. he counts your every heartbeat with unblinking concentration, his heart growing heavier the higher the number climbs.

the sixty seconds begin and conclude in total silence. 

“well?” you whisper.

“hundred and six,” he answers. to his confusion, a smile pulls at your lips. 

he wonders if it’s a trick of the bathroom lights when he sees the tiny box you pluck from your pocket, but there’s no mistaking the reality of the diamond ring that sits behind its open lid.

the earth slants under his feet.

“crazy.” you giggle through your tears, run your thumb over his cheekbone. “that’s how many years i want with you.”

seungmin + poking eyes(?) he’s hardly touched puppym when your voice is slicing through the living room air like a fucking beyblade. 

“KIM SEUNGMIN, UNHAND HIM THIS INSTANT.”

do you have a sixth sense just for this? he throws his hands up in exasperation. “he’s literally me. i’m allowed to do whatever i want with me.”

“he’s not you, he’s our son.” you pop out of nowhere to swipe the plushie from over your boyfriend’s shoulder. “my son, if you keep this up.”

“just say you hate me and my preferred avenues of self expression.”

upside-down, he watches you dust off puppym’s face and smooch his forehead with a tenderness that makes seungmin unhappier than he lets on. you then tuck him into your jacket pocket. the little shit’s expression looks strangely smug poking out of its cotton capsule.

“i’m asking you to not gauge his eyes out, not to deliver me the holy grail,” you say. “you’ll survive.”

but then he feels your hands on either side of his face, and you lean over him like the mj to his peter, leave a kiss on the space between his eyes, too. he has zero say in the bashful smile this brings to his face.

“but why do you do that, seriously?” you mutter.

“i have no idea,” he replies. “but it’s fun. try it.”

“i’ll think about it.” you lean in again, and he nearly forgets what you were talking about in the first place when you kiss him on the lips this time. “okay, i’ve thought about it. no.”

“hate you,” he says despite the literal hearts in his eyes, and then you’re off to work.

puppym takes strikingly after his father. they have the same bangs. the same compulsively squeezable quality. the same little :3 that can only allude to sinister plottings. you’d be loath to admit that you sort of comprehend seungmin’s poking predisposition.

one night, seungmin falls asleep before you even finish your nighttime routine, and you spot in his peaceful, upturned face an opportunity.

you lie belly-down on your side of the bed. your fingers splay into a peace-sign in the air. your smile stretches further into a cheshire grin the closer you bring your hand. you’re just about to reach the ends of his eyelashes when—

“I KNEW IT!”

you almost catapult into the ceiling. then you try to make a mad dash for the bathroom. but seungmin shoots a hand around your wrist like he’s actually peter parker and pins you down before you so much as take a step. your only remaining option is to sulk about your foiled plans. (and blush, because, well, you’re under him.)

“amateur,” he tsks. “you gotta test my breathing to make sure i’m asleep first. shit’s foolproof.”

you blink at him for a few seconds. his words finally click.

now you almost catapult him into the ceiling.

“HOW MANY TIMES?”

jeongin + eating food in one bite. so you might be an instigator.

“hwuck,” he grumbles around the whole ice cream cone in his mouth, face scrunched up in a brain-freeze-induced wince. “ayee ith waz a bah iyeah.” (translation: fuck, maybe this was a bad idea.)

“you got this. just take it slow,” you urge, except he’s stopped moving and speaking and closed his eyes as if he’s descending into a deep sleep. you’re actually concerned for about two seconds, and then his jaw begins to oscillate leisurely like an elderly cow in his favorite pasture. false alarm.

after some time, he swallows, beams. “so am i the fucking best or what.”

“yeah you are,” you echo, and he swings an arm over your shoulder, plants a chocolatey kiss on your temple. the two of you celebrate his daesangs with less enthusiasm.

“when are you doing that with me, by the way?”

“the one-bite thing?” he nods. “mmm, coaches don’t play.”

“mmm, this one will.”

“doubtful.”

fast forward a few weeks and you, jeongin, and his younger brother are sitting cross-legged on the porch in his backyard. three full-sized oranges rest in the center of your makeshift circle. damn is yoon hard to say no to. (runs in the family.)

“the rules!” he declares. “eat the orange whole! first to swallow it wins! you can’t spit it out!”

you wait. “is that it?”

“yes!”

why was the delivery so grand?

jeongin places a fond hand atop his brother’s head. “i’ve brought you a new loser, yoonie. get excited.”

you feign an indifferent scoff, but jeongin spots the fire that ignites behind your eyes like that of an anime protagonist, the resolute grip with which you palm your orange. he smirks. he’s never known you to take trash talk sitting down. or sitting cross-legged on his porch.

yoon counts you off. “ready…”

“good luck, coach,” jeongin sings.

“shut up, pipsqueak.”

“set…GO!”

in amusing unison, you and yoon try and fail to fasten your teeth around even half of the fruit. jeongin, meanwhile, fits the whole thing into his black hole of an oral cavity and launches into that dumb cow impression again.

desperate times call for desperate measures.

you rip the orange from your lips. “yoon! your brother’s ticklish, right?”

both yang siblings’ eyes widen—the younger’s in growing delight, the older’s in impending horror.

the latter reacts first. “ay, ay, ay, ah ahes eh ooles!” (translation: wait, wait, wait, that’s against the rules!)

but the former moves first, and you’re right behind him.

jeongin weakens when the younger boy assaults his sides, crumples when you target the back of his neck, the sounds leaving his mouth getting progressively louder and somehow even less intelligible.

he eventually has to spit out the orange to avoid death by pulp going down the wrong pipe and spins around in indignation, wiping at his chin with the back of his hand. but his annoyance—

you’re back on the floor, gnawing hopelessly at the the orange again. “ih ih eawahin, ooh.” (translation: this is embarrassing, yoon.)

yoon replies, “huh?” (translation: huh?)

—dissipates, immediately.

🔖 (send an ask to be added)・@astraystayyh・@like-a-diamondinthesky・@fire-08・@starsandrqindrops・@txtxlz・@laylasbunbunny・@strayghibli・@nuronhe・@seungminsapuppy・@vivisoni・@skzms・@moon0fthenight・@sweetpickledjins・@svintsandghosts・@nhyunn ・@ur-boyfiend ・@liknws・@hotgorloikawa・@randomwimp ・ @automaticpersonabatpaper

© forlix (est. 090323) · liked this work? please consider reblogging, commenting, or sending me an ask to let me know; or, read my other writing here. thanks so much for the support!

[safely-overdosing]

i feel myself getting progressively too old for tumblr. like yall are still stuck in 2014 with some of your queer and autism takes, shits cringe to look at, honest to god

[accursedthing]

People on here love to post vines and say "tiktok can't do this 😏" and then none of the vines are even funny anymore

[fuckyeahfightlock]

Black lipstick, when you could get it, was usually of horrible quality--slippy, sheer, "toy makeup" for Halloween. Even Manic Panic (*IF* you lived/could get to a big city to a cool store that stocked it, and could afford to pay twice what the drugstore charged for lipstick) black lipstick was not that great--no staying power so if you talked or ate or smoked cigarettes or drank a gin and tonic half of it was gone in fifteen minutes.

My '80s goth look was red lipstick (Revlon Drumbeat Red, a blue red), a black Wet n Wild eyeliner pencil (99cents), and L'Oreal Lash Out mascara, all applied over a base of the lightest shade of a Maybelline foundation they don't even make anymore my sister once called "like smearing pudding on your face," ie, it was what we now call full coverage, and dusted with Cover Girl Clean translucent powder from a compact, applied with the terrycloth puff thing it came with. I did nothing to my eyebrows except pluck them way too thin and sometimes brush them upwards (but never set them so it made no difference).

In the '90s I worked in the cool store that stocked Manic Panic and while I owned both the creme and the glitter black lipsticks, my go-to was Black Rose, which was a dupe for a popular-among-goths MAC one I forget the name of; it was a super-dark reddish purple. My aim at the time was "the darkest lipstick possible," but not black.

We also didn't have matte lipstick then anywhere near as matte as what is made now. "Matte" lips were not a thing. The most matte I could ever make my lips was to blot them on a kleenex, then press some translucent powder through a single ply of another kleenex held against my lips. Even then it was not very matte and you can imagine how good that felt to wear (not good).

It seems so rare now (online) to see goths wearing red lipstick but back in the day goth girls who had decent funds for it often used to have like a trillion slightly different red lipsticks.

"No, no. You see. This red lipstick and this other red lipstick aren't 100% identical, they're only 98% identical, and I wear each for completely different situations omg. I can't just get rid of one of them." 😭

[logansdoll]

Heyyy it would be awesome if you wrote a third part for “37” where Charles gives Logan’s memories back and we go through flashbacks of some of his best memories, his wedding, the day his kids were born…something like that, it would be very heartwarming 🥰🥰🥰 or even maybe coming back from the past and seeing his kids again

sunflower

part three of "37"

CW: fluffy fluff, all the feels, suggestive, profanity, takes place after the events of Days Future Past, very bittersweet, your daughter's a lil menace, your son's a lil cutie pie, angst if you squint, i never know how to end these things, etc.

"Logan, the mind is a fickle thing," Charles sighed, resting his hands on his desk with a solemn look. "I can't possibly guarantee that this will work, much less in one session—" "I don't care how long it takes."

Logan's face drew tight with the statement, his patience visibly wearing thin.

He'd been listening to the same bullshit for twenty minutes...

"I don't care if I need a hundred different fuckin' sessions. I'm gettin' these memories back," he spelled out, leaning forward in his seat and roughly tapping his finger on the desk. "It doesn't make any damn sense. This body's been in this timeline for fifty-fuckin'-years and it doesn't remember shit."

"Because it is your consciousness that is the problem, Logan," Charles groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. "That is what I've been trying to tell you."

Logan piped down for a moment, brows knitting together as he leaned back in his seat, taking an annoyed drag of his cigar.

"Your psyche is from a completely different timeline, and now resides in a completely different body. It's like asking to recall the memories of a random person walking down the street," the professor explained, again.

Sadly, he hung his head, greatly sorry for the misfortune of his friend.

"I wish there was something I could do, Logan. Truly. But I'm afraid it just can't be done."

But Logan didn't buy it.

Huffing a small plume of smoke out his nose, he glanced out the window, catching sight of you teaching a class on the lawn.

Using your powers, you grew a large sunflower out from the ground, the younger kids marveling at the sight as you began pointing out its anatomy, most of them enamored by the huge petals—which were bigger than their little six year-old frames.

And in a small pause in time, your eyes flitted up to meet his through the window, that heart-stopping smile finding its way onto your lips as you gave him a tiny wave.

It warmed him, experiencing your light for the first time in years without the threat of annihilation on the horizon.

Domesticity like this is something he'd craved all his life, and now that he had it in his grasp, he wasn't going to settle for anything less.

A stilling chill descended on his chest at the thought of your smile, and the countless others he'd missed.

Your tears of joy when he proposed.

Your frazzled excitement with the wedding planning.

Your radiance as you walked down the aisle.

He missed it all.

And he'd be damned if he didn't do everything in his power to try and get it back.

"Charles..." Logan started, stamping out his cigar in a nearby ashtray. "My whole life is standin' out there under that tree... and I can't remember a goddamn thing about her after 1973."

His tone turned cold, eyes sharp as he stared the professor down.

"I don't care if you have to rip my head in half... I'm gettin' those memories back."

The old man let out a sigh, accepting that going on like this would bring no other outcome.

He'd have to give the man what he wanted... consequences be damned.

'Let's hope he survives...'

"This will be violent," Charles stated off-rip, wheeling himself out from behind his desk. "I am essentially hammering your mind like a dam, making cracks in its defenses until it eventually gives way."

Logan nodded, watching as the man settled in front of him, raising his two fingers to his temple.

"Now... try not to move."

Logan shut his eyes, and in an instant, it felt as if his head was struck by a speeding train.

He let out a growl of pain as images began to flash behind his eyes, the next one always coming quicker than the last.

"Hon, which color do you think would go best with my complexion? Eggshell or Porcelain?" you asked, eagerly holding up two different swatches against your skin.

"You look beautiful in anything, baby," he stated as if it was the simplest thing in the world, wrapping an arm around your waist. "Either one is fine."

"As sweet as that is... it doesn't help," you huffed, playfully attempting to scold him.

"Fine then. Eggshell," he answered, quickly.

You raised a brow, an amused smile playing at your lips as you leaned in closer, "Are you just saying that to get me to shut up?"

He let out a chuckle, resting his forehead against yours, "Never."

Yes...

"Can't wait 'til this damn reception is over," he growled in your ear, lips dragging down your neck as you both hid in a nearby hallway. "First time I've been alone with you since I do."

"Logan..." you gasped, tucking your lip between your teeth in an attempt to muffle yourself as he tightly grasped your hips. "Someone'll hear..."

"Then I guess you better keep quiet," he smirked against your skin, giving your collarbone a soft nip.

It's all coming back...

"Logan..." you started, nervously, hands held firmly behind your back. "I have something to tell you... and I'm open to talk about it if you're upset..."

His brows furrowed as he turned away from his dresser, looking toward you with an air of concern.

"What's wrong?" he asked, his protective instinct spiking at the sight of your fearful expression. "What happened?"

Unable to say it, you slowly held up your hand, revealing a positive pregnancy test.

His eyes widened like saucers, throat drying at the tiny piece of plastic.

"You're... pregnant?"

You nodded, silently, his reaction not soothing your anxiety one bit.

But, as if on cue, he moved toward you, striding across the room and pulling you into a bone crushing hug.

"I'm gonna be a father..." he muttered into your hair, the phrase not one he thought he'd ever hear. "I'm gonna be a father..."

Wait...

"Logan!" you cried, tears welling in your eyes as you glanced up at him, scared. "I can't...mmmph fuck!... I can't do it! Hurts too much!"

"C'mon, baby, keep pushin'. You're doin' so good," he cooed, swiping stray strands of hair out your face as the nurse on the other side of the bed helped cheer you on. "Just a little bit more. You're right there."

With a grunt, you squeezed his hand tight, letting out a growl of pain as you gave another push.

Pop!

Logan's eyes shot wide, the man nearly biting through his tongue as he glanced down at his hand.

You dislocated his finger.

Though it seemed to be worth it as that final push was what did it.

"It's a girl!" the doctor smiled, carefully holding up the newborn.

Looking upon her small, chubbed face, Logan felt a sense of protectiveness sink into his chest—one that he only felt when things came to you.

In that moment, and every moment after that, he knew he would lay his life down for her, no question.

And she wasn't even a minute old yet.

I have—

"James! Get back here!" a little girl squealed with laughter, bursting into the office after a little boy, who looked terrified.

Logan snapped out his head with a gasp, shooting up from his seat and unsheathing his claws out of muscle memory.

'James...'

Quickly, Logan retracted his claws as the boy ducked behind his leg, gripping tightly onto his jeans as the girl stormed over.

She looked just like you, save for a few small details, and had a small snaggle-tooth poking out on her right side, only adding to her adorableness.

Not to mention the bone claws she had protruding from her knuckles.

"No fair! You can't hide behind Dad every time you're scared!" she furrowed her brows, upset.

"Mommy told you about your claws, Laura..." James mumbled, voice barely above a whisper as he shyly peeked out from behind his human shield.

'Laura...'

The boy was Logan's mirror image, looking almost exactly like he did at that age..

Apple doesn't fall too far from the tree...

Charles could sense the pieces clicking in Logan's mind, and figured lending a hand would be best after what he'd been through.

"Logan, these are your—" "Laura Marie Howlett!" your voice cut in, the little girl flinching at the sound.

Quickly, she retracted her claws, whipping around with a guilty smile, which was met by your less-than-approving glare.

"What have I told you about chasing your brother inside? And what have I told you about using your claws to do it?" you scolded, walking into the office. "You two are interrupting your father and Professor Xavier."

Logan let out a soft sigh, taking the moment to finally look over his family.

Like a slow moving stream, things were coming back to him, the feeling like a fog clearing from the recesses of his mind.

Every birthday.

Every boo-boo.

Every first.

Slowly but surely, they were all returning.

Without warning, Logan dropped to his knees, pulling the two kids into a tight hug, fiercely fighting off the emotion swelling in his chest.

"Daddy?" James squeaked, concerned.

"Are you okay?" Laura asked, confused.

He nodded, silently, the sight making your heart both burst and ache.

After all this time, your husband was truly whole.

Fifty years of suffering and agony had finally come to an end.

taglist !!

@catiwinky @seamlessepiphany @vinaluvsu @kellyxo1 @amandarobertsboyce  @captainloki1 @qveendiorsworld @sarahskywalker-amidala @mei-simp @oatmilkriver @br3nt-12 @bimboshaggy @lightsgore @edszn @couturewinx @sunroxic @notanotheroldman @bontensbabygirl @buckleysg1rl @marvelgirlie-4 @eljaynosine-triphosphate @nickf1 @pinkisokay @mercurysjoy

[p0orbaby]

Mission Impossible

summary: you’re an agent at the top of your game, until a certain footballer distracts you

warnings: SMUT 18+, semi public (car), fingering, top!leah, dirty talk?

a/n: thanks for the request ! this was super fun to write

word count: 2.2k

-

“Remember to mute yourself if you go to the toilet, yeah?” your new technician's voice crackles through the earpiece you’d pay your life’s savings not to have to wear.

“You do know who you’re talking to, right?”

“Of course! The female version of double oh seven, duh. This is like, super cool that I’ve been assigned to you, by the way”

You roll your eyes and tap your fingers impatiently against the steering wheel of your car. “It’s my pleasure”

“But seriously, not to tell you what to do or anything but, please mute if you need to go potty. It’s just that I’ve got PTSD from the last agent because they-“

“Can you reroute me? This traffic is starting to piss me off and I’ve got a finite amount of time to, you know, do my job”

“Right, right,” he stammers. You hear the rapid clicking of keys over the comms. “Okay, take the next left and then a right at the lights. Should get you there faster”

“Thanks.” You sigh, flicking on your turn signal. The city lights blur past as you navigate the winding roads, every rev of your engine a reminder of the ticking clock. Or was that your indicator? Who knows, who cares?

“You nervous?” the technician, Mikey? asks, trying to make small talk. “I mean, it’s a big deal, right? Going undercover at something like this?”

“Nervous? No. Anxious to get out of this car? Absolutely,” you reply. The GPS recalculates, leading you into a quieter, more upscale part of the city. The kind of place where people hide secrets behind perfectly manicured lawns and pristine facades.

“Just remember,” he continues, his tone growing serious, “we’re here if you need anything. But you’ve got this. You always do”

“Thanks for the pep talk, Coach,” you say dryly, but there’s a hint of a smile on your lips at his compliment. “I’m pulling up now. Keep the channel clear unless it’s an emergency”

“Roger that. Good luck”

-

You hated places like this. Sure it’s probably the attendees' tax contributions who pay the bulk of your wages, but still. Everything is always so uptight, stiff, dry as hell.

“Tell me again why I had to wear a fucking dress” you say to yourself really, but you get a response because of you damn earpiece.

“Because as progressive as the world has become, a woman in a suit doesn’t really slide in environments like this”

You scoff, readjusting the strap of your gown. “I might put in a formal complaint. Undue distress in the workplace,” you mutter, weaving through the crowd. The air is thick with the scent of expensive perfume and the low hum of forced laughter.

“Just focus on the task at hand,” Mark? reminds you. “You’re looking for a woman in a blue dress, diamond necklace. Shouldn’t be hard to miss”

“Got it,” you reply, scanning the room. You catch glimpses of the high-profile guests, all engaged in their own worlds, oblivious to the undercurrents of deception that flow just beneath the surface.

You make your way to the bar, figuring it’s as good a place as any to start. You signal the bartender for a drink, something that will keep your hands busy without dulling your senses. As you wait, you let your eyes roam, taking in every detail, every potential threat.

“Remember,” Martins’? voice buzzes in your ear, “you’re just here to observe and gather intel. No heroics”

“Yeah, yeah,” you murmur, taking a sip of your drink. “Not my first rodeo, Champ”

What was with this kid?

A flash of blue catches your eye from across the room. You spot her, the woman you’re supposed to meet, gliding through the crowd with a grace that seems almost practiced. She pauses, scanning the room much like you did, and for a moment, her eyes meet yours.

You offer a slight nod, the briefest acknowledgment, before turning your attention back to your drink. No need to rush things. Timing is everything when it comes to these types of things.

“You look as bored as I feel”

A voice, smooth and unexpectedly unpretentious, cuts through your thoughts. You turn to find someone standing next to you, not in a dress, but in a sharp, tailored gray suit that makes her stand out in the sea of gowns and black tuxedos.

You muster a wry smile. “Is it that obvious?”

The blonde laughs softly, the sound genuine and easy. “Maybe just a little”. It’s her turn to gesture to the bartender. What gets placed in front of her is a tumbler of whiskey, dark and golden and a stark contrast to the champagne all the other women seem to be sipping on. “I’m Leah, by the way”

“Olivia,” you reply, shaking the confident hand she has extended for you. “First time at one of these?”

Leah shrugs, a casual gesture that is not encouraged at finishing school. She doesn’t belong here, you deduce. “Not quite. They get less and less interesting every time. You?”

“I’ve been to a few here and there,” you say, taking a sip of your drink. “But really it’s a bit of a social experiment for me”

Leah grins, leaning against the bar. “A social experiment, huh? Sounds like you’re a people-watcher”

“You could say that,” you reply, glancing over the room again. Your blue woman is nowhere to be seen. “You can learn a lot about someone by how they navigate a room like this”

“True enough,” Leah says, her eyes raking over the crowd. “But mostly, you just learn who’s got the best bullshit and who can fake a smile the longest”

You laugh over the rim of your own glass. You’ve gone for vodka on the rocks. Clear liquids are recommended. “You’ve got a point there”

“I’m not just a pretty face”

Maybe she wasn’t, but she did in fact have a pretty face, that much was obvious. Those blue eyes. No, green eyes? Wait, was she talking to you? No, but she is smirking. Smirking at you like she knew all your deepest darkest secrets. Perhaps she did. Perhaps she can see right through you as you stand here staring at her like she’s the most beautiful person you’ve ever seen.

“Y/N, focus”. Your conscience is talking to you again. “You haven’t got all night, remember”

You clear your throat, down your drink and ask for another.

“So, what does Leah do other than being a frequent goer of boring events, and a smart ass?”

She laughs and you feel it fizz through your body. “Oh, you know, a bit of this, a bit of that. Mostly kick a ball across some grass and hope it hits the target”

“Football?”

She nods. “Looks like you’re not just a pretty face either”

You’re about to respond, unsure of what you’re actually going to say as your brain has shortcurited, when a butter knife is tapped against the side of a glass.

“Looks like dinner’s ready” Leah whispers in your ear. “Where are you sitting?”

“Table four” you respond as you watch everyone start to move around the room.

“Well, unfortunately for you you can’t be rid of me just yet”

-

This doesn’t happen.

You don’t do this.

You’re a professional, the best in the field, so why are you half naked in the back of your car?

“Look at you, look at how wet you are” Leah sighs as she cocks her head, looking at how you’ve exposed yourself to her.

Your mind is gone. Off into the stratosphere never to return. Partly because you broke your very stringent rule of not drinking too much on the job, and partly because you need her to touch you. Now. Which she is not granting you the pleasure of doing.

You whimper pathetically when her palms splay on the inners of your thighs. Warm and large and calloused. She’s not a keeper, you've found out, so you only suspect the coarseness of her skin if from when she grips around weights in the gym.

If her forearms are anything to go by, your suspicions would be correct.

“Leah, please”

“What do you want, hm?” She asks, cocky in a way that heats your skin. “Tell me what you want and I might just give it to you”

She leans forward and presses tortured kisses against your jaw. Bruising you, no doubt. But that is a problem you will deal with later.

“You” you say, strained and desperate as her breath tickles you and forces goosebumps to ripple over your skin.

“You can do better than that” she teases.

Sighing, you muster the strength to speak more than one word at a time. “I want your fingers”

“Fuck, sweetheart” is all she says before she’s peeling herself off of you, rolling her sleeves up further past her elbows, and to your shock, sticking her fingers in her mouth.

The first touch almost has you combusting on the spot. She knows what she’s fucking doing. The suit should’ve been a giveaway. The whiskey a second chance for you to catch on. But you had a job to do, your mind was elsewhere, until it wasn’t.

You did in fact get your intel, and now you’re getting your reward.

Leah works painfully slow. Her experienced fingers rubbing lazy circles against your clit. She’s testing you, or she is making the most of your time together. Whatever she’s doing it’s making you that impatient that your hips buck involuntarily in response.

“You like that? You like it when I touch you?”

“Leah, for the love of god, hurry up”

She laughs then. Soft and sweet as if she’s not got your dress tucked up under your chin, or that a film of her saliva is covering the most intimate parts of you.

“You ready, baby?”

So fucking ready.

You nod, and she smirks again. Smug cow.

Her left hand finds your leg once more, but this time she wraps her fingers around the underside of your knee and pushes. Opening you up and keeping you where she wants you. It’s her right hand that gets to work between your thighs.

She pushes a solitary index finger in first. With little resistance with your own doing and her spit making the job easy enough.

“Oh fuck” you whine. “Jesus fucking Christ”

“Saying the lord's name in vain? I must be doing a good job” she snickers.

“Shut up. Shut the fuck up and make me cum already”

To Leah’s credit, she is very good at fulfilling instructions. At least after a time. You think she’s had enough of toying with you and is actually looking forward to having her way with you now. Which you couldn’t be happier about if you tried.

Her finger slips in and out of you at a pace that has you teetering on the edge. Not quite enough to push you off. Which she must realise by the way your nails dig into the skin of those amazing forearms of hers. She is quick to change tactics.

Two fingers now, and you feel deliciously full. She has perfect fingers, you think behind the haze of your lust. Just the right length to hit that spot within you that has you reeling.

“Keep going” you beg, rolling your hips to meet each thrust. “I’m close”

“Yeah? You gonna cum for me, pretty girl?”

“Uh huh” you breathe, nodding as you feel your insides tense up, the line ready to snap.

Which it does when her thumb finds your neglected clit. And the rest is history.

Your whole body goes up in flames. Seeing stars as your legs shake and the coil in your belly snaps at last.

“You’re so pretty,” Leah says. You think. The sound of blood rushing past your ears makes it hard to distinguish your moans from anything else. “Look at you, does that feel good?”

You can’t nod, you can’t speak. But fuck yes it does. And she knows it because even as you start to come down from the highest of highs, she leans down to capture your cries with her mouth. Keeping them for herself and her fingers curl gently inside you to ease you back to reality.

“You’re amazing,” she whispers, her voice a calming balm in the aftermath of everything. She shifts slightly, withdrawing her fingers carefully and wipes them on the leg of her suit trousers. Just breathe,” she murmurs, her breath tickling your ear. “I’ve got you”

You close your eyes, letting the remnants of your climax pulse through your body as you try to regain your composure. Something that you don’t misplace often.

“That was-“

“Better than the cheese boards they were going to force down our necks? I agree” she finishes for you as she leans back, finds her discarded shout jacket, and uses it to wipe you clean.

“Something like that” you say, your voice rough around the edges.

Leah straightens up, her eyes twinkling with something you can’t quite place. “So, do I get your number, or do I have to crash another shitty event to see you again?”

You chuckle, stretching over to the glovebox. You pull out a sleek, plain business card with just a number printed on it and hand it to her. “Here. Use it wisely”

Leah takes the card, a satisfied grin spreading across her face. She leans in, pressing a dirty, lingering kiss against your lips. “Until next time, Olivia,” she murmurs against your mouth before pulling away and stepping out of the car.

As you watch her walk away, a crackle sounds through straight into your brain, followed by Mitch’s! disgusted voice. “Oh my God, I told you to turn off your fucking earpiece!”

[howlsofbloodhounds]

I think my favorite “fanon” interpretations of nightmare have to be like cartoonishly evil and silly. Or like, old and powerful and grumpy about it and you best get off his lawn.

Peepaw Nightmare, he complains about his back and how “back in my day!” and he calls Killer “boy” when he’s upset with him. “Boy quiet.” “Boy quiet.” “Boy quiet now.”

Killer uses the movements of his tentacles to predict the weather like some older folk say they can feel the weather changing thanks to things like their “bad knee.”

And most of the time NM’s tentacles usually can predict the weather. Nightmare smacks killer over the head with his tentacle like an older man hitting the ankles of youngsters with a cane for being rowdy.

And like peepaw is really knowledgeable about a ton of things but also doesn’t keep up with modern technology and killer uses this to fuck with him for amusement. Convinced him a roomba is some type of highly intelligent pet.

And nightmare knows he’s being fucked with, but he’s just too stubborn and prideful to “get with the times.” And killer knows that he knows, so it’s like a game to see who cracks first.

Peepaw Nightmare uses the “it’s because you’re always on that damn phone” with killer a lot. Even in situations where it doesn’t make any sense. Killer threatens to put him in a nursing home frequently.

And nightmare has this big specific chair thats just for him and everyone knows it but it’s become a game to see who can sit on it for how long without getting caught. (Cross is the only one refusing to probably).

Killer frequently hears “why can’t you be more like cross and dust?” from the old man whenever he’s Had Enough of the antics.

And nightmare knits like cartoonishly evil versions of holiday sweaters for the group and has like the fucked up creepy doll equivalent of a beanie baby or porcelain doll collection. Dust feels like a sort of kinship with dolls and the other dudes have like a comical fear or aversion to them. Nightmare named every one like they’re his kids & the only ones understanding it r error & dust.

Everyone else refuses to call the dolls by name, besides cross who does it in a reluctant creeped out way.

Nightmare & error have old people beef over aus like old neighbors beefing over property lines & mowing the others lawn or something. & nm beefs with color about being a “good influence” on killer.

Nightmare calls dream at random intervals just to curse him out and insult him before hanging up and refuses to answer whenever Dream calls first. The “stars vs bad sanses” “negativity vs positivity” war/balance doesn’t actually exist or is just tipped enough in nightmare’s favor that he doesn’t worry about it so instead the twins just squabble over the golden apple though phone like its a custody battle over a beloved pet.

[hislittleraincloud]

Holy shit, the delusions in this are so numerous I can't even...but here it goes.

You have certainly not watched the series enough to know the value of each individual character

You kids don't do your research at all, do you. Maybe the COVID interruption in your education fucked that all up, or maybe schools just aren't teaching y'all to do your research before punching out your responses.

I went to sleep after posting my previous post about character integrity. You didn't read that, so moving on...

not only do you not understand the novel, you also do not understand the coherent narrative that it provides.

LOL I understood it and its interpretation of the characters — and its shitting on Ortega's portrayal — just fine, thanks.

And this was hardly coherent relative to its source material. It switches the order of events and dialogue here and there (and deletes direct conversations that NC/Wednesday has herself with characters), sometimes with clear intent, other times for no meaningful reason.

Being in queer relationships not only do not matter enough in your position, in fortitude; past is in the past, what your beliefs in the present indicate your own identity and value more than what you were like previously.

I wrote what I wrote about watching queer TV as a response to the person's accusation that I "can't cope with WLW relationships on screen".

And I can tell you're young with your dismissal that my experience "does not matter enough" in my position. "In fortitude".

Since you don't seem to comprehend the meaning of the words you're throwing out, please tell me what that position is, child. I'm so curious to see how you're analyzing over 35 years of fighting long battles in the 🏳️‍🌈 and 🏳️‍⚧️ community.

listing out series you coped with in your youth once more does not indicate your morals nor do they excuse anything;

ONCE AGAIN. I was responding to the person who said I was uncomfortable with WLW onscreen. Jesus, you whine about coherence but can't even follow the argument properly.

And you should probably fkn watch Xena to understand what you're attempting to apply to Wednesday and Wenclair. You don't even have to watch the whole ass series. Pretty sure that in the first couple of episodes that the WLW coding is very, very clear.

considering you’re in your 30s, your youth was quite the years away

...Math isn't your strong suit either, huh. (It isn't for Mejia either, since they wrote that the elder Addamses' tenure at Nevermore happened 20 years prior to the events of the series and not 32 like it's supposed to be.) But it's on me for not putting my age in my Short Bio. Psst...being in your 30s isn't "old af" and "having a mustache that's older than you" are clues to my age.

I was Jenna's age when Xena premiered, and just months away from 30 when The L Word premiered.

But sure, continue on with your own brand of ageism and I'll continue with mine. 🥹

not only have you not said anything queer related recently

...Oh shit, did I miss the quota AGAIN???

My bad. As a geriatric, my poor eyesight missed the fine print on the LesBiGay Daily that commanded all of us old people to make regular postings about community issues.

Seriously, what the fuck.

As for this fandom in particular, I haven't said MUCH because I know you kids can't debate like humans with rational, objective brains. You're still in that narcissistic phase of young adulthood where everything you are is RIGHT and EVERYTHING in life, and you've yet to live outside of the 🏳️‍🌈 Wenclair brainrot bubble.

past is in the past, what your beliefs in the present indicate your own identity and value more than what you were like previously

I think you're missing an "s" at the end of "value" there, kid. Without it, it's a completely different sentence (and judgement, though I wouldn't be surprised if you actually meant value and not values...you have yet to express that my experience is valued or valuable).

I find it extremely ironic because clearly the transition you undergone [sic] messed you up;

Casual transphobia noted.

you mention “projecting fantasies onto Enid and Wednesday”, however, you’re doing the same thing for a 60 year x freshly turned 16 year old.

I have said this a million times already: Afterburn Wednesday has elements of personal experience from Wednesday's point of view. I fucked old men when I was her age. I preferred it over fucking boys my age. Boys my age had no mind to talk about art, literature, and life the way men with more experience could. I had no patience to deal with adolescent immaturity and was looking for brains (ah ha, horny cock zombie 🫠) that could answer my questions about life instead of staring erect and slack-jawed at me until I dropped my pants.

And I get that this disturbs you because in modern society 30+ years later, you're bombarded information that insists that anything more than a tiny age gap is morally wrong, that "brains aren't finished developing until the age of 25", and that you can't possibly be autonomous enough as a minor to decide who you want to fuck.

But by absorbing these lines without some serious critical thinking, you dismiss the individual in favor of a collective yard that chains certain individuals — us outliers — to a model that doesn't fit them. And here, you're (like everyone else with your judgements) assuming that because I'm an old guy that my "fantasies" are from the Dirty Old Man-wants-to-fuck perspective...because that has to be the case, right? At least in this fucking fandom it has to be, given the sheer OCEAN of puerile "y/n" self-insert shit that involves Jenna Ortega and her characters. Shit like this on my fyp

Drunk sex, huh. Whatever happened to "drunk people can't consent", or is that only for RL het relationships?

But I digress, as I am wont to do.

3. They certainly had Jenna’s input on the book

LMAO Okay, that's the funniest thing you've said so far, and clearly you have this strange idea that actors especially busy as fuck ones like Jenna Ortega have input on how their characters are portrayed in adjacent media that the parent company puts out.

If that's the case, then I have some stern ass words for Gillian fucking Anderson and that horrid X-Files novelization I read years back. Ooo, maybe I should've griped to Marina Sirtis about the boring Imzadi Trikerfest (Riker/Troi, and technically not a novelization) as well, since I've been a Trorfer for almost 30 years.

OH WAIT. I DID.

Told her that despite Triker's existence, I'm a Trorfer for life, hence her laughter.

Psst: They're actors. They don't have input in the adjacent material the studio releases, but you can continue to delude yourself into thinking that they do.

IF Ortega had input in this, I'd be surprised, and would have words for her, too. But given how she's responded about Wenclair (+ Wednesday as a character) and how, instead of capitulating to your guys' desperate desires and fantasies, she's decided to just kill any romance for Wednesday Addams going forward, I don't think that she has.

Im not sure if you realize that or you just want to be nit-picky about it, Wednesday’s character is portrayed pretty well in the absence of her mind, she is not some psychopath the people think she is; that is the FANDOM Wednesday Addams.

That's a bit ass-backwards.

NC Wednesday very much has psychopathic tendencies and traits. She is also very much canonically a narcissist who doesn't DO feelings normally.

I mean...did you think that all people with psychopathic traits ARE psychopaths? You'd be wrong.

Mejia's Wednesday is fandom's Wednesday, as far as all of the little weird interjections of softness that are in there. NCW didn't give a flying fuck about Enid when she dragged her to the Gates Mansion. She was using her as an excuse to get there. She also didn't tell Enid to give her her damn snood to tie them together against the dumbwaiter door (🤦🏽‍♂️🤦🏽‍♂️🤦🏽‍♂️) when Hyde!Tyler was attacking. That's a change to canon based on fanon.

Your little Wenclair brain's so soaked with fandom crap that you can't even see how any of this diminishes Wednesday's growth towards truly being able to express feeling towards someone she cares about, i.e. accepting the Hug. Mejia even fucked up (re-wrote) the hug itself:

NC Wednesday DID push Enid back — at first.

But it was the moment that Wends looked into Enid's eyes and knowing what support they both needed in the relief of that moment, brought her into THE Hug. The Hug was a "thank God you're alive", "thank you", and "we did it", but it was also the point where Wednesday was finally able to let herself express that kind of emotion in front of others (hence the music and the cheesy camera pan around the other students who knew them).

Being heavily involved in your 30s with a illegal ship in itself is weird too, that in itself is more delusional than liking a “fandom version” of a character.

Oh my GOD can we just stop with the crap about "illegal ships"? This is fucking FICTION. I could've set Afterburn in a world where the Age of Consent is 16 and no one bats an eye (like in House of the Dragon...only that's worse, since Helaena had her first incest kid at 13 or 14), but I haven't because I'm trying to respect the canon that we see on screen. My readers will see how that's dealt with, but it was my choice to write within the constraints of reality (I didn't have to).

That said, Afterburn Wednesday IS a "fandom version" of Wednesday. And I like her better than Mejia's hot mess of a Wednesday who doesn't even fucking know that you shouldn't take a knife out of a stab wound to the gut

What a fucking moron.

4. The novelization remark is ultimately untrue;

What'd I say about it?

4. Novelizations should always be written by someone who is unbiased, knows the show, and can handle uncomfortable dialogue. If you know this author's other works, you can clearly see why we got what we got in terms of Wednesday's soft Wenclairian thoughts throughout the whole damn thing, but as far as knowing the show? What excuse do you or they have for "Crackstone Crypt"? Or stretching Outreach DAY (singular) into two days? Or screwing up the timeline on the day before the Rave'N? Or deleting so. Many. Lines. And Easter eggs that made Wednesday part of Addams Family lore.

How is any of that fucking ultimately untrue? So you WANT someone biased, who doesn't know the show, and who doesn't know how to handle uncomfortable dialogue? You WANT someone to delete the best canon Wenclair lines? Of course you do, since you value what they were exchanged for more than you value actual canon.

Wasn't just Wenclair lines they messed with. Don't even get me started about how the dude changed the phrase "slave to technology" to something more politically correct, something that does not roll off the tongue the way it did when both Ortega and Doohan spoke their lines.

But please, tell me more about how TV-to-novelizations work since you know so well. I'm sure you've read more than (this) one in your entire life, right?

You forget that almost the entire cast of Wednesday ship Wednesday x Enid, are you saying that they should ultimately be replaced with an unbiased opinion?

...Why the fuck would I want the entire cast replaced because of who they ship? What the fuck kind of logic is that?

"Almost the entire cast's" shipping has no bearing on their fucking jobs. Despite the little dust storm MGM/Burton dealt with re: Ortega changing lines to suit what she thinks of the character she's portraying, it's generally unprofessional for actors to do that on the regular (which is why there was a dust storm around it). These jobs are separate and distinct (ofc, unless the actor was the writer): Writer, actor. Can they have input? Of course they can, but the example that you used? It's ridiculous. A non sequitur. Naïveté about how things work, because maybe you're just too young and too damn bubbled in your own fantasies about how life actually happens.

To quote our baby-faced babycakes from the Pride media reporter who asked: "In a perfect world, [Wenclair] would've been a thing."

In a perfect world.

Newsflash: We're not living in a perfect world. We can't live in a "perfect world" because one person's version of "perfect" isn't another's.

So we have fan fic.

And even then, you can't help but sully the lines between reality and fiction.

🤦🏽‍♂️

Wednesday was a show mandated for kids; Of course its gonna have a low reading level, many kids of 8-11 love the show as much as adults, it is not going to have high vocabulary and detailing you would expect it to. In season 2’s novelization; I can assure you that its not going to be as mandated for kids....

🤦🏽‍♂️🤦🏽‍♂️🤦🏽‍♂️🤦🏽‍♂️🤦🏽‍♂️

Tell us that you don't know what TV ratings are and that you don't know what Wednesday's TV rating is without telling us.

Fourteen is high school age. It's Middle Adolescence. Middle and late make up Young Adult, hence YA fiction.

The book should not have been written with "8 to 11-year-olds" in mind because the show, as deemed by Netflix, is intended for audiences 14 and up:

I agree with the rating, especially since there were some very adult-oriented oral sex in-jokes (with the inclusion of The Cramps song and Ajax discovering Enid crouched in front of Lucas's jock) that kids won't grasp but adults will.

And speaking of ratings and readability, long before the Internet existed, there was YA. Anne of Green Gables is considered YA, even though it was written for all ages (kinda like Harry Potter). But y'all have been so damn dumbed down that it'd be considered difficult reading in comparison to this stuff and most of the modern "YA".

The first paragraph of AGG is too difficult for the bulk of today's YA crowd:

But it wouldn't be difficult if you set your minds towards learning.

You should all be expecting better of yourselves and of the YA authors you read. Stop scrolling and read more classics. Taken as a whole, this novelization is crap compared to what you could be reading to expand your mind.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have to wade through the Hell of the comments sections that this shithole has given us to find where others have continued to scream at me about this damn post.

So apparently, @netflix allowed this Wenclair terrible fanfiction to be published as some kind of novelization for season 1 of the Wednesday series...

Even though it has almost nothing to do with the @wednesdaynetflix series 🤦‍♀️

I mean... how are you going to make Wednesday attracted to Enid in this book when she was canonically attracted to Xavier and Tyler? 🤦‍♀️

Enid being excited when Wednesday told her that she was going to the dance with Xavier...

Enid dating Ajax and kissing him?

Wednesday almost kissing Tyler after their date?

Then Enid sending Wednesday to kiss Tyler at the weathervane?

All of this actually happened in the show that we watched! 🙄

What part of this makes us feel like Enid and Wednesday have romantic or sexual feelings for each other?

@Netflix Do you think we're stupid? Or are you trying to gaslight us🤔?

[loveinhawkins]

“Why are you wearing cologne?” Dustin asks after barely one second in the van.

“I’m not,” Eddie says, and promptly wants to die at how unconvincing that was. It’s not even technically a lie…

He makes it out of the school parking lot with Dustin saying jackshit, so for a little while, he thinks he’s gotten away with it.

More fool him.

Dustin abruptly lunges to the side, all up in his face like the world’s most dedicated sniffer dog.

“Ew, gross! Get off, man, I’m gonna crash,” Eddie says, even though they’ve been at a stop light for the past minute.

“Okay, correction,” Dustin says, drawing back. “Why are you wearing Steve’s cologne?”

Eddie stares into the middle distance, prays for The Upside Down to come and swallow him up.

An agonising silence.

“Oh my god,” Dustin whisper-screams. “Oh my god.”

“Look, just—”

“Oh my god!”

And yup, ow, that’s definitely become a full blown scream now, and double ow, Dustin has just socked him one in the arm.

“Hey!”

“What the fuck, Eddie?! How could you not—”

“Jesus! Take a damn chill pill, Henderson, I swear to—”

“Since when you do you say shit like—oh my God, Steve says shit like that. You can’t let him get to you like this, Eddie, you’re too young to die.”

“What does that even mean?”

Dustin keeps jiggling Eddie by the arm as he pulls up to Dustin’s house. Even when his stomach is jangling with nerves, he can’t fight a smile at the kid’s antics.

“Holy shit, this is big,” Dustin says with wide eyes, and it bothers Eddie that he can’t get a hold of what sort of expression is on his face. “This is huge.”

And all of a sudden, it doesn’t seem all that funny anymore.

“It’s not,” Eddie says quietly. “It’s really not. It doesn’t have to be, like… look, Dustin, can we just—if it bothers you, just drop it, and we can pretend like—”

“Wait, what? No.” And now Eddie can read the remorse on his face. “Shit, sorry. Eddie, I didn’t mean, like… big in a bad way, I swear.”

And goddamn it, Eddie trusts him. Of course he does.

“Okay.” He lets out a long sigh, tipping his head back in his seat. “Okay.”

“I just meant… like, you know The Royal Family? In England.”

…What.

“Oh, please, run with this analogy,” Eddie says, a mixture of curious and hysterical, “I’m dying to see where it goes.”

“You know, when they have news, they put it outside the… Palace? Like, on a stand. So people know.”

“Are you fucking implying that you are the public to our… wow, I’m so sorry, Henderson.” Eddie can’t take it anymore; he wheezes with laughter, can’t hide how relieved he sounds. “Next time I’ll ruin your front lawn and put a huge fucking sign there, then you’ll know that—”

“I didn’t mean it literally, asshole. I just…” Dustin shrugs. “Just meant if you wanted to, like… mention it. It would be cool. It is cool.”

“Cool,” Eddie echoes faintly.

“Cool,” Dustin repeats, emphatic.

Jesus Christ, I love you so much.

“Aw, Henderson,” Eddie says, “were you gonna make us a card or something?”

“Do you want a card?” Dustin says dryly.

And yeah, he’s being a little shit about it, but there’s also a note of sincerity hiding in there that has Eddie fighting a lump in his throat. He chuckles through it, flicks Dustin’s forehead.

“C’mon, get out before your mom thinks I’ve kidnapped you.”

“She thinks you’re an angel now, and you know it. It’s horrifying.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m a Saint.”

Eddie waits until Dustin’s at his front door before reversing, watches him with silent fondness as he greets his cat.

He says through the side window, “Hey, Dustin?”

Dustin turns back. “Yeah?”

“We’d have told you first anyway. We were gonna, I swear.” Eddie scoffs. Smiles. “Not our fault you’re Sherlock Holmes, man.”

Dustin smirks, but his eyes are soft. “It was pretty elementary.”

[igotanidea]

Hero: Damian Wayne x reader

(family rules finale)

A/N: Family rules finale, ladies and gentleman! Forgive me, if I got a litlte rusty during hiatus, hope you'll still enjoy <3

Family rules masterlist

***

„Let go of me, Nightwing! She needs my help, can’t you see that-“

“Hush.”

“She is being-“

“Shut up Damian!”

Now, this, this was surprising.

Dick Grayson, the forever cool, positive and optimistic seemed to be losing his cool, clenching fists and jaw. He was not blind, duh! He saw what this asshole was doing to his daughter.

Dick was always very sensitive when it came to any type of violence and the fact that Y/N was the girl of whom Damian took a liking to was intensifying his fury tenfold.

Damn, he himself was hanging by a thread, forcing himself to not barge inside and take matters in his own, gloved hands.

But there were so many things and variables to consider. From what Dick knew about Y/N (cause Damian was not talking about her at all) she was rather withdrawn (reasons in the form of the scene unfolding in their eyes), with no friends, who would care for her. The only person who stalked her in wanting to talk was – Damian. Therefore technically, if anyone were to wander by her house at his hour would be him. And at the moment he was about to barge inside in his Robin suit.

And since Dick also knew Y/N was smart and good at connecting the dots there was a heavy risk of her figuring out that Damian=Robin. And then all the rest, getting up the hill to the identity of Batman himself.

And despite the attitude Dick had to many of Bruce’s rules, the secret identity one was a priority and the one he was not going to break.

Yet.

Lost in thoughts, he didn’t even notice Damian taking off and rushing over the lawn to her window.

“Damn! Robin, come back here!”

As if that could stop him.

If the situation wasn’t so dramatic, it would be truly hilarious.

If Y/N and/or her father were to look outside the window they would notice Nightwing and Robin struggling against one another on their estate, pulling at the cape, standing on feet, throwing batons and waving katana around.

 Like freaking comic characters in a kids’ show that intends to be funny but gives the adult a heavy cringe from embarrassment.

“I’m going in!” Damian yelled.

“You are not-“

“AGGHG!”

“Stop it!” Dick did a few backflips, miraculously escaping the blade. Damn, this was so much easier a few years ago, but now his older body was a little less agile even if Grayson refused to admit it. Meanwhile, 17 year old Damian seemed to be at the peak of his abilities. Cutting Dick’s opportunity to grab Robin’s cape and hold him midair with his feet dangling furiously.

“She needs my help!”

“Actually the help would be really helpful here. “ third voice, mocking, cut into the discussion, making both Dick and Damian stop.

Y/N was leaning on the doorframe, arms folded on her chest, look of pure contempt in her eyes as he observed the two vigilantes doing only what could be described as fooling around with each other. Her cheek was reddened and there was a faint stream of blood running down her arms.

So much for Dick’s masterplan.

“Thanks for nothing, you two.” She mocked, raising an eyebrow.

“Um…” Damian stuttered, suddenly feeling awfully called out on his behavior.

“Hm? You were saying?”

“Nothing…” he looked down like a schoolboy, while Dick was standing a little behind, biting the inside of his cheek to not burst out laughing at him.

“I’m sorry, Nightwing, is this funny to you?” Y/N was too perceptive for their own good. “Please, so share the positives you see in the situation.”

“Um…” this time Dick was the one blushing like a kindergartener, caught stealing sweets from the top shelf.

“I actually thought you were supposed to help people?”

“Um…”

“Wow, how do you help anyone if you can’t even make one sentence?”

“Ok, enough.” Finally Damian managed to get his tongue back “this is enough.”

“Is it?”

God, she was infuriating even now. He was trying to help her (again) and she was pushing him away (again).

“Stop it.”

“Or what?”

“Or- or-“

“Or what?” she repeated, her eyes fixed on him, almost drilling a hole into his masked face.

“You’re being ridiculous!”

“You’re the one playing catch on my lawn!”

“I’m trying to free you from the abuser your father is!”

“Well look how it worked!”

“It would be much better if you try to be a little more appreciative!”

“Screw you!”

“What?!”

This girl never made any sense. How was it possible that he fell for this chaotic mess of a human being. She was making him crazy. Crazy! And not in a good sense.

“How long have you been sitting on that tree?”

“Well, um-“

“This is my fault-“ Dick tried to interject but she sent him a look so full of fury he had to take a step back with hands raised in surrender.

“I’m not talking to you.” She growled to Dick, turning back to Damian.  “I am so done! I’m done! Men are just completely useless!”

“But-“

“You know what, heroes are useless!”

Now this hurt.

“This is not fair-“ Damian started, but it was too late. Months of abuse, fear and holding her emotions back for the sake of everyone else found a way out in the wave of white fury, blinding her rational thinking. She was so tired of waiting for someone to help her. Exhausted from hoping for a prince on a white horse to come and take her away from this place.

She was not helpless.

And this line of thinking got her into the crazy decision of taking matters in her own hands.

“Y/N! Y/N, where are you going!? Wait! Wait, what are you going to do?! Stop!”

As she turned on her heel, blind and deaf to any external stimuli, walking back towards the house like  a mad woman Damian immediately took after her. And Dick did too.

If Y/N was a supernatural being this would be the moment for her to go into a magical change in the cloud of white light.

This would be the moment for her to get a silly, fairy-like outfit, a cape and/or ability to fly and beam lasers from her eyes.  

But this was reality and not a manga show.

And she was a hero even without a latex costume.

Or maybe – that was what made her more of a hero.

***

“Please remind me to never make that girl angry.”

Damian scoffed, but there was a hint of smugness in his voice as he responded.

“That was something, wasn’t it?”

Half an hour later, Dick and Damian were leaning over the same tree by her house, watching her father being taken by the police.

Shockingly (or maybe not so much), pushed to the very edge of her endurance, Y/N had walked inside the house, and with zero second guessing or doubts, had called the police, reporting the abuse she had been experiencing from her parent.

Damian had never been more proud of anyone in his entire life.

And she did it without his help.

Which under any other circumstances would probably make him mad, cause he was supposed to be the savior, but hey – having a girl who could hold her own was even better.

“You know anyone else would probably call her mental—”

“Hey! Hold your tongue Grayson!”

“Hm? Why?” Dick smirked “getting territorial?”

“Shut up!”

“She’s not even your girl, you know.”

“I said shut up!”

“Please don’t start again-“

***

“Hey Y/N, can we talk?”

She was talking to the policeman, giving her explanations on the situation, looking a little fatigued from everything that happened, but upon hearing his voice turned around.

“I don’t know, I am a little busy here-”

“I’ll take it from here, officer.” Damian cut off not only her words but any possible objection from the policeman, gently grabbing her forearm and leading her away from the crime scene.

“Where’s your babysitter?” she teased, seeing as Nightwing was nowhere to be found.

“He was getting a little too fearless for his own good so I bound him to the tree.”

“You’re joking.” She chuckled, “wait. You are joking right? Please tell me, you didn’t actually trap Nightwing on my tree.”

“Relax. He’s not in immediate danger. At least not at the moment.”

“The hell does that-?”

“How are you feeling?” he interrupted her again, studying her face from behind the mask, taking in the pale face, tired eyes and relief mixed with worry, etched on her face. “And do not try to put on a brave face.”

“How do you think I feel?”

“I’m not a mind reader.”

“Too bad. Cause that’s not something I could explain in a few words. At the moment I am mostly exhausted. But also a bit of fear.”

“Of what?”

“Future. Now that my dad would probably end up locked up… what will happen to me?”

“Y/N…”

“You know I never asked you how you know my name.”

“Y/N…”

“Do you learn the names of everyone in Gotham? Didn’t take you for the considerate type.”

“How is it possible that you switch between acting vulnerable and mean so swiftly?” he mocked, hiding the fact that her words actually did hit a nerve.

“Maybe it’s my superpower.” She sighed.

“Y/N…”

“Hm?” she kept her eyes on the ground, her mind suddenly starting to spin as she only now started considering the consequences of her actions.

Damian cupped her cheek, softly, unable to stop himself from the gesture of affection, guiding her eyes on him.

“You did the right thing.” He whispered

“Did I?” her voice shook a little “then why does it feel like I’m –”

“No. No, don’t even finish that sentence.” He rubbed her skin, shocking not only her but also himself. “You were the victim here and he deserves everything that is going to happen to him now. He had it coming. Forcing you to get information on Waynes? Using you to get to me and –“

They both froze.

Shit.

Shit, he said “to me”. And there was no way she wouldn’t catch up on that, even with her tiredness and distraction.

“Are you—”

“Y/N.”

“Damian?”

“You can’t tell anyone.”

“I know, but- but why-? How-? When-?”

“Not now.”

“But-“

“Not now, Y/N.” he cupped both her cheeks, keeping eyes on her “Not with so many people around. Later, I promise.”

“You promise, huh? And I’m just supposed to trust you? How long have you known about-“

“A few days, I swear. If I knew earlier than-“ he clenched his jaw, his hold on her becoming a little tighter. “then I wouldn’t hold myself responsible for my own actions towards your father. Bastard.”

“Well it’s done now…”

“I’m not leaving you alone, you know that?”

“I didn’t.”

“Ouch.”

“Oh, don’t act like that actually did hurt you.”

“And if I told you it did, would you kiss it better?”

“Robin!” she teased “are you flirting?”

Damian blushed in response, feeling like a total idiot and completely out-of-character.  Damn Grayson and damn trying to copy his stupid smug way of talking to girls. Clearly it wasn’t working for him.

“I- I mean, I-“

She only smiled softly, standing on her tiptoes and kissing his cheek, letting her lips linger on the skin a little longer than necessary.

“That’s all you get for now.”

“But-“

“You got some heavy explaining to do. But on the good side? I won’t be used a snitch since now, so who knows where this goes…” she turned to walk away but he grabbed her hand and spun her around to him

“Y/N…”

“Hm?”

Screw his attitude. Screw copying Grayson and keeping his distance. Screw the pretenses. Screw everything.

He pulled her into his chest, softly, almost shyly pressing her lips to his, feeling the tips of his ears burning. He was kissing her. She was kissing him. And it felt…

Good.

So good.

Not like that first kiss at the Wayne’s gala when they simply got lost in the moment.

No.

This one was more deliberate, more mature and definitely wanted by both of them. As if everything that happened in the short span of a few months made them more aware of their own emotions and needs. 

And even though it did not clear all the misunderstandings and understatements, it was a good way forward, with his lips moving against hers, and her nose brushing affectionately over his.

Soft, sweet and seemingly innocent, but filled with so many feelings simmering under the surface. 

“I’ll take care of you…” he whispered, pulling back after a moment, connecting their foreheads.

“I don’t need you to take care of me…”

“I hate you. You’re ruining the moment, Y/L/N. I am going to take care of you, whether you like it or not.”

She chuckled.

“What’s so funny?”

“If this thing between us is going to work, I seriously hope you are never going to change.”

Damian groaned internally.

She was going to make him go crazy in the foreseeable future.

But he was not going to let go.

Not all heroes wear capes...

@6000-fandoms @beyond-your-stars @mikyapixie

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