#overlyenthusiasticagent

For every “Trope” I get, I will post a TV trope for my muse.

The Heart

@overlyenthusasticagent

Wade very casually punched bob in the dick, not looking at him as he did.

Send me a ▲ for an unpopular opinion

She felt on edge. Antsy. Jumpy. Her conversation with Zola had taken the edge off her anger but it hadn’t settled anything in her mind and she figured a good fight might just do that. At least she hoped it would. At the very least it might help her focus a little energy. Tune out the world long enough to get a handle on all the new information Brock had dumped in her lap recently.

Yes, a good fight was exactly what she needed.

25. Only a Flesh Wound

“Really, Bob – the fussing is very appreciated, honestly it is, but I’ve taken more bullets than that.”

Send me “Shh, it’s a secret” for one of my muse’s private thoughts.

Sloth:a headcanon about something your character hates to do or simply hates in general

The easiest thing to say would be that she hates prejudice, hates unfair discrimination, so I'll go a different route.

Going to bars with Charles stick out a lot as something she genuinely loathed; not the Charles part, because he's wonderful and she really does adore him, but watching him flirt was near-infuriating/depressing.

There's the initial discomfort that comes with, you know, watching the early stages of what ends with your brother having a one night stand, and then anger because using his mutation to pick up little boosts to reaching his goal. Then defiance, the millisecond she's telling herself she doesn't have to sit there and sip soda and wait for an unpleasant ride home - she could get up and go talk to anyone, meet a guy; after all, she's anyone's type, it wouldn't be hard.

Send me a ✺ for my muse’s reaction to yours knocking on their door in the middle of the night

It wasn’t the knocking that woke Mel up from the soundest sleep she’d had in ages. No, it was Hercules standing at the door, growling deeply with his hackles raised defensively. Groaning as she peeled herself from the bed, Mel scrubbed a hand over her face and padded her way across her faux-tile flooring to the door. Her knee gently shooed the Rottweiler planted in front of the obnoxiously-red door. This had better be good.