#100 faces Francis

[fava4]

I recently had an idea to draw 100 emotions of Francis. It took about 1-2 minutes to draw one face, so the drawing looks simple (yes, I'm lazy).

[miroana]

“It is better to know one book intimately than a hundred superficially” (Tartt, 31).

I am absolutely fascinated by the fame and reverence this quote from the Secret History has achieved. It terrifies me. Let me explain.

Who’s line is this? Oh, yes. Professor Julian Morrow. Julian, in his lecture on how death begets beauty, on how Dionysian madness lends immortality. Julian, who isolates the greek class, buries them in the glories of the past and in their privilege, and submerges them beneath illusions until his students can’t tell right from wrong and real from imagined.

These words are satire. This is NOT a lesson any teacher should impart, and should NOT be beloved and relatable. In one sentence, Donna Tartt summarizes the entire cautionary tale of the novel: the selective, warped, and obsessive view on life the greek class held, born from entitlement and cultivated by Julian, led the students to tear themselves to pieces.

What’s more, the way people quote it all the time makes this line all the more haunting. Widespread parroting of Julian’s teachings only reinforces Donna’s themes: human minds are easily manipulatable, it can be hard to think critically about what you are taught and what you read, and that the easy, self-assured conviction belonging to the reader that, “I, personally, would have behaved differently than Henry, Richard, Francis, Camilla, Charles, and Bunny” is nothing but another illusion.

[emacrow]

The Watchtower found a enormous floating crystallized casket in space. Part 2.

The one idiot to accidentally open the casket was Francis whom just came to work and decided not to check the do not get near tape wrapped around the casket by Constantine who was too busy at the moment to explain why they shouldn't open it.

He wa so getting fired when one of the corpses slowly rose and stretched slowly, cracking a couple joints. It was the middle corpse that was a young boy, who rubbed his close eyes and opened them to reveal glowing lararus green eyes that was enrapturing Francis deeper and deeper as the light kept him staring deeper and deeper until...

Which seem like it was a mere 5 minutes, but unfortunately for Francis to unholy scream as his eyes, nose and ears literally bleed, his mind ruptured beyond belief as he saw the very end of what becomes of the living when they become dead.

Which alerted the justice league immediately to the laboratory section of the watchtower.

Only them to see Francis passed out on the floor, bleeding slowly from his face, and a corpse missing from the casket where the other two remains.

Batman immediately got everyone of on a man-corpse hunt around the watchtower base for 3 hours straight..

Only for Flash to speak through the comms..

"I found him. He in the kitchen." Flash spoke as he watch in slight horror and amazement as he watches this kid eating a enormous amount of unique combination of food mashed together like an unholy yet fascinating dish.

The kid looked much more ravenous then a man dying for thirst in the Gobi desert when flash found him first, literally raiding the fridge, eating every leftover and frozen food items as he almost got flash hand as well if it weren't for his extra fast reflex before getting an idea to distract the once corpse being with a large enough meal to keep him occupied.

Meanwhile danny only took a nice long vacation nap in his casket for a lil 10 days as a break from king work... which would've been about 100 years in another dimension before he gotten a not so good awakening and his dormant caveman reptilian brain went straight to hunt food instinct until his main consciousness wake up later.

[s1m0nth3swag]

More milkman x reader smut but can you do chubby reader?? Please

Yes ofc!

As a chubby guy myself, none of my stories are ever written with a certain body type in mind, BUT obviously, I'm gonna write smth when requested so yeah!

Also I hope its okay that I brought body issues into this because I just think it fit the situation and the idea I had was just immediately "Francis would just be the absolute sweetest when making sure his partner loved themselves as much as he loves them".

Thanks so much for the request, anon!

WARNINGS/ CONTENT INFO; Smut, more soft, GN!Reader, Chubby Reader, Francis being just a tiny bit obsessed, established relationship, mentions of insecurity/ body image issues, Francis being a sweetheart and showing Reader that he loves them no matter what ♡♡

NSFW UNDER THE CUT!!

Nothing annoyed you more than the days when you would feel like you didn't look good. You stared at the mirror, looking at your body with slight disgust and disappointment. You felt like you were too big in all the wrong places, and you can't help but hate yourself for it. You should work out, eat less, all that. Instead, you threw on a wide hoodie - one that belonged to your boyfriend Francis, hid your legs with loose fitting pants, and snuggled up on the couch, determined to ignore the thoughts you were having.

Francis was at work, so you were alone, and honestly, that wasn't helping one bit. You knew he'd help you, he always said that he loved you no matter what, not for your body but your soul, or something like that, but right now you doubted his words a little.

Once Francis returned, he found you on the couch still. You were focused on some random show you had put on to distract yourself, but he noticed the way you hugged your body uncomfortably. "You okay, love?" He asked, walking over and sitting down on the couch beside you. You nodded solemnly but didn't look at him. He immediately knew what was going on. He sighed, wrapped his arms around you, and pulled you onto his lap, cradling you softly. He placed kisses on your cheeks and neck, murmuring softly. "You know I love you, baby.. you're the absolute most perfect being on the planet for me." He tells you, but your insecurities have long taken over. You cling to him desperately, and even though deep down you knew he wasn't lying, you didn't fully trust his words.

After a few minutes of sitting together, Francis telling you that he loved you and peppering your face with kisses, he softly picked you up and carried you to the bedroom - for a simple milkman, Francis was stronger than he looked.

He muttered something along the lines of showing you that he was being honest before pulling the hoodie off of you. You protested, tried to keep the fabric covering your body, but Francis wouldn't let you. He didn't even give you the chance to say something. Instead, he held your hands over your head and placed soft kisses all over your upper body. He paid special attention to the areas he knew you hated most, muttering praises in between each kiss. You were a flustered mess, and though the feelings about your body didn't magically disappear, they definitely weren't your main focus anymore. The way Francis' lips felt against your now feverish skin was almost heavenly, and you swore he was probably an angel sent to you by God just to help you through life. It would explain a lot, actually.

Your boyfriend took his sweet time with you. He didn't pull off your pants before he was 100% sure that you didn't think about your body type anymore. Soft kisses against your thighs, his hand ghosting over the hem of your underwear as you practically begged him to finally take them off. "Promise you aren't thinking lowly of yourself anymore?" He hummed, grinning against your skin. You whined, pouting. "I promise, jus'.. please..?" You muttered, feeling your cheeks heat up in embarrassment. "Wouldn't be able to deny you any longer anyway." Francis chuckles, sliding your underwear down slowly, making you squirm impatiently. You hated that he was still fully clothed, so you did your best to tug at his shirt, mumbling something about unfairness. "Always so needy.." Your boyfriend hummed, but he gave in to your request, his shirt hitting the ground, his pants following soon after. The only thing separating the two of you were now his boxers - and of course, Francis had to be a dick about taking them off.

"You're so stunning... Do you know that baby?" He purred. "Tell me you know that." His hands slid over your thighs, squeezing lightly as he patiently waits for you to repeat his words. You wanted to protest, but at the same time, you knew he wouldn't let you get off easily. "I know.." You mumble, looking away from him. "Ah-ah. Look at me. Be honest." Francis smiles, placing a kiss against your thigh. You grumbled, looked at him, and repeated your words a little more strongly. "There you go." He hummed in answer, leaning up to press a kiss against your lips.

Francis made a point of giving you praise after every thrust. He refused to go faster since he wanted to make sure you fully understood. It didn't seem to bother him that you almost cried while begging him to move faster. He just kept dragging his hips slowly, mumbling a praise with a shaky voice and pressing kisses onto your cheeks or lips. While sure, it was really sweet, you couldn't help but genuinely want him to be a little rougher. You knew this was soft torture for him as well, since you could feel him twitch inside you, eager to chase after release. Francis only gave in after he had made sure that you knew he really wasn't playing around. He loved you. He didn't want you to feel bad about yourself just because of the way your body looked. You were more than attractive to him, after all.

You whined when he finally thrust into you properly, clenching around him as you gripped onto his back harshly. Francis let out a soft groan, snuggling his face against your neck as he finally allowed both of you to reach the high you had been begging for - and he had denied himself just to make sure you were focused. He didn't even care when he came inside you, too lazy to pull out in time as he pressed wet kisses against your neck.

"Promise you believe me, sweetheart?" He hums, resting against you. "Promise. For now." You chuckled, slightly tired after all that. Francis sighs and pouts, looking at you sternly. "Do I need to start all over again?" He asks, smiling as you shake your head and kiss him. "Just cuddling will do." You mumble against his lips.

[guilty-ff]

𝐒𝐡𝐚𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐁𝐨𝐧𝐝𝐬 𝐏𝐭.5

ᡕᠵ᠊ᡃ່࡚ࠢ࠘ ⸝່ࠡࠣ᠊߯᠆ࠣ࠘ᡁࠣ࠘᠊᠊ࠢ࠘𐡏 ˚⁎⁺˳ .

Previously: After years of brutal torture by Francis, Y/N finally escaped, fighting her way out of the lab and fleeing into the dense woods. Each step was a struggle, but she knew she couldn't stop. With the guards on her heels, she disappeared into the shadows, determined to reclaim her life.

This story takes place between the second and third movies (warning: not 100% movie/comic accurate)

Pairing: Wade Wilson/Deadpool x (fem!)Reader

Genre: Angst, revenge, Fanfiction, Marvel

Warnings: Movie Spoilers! Explicit content, swearing, torture, mental health, weapons

Word count: 3640

The slums were from now on her home. Y/n had escaped from the clutches of the facility, but the scars of her past- both mental and physical- were still engraved deeply in her body. The nights were the hardest, when the world around her was quiet and the memories screamed the loudest. She lived in a cramped, old apartment, the flickering neon lights outside her window casting shadows on the walls.

It had been weeks since her escape, weeks of hiding and laying low, blending into the filthiness of the city. Here, she was just another face in the crowd, another soul struggling to survive. But she was different. She could feel the darkness within her, the uncontrollable power that surged through her veins. She had to find a way to control it, to suppress it before it consumed her.

Y/n spent her days looking for information, piecing together bits of knowledge about mutants, about powers like hers. She searched through the back alleys and seedy bars, listening to rumors and whispered conversations. Slowly, she began to understand the nature of her abilities, the twisted gift that had been forced upon her. But understanding was not enough. She needed control.

One night, in a ed bar that reeked of sweat and stale beer, Y/n finally found a lead. She had been sitting at the counter, nursing a glass of cheap whiskey, when she overheard a conversation between two men at the next table. They spoke in low tones, their words slurred from alcohol, but Y/n's ears caught every word.

"Essex House... that place was a nightmare," one of the men muttered, his face half-hidden in the shadows. "They did some real messed up shit there."

The other man, a burly figure with a ashen beard, nodded grimly. "I heard they had a way to control mutants. Some kind of device."

Y/n's heart skipped a beat. She leaned closer, pretending to adjust her coat as she listened.

"Yeah, I know a guy who used to work there," the bearded man continued. "Big guy, real quiet. He hangs around here sometimes."

Y/n did not waste any time. She slid over to their table, her movements smooth. "Mind if I join you?" she asked, her voice low and steady.

The men exchanged a glance, then shrugged. "Sure, why not?" the bearded man said, gesturing to the empty seat.

Y/n sat down, fixing them with a piercing gaze. "I couldn't help but overhear. You mentioned Essex House. I'm looking for someone who worked there. A guard, maybe?"

The first man, looked her up and down suspiciously. "Why do you want to know?"

"Let's just say I'm looking for answers," Y/n replied, her tone leaving no room for argument. "If you can help me, I'd appreciate it."

The bearded man scratched his chin, his eyes narrowing. "I don't know his name, but he's usually around here. I'd be careful, though. He doesn't like to be bothered."

"Point him out," Y/n she said, her eyes scanning the bar.

The bearded man nodded toward the far corner, where a large figure sat hunched over the bar, nursing a drink. "That's him."

Y/n followed his gaze and saw the man- a huge, muscled frame with a shaved head and a face that looked like it had seen more than its fair share of violence. He was a mountain of a man, his broad shoulders hunched over as he downed another shot of whiskey. There was a darkness about him, an aura of danger that warned others to keep their distance.

Y/n thanked the men and made her way toward the bar, her eyes never leaving the figure in the corner. She did not approach him directly, instead choosing to observe him from a distance, waiting for the right moment. 

The man continued to drink heavily, oblivious to the world around him. It was not long before he started to show signs of drunkenness- his movements sloppy, his head nodding as if fighting off sleep.

Now. This was her chance.

Y/n moved swiftly, her steps silent on the worn wooden floor. She slipped behind the man, her hand reaching into her coat to retrieve a small vial of chloroform and a cloth. In one fluid motion, she pressed the cloth over the man's face, her other arm locking around his throat.

The man struggled, his instincts kicking in despite his drunken state, but Y/n was quick and precise. Within seconds, his body went limp, his heavy frame slumping against the bar.

She wasted no time. With the strength born from desperation, Y/n dragged the unconscious man out of the bar, navigating through the back alleys until she reached her hideout.

The basement of an abandoned building, it was cold and damp, the walls lined with old newspapers and broken furniture. She had set up a small, makeshift interrogation room- just a chair and a bare light bulb hanging from the ceiling.

Y/n tied the man to the chair, securing his wrists and ankles with thick rope. She stood back, her heart pounding as she waited for him to wake up. The adrenaline was still coursing through her veins, her hands shaking slightly as she paced the room.

Finally, the man moved slightly, his dazed eyes blinking against the harsh light. He groaned, tugging at the ropes before realizing he was restrained. Panic flickered across his face as he looked around, his gaze settling on Y/n, who stood before him with a cold, determined expression.

"What the hell—?" he began, his voice stammered from the lingering effects of the chloroform.

"Shut up," Y/n snapped, stepping closer. "I'm the one asking questions. You're going to answer them."

The man's eyes narrowed, anger replacing his initial fear. "You've got no idea who you're messing with."

"Oh, I think I do," Y/n replied, her voice icy. "You used to work at Essex House. You were a guard there."

The man's expression hardened, his jaw clenching. "I don't know what you're talking about."

Y/n's patience was wearing thin. She had spent too long hiding, too long searching for answers, to be stonewalled by this brute. She leaned in, her face inches from his, her voice low and menacing.

"Don't lie to me," she hissed. "I know what they did in that place. The experiments, the torture. I know about the children. If you think I'm bluffing, you're sorely mistaken."

The man's boldness stopped for a moment, but he quickly recovered, sneering at her. "You don't know shit."

Her hand moved faster than he could react, striking him hard across the face. His head snapped to the side, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth.

"I said, don't lie to me!" Y/n shouted, her voice trembling with fury. "I know what kind of monster you are. I know what you did to those kids. Now tell me about the device that suppresses mutant powers."

The man spat blood onto the floor, glaring up at her aggressively. "Even if I did know, I wouldn't tell you."

Y/n's fist connected with his jaw again, this time with more force. The man groaned, his head lolling forward as he struggled to stay conscious.

"You have no idea what I've been through," Y/n said, her voice barely above a whisper. "The things I've seen, the pain I've endured. If you think for one second that I won't make you suffer, you're dead wrong. Now, talk."

The man's resolve began to crumble under the weight of her words, the fear returning to his eyes. He took a heavy breath, finally giving in.

"There's a wristband," he muttered, his voice barely audible. "It was designed to suppress mutant powers. But that place... it's gone. Some kid blew it up, the whole building came down."

Y/n's heart raced as she absorbed his words. "Where can I find one?"

The man hesitated, his gaze darting around the room as if searching for a way out. Finally, he sighed in defeat.

"Maybe there's still some in the storage rooms beneath the building. But it's dangerous. The whole place is crawling with security, even now."

Y/n stared at him for a long moment, her mind racing. She had what she needed, but the anger still burned within her, the memories of those children haunting her every thought.

"And one more thing," the man added, his voice a broken whisper. "There were others involved in that explosion. A man in a red and black suit... mutants from the X-Men... and some scary guy with a teddy bear."

The mention of the man in the red and black suit made Y/n's blood run cold. Wade. The man responsible for her suffering. But she pushed the thought aside, focusing on the task at hand.

"Thank you," she said coldly, before slamming her fist into his face one last time. The man's head snapped back, and he slumped in the chair, unconscious.

"You deserve much more, you little piece of shit," Y/n muttered, her voice thick with disgust. She untied him and dragged him out to a nearby street, leaving him there to be found. She had no use for him anymore.

•┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈•

The ruins of Essex House stood before Y/n like a tombstone, a monument to the atrocities that had taken place within its walls. The once impressive structure was now a gutted shell, its walls burned and crumbling, overtaken by creeping vines and nature's slow reclamation. The air was thick with the stench of decay and rot, a fitting aura for a place that had been a living nightmare for so many.

Y/n moved silently through the rubble, her senses heightened, every sound increased in the stillness of the night. The moon hung low in the sky, casting long, sinister shadows that danced across the broken ground. 

She had checked out the area earlier, avoiding the main entrances, which were still patrolled by security teams guarding whatever was left in the aftermath of the explosion, a few months ago. She needed to find the storage rooms beneath the building, where the guard had said the wristbands might still be.

Her heart pounded in her chest as she walked through a craggy opening in the wall, her eyes scanning the darkened interior. The building's skeleton remains were a labyrinth of broken beams and collapsed ceilings, the floors plastered with rubble and shattered glass. Every step was a calculated risk, the floorboards creaking ominously beneath her weight.

Y/n made her way down a long corridor, the walls covered in peeling paint and faded sceneries that had once depicted happy, smiling children- an ironic touch for a place that had been anything but.

Her breath stuck in the throat like there's a blockage as she approached a large door at the end of the corridor, its frame cracked and splintered. The guard's words echoed in her mind, urging her forward. She pushed the door open, and stepped into a vast chamber that had once been a laboratory.

Y/n's breath stopped as her eyes landed on the twisted metal chair in the center of the room. It was unmistakable- a torture device designed to restrain and torment its victims. The cold steel of the torture chair, the searing pain of electric currents coursing through her body. The sight of it brought a wave of nausea crashing over her, memories of her own time in such a chair flooding her mind, the mocking laughter of Francis as he watched her suffer in agony.

Flashback

She was strapped to the chair, her wrists bound with cold, hard metal. The room was dimly lit, the air thick with the smell of disinfectant and blood. Francis stood before her, his cold eyes glinting with sadistic glee. He was dressed in his usual black combat gear and white coat, his arms folded as he watched her struggle against the restraints.

"Ready for another round, sweetheart?" he sneered, his voice dripping with malice.

Y/n's heart pounded in her chest, her breath coming in short, ragged gasps. She was drenched in sweat, her body trembling from the aftershocks of the last session. She had lost count of how many times he had done this to her, how many times he had pushed her to the brink of death, only to pull her back and start again.

"Please... no more," she whispered, her voice barely audible.

Francis chuckled, his laughter a cruel, grating sound that echoed in the small room. "Oh, I'm just getting started," he said, reaching for the control panel beside the chair. His fingers danced over the buttons, and a low hum filled the air as the machine powered up.

Y/n's eyes widened in fear as the currents of electricity surged through her body, her muscles spasming uncontrollably. The pain was unbearable, like being ripped apart from the inside. She screamed, the sound tearing from her throat, but there was no one to hear her, no one to save her.

Francis watched with detached amusement, his expression one of mild curiosity. "You know, it's fascinating," he mused, his voice calm and measured. "Watching how much pain a person can endure before they break. You're tougher than most, I'll give you that."

Her vision blurred as the pain reached a crescendo, her mind teetering on the edge of unconsciousness. But she held on, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing her broken. She had to survive, had to escape, no matter what it took.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the currents stopped, and Y/n slumped in the chair, her body limp and exhausted. Francis leaned in close, his face inches from hers.

"Don't worry, darling," he whispered, his breath hot against her skin. "We'll keep doing this until you learn to behave."

Present

Y/n snapped back to the present, her hands trembling as she stared at the torture chair. The memories were like a vice around her chest, squeezing the air from her lungs. But she could not afford to break down now, not when she was so close. She forced herself to move, to search the room for the wristband.

The storage room was hidden behind a steel door, half-buried under rubble. Y/n unlocked it with a crowbar she had found earlier, using all her strength to pull the door free. Inside, she found a small, windowless room lined with shelves. Dust coated everything, the air stale and suffocating. She searched through the shelves, her hands moving frantically as she searched for the device.

Finally, her fingers closed around a small, sleek wristband, its surface smooth and cold to the touch. This was it- the device that could suppress her powers, that could give her the control she so desperately needed.

But as she pulled the wristband from the shelf, a shrill alarm pierced the air, the sound reverberating through the building. Panic surged through Y/n as she realized she had triggered a security system, her heart racing as the distant sound of footsteps echoed through the halls.

She had to get out, and fast.

Y/n bolted from the storage room, clutching the wristband tightly in her hand. She sprinted down the corridor, her mind a blur as she searched for an escape route. The footsteps were getting closer, the shouts of guards filling the air.

She spotted a window at the end of the hall, its glass cracked but still intact. Without hesitation, she launched herself at it, her shoulder slamming into the glass. The window shattered with a deafening crash, and Y/n tumbled through the opening, her body twisting in midair.

The world spun around her as she rolled to her feet, glass shards cutting into her skin. But there was no time to stop, no time to recover her injuries. The guards were right behind her.

Y/n ran, her breath coming in ragged gasps as she sprinted through the darkened streets. The sounds of pursuit faded into the distance, but she did not stop. She could not stop. Not until she was safe.

Finally, after what felt like hours, she slowed to a halt, her body aching and exhausted. She had made it. She had escaped, and she had the wristband. But as she stood there, alone in the shadows, the memories of Essex House lingered in her mind, a reminder of the horrors she had endured- and the revenge she would soon unleash.

•┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈•

Y/n sat in her dimly lit hideout, the cold, metal wristband clasped tightly in her hand. She had waited for this moment, the promise of control over her powers finally within her grasp. With a deep breath, she slipped the wristband onto her wrist. A series of tiny, almost inaudible clicks signaled its activation. She felt a slight hum of energy ripple through her body, a sensation that was both foreign and strangely comforting.

"Okay, Y/n," she whispered to herself, her voice barely more than a murmur in the silence. "Time to see if this thing really works."

Her heart pounded in her chest as she picked up a small, sharp knife. She took a moment to steel herself before pressing the blade against the palm of her hand. Slowly, deliberately, she drew the knife across her skin, wincing as a thin line of blood welled up. She braced herself for the familiar agony of her powers activating, but to her astonishment, the pain remained localized. The cut did not heal as it usually would.

"It works," she breathed, a mix of relief and awe in her voice. "It actually works."

She wrapped her hand in a bandage, her mind already racing with the possibilities. For the first time in years, she felt like she had a measure of control over her life, over her destiny. She was not just a victim of her circumstances; she could be the master of them.

Over the next two years, Y/n threw herself into training with a passion that bordered on obsession. She perfected her combat skills, mastering various martial arts and weapons. She trained with knives, guns, and swords, each session pushing her limits further. Her hideout became a makeshift dojo, littered with training equipment and weapons of all kinds.

Her reputation in the slums grew as she took on hitman jobs to fund her training. She became a ghost, an unseen force of retribution for those who could not fight back.

One evening, she was approached by a woman with bruised arms and tear-streaked cheeks.

"Please," the woman begged, her voice trembling. "My husband... he beats me. I can't take it anymore. Please, make him stop."

Y/n looked into the woman's eyes, seeing the same helplessness and desperation she had felt so many times before. "What's his name?" she asked quietly.

"Jack. Jack Thompson. He works at the docks," the woman replied, her voice barely above a whisper.

Y/n nodded. "Consider it done. He won't hurt you again."

•┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈•

Two years had passed since Y/n had escaped from Francis, two years of relentless training and hard-earned survival. She decided it was time to visit her own grave, a symbolic gesture to honour the person she once was. She made her way to a small flower shop, her mind set on finding the perfect bloom.

As she approached the counter to pay for a single white lily, she saw a woman laughing and chatting with the shopkeeper. The sight made her freeze. It was Vanessa. Alive and well, her smile as bright as ever. Y/n's heart clenched painfully in her chest, pulling her hood that covered her face even more down. She quickly paid for the flower and fled the shop, her mind a whirlwind of confusion and anger.

She reached her grave, a simple, unadorned headstone with her name etched into the cold marble. The vase next to it was empty.

"I see," she whispered, her voice cracking with emotion. "Forgotten and abandoned, even in death."

She knelt down, placing the lily in the empty vase. "I can't remember my old self," she said softly, tears welling in her eyes. "She truly did die, as well as her trust in you."

Her thoughts turned dark as she slowly stood up. Wade had saved Vanessa, she realized, her mind piecing together the puzzle with cold clarity.

He must have used Cable's time travel device during the Mutant Rehabilitation incident to go back and save her... but he left me to die.

As she turned and walked away from the grave, she could feel a rising tide of hatred surging within her, anger directed at Wade for abandoning her, for choosing Vanessa over her.

Later that evening, Wade approached the same grave. He was dressed in his red and black costume, the weight of his grief and guilt heavy on his shoulders. In his hand, he held a brand-new flower and a polished vase. He had not missed a single visit, always coming back to this lonely, forgotten corner of the cemetery to leave a token of his sorrow and love.

As he knelt down to place the new flower in the vase, he noticed the fresh lily already there, wilting slightly in the cold night air.

"Who...?" Wade muttered to himself, confusion furrowing his brow. He looked around, but the cemetery was empty and silent.

He placed his own flower beside the lily, a pang of sadness piercing his heart. "I'm sorry," he whispered to the grave. "I'm so damn sorry."

He stood there for a long moment, staring at the headstone as if willing it to give him some sort of answer, some sign that she knew he had not given up on her, that he still mourned her every day.

But the silence of the graveyard offered no reunion, only deepened the gap of misunderstanding that was growing between them, unseen and unspoken.

As Y/n made her way back through the slums, her mind was a storm of emotions. She was determined now, fueled by a dark purpose. She had been forgotten, left to rot in the shadows while Wade had moved on, living his best life with Vanessa.

A twisted sense of revenge began to take root in her heart, and she knew that the next time she crossed paths with Wade, it would be on her terms. And when that day came, there would be a reckoning.

[yawujin]

lord forgive me for what i'm about to request--

imagine the allies and axis with a partner who is submisive --

like let's them take the lead asks them for permission and maybe likes wear collar

love your work btw!! <3

alright , finally got to this req 🙏🏽 thank you very much anon <3 here you go !

{ request } allies & axis x submissive! reader 💭 . ★⋆. ࿐࿔

type • nsfw content , dom/sub dynamics , they/them pronouns used , usage of collars , usage of a riding crop , light degradation

allies ♥︎

america/alfred f. jones

i see him as more of a sub/bottom, however-i know he also wants to feel like he has power over someone. it's just what he does. so whenever they ask him for permission; he enjoys denying them what they want...whatever they ask of him, america will be sure to make them wait for it. i've said in another one of my hcs posts that he likes building up anticipation. before allowing them any relief, he'll want them to ache for it first.

england/arthur kirkland

OKAY SO i'm sure this would be too harsh for the soft subs but for ones that are really into it, arthur would 100% make them 'properly' beg. he'd want them to use words like 'sir' when they address him and ask for permission from him. so, if they forget to─he'd get a riding crop and use it to spank them until they got it right. he'll gladly collar them, but whenever they have it on, he'll just treat them like a cute little lapdog. he considers getting a leash for them quickly after.

france/francis bonnefoy

he's more than happy to collar them. thing is though, he'll want them to wear it almost all the time. that way, he has easy access to tug on it lightly and pull them in for a kiss (quickly turned makeout session) soon enough, france has them right where he wants them─which is either face up or face down. nevertheless, they're under him. he can't help but to gush over how cute they look in that collar !

canada/matthieu williams

being quite the softie himself, canada will allow them to do most anything. he enjoys telling them what to do and how to do it, guiding their hand with his own to the places he wants them to touch. his favorite thing to do is glide his fingertips across their skin, in the most sensitive of places on their body. once he gets them worked up, he pauses and waits for the begging that immediately follows after. he cannot hide the grin that graces his face when they plead for him and use his name.

russia/ivan braginski

if he didn't call them pet names before, well now he certainly does. ever since he agreed to put a collar on them, he's been calling them cute, yet ever so slightly degrading names. if they want him to take the lead, he has no problem doing just that. sometimes, he'll even grab them by the back of their collar and pull them in close. he'll lean over just to whisper those same names to them , and feel them writhe against him. it brings him great satisfaction to see them in their place beneath him.

china/yao wang

trust me, he has absolutely zero issues with telling them what to do. first off, he's happy that they would trust him enough with such a thing. but with that established, he can get a little crazy. he wants them to do the most just for his entertainment. he enjoys a little tease now and then. do it too often, and he'll want to take them right then and there. that's quite out of character for him , since he likes to anticipate what they'll try next to get a rise out of him. so when they admit that they like him being the one in charge; china starts making them beg more, ask for permission more, plead for him more until he himself can't take it any longer and finally gives in to them. all in all, he likes to deprive himself. then , when he gets hungry enough to indulge in everything he wants to do to them, he jumps at any opportunity they give him.

axis ♥︎

n. italy/feliciano vargas

most of the time , he teases them. he loves to hear their whines, their pleads. he finds it adorable. of course, eventually he'll give in and let them have exactly what they want─but that comes after he's had all his fun with them. they can't be surprised when he starts petting them like a cat once the collar comes on (:3c)

germany/ludwig beilschmidt

as he expected, they want him to take the lead. he guides them with expertise, finding that it's just as simple as directing soldiers in a training session. he manhandles them quite roughly while saying the sweetest of words to them like it's a second nature to him.

japan/kiku honda

as soon as they even suggest the use of a collar, japan's mind wanders to what other things the two could possibly use. of course, he realizes bringing up so many other items with them now could be quite overwhelming. japan is a patient man. speaking of patience, he could probably edge them for hours at a time, and not grow tired of it. how could he? when they're begging and moaning his name like that...

prussia/gilbert beilschmidt

it's like REALLY hard (wink) for him to keep his cool when he sees them in a collar. he finds it extremely hot for some reason so he's trying to hold back. his mind instantly goes to a long lost fantasy of having them as his thrall. and as much as he'd like to treat them like that, he does his best on dominating them without going too hard at first

s. italy/lovino vargas

he especially likes to do that thing where he mocks their tone of voice which they use to beg for him. he laughs whenever he can make them moan, squirm and whine. he plays with their collar as he kisses them, every single kiss leading up to the moment where he finally allows them to finish. sometimes, scenes like that replay in his head when he thinks about them <3

[bilbobagginsomebabez]

so colonization was a crime against humanity first and foremost but it was also a bureaucratic process. they weren't sending out explorers willy nilly; an extremely important arm of this bureaucracy was information access. at the same time that indigenous nations are fighting against genocide and invasion, the european powers are conducting information warfare with each other to better invade and conquer.

their weapons of war were these explorers. that's why the system of cairns and information deposits existed and why it was so profoundly baffling that what cairns were found were empty. that's why there was such a frenzy after there was no word and no record. because a significant part of their job is relaying information back to the imperial core, whether they survive the acquisition or not.

and that is why i think Francis stays.

via this post by @barryhbo (who said it very well)

croziers mission was a colonial one, and while he doesn't mean to harm the inuit or their land, ultimately he and his crew are their undoing. by first killing the shaman therefore throwing the relationship between the humans and the environment off balance, forcing lady silence to take on the role far too soon. and then by killing tuunbaq (which again, is due to goodsir trying to do something good by killing hickey but inadvertantly poisons tuunbaq too) which leads to silence's exile. the triumph of man over nature in tuunbaqs death is devastating for silence, who will face the consequences while the white men won't. everything they do is coloured by imperialism, and imperialism is shown to cause only destruction

he and james speak about this. "what do we tell them about the creature," the crown would put out a high value bounty for it and attract fools who would risk good mens' lives. crozier is profoundly aware that he cannot control what the crown will do with that information once it's in their hands and he does not trust them with it. he's just lived through the top 100 reasons Colonization Bad Actually, watched it devour his own mens' lives, sanity, and humanity, watched it destroy Silna's life, too. he watched them carry their poison across an ocean, in the form of lead, in their racism, in their first instinct being to split from each other, attack and scrounge and watch all others with suspicion and malice. these were their curses that they brought from home with them.

and any amount of information about what happened furthers the aims of the imperial core. how they died, what killed them and where, everything they saw, all of it will be turned around to do this again and again and again. and crozier knows that. so he tells them nothing.

[see-arcane]

Oh bitter bitter irony

Bile below

I started out afraid that Eggers would over-Coppola his Nosferatu--he didn't! :D--only to run into a growing dual tide of fans who are either

A) actively trying to Coppola his Orlok and Ellen into lash-batting forbidden romance bodice ripper cliches ("He backhanded Knock for daring to suggest he steal Ellen! uwu He brought a plague and attacked her loved ones just to be with her! uwu She clearly wanted to be with Orlok all along, fuck Jonathan Thomas, the useless stuffy loser! uwu Orlok just doesn't want her to deny herself! uwu Every word he says should be 100% taken at face value, he would never use the Classic Abuser Playbook to victim-blame his target into compliance, just do murders and choke slam her for saying she doesn't like him, ignore the long-distance repeated psychic rape since she hit puberty, it's fine it's fine uwu")

or

B) going full pearl-clutch about the very concept of Orlok being an icky evil unpretty mustached corpse monster (with all the abuse and assaults being tacked on in the aftermath to Prove~ this is Not a Proper Ken Doll Dracula)

like

guys. we're sinking into the deep ends of two very different nuance-free pools here

Yes, there is a disturbing fucked up but Actually There connection between Ellen and Orlok. There is attraction, there is a core spiritual likeness that led Orlok to her as a girl. But that does not obliterate the fact that he is monstrous to her and to everyone she cares about. He is a rapist. He is a manipulator. He abuses her and the covenant connection--which he point blank tricked her into without any warnings to what she was agreeing to as a teenager--for years. And then, when she dares to fall in love with and wed someone else, he throws a murder-tantrum until she agrees by her own will* (*under duress) to be his. Not his equal in anything but suggestion, but his property. His owed Affliction. And it is meant to be horribly fucked up that Ellen has even a thread of positive feeling for him, regardless of what supposed matching darkness she has in her. Just like many victims in her position will feel for their own sexual and romantic abusers.

This is not Count Gary Oldmanacula and Winonmina Harkryder. This is not star-crossed tragique kissy kissy Francis fanfiction. It does not call for mental gymnastics to take the fangs and blood and violation out, to excuse the monstrosity Eggers harvested from the actual source story or--and I am putting my head through the wall about this--taking anything Count Orlok says at face value when his entire MO, from the first assault on Teen Ellen to the trick document he makes Thomas sign to sell her away to the full spread of mind game horseshit he says to Ellen's face or puts in her mouth to puppeteer a fight between the Hutters, IS TO MANIPULATE AND ABUSE EVERYONE AROUND HIM

Fuck, even Knock got ripped off via Orlok's bullshitting and he made a literal full Faustian willing contract with him

And on the flip side:

Stop stop stop stop STOP wringing your hands over the presence of gothic horror monstrosity being in the gothic horror monstrosity film.

Bela Lugosi and Gary Oldman? They looked impressive. They looked charming and elegant and polished and, obviously, iconic. The legion of pressed and bleached and chiseled Dracula Lites after them, less so. But they are pretty!

And none of them have looked like the Count who Bram Stoker made or what his inspirations would ever have recognized as a vampire or a boyar. Robert 'If I do not personally graft the actual time period of this movie into place with my own two hands I Will Die' Eggers actually did his research in putting his Orlok together and, being a Horror Film Writer and Director, actually remembered to put the horror into the famous vampire horror story.

Attraction, sensuality, romance, and assault all have their place in it too--it is Nosferatu: "Dracula, But the Focus is On a Dracula Trying to Make the World's Worst Nightmare Threesome Happen"

And, shock of shocks, in Murnau's film, as in Stoker's book, the main couple--Harkers, Hutters--have the loving couple intimately preyed on by the same monster. While Mina/Ellen ostensibly 'allow' themselves to be preyed on, in both scenes it's done out of a desire to protect Jonathan/Thomas from the Count.

Mina keeps silent and allows Dracula to feed on her and force-feed her his blood to kick off a magical enslavement-undeath, lest Dracula follow through on his threat to bash Jonathan's skull in

Ellen sends Thomas away and offers herself as bloodbag and bride to Orlok specifically to keep him from killing Thomas and finishing off all of Wisborg

Would these magically have become 'better' setups if only Count Dracula/Orlok were hunky clean-shaven bishounen sexyboi doms there to ~liberate xoxo~ the already-married already-fucking already-skirting the lines of propriety gender role-bending young woman?

Because if that's the case in your eyes, click here. Scroll on through almost 130 years' worth of film and TV and plays and books and a thousand other spinoffs where Dracula is perpetually sandblasted into your cape-swishing hickey-nibbling knockoffs of choice. All yours.

But for fuck's sake.

Let the gothic horror be gothic horror. Up to and including the monster being monstrous. Up to and including, yes, a deranged connection and magnetism between Pretty Girl and Actually Freaky-looking Undead Rat Man. Up to and including, yes, the Human Lover not being the starched and stuffy blandman there to be thrown in a ditch to let Girl and Sexy Monsterman who truly understands her~*~* get together, and instead be a genuine romantic partner who is as adamant in endangering himself to protect his beloved as she is for him.

tl;dr:

Stop trying to retroactively Coppola this movie and using 'haha but I'm a monsterfucker' to side step the fact that the villain here is a villain and is using the rule book of actual abusive relationships to gaslight his victim(s) in a very human, very gruesome way

Stop wailing that your personal diet vampire fetish is being sullied via the presence of a mustache, maggoty corpse pecs and the horror of the Count not being a GQ model

Just stop

[dollhouse-lied]

Random mouthwashing headcannons

All sfw, enjoy!!

Anya

Had a goth phase, still really likes the subculture but doesn't dress like it for work reasons.

Her parents are divorced, and during the divorce she tried self harm to make her parents feel bad but she never did it again

She has a fugly cat at home that she leaves with her roommate while she works. She is very defensive of francis (the cat) and hes her pride and joy

Shes on the aroace spectrum, shes never had a partner and never thought it was necessary.

She values skincare and has so many skincare products on the ship that curly said were “unnecessary”

Constantly warm, she hates the uniform because she gets so hot.

Shes not actually shy and quiet, shes just afraid of slimmothy jimmothy

She gets very heated when its game night and is a sour loser

She doesn't like having no roommates, but is glad she doesn't have to have a boy in her room.

Shes good at nursing, shes just bad at test taking and working under pressure

Her main coping mechanism is retail therapy

Daisuke

Is a dog person, keeps photos of all his dogs on his shelves

All his dogs are from the same litter, a mama and 5 babies. They are all retrievers

Has skincare nights with anya, and if hes lucky she will do his makeup

He likes working out but he likes playing his nintendo ds more

Pretty lazy but is still athletic

He buys multiple of any clothes he likes so he can keep wearing them longer

Dropped out of high school but his mom made him get a ged

Dropped out to be a livestreamer… it didn't go well.

Paints his nails

Hes genderfluid, but mainly sticks to masc presenting and he/him pronouns

He likes sanrio

Is constantly freezing but refuses to put on a jacket (he didnt bring any)

Is roommates with jimmy and hates it because jimmy leaves piss around the toilet and is overall a slob

Loves dancing but is embarrassed to dance in public. Luckily tulpar isnt public so he boogies and grooves

Cheats at every game they play

Curly

Is transmasc but had top and bottom surgery and a hysterectomy so no one can tell

Hes brittish :(

Is very forgiving and kind, always giving 2nd and 3rd chances

Is a workaholic

Super organized, hates clutter

Is a cat person, and has an orange main coon named oakley on earth

Can draw really well!! He doesn't let people see his art though

Likes to work out to release stress, specifically boxing

He likes listening to anya and daisuke talk while they do skin care because it reminds him of when he was young

Likes teenage girl type music

Still gets really insecure about his body shape and face being “womanly” and cant tell anyone but jimmy and jimmy doesn't want to hear it

He and jimmy were childhood friends and jimmy still occasionally misgenders him despite curly transitioning when he was 9

Grew up on a farm

Allergic to shellfish and had to go to the hospital once because of it when he was a kid and it traumatized him so bad he doesn't eat anything that might have touched shellfish

Swansea

Has a wife and 3 kids on earth, two girls and one boy

He loves his wife so much, theyve been married for 30 years

He and his wife got sober together as they were both alcoholics

Is 100% a girl dad, he lets them do his makeup and goes to their dance classes, anything they want

He and his son dont get along very well because he got into drugs and swansea keeps taking him to rehab

Swansea loves Daisuke to death but acts tough to “keep professional”

He feels like daisuke has 0 qualifications for the job but teaches him as best as he can

Gets along with anya but on a surface level, but was there for her when she told him about jimmy

Gets angry easy but has been to therapy for anger management and can keep himself from getting too angry

Genuinely a great guy in bad circumstances, we need more people like Swansea

Jimmy

I hate him

He needs to die

I dont like him one bit

[honeyspotpie]

Whatever whatever writing this down here so it doesn't get buried in my notes app but here are all the animal motifs for the Gutteral Scream members that exist in my head if you even care... I need to properly design them tbh (I have not properly designed any characters across all three seasons):

Tony - Cat

Self explonitory. Cat like pupils, shaggier hair blah blah

Kelsey - Worm (?)

This one I'm unsure of. Chose worms because apples duh but they don't 100% fit her? Anyways still - round shapes, longer strands and/or curls ect... Not apple related but I'm kinda vibing with bloodworms specifically they have an interesting shape to them^^

Francis - Sheep/Lamb

[violently shakes you] Wolf in sheep's clothing... You see the vision... YOU THINK YOU CAUGHT A LAMB BUT BABY I'M THE WOLF !!! /lyr HEAR ME OUT! Beady big eyes and poofy, slightly curly-ish hair... Considering the extra mile of making his eyes and hair more include more HARSH shapes as his arc progresses... Might be a little on the nose but like. He's losing his innocence...

Trudy - Trout

Once again, self explanatory. Smooth face (and overall skin) plus pinkish undertone (since trouts usually have that!). I've seen people draw little fish shapes on her apron and jewelery and that's extremely silly too /pos

Yeah that's all for tonight thank you very much for coming to my ted talk :]

[follow-up-news]

The owner and manager of the cargo ship that caused the Baltimore bridge collapse recklessly cut corners and ignored known electrical problems on the vessel, the Justice Department alleged Wednesday in a lawsuit seeking to recover more than $100 million that the government spent to clear the underwater debris and reopen the city’s port. The lawsuit filed in Maryland provides the most detailed account yet of the cascading series of failures on the Dali that left the vessel’s pilots and crew completely helpless in the face of looming disaster. The Justice Department alleges that mechanical and electrical systems on the massive container ship had been “jury-rigged” and improperly maintained, culminating in a horrific power outage moments before it crashed into a support column on the Francis Scott Key Bridge in March. Six construction workers were killed when the bridge crumbled into the water.

[mariacallous]

Like many non-Austrians, I first discovered Vienna’s winter ball season through German-language tabloids. The celebrity-studded Opernball (Opera Ball), the season highlight, is widely covered in the German-speaking world, where it is streamed live on TV and culled for clickbait online. Glittering details are consumed with a mix of aspiration and resentment: debutantes, tiaras, and pricey opera boxes (starting cost: $14,000)! The only sign of the 21st century is a name-drop such as Kim Kardashian, who attended in 2014.

The Opera Ball, I have since learned, is only the tip of the iceberg.

More than 400 formal balls are held in Vienna each winter carnival season. This February, I visited three. The tradition combines the public festivities of the medieval carnival with the legacy of the “Waltzing Congress” of 1814, better known as the Congress of Vienna. Held just a year before Napoleon’s final defeat at the Battle of Waterloo, the Congress—a series of diplomatic meetings between leaders of various powers opposing France—aimed to reinstate Europe’s monarchies and hash out the continent’s post-Napoleonic order.

Its more immediate effect, however, was to transform Vienna into a giant ballroom.

With representatives from Prussia, Austria, Great Britain, Russia, and France, as well as assorted royalty and nobility from across Europe gathered at the imperial Hofburg Palace, the prevailing atmosphere was that of a permanent “house party,” observed historian Dorothy McGuigan in her book The Habsburgs. The dance halls were packed, and the streets were filled with music and fireworks; to lubricate negotiations, Emperor Francis hosted evening balls and musical entertainment, including a concert featuring 100 pianos. The enduring epithet of the so-called Waltzing Congress stems from a quip by the rakish Prince Charles-Joseph de Ligne of Belgium, who proclaimed that “[t]he Congress doesn’t work; it dances.”

The Viennese ball season has been celebrated almost continually since 1814, breaking only for the two world wars and recent pandemic. In a country of only 9 million people, it draws more than 500,000 ordinary people out to waltz. Nearly every profession in Austria hosts its own celebration: A nonexhaustive season program includes the Police Ball, the Firefighters’ Ball, the Engineers’ Ball, the Doctors’ Ball, multiple farmers’ union balls, and the Lawyers’ Ball. Some of these dances, such as the Coffee Brewers’ Ball or the Hunters’ Ball, have outlived the imperial-era professions that they were created to celebrate. Others, such as the Ball of the International Atomic Energy Agency or the recently retired Life Ball—founded to raise awareness during the height of the AIDS crisis—are decidedly contemporary.

It was the improbable continuity of 19th-century traditions, however, that drew my attention. The frenzy of the waltz—still performed in the same ballrooms as in the imperial era—echoes a persistent anxiety for Europe’s over-touristed, economically uneasy, and politically pessimistic capitals: On a continent that relishes golden-era traditions yet finds itself slipping in the geopolitical world order, how do you face the future without romanticizing the past?

Viewed through this lens, the ball season refracts the flamboyant anachronisms of a region in transition. Dozens of guests and former debutantes—most balls include a debutante ceremony—described the events to me in terms of glorious contradiction. The balls, I was told, are elegant, tacky, rarified, intimidating, democratic, elite, ironic, gorgeous, decadent, tiresome, astonishing; they are both political and apolitical, accessible and inaccessible, international and decidedly Viennese.

This cacophony carried over to my own impressions. I saw tiaras and hoop skirts and a tattoo of the Sistine Chapel fresco framed in the V-line of a backless ballgown. Orphaned evening gloves and ostrich feathers drifted across the parquet floors of the Hofburg Palace; hair fixtures nested in updos like Fabergé eggs. I witnessed government ministers dance the disco and saw at least six debutantes faint.

I was told by veteran ball journalists that the publications I write for sound “serious and political,” and that a Viennese ball is neither a serious nor political event. A ball is frivolous, they said; a ball is for fun. I don’t disagree. But I also believe that a society’s attitude toward tradition shapes its expectations for the future—and how much that future should resemble the past.

Maryam Yeganehfar, the creative director of the Opera Ball, emphasized the balls’ capacity for rejuvenation and even escape. The carnival festivities were originally founded, she said, to give people “hope, life, enjoyment” in the weeks leading up to Lent, the 40-day period before the Christian celebration of Easter.

“[W]hy is enjoyment always framed as decadence?” Yeganehfar asked.

At a time when Europe’s post-COVID-19 pandemic headlines—on immigration, war, inflation, right-wing extremism, climate change, energy crises, and strained trans-Atlantic relations—often give reason for pessimism, the balls are a testament both to the temptations of nostalgia and to the resilience to party on.

The Science Ball

The first ball I attended was the Ball der Wissenschaften (Science Ball). Oliver Lehmann, who has served as the event’s director since 2014, is aware of the season’s appeal for foreigners: “For a lot of our friends and guests from the U.K. and the U.S., but also from Switzerland and Germany,” he said over a Zoom call before I arrived, “a ball sounds like a sugar fairy tale from a Walt Disney movie.”

Lehmann admitted that there is some truth to that image. But the balls might be better understood as the “Austrian version of a huge networking event,” he said. Even socialists once held balls; in the 1860s, party members at the Workers’ Ball waltzed wearing bright red ties, attracting attention from political censors.

The Science Ball, for its part, brings together representatives from Vienna’s nine public universities, its expansive network of private and vocational colleges, and numerous research institutions to celebrate—and boost—the city’s reputation as a center of innovation.

The Science Ball also has a unique, quasi-political agenda. It was first held in 2015 in part to undercut the claim of the far-right Akademikerball, or Scholars’ Ball, to “scholarship,” Lehmann said. The gathering of right-wing fraternities is organized by the nativist Freedom Party of Austria (FPÖ). In 2014, the annual protest against the Scholars’ Ball turned violent, resulting in injuries and damaged property.

Today, the Vienna government offers the Science Ball its palatial city hall free of charge, signaling its continued support for the ball’s mission and helping to lower ticket prices for attendees. Regular entry is 100 euros, or $107, while students can attend for $43. It’s a win-win arrangement: Scientists celebrate field achievements; students attend on the cheap; local government discredits nativist misinformation; and a city whose reputation for innovation is often overshadowed by its cultural-historical attractions gets to advertise its technical heft.

To Lehmann, the Science Ball’s focus on contemporary Vienna is evidence that the balls have “nothing to do with nostalgia.” When I asked if the recent rise of right-wing nativism in Austria (the nativist FPÖ came in first in Austria’s elections for the EU Parliament this month and is currently polling at more than 30 percent ahead of elections this fall) has begun to politicize the balls, he replied, “Only counterintuitively, because we’ve never sold out so fast.”

When I arrived, the Science Ball proved to be many balls in one. The dancing unfolded through a series of rooms across three floors of the city hall, each with its own band and musical style. The main ballroom, lined with chandeliers and debutante couples in tuxedos and white gloves, opened onto a grand stairwell decked out with flowers. Beyond this lay the sultry tango room, followed by a baroque cloister where a cover band played “Que Será, Será,” and a ground-floor disco crowded with younger guests. The latter venue is where I spotted Austria’s federal climate minister briefly boogying to “Stayin’ Alive.”

This year’s ball was dedicated to promoting more effective strategies for communicating the threats posed by climate change. There were leaflets floating around with a carbon-emissions logic puzzle, plus a cryptic exhibit devoted to whales that featured a fog machine. In the flagstone courtyard, an 8-by-8 meter inflated cube (about 25 feet across), reminiscent of a giant bouncy house, offered a visual representation of one metric ton of carbon emissions; the average European Union citizen emits between 7 and 8 metric tons of carbon dioxide each year.

The importance of these issues to the Austrian government’s agenda was underscored by the presence of Vienna Mayor Michael Ludwig and Leonore Gewessler, the federal minister of climate action, environment, energy, mobility, innovation and technology. On the main stairwell, the politicians posed for selfies with students, many of whom expressed interest in climate-related issues. The balls can facilitate this sort of direct constituency engagement. But Gewessler also warned against overstating the events’ political importance: “A lot has changed since the Congress of Vienna,” she said. “As it should in an open democracy.”

She is right: Things have changed. Many young women—including the president of the Vienna student union—took advantage of the gender-neutral dress code, donning smart tuxedos and white ties. The organizers “don’t give a damn” about who wears what, Lehmann said, as long it’s evening attire. A couple of biologists I spoke to with roots in India, who now work at a Viennese research outlet, appeared in a tux and emerald sari repurposed from Mumbai’s wedding season. (The fact that I, too, had worn my wedding dress became a bonding moment.)

A group of American exchange students from St. Olaf College in Minnesota had bought their outfits at a budget shop in nearby Bratislava, Slovakia, about an hour away by train. They were starstruck. “It’s amazing,” one said. Another chimed in: “But the drinks are really expensive.”

The balls’ class dynamics are the subject of much local scrutiny. Open any Austrian newspaper in January and you will find an announcement about the average cost that each guest spends per visit: $371. About a third of that is paid for entry, and the rest on attire, taxis, styling, and infamously exorbitant concessions. Local headlines decry $15.50 pints and $17 Wiener sausages. In 2022, an Austrian state governor went viral for her tone-deaf tip that constituents restrict themselves to owning three—rather than 10—ballgowns.

The considerable spending associated with the balls is also a source of revenue that working-class Viennese—taxi drivers, caterers, dance instructors, and hairdressers—depend on. Norbert Kettner, the CEO of the Vienna Tourism Board, an independently run organization that also receives funds from the city, pointed out that the hundreds of millions of euros that this year’s 540,000 guests spent on the balls filter back into the local economy. At a “styling corner” at the Science Ball, where guests can stop by for touch-ups, one freelance makeup artist estimated that she makes more than half her annual income during the ball season.

Later that evening, my taxi driver explained that he organizes his night shifts around the ball schedule, which he pulled up on his phone; there were five events that night alone. When I asked whether he’d ever attended a ball himself, he laughed: “Just outside!” That is, at the taxi stand.

It’s natural to wonder whether the 19th-century aura does more to promote or impede democratic norms, especially when far-right nostalgia—such as that channeled through the FPÖ-sponsored Scholars’ Ball—is on the rise. The object of that nostalgia is pre-globalization Europe. There is a perception that the continent’s status has declined since then: The eurozone’s respective share of the global GDP, for example, has fallen by more than a third since 1960. On the other hand, Europe remains comparatively wealthy; Austria’s per capita GDP is the 14th-highest in the world, according to International Monetary Fund estimates.

Meanwhile, as war rages on in Ukraine, Sudan, and the Middle East, the EU Agency for Asylum predicts that 2024 could bring the highest number of asylum-seekers to the bloc since 2015, when 1.3 million refugees arrived in Europe, about half of them from Syria, Afghanistan, and Iraq. Just before this year’s carnival season, the 35-year old Austrian right-wing extremist Martin Sellner presented a bone-chilling “remigration” plan for migrants, asylum-seekers, and “unassimilated citizens” at a November conference of far-right actors near Berlin. He has since been banned from entering Germany.

The balls appear to offer a welcome respite from these thorny challenges—if they don’t feed back into the well of nostalgia from which these troubling political headlines are sourced.

Around midnight at the Science Ball, a psychology master’s student from Bavaria took a break from her heels on the red-carpeted stairs. She told me that this was her second time attending the event; she and a friend visited last year as well to celebrate the conclusion of a dreaded statistics exam.

“We love it,” she said, gesturing at the glittering crowd of young people posing for pictures behind us, “but we also hate it.” In her view, ball culture is elite and exclusive, reserved for the rich—but more so at other events than at this one. All the same, she conceded, “Why not feel super special? For 40 euros, look what you get.”

The Coffee Brewers’ Ball

Hosted by the Club of Viennese Coffeehouse Owners, the Kaffeesiederball, or Coffee Brewers’ Ball, is another of the season’s most-anticipated events. It celebrates and promotes the history of Vienna’s famous coffeehouse culture, which was inducted into the UNESCO list of intangible world heritage practices in 2011. Were there a people’s choice award for balls, the Coffee Brewers’ Ball would likely win; multiple guests, none of them coffee brewers, told me that it’s the most beautiful ball of the season.

The stately Hofburg Palace, where the ball was held, took on the atmosphere of a black-tie nightclub. Attendees—whose ages spanned from 18 to 80—had traveled from Munich to celebrate a 40th birthday; from Dubai, for the glamour; from Austria’s southern Carinthia region to see the scheduled performance by the Vienna State Ballet; and from northern Austria, to see a disco cover band (called the Bad Powells). Most were from Vienna itself. They had come to see the Hofburg, whose status as the former imperial palace lends the events held there a particular lure and elegance.

The guests were there, above all, to dance: the polka, the quadrille, the polonaise, and the tricky Viennese “left waltz,” in which couples follow a double rotation, revolving on their own axes while simultaneously orbiting the room, like planets hurtling around the sun. The dancing spilled from the main ballroom into gold-trimmed apartments leading deeper and deeper into the palace; I finally reached a dead end at the storied Redouten Rooms, which ball-enthusiast Empress Maria Theresa renovated in 1748 to better accommodate waltzes and masquerades. That evening, they had been furnished with neon lights, a gin bar, and a DJ spinning techno.

The balls have long dramatized a broader European tug-of-war between democratization and aristocratic control. From the 16th to 18th centuries, the monarchy strove to regulate, then ban, public masquerades and dances in the weeks leading up to Lent. The prohibitions were issued on the grounds of mischief (murders were known to be committed from behind the anonymity of carnival masks) and the threat of popular uprising.

Meanwhile, the nobility began to host their own masquerades in private ballrooms such as the Redouten Rooms. When Emperor Joseph II opened these rooms to the nontitled public in 1772, the nobility retreated once again to exclusive spaces, where they could better monitor the guest list (and, by extension, the marriage market). The same trend followed the rise of public dance halls at the turn of the century, when every profession began to hold its own celebrations.

Today’s balls are also increasingly international and cross-cultural. “Twenty years ago,” a 40-year-old Viennese guest told me, “you wouldn’t see so many international guests.” This year, he had brought two friends from Paris. As the night wore on, I also met a fashion journalist from Switzerland, a reporter from South Korea, and a correspondent from Munich. In one of the palace’s many golden bars, a local journalist pointed a camera at two models posing in a black tuxedo and a frothy pink gown. When I asked what the photoshoot was intended to advertise, he gave a cheerful answer: “Vienna!” The staged images will run in an international travel magazine.

For European states, the continent’s golden era is readily monetizable through foreign tourism. In cities such as Barcelona and Amsterdam, the annual total of visitors outnumbers locals by more than 10 to 1, prompting some local governments to dissuade further travelers from coming. Today, tourism makes up almost 10 percent of Austria’s economy, the same share as for the eurozone as a whole, which also claims more than 60 percent of the world’s international leisure travel.

There are many reasons to be drawn to the continent; Vienna itself is frequently ranked as the world’s most livable city. Yet among locals, the pandemic, climate change, and geographic proximity to Russia’s war in Ukraine can contribute to a mood of perceived domestic decline.

One former debutante reflected on her experience with a contagious nihilism: “Europe is lost,” she said. There’s “Ukraine,” and “nobody has money. Everything is fucked, basically, so why not party?”

It is not the kind of sentiment that will make the travel magazine spread.

Despite signs of disillusionment, Kettner—the Vienna Tourism Board CEO—said that young people such as the former debutante have “rescued” the balls. The discotheques and increasingly gender-neutral dress codes are part of a concerted effort to appeal to younger generations.

It’s been successful: Debutante classes ahead of the balls, which draw from the under-30 crowd, are full at the city’s top dance schools. Post-pandemic participation across all ages has risen from 520,000 in 2019 to an estimated 540,000 in 2023. The challenge of keeping the ball season relevant is a microcosm for Europe’s overall challenge: How to protect proud cultural traditions while also making sure that they can keep up with the times.

The Opera Ball

This official state ball, the “ball of all balls”—Austria’s most beautiful, decadent, and exclusive event—arrived on the scene in the year 1935. It is a fundraiser, with revenues flowing to the Vienna State Opera, in whose building the dance is also held. In 2019, the event raised  the equivalent of more than $1.1 million for the national opera and ballet.

In recent years, the Opera Ball has also developed a side reputation for celebrity antics. This is in large part thanks to Austrian reality TV star and businessman Richard Lugner; the reveal of his date is an annual tabloid event. In 2005, Lugner was accompanied by former Spice Girl Geri Halliwell, who, headlines gleefully reported, refused to dance with him. His other previous companions have included Pamela Anderson, Kim Kardashian, and Grace Jones. This year, he took Priscilla Presley.

A livestream broadcast of the ball is popular with viewers at home. This winter, more than 1.6 million Austrians and 1 million Germans tuned in.

The Opera Ball, with its outsized media footprint, also attracts dissenters. An annual demonstration that has been held on the same day as the ball since the late 1980s has become as much a part of the tradition as the waltz itself. Organized by the Communist Youth of Austria, this year, 400 to 600 people marched to the slogan “Eat the Rich.” More specific demands included a nationalized housing policy, the reinstatement of a national inheritance tax, and wage increases to keep pace with inflation.

The group’s media relations manager, Johannes Lutz, said that the protest stands against the inequity that the Opera Ball “symbolizes” rather than the ball itself. The minimum entry price of about $426 ($38 of which is earmarked for charity) is a point of contention; basic tickets for the season’s other exclusive balls range from $107 to $208.

Yeganehfar, who has served as the creative director of the Opera Ball since 2023 and also runs a successful local event production company, conceded that the ball “has its price.” She compared it to a major sporting event: Some fans will save up to attend, but many more will watch from home. (By comparison, the average ticket price to attend an NFL football game in the United States was $377 in 2023.) It is precisely because ordinary people “save up to be in this room” that Yeganehfar said she aims to make the Opera Ball so memorable.

“This is the most beautiful event in the entire country,” she said. “We should put it on a pedestal.”

The ball unfurled throughout the entire opera house—onstage, in the wings, in the basement, and in the many gilded bars and cafes—lending a night-at-the-museum giddiness to the evening. From a lobby erupting with Pink Floyd roses, arriving parties filtered through linoleum hallways and past dressing rooms usually reserved for singers and ballerinas. The dancing took place on the stage itself, which had been extended over the orchestra pit.

To debut at the Opera Ball, one breathless young debutante told me, is to occupy the same stage where the “the greatest singers in history” have performed.

The idea that the Opera Ball is something “you should see once in your life” is a sentiment that I heard from guests again and again. A couple from Berlin—a retired secretary and the manager of a hydrogen firm—said they were in attendance because Vienna is “the city of music.” Eight middle-aged women from Kyrgyzstan had arrived in matching pastel gowns after discovering the Opera Ball on the internet. Two Austrian students—a couple studying education and social anthropology, whose gelled hair and all-black palette gave the requisite dress code a punk twist—told me that they are usually at the leftist demonstration outside. This year, they’d saved up to attend the ball itself, saying, “[o]nce at the Opera Ball, the rest of the time at the protest!”

Onstage, I was asked to participate in a disastrous waltz. A ball veteran leading me through the polka, a step I do not know, insisted that the point of the Opera Ball is to escape reality. “For one night,” he said, “you don’t think about war or poverty. You just celebrate.”

But we were thinking about these issues—he mentioned them without my prompting. Awareness of the world outside was inscribed in the price of concessions, 10 percent of whose revenues were earmarked for an Austrian charity initiative in addition to the $38 earmarked from the ticket price. I saw three young men pass around a flask of liquor, a common workaround to the exorbitantly priced drinks. Exiting the stage, I dodged waiters rushing into private opera boxes with trays of petits fours and canapés.

This is about “tradition,” guests told me. It’s about prestige. It’s about attending the same ball as celebrities. (Later, I discovered that Italian actor Franco Nero was also in attendance.) It’s about “seeing and being seen.” It is, above all, about the illicit, dreamworld feeling of being where we’re not supposed to be: backstage at the Vienna Opera House and also, possibly, in the 19th century.

In the lobby, VIPs were being interviewed on live television. The sense that I’d fallen through the looking glass became more overwhelming when I stumbled into the basement, which had been transformed into a club. On a velvet sofa adjacent to the writhing dance floor lay a tulle hoopskirt, evidence of someone’s late-night costume change.

Like a hypnotist’s signal, it was my cue to head out and catch my early morning train.

Out in the real world, Yeganehfar’s comment lingered with me the most: “Why is enjoyment always framed as decadence?”

The taxi driver who picked me up outside of the opera house was originally from Poland. Our conversation drifted to the rise of right-wing politics in his native country. “History is turning back on itself,” he concluded, a reference to the ascendence of the far-right Law and Justice party in Poland and the accompanying decline in German-Polish relations. The observation compounded my sense of being drawn through multiple timelines at once.

By the time we arrived at the hostel apartment where I was staying, it was dawn. I exited onto the sidewalk and tipped my driver everything I had. Teetering in the sunrise in a pair of borrowed heels, I wondered if ball critics’ hand-wringing over decadence speaks less to a distrust of pleasure than to a profound sense of dissonance. Europeans still enjoy a quality of life that is the envy of much of the world, yet populists have managed to create—and spread—a narrative of a continent in imminent decline.

“Let us hope the future will be better!” the taxi driver said in parting. I found myself a little too eager to agree.

[s1m0nth3swag]

Francis got tired from his shift and cuddles with m!reader and kinda just baby talks Francis!! (Francis definitely snores)

Sleepy Francis and Male Reader, sign me the fuck up!!

Francis 100% is the type of guy to just flop down on his partner, demand cuddles and headscratches and the proceed to fall asleep (bonus points if his partner isn't strong enough to lift him up so they just have to resign to fate.) also please excuse that I have no clue how to properly write baby talk and probably fucked that up lol

Thanks so much for the request, Anon!

WARNINGS/ CONTENT INFO; Fluff, Francis being tired and stupid, established relationship, Male Reader, just cuddles and love with our favourite Milkman <3, kinda short (sorry)

Francis was tired. Normally, this was a constant state of tiredness, something he could deal with. Coffee got him though the day, and as soon as he got home he'd eat something, drag his boyfriend to bed and make sure both of them got a healthy amount of sleep - though Francis could never escape his chronic tiredness. He was pretty sure that it was a curse by now. It wasn't like you, or him, really cared anyway. The cuddles were good, and neither of you missed out on any love even though your quality time was lounging on the couch or in bed. Besides, both of you were more on the lazy side anyway. Today, Francis was more tired than usual, though. Not even coffee had helped him keep his eyes open, and he had nearly dozed off at work. He grumbled about it the whole day, especially after his Boss had given him that stern look. He just wanted to get home and sleep. There wasn't even a real reason for him to be this tired. He surely hadn't stayed awake with you too long last night, and he had definetly slept like a baby while cuddled up in your arms. It really was a mystery to him. Maybe whatever God existed had decided to piss Francis off today. He didn't even call out for you once he head reached the shared apartment, simply took off his shoes and then continued to walk over to the couch - where you had already decided to place yourself to watch some TV after work - motioned for you to lay down and almost fell on top of you. "Hi Baby." You hummed, wrapping your arms around him in a tight embrace, one opf your hands coming up to run through his hair while the other rested at the small of his back. Francis sighed as an answer, his arms wrapped around your waist as he snuggled his face into the crook of your neck, basking in your warmth and comfort. "Tired?" You chuckled, and he nodded. "You jus' wanna cuddle?" You add, snuggling your face into his hair slightly. "Yes please.." He answers, his voice muffled by your neck. The two of you lay like that for a while, Francis barely talking while you softly hum about your day, giving him short phrases paired with a soft voice for him to understand easier. You were already used to this, having to use simple speech, almost baby talk, with your boyfriend whenever he came home tired like this. Though he wasn't like this often, mostly keeping a certain amount of awakeness throughout the day, you didn't mind one bit. You thought it was kinda cute, actually. Francis resting on you like you were his pillow, his weight comfortably pressing you down against the couch.. this was probably your personal heaven. "Love you." Francis mumbles, sighing deeply as you can't help but grin at the sweetness of this situation. You don't even care when he slides off to sleep, his soft snores filling the room as you chuckle to yourself and move your arm slightly to grab the TV remote and turn the device off, wanting to make sure he wouldn't wake up because of any loud noises. You feel him snuggle against you further and you grin, pressing a soft kiss against the top of his head as you swiftly lay the remote down again, your arm resting around Francis again, slowly drifting off to sleep together with him.

[guilty-ff]

𝐒𝐡𝐚𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐁𝐨𝐧𝐝𝐬 𝐏𝐭.4

ᡕᠵ᠊ᡃ່࡚ࠢ࠘ ⸝່ࠡࠣ᠊߯᠆ࠣ࠘ᡁࠣ࠘᠊᠊ࠢ࠘𐡏 ˚⁎⁺˳ .

Previously: Y/N, restrained and tortured, learns from Francis that her regeneration causes others to suffer in her place. As the pain intensifies, she weakly mutters his name before passing out.

This story takes place between the second and third movies (warning: not 100% movie/comic accurate)

Pairing: Wade Wilson/Deadpool x Reader

Genre: Angst, revenge, Fanfiction, Marvel

Warnings: Movie Spoilers! Explicit content, swearing, torture, mental health, weapons

Word count: 3927

Wade was a broken man, trapped in a relentless cycle of despair and obsession. His life, once marked by chaos and humor, had become an endless string of sleepless nights and futile searches.

The warehouse, which had once been a safe place of his independence and creativity, was now a pitiful reflection of his deteriorating mental state. It was cluttered with stacks of documents, photographs pinned disorganised on the walls, and maps dotted with red circles and frantic scribbles. Every inch of the space was covered in evidence of his failed search for Y/n, and the air was stuffy with the odor of stale coffee and unwashed clothes.

Wade's physical appearance mirrored his mental decline. He had lost weight, his once muscular frame now gaunt and sickly. His suit, once his pride, was now old and stained. The red and black fabric was faded, a wretched testament to his endless struggles.

His face, usually masked by his signature humor, was now painted with deep lines of exhaustion and despair. His eyes, once sharp and full of mischief, were now hollow and bloodshot, reflecting the sleepless nights and relentless guilt that hunted him.

The daily routine was monotonous and the same.

Wade would spend hours looking over the maps and documents, his fingers stained with ink and coffee. He would pace the warehouse, muttering to himself as he memorised every detail of his search. The endless cycle of hope and disappointment had messed up his sanity. Every time a lead turned out to be a dead end, it felt like another nail in his coffin.

Weasel had tried everything to break through to him. He had been by Wade's side through every failed attempt, every new lead that went nowhere. But as the years wore on, his patience began to wear thin.

Dopinder, too, had grown weary. He had watched Wade's descent into obsession with a heavy heart, and the silence in Altheas apartment was often emphasised by the sound of Weasel's frustrated sighs.

One evening, after yet another dead-end search, Weasel finally exploded. His face was flushed with anger and exhaustion as he stormed into the room. The narrow space, filled with the waste of Wade's obsessive quest, seemed to close in around him.

He slammed a stack of papers onto the table, the documents scattering and fluttering across the floor. "Wade, this is fucking insane!" he yelled, his voice cutting through the oppressive silence. "We've been at this for years! We've gone through every fucking corner of this city and beyond, and there's nothing. She's gone. You need to accept that!"

Wade, hunched over the table, looked up with hollow eyes. His face was pale, his expression a mix of desperation and confrontation. "Don't you fucking tell me that! She's out there. I know it. I can feel it. I promised I'd protect her. I can't just fucking let go."

Dopinder, who had been standing quietly, finally spoke. His voice was steady but laced with frustration. "Sir, he's right. This obsession is making you lose your mind. As you know, I once felt similar to Gita because of my cousin. It's time to face reality. Kidnapping Bandhu and going after her as you told me was not the move. She's not coming back."

Wade's face twisted in torment. "I can't stop. I made a promise to her. I have to keep looking. If I stop, it means I failed her."

Weasel's anger softened into a weary sadness.

"Wade, look at yourself. You're barely holding it together. This obsession is destroying you. It's okay to accept that she's gone. You can't keep going like this."

The argument had reached a fever pitch when Althea, arrived unannounced. She entered the room with a smirk sensing a suffocating atmosphere.

"Well, well, well," Althea drawled, her tone dripping with sarcasm. "Look at you, Wade. You're like a fucking stray dog, clawing at every lead and getting nowhere. Pathetic, really. You've been digging through garbage for years, and what do you have to show for it? Nothing but a dirty room and a broken spirit."

Wade's eyes flared with anger and pain. "Shut up, Althea. You have no idea what this is like."

"Oh, I have an idea. You're just like a cockroach, scuttling around in the dark, hoping for a crumb. And look at you now- your obsession has turned you into a fucking joke. A pitiful, little joke."

The cruel words cut deep. Wade's resolve finally began to crumble under the weight of his guilt and the relentless pressure from his friends. He slumped into a chair, his body shaking with the intensity of his emotions. Tears streamed down his face as he realized the immensity of his failure.

Weasel placed a hand on Wade's shoulder, his voice soft but firm. "You did everything you could. It's time to take care of yourself. You've been searching for years. It's okay to let go."

Wade's voice was a broken whisper. "Fine. Fine. She's dead. I get it. She's gone." The admission felt like a knife twisting in his gut. "I'm so sorry. I'm so fucking sorry."

The room fell into a heavy silence. He sat alone in the dim light of the warehouse, feeling a hollow emptiness that no amount of searching could fill. The dream of finding Y/n and making things right had ended in crushing defeat.

Guilt catching up on him, eating away at whatever was left of his sanity. He should have been there for her, should have protected her. He would failed her, just like he had failed Vanessa.

•┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈┈•

As Wade's search faded into a resigned acceptance of her death, Y/N's reality became one of unending horror.

Francis, the man responsible for her capture, took pleasure in her suffering, using her as a pawn in his twisted game of revenge against Wade.

The sterile, metallic walls of her prison reflected her pain back at her, a constant reminder of the nightmare she could not escape. And as the torture escalated, so too did her resolve- she would survive this, if only to make sure Francis paid for what he had done.

Each day, Francis would enter, his footsteps echoing down the corridor before the door creaked open. He was always methodical, almost clinical in his approach, but his eyes betrayed a sadistic pleasure in what he was about to do.

He would start with the physical pain.

The tools varied- sometimes it was the sharp blade of a scalpel, cutting into her flesh; other times, it was the searing burn of heated metal pressed against her skin, leaving behind the burned smell of charred flesh.

But no matter how much she bled or how deeply the burns seared, Francis always had more in store for her, never satisfied with just one form of torture.

As Francis stood over her, his expression cold and unfeeling, a stark contrast to the cruel image that flickered in his eyes. His hands moved quickly as he secured the straps around her wrists and ankles, ensuring she could not move even an inch. Y/n's breaths were shallow and weak, each one a reminder of the agony her body had endured.

"Comfortable?" Francis asked, his voice dripping with mockery. He leaned over her, his face close enough that she could see the sick pleasure in his eyes.

Y/n managed to muster a weak glare, her voice a raspy whisper, "Go to hell."

He smiled, a cold, predatory grin that made her stomach turn. "Oh, we're already there, sweetheart." He nodded to one of his servants, who stepped forward with a large, filthy rag and a bucket of water. The sight of the bucket made Y/n's heart race, a surge of primal fear washing over her.

"Let's see how long you can hold your breath," Francis said, his tone almost casual, like they were discussing the weather.

The servant threw the rag over Y/n's face, the old fabric scraping against her raw skin. Her world became dark, the air around her thick and suffocating. Panic set in immediately, her body instinctively struggling against the restraints, but it was useless. She was trapped, helpless beneath the weight of the rag and the knowledge of what was coming next.

Francis stepped back, savoring the moment before giving a slight nod. The servant tilted the bucket, and the water poured out in a steady stream, soaking the rag and filling her mouth and nose. It was cold, a shock to her already trembling body, but that was quickly replaced by a more immediate terror.

Y/n exhausted, her body screaming for air, but all she could do was choke on the water. It felt like she was drowning, like her lungs were filling with liquid fire. Her mind screamed at her to breathe, to cough, to do anything to expel the water, but it was impossible. The rag was an unforgiving barrier, the water relentless as it flooded her senses.

"Do you know what the worst part is, Y/n?" Francis's voice cut through the roaring in her ears, his tone conversational as if they were chatting over tea.

"Wade's not coming for you. He's probably already forgotten you, moved on to the next whore who'll get caught up in his mess. You're nothing to him now. Just another casualty of his fucked-up life."

His words were a blade, slicing through the last threads of her resolve. Y/n wanted to scream, to tell him he was wrong, but all she could do was gag on the water that filled her throat, her body arching off the table in a desperate attempt to escape the suffocating torture.

Francis watched her struggle with cold detachment, his hands clasped behind his back. "He's not worth this, you know," he continued, his voice low and insidious. "You're suffering for nothing. For a man who doesn't even have the decency to keep searching for you. How long do you think you've been here, Y/n? Days? Months? Years?"

Her mind spun, disoriented by the lack of oxygen and the overwhelming need to breathe. Time had lost all meaning in this place, each moment stretching into an eternity of pain and fear. She did not know how long she had been here, but it felt like forever. And the thought that Wade had given up on her, that he had moved on... it was a torture all its own.

Francis nodded again, and the water stopped. The rag was ripped away, and Y/n gasped, coughing violently as her lungs finally found air. Her body shaken violently, trying to dodge the water that had nearly drowned her, each breath a ragged, painful gasp.

But Francis was not done. He leaned down, his face close to hers, his voice a poisonous whisper. "He's not coming for you. No one is. You're all alone, Y/n. And this... this is your life now."

Her chest heaved as she struggled to breathe, her body trembling with exhaustion and fear. But somewhere deep inside, buried beneath the pain and terror, a spark of defiance still flickered. She would not let him break her. Not like this.

Y/n turned her head, her eyes meeting his with a fierce determination. "Fuck... you," she spat, her voice hoarse but filled with venom.

Francis straightened, a cold smile tugging at his lips. "We'll see how long that fire lasts," he said, stepping back as the servant prepared for the next round of water.

And as the rag was placed over her face once more, Y/n braced herself for the flood, for the darkness that threatened to consume her. But she would hold on to that little hope, no matter how small it was. Because it was all she had left.

Days turned into a blur of pain and despair. The cycle of waterboarding became just one of many methods Francis employed to break her spirit. The physical torment was relentless, but it was the psychological warfare that truly triggered her. He seemed to take a perverse pleasure in ensuring that she remained as mentally shattered as she was physically.

Francis knew how to break a person from the inside out. He was a master of manipulation, weaving a web of lies and half truths designed to trigger her spirit.

He would lean in close, his breath hot against her ear as he whispered cruel taunts. "You really thought Wade would come for you?". He would say, his voice dripping with malice.

His words were like poison, getting into her mind, making her question everything she had believed. She tried to resist, to cling to the hope that Wade was still out there, searching for her, but with each passing day, that hope vanished.

The isolation, the constant pain, and the relentless psychological assault began to wear her down. Francis took every opportunity to remind her of how alone she was, how forgotten she had become.

He had a way of getting inside her head, twisting her thoughts until she did not know what was real anymore. He played mind games with her, altering the timing of her torture sessions so she could never expect when the next wave of pain would come. Sometimes he would leave her in darkness for days, the silence broken only by the distant echoes of other prisoners' screams, a constant reminder of her own doom.

As the years dragged on, Y/n changed. She had lost track of how long she had been trapped in that hellhole. The days had bled together in a blur of agony and despair. The torture had done more than scar her body- it had twisted her mind, turning her into something she barely recognized.

The physical pain was constant, but it was the psychological torment that truly broke her. The things Francis had done to her, the things he had made her believe about Wade, had planted a seed of hatred in her heart, one that grew with every day of her captivity.

The isolation was suffocating. Y/n found herself questioning her own memories, her own worth. The lines between reality and the lies Francis fed her began to blur. She started to believe that Wade had forgotten her, that she was not worth saving. The thought of him moving on, living a life without her, filled her with a rage she had never known before- a rage that Francis eagerly thrilled.

Six years had passed in a relentless blur of pain and suffering since the accident, leaving Y/n in the dark, cramped cell. Her bruised body and broken spirit showed the unending cruelty she had endured.

The cell was a dark, oppressive space, highlighted only by a sliver of moonlight that struggled through a foggy window. Y/n laid crumpled on the cold concrete floor, her body twisted in exhaustion.

The air was heavy, the stench of old blood and sweat mingling with the scent of despair. Her clothes, once white, were now an old and torn mess, barely clinging to her damaged frame. Her skin was marked with bruises and burns, each one a testament to the relentless cruelty she had faced.

Breathing was a struggle, each inhale short and shallow, as if her lungs were weighed down by the enormity of her torture. Her eyes, hollow and unfocused, drifted across the cracked walls. She mumbled to herself, her voice barely more than a whisper, choked by the weight of her guilt and despair.

"They're... they're suffering because of me," she murmured, her voice breaking with the weight of her own realization. "They're dying... and I'm... I'm still here..."

Her thoughts were a mess, separated by the horror she had endured and witnessed. The echoes of distant screams and cries seemed to mess with her mind, though she knew they were not her own. Each cry, each plea for help, was a stark reminder of the suffering she had become intertwined in.

She tried to push away the images and sounds of others' suffering, but they seemed to get into her consciousness, an unending reminder of the pain she had without intention caused.

"Why... why can't I stop this?" she mumbled, her voice stammering. "Why am I the one who's still alive, when they... they're not?"

She felt a intense sense of disconnection from reality, as if the walls of her cell were closing in on her, pressing her down with the weight of her guilt. The thought that her continued survival meant the maintenance of others' suffering was unbearable. She was a vessel of pain, a curse that dragged others into hell with her.

In the silence of her cell, the only sound was her quiet mumbling and the occasional shudder of her body. Her thoughts swirled in a chaotic blur, a never- ending loop of self-blame and guilt. Despite the crushing weight of her situation, a small, flickering hope remained. It was this tiny spark, barely noticeable that drove her to plan her escape.

The day of Y/n's escape had finally arrived, though its outcome remained uncertain. Her heart pounded in her chest as the guards dragged her into a dark metal room, the weight of her chains clinking with every step.

As she was forced to lay on the cold metal table, her body trembling from the effects of the latest torture, a spark of resistance still burned within her.

They had locked her in a small, dark box this time, the temperature slowly dropping until she could see her breath in the air, until her fingers went numb and her teeth chattered uncontrollably.

The cold seeped into her bones, turning her blood to ice. She could feel the frost forming on her skin, tiny crystals of ice biting into her flesh. It hurt- God, it hurt- but she refused to scream. Screaming would only give them the satisfaction of knowing they had won.

The box was so small that she could not move, could not even shift her position to relieve the pressure on her aching joints. The darkness was suffocating, pressing in on her from all sides. She could not see anything, could not hear anything but the faint sound of her own breathing, growing shallower as the cold tightened its grip on her lungs. She focused on that sound, using it to ground herself, to keep from slipping into the abyss of madness that threatened to consume her.

When they finally pulled her out, her body was shaking so badly that she could barely stand. They threw her back onto the table, chaining her wrists and ankles so tightly that the metal bit into her skin. She could feel the blood trickling down her arms, warm against the chill that still clung to her. Francis stood over her, a smug smile on his face as he looked down at her shivering form.

"You're stronger than I expected," he said, his voice cold and clinical. "But everyone breaks eventually. It's just a matter of time."

Y/n did not respond. She did not have the strength to. She lay there, her chest rising and falling in shallow, rapid breaths, her eyes half-closed. To Francis, she looked like she was on the brink of passing out, just another victim of his sadistic games. But Y/n was far from unconscious. She was waiting.

Francis turned away, motioning for the guards to prepare her for the next round of torture. They moved around her, their footsteps heavy on the concrete floor. Y/n waited until one of them leaned in close, unlocking the chain around her wrist. In that split second, she struck.

With a surge of adrenaline-fueled strength, she grabbed the guard's arm and yanked it toward her, using his own momentum to pull him off balance. Her hand found the sharp shard of ice she had hidden, formed from the frost that had coated her body during the freezing torture.

She drove it into his throat with all the force she could muster. The man gurgled, blood spurting from the wound as he collapsed to the ground, the life draining from his eyes.

"Fuck, she broke ou-"

The second guard barely had time to react before she was on him, the makeshift weapon flashing in the dim light as she drove it into his chest. He staggered back, clutching at the wound as blood poured from between his fingers. Y/n did not stop to watch him fall. She was already moving, her body fueled by a desperate, animalistic need to survive.

Francis turned, his eyes widening in shock as he saw her standing over the bodies of his guards, her breath coming in ragged gasps. "You-" he started, but she did not give him a chance to finish. She lunged at him, the ice shard slicing through the air, aiming for his throat. But Francis was quicker than she had anticipated. He dodged to the side, catching her wrist in a vice-like grip.

She struggled, but he was stronger, his hand tightening around her wrist until she could feel the bones grinding together. Pain shot up her arm, but she refused to let go of the shard. She twisted, bringing her knee up into his gut. He grunted, loosening his grip just enough for her to pull free.

Y/n did not waste any time. She turned and ran, her bare feet slapping against the cold floor as she sprinted down the hallway. She could hear Francis shouting behind her, calling for more guards, but she did not stop. She did not look back. All she could think about was getting out, getting away from this place and the horrors it held.

The facility was a labyrinth of sterile hallways and locked doors, but she knew it well. She had been dragged through these corridors enough times to memorize every turn, every exit. Her breath was coming in ragged gasps, her lungs burning with the effort, but she pushed herself harder, refusing to let the exhaustion slow her down.

Finally, she burst through a door and into the open air. The night was cold, the sky a dark, starless void above her. But the chill was a welcome relief after the suffocating confines of the facility. She did not stop running, her feet pounding against the ground as she made her way toward the fence that surrounded the compound.

She could hear the guards behind her, their shouts growing louder as they closed in. But she did not care. She was almost there, almost free. With a final burst of strength, she launched herself at the fence, scrambling up the chain-link like a wild animal. Her hands were slick with blood and sweat, making it hard to keep her grip, but she refused to let go. She hauled herself over the top, her body crashing to the ground on the other side with a painful thud.

She did not stop. She could not. Ignoring the pain that shot through her limbs, she pushed herself to her feet and started running again, disappearing into the night, leaving the facility and Francis behind.

But the damage had been done.

As she ran through the darkened forest, the memories of the past years haunted her, flashing before her eyes like a twisted film reel. The torture, the pain, the manipulation- they had all left their mark on her. She was no longer the woman she had been when she first entered that facility. That woman was dead, buried beneath the layers of trauma and hatred that now consumed her.

And as she ran, one thought burned brighter than all the others: Wade Wilson had abandoned her. He had left her to suffer, to be broken by Francis and him.

[fountainpenguin]

Riddle watches New Wish - Post #2

Episode begin! Title card gives us Hazel with wings, so I'm liking where this is going. Gives me "Mile In My Shoes" vibes, and this 100% sounds like a first wish a kid would make.

Cosmo and Wanda are on their 4th godkid in a row with damaged teeth (though in Crocker's defense, his changed later). I was going to say "bold move for giving Hazel the same teeth design as Chloe," but I'm pretty sure Chloe just has a chip, not an entire missing one.

omfg HARTMANVERSE HAS A BROWN-EYED CHARACTER!!!! We get them on occasion (I think some of the classmates in "Bunsen Is a Beast" had them, I think Willy Moore and maybe the tall girl?), but they are SO RARE and now we have a MAIN CHARACTER!

Usually, purple or pink is subbed in instead, even for humans (Exhibit Flappy Bob). Oh, this is exciting. This makes my heart happy.

!!! The title card !!! has Cosmo and Wanda with their OG designs! Even though they have new outfits now! That is super clever, and they're starting us off by giving us Hazel in FOP style too, for the card. That's fun.

Let's begin!

Oh, heckin' yes, we're gettin' a townhouse! Or... whatever this building is. I am already excited about writing 'fics about that roof.

Waxing crescent moon! I am already back on my moon obsession. But oh no, they put stars in it.

Oh, that is a bold move giving Hazel a toy named Rhonda when Wanda's about to enter the scene.

WAIT I KNOW HIM!!!

... Okay, it's not the same cat, but I was very close (and yes, I have this in my files; I have a Francis-centric work that's been in my drafts a few years, though I'm not sure I'll get to it at this point).

I am FASCINATED with the possibility that the photos depict characters in 2D while their bodies are 3D. Jimmy Neutron is gonna lose his FLIPPIN' MIND.

Who is Hazel's VA, do I know her...? /Looked her up- I've seen a few of the relevant media, but I wouldn't have nailed her down in this first sentence.

She's a sibling! Oh, finally... Only rarely do we get siblings in the Hartmanverse. I was so robbed by Mikey's clones in "Mikeyplication." When we saw the sneak peek of geeky Mikey, I thought there was a chance.

Plot twist, Antony pulls a Katty Katswell and shows up for a face-off.

I'm liking the direction this is going for Hazel having a lot of big life changes: Just moved to a new place AND just said bye to her big brother who's gone off to college.

Hazel talks to herself exactly the style I do, I love her.

SLKDFJSDKLFJS she does Chloe's classic squint, I love that for her.

Her first hypothetical wish (before fairies show up) is unlimited wishes. Oh, Jorgen's gonna love you.

Her dad calls her Hazelnut :)

crying, this poor girl wants to see her brother so bad that she thinks he's "visiting early" even though there's no possible way that's true.

Note to self, Hazel's room is last in the hall, to the right, with... wow, that's a lot of doors around her.

Oh thank GOODNESS we got lightswitches. Hey why are the doorknobs so low. Is that how they build them in this universe of chronically tiny children?

OH! Mom's outfit is reminiscent of Timmy's mom's! I like that. Wow, this family loves colorful shoes. Yeah, you goofballs must be new here. We don't do that in FOP.

T'was an apartment! Not a townhouse.

First Cosmo and Wanda sighting!! I paused instantly, but Wanda's definitely gonna point out that Cosmo has his crown still up. Hers has gone down for human disguise.

And OH YEAH, BABY! We get a back view of their hair? This is the show that keeps on giving.

Time for a Post #3!

[alchely]

If you could change Shameless storylines in a sort of "I'm the master puppeteer and I'm all knowing" kinda way, what would you change? And what would you put in place of those changes?

Example: Mickey not going to prison, since Noel is (contractually) staying in this AU Ian and Mickey don't break up at the end of season 5, what does their relationship look like in S6?

Other ideas: Kev and Vee pregnancy with her mother ends up fizzling out because in the middle of Shameless creating that storyline Shanola got pregnant and would have looked pregnant during filming so the story got changed at the last minute. -> Scrap the mother from the script and let's say that Vee being pregnant was very easy, what would they end up doing that season?

Frank should have probably died earlier, and his death should have been unrelated to either his drinking or his age. Probably after Monica, to add irony I'd say it should happen during his Francis arc, when he was sober so... S8? And actually show the Gallaghers dealing with it.

All the early romantic interests should have stayed longer and been even more fleshed out as characters beyond their relationship to their Gallagher, there's a reason ppl remember the early relationships so much more than the later ones, the Milkovich, the Jackson (as much as I don't particularly like Sheila) and Jimmy and his family are sooo weird and dysfunctional and interesting. They should have their own small story arcs every season, also, have them interact with the rest of the family.

Have the actress for S1 Mandy stay the whole show, the energy she brought to the character is soo different, if her version of the character had stayed and had still ended up with Lip I feel like she would have threatened to scalp Lip with a smile on her face before ever turning her anger and desperation on Karen.

Also, her incest/abortion arc is either treated more in-depth or it should get scrapped completely. It's NEVER brought back and it's probably one of the darkest details of S2 that really feels out of place especially in the early seasons.

I'd define the Milkovich family more: how many brothers? How many cousins? Names? It sure was convenient of the writers to just say that the Milkovich themselves don't know how many siblings and half-siblings they have so that they never have to keep them straight and they can appear and disappear and spawn new ones whenever the story requires it.

I really liked Bonnie, Carl's first crush, would 100% bring her back at some point.

Since this is an "I'm an all-powerful being making these decisions" I'd make Noel start out younger, not necessarily his character's age (Noel had a baby face that wouldn't intimidate a bunny) I'd have him start out s1 at 20, so that he can still convincingly play young in the later seasons.

Not sure what I'd change of Debbie's storyline, I'd probably bake hints of her being a lesbian basically every season and have her realize it earlier than in canon, probably bring out Sandy seasons earlier than they did.

A bit less Frank, definitely less Sheila scenes (sorry to anyone that likes her, I just don't).

A lot of those plotlines that involved a single character that ended up fizzling out without going anywhere replaced with a joint storyline with Kev and Vee or Frank and Monica or another sibling.