#alex does a write

[stanpineskisser]

I have a (possibly controversial?) Stan opinion that idk how to word it but I noticed something abt the way Alex Hirsch talks abt him vs how he is written in canon and I have Certain Things to Say but don’t know how to say them

[crow-caller]

rewatching your nightbane review and getting genuinely mad about how much the concept of a magically-bound divine right of kings (and how the populace can’t overthrow their rulers without all dying) fucking rules and how alex aster WASTED it. begging another fantasy author to please write this idea but like. good

(also your proclamation in that video that grim has “ice-cold yaoi hands” has haunted me since it came out. why did you speak that into the world social media user crow caller. why)

1. was there when the yaoi hands reigned. I know the signs and know them well. never call me a social media user ever again.

2. The divine right of kings thing Aster backward stumbles into IS very cool conceptually, you're right!! I nearly brought this up in my Skyshade review, but then realized it'd be the weirdest pull: Fallen London has an extremely good version of the same concept. I'm so so so sorry FL for referring to you as anything similar to Lightlark, but if you're interested in how 'magically bound divine right of kings which keeps a populace under control, treated as innate to the world but secretly artificial' can be done well.... well. let me tell you about The Chain.

The Great Chain of Being is a concept that the world is divided into a strict hierarchy, with some above others. In FL, the beings at the top are Judgements- cosmic gods who burn as bright as suns (okay, they are suns). They sit at the top of The Chain with the understanding This Is The Way The World is- they are often referred to as 'Kings', because they are analogous to them in many ways. Why do the Kings rule over us? Because the Chain is a facet of the universe, the Chain is true and says they are better than us. Why does the Chain say this? Because it is true.

.......Except, of course, it isn't. The Judgements created the chain, as kings created the Divine Right of Kings- to excuse their excess of power and abuse of it, they create the lie there is a divine truth to the world which just so happens to put them at the top. The universe doesn't make some people better than others, but some people will say it does in order to get away with heinous acts*. In FL, the Judgements abuse their power in far wilder cosmic horrors ways, able to enforce this division with their ability to rewrite reality with burning words. This power is again not necessarily something innate to them because they are sooo special- it is something they have because The Chain they've created to control reality says so.

This is key worldbuilding to fallen london, and is Sick As Hell- though quite Deep Lore, not apparent or relevant when you first begin playing.

(*The Great Chain is a real concept originating from medieval Christianity, which very much places all the world into a strict hierarchy with God at the top- followed by man, descending through various animals, and even including plants and minerals. A key aspect of the Chain was that this 'Absolute Hierarchy' was real, innate, holy, and... of course, an excuse for all kinds of racism. Sure, maybe they did think it mattered to decide lichen was closer to god than mushrooms, but ultimately an obvious reason the philosophy took root was to justify why certain humans mattered more than others.)

[areyoudoingthis]

I am SO grateful that ed and stede exist as characters exactly as they are. I'm so grateful for these two men who are traumatized and messed up and struggle to even like themselves, who are terrible at communicating, who make enough mistakes between the two of them to fill an entire ocean. I am so grateful to watch them struggle and be seen and be loved and reach out for the things they want and are maybe starting to believe that they deserve. I'm so grateful that the show lets them fall in love and get together exactly as they are, that it doesn't say they need to wait until they've become some unattainably perfect version of themselves before they have permission to have that. i am so grateful for ofmd

[ray935sworld]

Model Luca AU

[toomuchracket]

constellations (literal d word (dad) matty x reader fluff)

you have an eight year old who loves space. let's redecorate her bedroom! promptober day 18. enjoy <3

you're applying your moisturiser when matty pads back into the bedroom; he drops a kiss to the top of your head, and you smile. “babies asleep?”

“yeah. alex took a while to get there… oi, stop that!” he grumbles when you stand, smearing the excess lotion from the back of your hand across his face.

“what? it's cold outside. it dries your skin out. you needed that,” you softly kiss his neck, wrapping your arms around his waist. “anyway, you were saying al took a while to fall asleep?”

“not ages. but we had to do two stories.”

you squint at your husband. “what was the first one?”

“llama llama red pyjama.”

“did you do the voices? and the noises?”

“obviously, babe.”

“matty,” you groan into his shoulder. “of course he took ages to fall asleep, you got him all hyped up.”

he sighs. “can't help it. i just love the sound of his laugh,” he hugs you tighter. “same as yours, you know.”

“thank god he got something from me.”

matty giggles, pulling back to kiss you quickly. “stop pouting,” he pulls his t-shirt over his head, and suddenly you're more than willing to listen to everything he says. “they both got your brains, darling. actually, lyla was just- oh,” he smirks when you remove your dressing gown, body bare aside from a black thong. “hi.”

rolling your eyes, you reach for the t-shirt he just discarded and pull it over your own head, before climbing into bed and burrowing under the covers; it doesn't stop him from giving you the eyes, though. but you won't be swayed. “you were saying?”

“hmmm? oh, yeah. our daughter,” matty kicks his sweatpants off - you glare at him as he does, and he rolls his eyes and neatly folds them - and climbs in beside you. almost instinctively, you move to lie on his chest, kissing his tattoo softly before turning your head to look up at your husband. he smiles adoringly down at you, gently stroking your hair. “she's so fucking smart. you know how they're learning about space at school?”

“mhmm.”

“she listed all the planets to me and all the moons of neptune. in descending order of how close they were to the planet,” matty shakes his head. “she's eight.”

you smile. “our genius girl.”

“she's gonna ask you about stars and constellations tomorrow, by the way.”

“me? why?”

“because she asked me and i said i didn't know anything, and then she did that thinking face where she really, really looks like you and said ‘i'll talk to mum about it. she'll know.’”

“what gave her that idea?”

“dunno. maybe your tattoos,” he runs his arm over the three tiny constellations inked on your upper arm, representing his and both your babies’ star signs. “or maybe she just thinks i'm an idiot.”

you smirk. “probably that.”

“oh, shut up,” he goes to flick your nose, but you catch his index finger gently between your teeth before he can; because you can't help yourself, you wrap your lips around the digit, and matty’s pupils dilate. “don't start something you won't finish, princess.”

okay, maybe you will be swayed.

looking doe-eyed at your husband, you release his finger with an audible pop, shuffling to sit properly on his lap. “if you finish inside me, does it count?”

“fuck,” matty groans; suddenly, you're underneath him, your neck being attacked by kisses. “think you can keep quiet enough?”

“yes, daddy.”

“good girl.”

***

“well, that's not right.”

matty grits his teeth, holding onto the top of the ladder and looking down at his daughter, whose curly head is buried in an astronomy book from the local library that's almost as big as she is. “again?”

you peer over lyla's head, looking at the page and the bedroom ceiling and back to the page again. “not right at all.”

“fantastic,” he wipes the sweat from his forehead. “which star is the most wrong?”

lyla shoves her glasses up her nose and opens her mouth; matty cuts her off. “i don't know their official names, remember - is it the big one that's the issue, or the smaller ones?”

she tilts her head in a way so reminiscent of matty that you have to bite back a giggle. “that little one to your left, dad.”

“‘kay. and where should it be?”

“further left, and down. like, a little bit down. not too much.”

he nods, carefully peeling the adhesive stars from the ceiling and rearranging them as per lyla's instructions. “alex?”

your son looks up from his comic book. “yeah, dad?”

“go and look at your sister’s book and tell me if this looks right. i need an objective opinion.”

he obliges, carefully placing his book on the bed before wandering over. you roll your eyes. “really, matthew?”

“yes, really,” matty twists, face screwing into a grimace as he stretches the twinge-y muscle in his back. “you girls are perfectionists. al keeps it real,” at that, lyla scowls up at her dad, and he backtracks immediately, face softening. “and that's not a bad thing, munchkin, not at all. it's just… well, there are limits to how accurate we can get everything in here, yeah? sometimes we have to compromise our artistic vision. s'just a sad fact of life.”

you scoff. “and when have you ever compromised on your artistic vision?”

“when you've told me to.”

“alright, i'll give you that one,” you raise your eyebrows, nodding slowly. “so, al - has dad got this one right?”

“hmm,” alex frowns at the page, his brows creasing cutely just like his dad's, then scrutinises the ceiling; his face drops into placidity, and he nods. “i think so.”

“thanks, mate,” matty reaches down to ruffle your son's curly head (only wincing slightly on the way back up), before sighing and smiling sheepishly at your daughter. “lyla? what are your thoughts, darling?”

she readjusts her glasses, and the rest of you wait with baited breath; there's a collective exhale when she grins. “looks good, dad. thanks.”

he beams. “you're welcome, munchkin. now,” he steps a rung down the ladder. “lunchtime?”

you shake your head. “there's still one more, babe.”

“god, really?” matty sighs, pressing his head into the handle at the top of the ladder. “feels like we've been doing this for hours.”

“well, what's one more, then? come on,” you gently tap his denim-covered ass, at which the kids giggle. “you did agree to this, matty.”

“yeah, when i wasn't of sound mind.”

(read: the morning after your late-night lovemaking session a couple of nights ago, the ending of which left your husband extremely chipper and thus agreeable to your suggestion that he stick glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling of your space-daft daughter's room.)

you smirk. “some would argue that's the most sound a mind can be. a certain… clarity to it, no?”

matty shoots you a familiar look, a wordless warning that you're at risk of pushing it too far and getting into trouble if you don't stop now, and you can't deny that it's thrilling; not even a second later, he's switching back into dad mode, gentle and pragmatic with your babies in a way that's almost as sexy as the dominant look you just got. “alright. what is the final constellation, then?”

“s'my birthday one,” lyla beams, moving to snuggle into you. “me and mummy are gonna match!”

“oh,” matty's eyes and voice are as tender as you've ever known them to be - the sweet smile he follows with is even more so. “m'sorry for complaining, darlings, this is very important. alex, would you pass me the… yes, thank you, munchkin,” the final set of stars in hand, he beams at you again. “i reckon i can do this one without guidance, i think. can i try?”

you nod, smiling just as tenderly as your husband. “of course.”

and he does, perfectly placing the stars on the ceiling in the pattern he's known by heart for the past seven years, the pattern he watched you get permanently etched onto your arm while he held the tiny baby girl it was dedicated to. unlike last time, she's awake and alert enough to watch the pattern form, looking up at the ceiling and her father with a beaming smile on her adorable face and her arm around her little brother; something about it all has tears pricking at the corners of your eyes, total love for your family and gratitude for how wonderful your life is both threatening to overwhelm you. 

matty seems to notice - when he's finished the constellations, and safely on solid ground again, one of his arms finds its way around your waist and his lips meet your temple. “love you, darling,” he murmurs, as you watch your kids look awestruck at the stars above them. “thank you.”

“for what?”

he nods towards lyla and alex. “them. convincing me to do this. our life, really,” he squeezes your waist. “s'perfect.”

you sniffle. “so are the constellations. really, matty,” you kiss his shoulder. “they're amazing, baby. i love them. and you, of course!”

matty giggles. “kids?” he calls; two little curly heads bounce over to you in response. “what do we think of the stars, then?”

alex is enthusiastic, hair all but flipping as he nods. “they're so cool!”��

lyla's a bit more measured in her response, but her excitement shines through in the way she throws herself at matty to hug him. “i love them, dad. thank you,” she giggles when he kisses her cheek, reaching for you so she can coordinate a group hug. “we match now, mum.”

“we do, darling, you're right,” you hug your kids in tighter. “i love you, my babies. you too, matty.”

“i love you, too,” he laughs. “can we genuinely get lunch now, though? m'starving. that was hard work, that.”

you laugh softly. “yeah. go on, babies, go and get a fruit shoot,” they oblige, and once they're safely out of earshot you wrap your arms around matty's shoulders. “for all the effort you put in today… you can eat me before we go to sleep tonight, if you want.”

he hums happily, leaning down to kiss you until you're dizzy. “never wanted anything more.”

[uhbasicallyjustmilex]

writing at literally anytime during the day:

writing after 11:30pm:

[realbeefman]

you ever think about young nigel getting dragged along to a hunting trip with his dad and at first they’re genuinely getting along for once because nigel almost instinctively picks up on how to spot game trails, creep through the underbrush without making a sound, until his dad shoots the first buck and the shot sends birds fluttering in his stomach and he puts down the binoculars, turns to see that same manic gleam in his dad’s eyes as when he comes home looking for a fight, and his dad clasps him on the shoulder, oblivious and pleased, and he can feel his heart thudding out of his chest as they approach the body, the vacant eyes, the red pooling beneath it, the twitching muscles that don’t yet know they’re dead, and when his dad asks him later if he wants to try aiming the gun himself he takes it into his hands and stumbles a little at the unexpected weight, but finds the trigger is still warm to the touch

[thepunkmuppet]

every day I lament jack kline being in only the last few seasons of supernatural, because as well-written as he and his whole arc genuinely is, the rest of that portion of the show is uuuuh ASS, not to mention visually boring.

every day I imagine tiny babyface jack filmed with the grainy aesthetic, the gorgeous high-contrast lighting and dark greyish filter… shots of him in the dark with his eyes glowing like a little cryptid, him in the car at night, him appearing out of nowhere in sam and dean’s hotel rooms. him using his powers with late 2000s limited CGI, and more of the vibe of early seasons angels where their powers aren’t big and flashy and glowy but they feel more eldritch and scary…. static and exploding glass and uncanny not-quite-humannness…. OH it’s just so good

also please consider that alexander calvert was twenty years old in 2010 (season 5, aka when lucifer was first in the show) and FIFTEEN during season 1. closest picture I could find to what a 2000s seasons jack would look like is THIS

I love my son bro :(

ALSO HE FUCKING LOOKS LIKE SAM I’M GONNA KILL MYSELF WHY DIDN’T THEY GIVE HIM THIS HAIRCUT THE SAMJACK PARALLELS WOULD’VE HIT EVEN HARDER

anyways I would change absolutely nothing about jack or the way his story ended, but MAN the early seasons aesthetic….. OOOOUGHGHHH HE DESERVES IT HE’S TOO GOOD FOR THE LATER SEASONS BRO I NEED 2000’S HORROR CRYPTID JACK

[caffeinsanity]

I want a kids’/young adult action spy thriller series like Alex Rider but without the pro- American government nationalistic exploitative undertones. Like, instead of teenagers forced to join a government agency and fighting (mostly queer-coded) individual criminals or (mostly non-white) foreign agents, how about teenagers voluntarily choosing to join a secret independent organisation dedicated to exposing and destroying corruption in their country’s own government by whatever means necessary?

[creetchure]

one thing i really dislike about "claudia was fridged" is the fundamental lack of understanding of what fridging even means. ignoring entirely why iwtv was written.

fridging is a very specific thing, that denotes a lack of agency in the death (and in general). that death is wholly about someone else (a man), and not something she could have done anything about. It comes from a green lantern, where kyle rayner heads back to his place and finds his girlfriend murdered for the sole purpose of hurting him. It' also often offscreen and irrelevant to the narrative in an of itself, apart from "i need to find my wife's killer".

claudia's death isn't that. if there is one thing to remember about her, one trait about her character, is that she has a will to move, a will to do things, that drags louis forward. Her agency is the main driving force for leaving lestat, her wanting to be able to make her choices for herself. she's the one who makes them go to paris, she's the one who wants to join the coven, she's the one who wants to turn madeleine. claudia's death is something that she's earned, brought upon by enemies she has made. lestat goes along because she's the reason louis left him. the coven goes along and cheers because she's a cog in the machine, someone who wont let them turn her into something she's not. she won't settle for anything less than absolute freedom as a vampire, and that is the reason she dies. it's also an incredibly graphic scene. there is nothing forgettable about her death, about the very image of it. claudia goes out in a blaze of rage and fire.

to call it fridging is removing her agency, and her very active role as a driving force in the story. claudia's death cannot be fridging, because she's never been passive a day in her life, from the very moment we see her on screen to the very last. she's earned her death as a character, rather than as a woman

[4lbon]

you're poision either way (2.5k, Alex/Logan, Mature, Soulmate Timers AU)

When they meet, Logan's timer says 1 year, 10 months. Alex's is over forty years.

written for the @f1divorcefest 🥳🥳🥳

[moonshynecybin]

ohhh my god I love the rosquez kidnapping fic concept, if you end up writing it up for realsies I would read the shit out of it!! I don’t even really care about rosquez (<- lying), I’m just a sucker for kidnapping fics and I wanna see marc be miserable & then get nursed back to health

the REAL meat of the h/c of it all in an au like this is the healing. something marc is not very good at i’d say. so it’s. okay vale is there and that makes him happy so hes gonna latch onto him as comfort blanket, but vale is also CLEARLY uncomfy with being that for marc in certain lights due to their heinous and awful DIVORCE that is also one of the premiere formative tragedies of marc’s life. like. being abandoned by vale. so it’s this fraught little undercurrent of vale getting freaked by the emotional intimacy of all of this but also wanting to help marc because he [REDACTED FROM HIS OWN BRAIN] anddddd marc picking up on all of this while half expecting vale to fuck off at some point and re-assert the status quo. and dealing with injury that keeps him off the bike which makes him crazy. and dealing with extended PTSD symptoms from the trauma of the kidnapping itself. so all of this insane emotional context is happening on the inside genuinely TORMENTING THEM, but no one on the outside KNOWS that’s happening because rosquez LOVE to pretend their breakup doesn’t exist and marc is spending a lot of time lying on top of vale curled up on the couch in one of his hoodies with his nose in his neck trying to get a wrangle on his heart rate because the gardener suprised him earlier and he got scared (side note. marc marquez. not a man easily scared. like i don’t know if he knows how to deal with it. are his anxiety stratagems just ‘muscle through it’?). and on top of all this, the broader marquez family is there and they fuckin HATE vale

[faketrex]

a police station in a foreign country for the setting prompts if you're still taking them <3

Thank you, grace! 💝 For prompt number 13, "a police station in a foreign country."

RWRB, firstprince, featuring Henry throwing a punch, Alex scheming, and a fair amount of silliness. Post-canon, pre-bonus chapter.

...

“You can't punch him, you're a prince of fucking England,” Alex hisses.

It pains him to say it, obviously. The asshole standing in front of them has a punchable face–and extremely punch-worthy homophobic, xenophobic, racist opinions. It's not the first time they've had to just stand and listen to this kind of crap, but it never gets any easier.

Hell, Alex might take a swing himself if he didn't know for a fact that it would get him ushered out of England kicking and screaming, cursed to a life of long-distance love, groveling to his mom, and praying that one day, someday, Henry might escape the clutches of the monarchy and join him in the U.S. and–

“A prince,” Henry says mildly, in a tone that Alex has only heard once before, “me? You must be mistaken.”

And he hauls back his fist.

“Fucking–Henry!”

It's a solid punch.

☆☆☆

The less said about the next few hours, the better.

It doesn't really matter that Henry's a prince and Alex is the First Son of the United States. Or, well, it does, but only in the sense that when they're sitting in the police station, butts going numb in uncomfortable plastic chairs, they've got a whole entourage with them. There are three PPOs and two Secret Service officers, and the way Zahra keeps blowing up Alex's phone, she probably counts as present, too.

The chair he's sitting in squeaks obnoxiously when Alex leans over to whisper to Henry. “You know, if we had one more person on our side, we'd be a baseball team.”

“More's the pity that we're in England, not America, I suppose.”

“I don't know. If you were dead set on punching a fuckhead in the face, I think it's good you did it in England. I mean, your family must own all the dungeons here, right? When they lock you away, it'll be like home sweet home.”

Henry lets out a huff. “You realize we're not actually living in the Middle Ages, don't you?”

“Fuck that. If cops today could still use the rack, they would, in a heartbeat. And you can quote me on–”

Two chairs down, Amy clears her throat loudly.

“I mean,” Alex backpedals, “I mean. I sure do love sitting here quietly in a foreign police station and not stirring up shit.”

“Don't we all,” Henry sighs, rubbing at his bruised knuckles.

☆☆☆

The asshole guy–the punchee–says he won't press charges, to which the royal family replies that it will graciously agree to the same. It's a weird response that Alex isn't thinking too hard about tonight. Yeah, the guy had been a shithead, but Henry had been the one to throw hands. Technically, Henry's at fault here, unless–

“Are you like a swan?”

Henry has a cold, wet washcloth covering his face, but his confusion is audible through the fabric. “Pardon?”

“Like, if someone touches the Queen's swans, they're guilty, probably even if the swans were trying to fucking beak them or whatever. So I thought–”

“Alex–”

“Is it the same with you?” Alex twists sideways on the couch, watching as Henry peels the washcloth off his face. “Do you have honorary swan status?”

“I know how you feel about large birds, Alex.”

“This isn't about that!”

“No, I do not have ‘honorary swan status,’” Henry says. “I'm just one of the latest in a long line of unnecessary archaic figureheads who can behave badly and, it seems, get away with it.”

“That dick fucking deserved it.”

“Nevertheless.”

“Where'd you learn to punch like that? Dueling classes at Eton?”

“Boxing club at Oxford, actually.”

“No way. Seriously?”

“I had a crush on an instructor.” Even though he looks exhausted, one corner of Henry's mouth lifts upward. “If I recall correctly, I trained for three or four months before dropping it as a lost cause.”

“Punching people wasn't your cup of tea, huh?”

“Despite appearances otherwise today, no. And anyway, the instructor was hopelessly straight.”

“Lucky for you, I'm not,” Alex says, leaning in to kiss him.

When they break apart, Henry seems sheepish. “I still shouldn't have done it.”

“We can't change that now, but here's the game plan. The next time someone spews toxic, hateful abuse at us, we'll have two options.”

“Option one?”

Alex holds up one finger. “Option one: we leave. Doesn't matter where we are or who we're supposed to be impressing or whatever. If it sucks, hit the bricks, as the internet says.”

“And option two?”

Alex uses the finger he's already holding up to point at his own face. “Option two: I kiss you. It's a classic distraction move. Option two is also valid no matter where we are or who we're supposed to be impressing. Both options mean we won't have to listen to the bullshit.”

“I'm afraid the Queen would hate either. In fact, I'm not sure which would rile her more: our kissing in public or simply… walking away, refusing to be subject to the invective.”

“Exactly. It's a win-win for us on multiple levels.”

The expression on Henry's face is brighter than it has been all day. That, too, is a major win for Alex. “You're truly a force to be reckoned with, love, do you know that?”

“Yeah,” Alex agrees, “I'm a one-two punch. But, like, the metaphorical kind. Now come here so I can kiss you again.”

[roxabellas]

The concept of time, day and night, morning and evening, had long since become detached and alienated from his life, if the way he lived could even be considered a life anymore.

He hadn't left his flat in weeks. He didn't see a point in it anymore. He was living off of whatever money his parents sent him every few weeks, and each time they sent it over, they'd say, “This is the last time, Al. You need to get a job and start making money yourself.” But it never was the last time, and if he kept going like this, it probably never would be.

Every day was the same. He'd wake up in his bedsheets that he hadn't washed or changed in months, force himself out of his bed to go for a piss, eat something stale that had been festering in his cupboard or order something greasy that was bound to make his stomach hurt later, before going right back to bed.

He wasn't even sure what he was doing that made the hours pass by quite like they did. He'd lie beneath his duvet, gangly legs sprawled out with his brown hair a tangled mess around his face, watch movies on websites that were almost definitely going to give his laptop a virus in the long run, and jerk off whenever his cock got pathetically hard at a sex scene.

[actual-changeling]

He told me about white wings and halos, and I remembered your stars, all I can think about are your stars.

You told me the stars are waiting for us, they are still where you put them, carefully, reverently, and you asked me to come visit them with you.

I said yes— tell me you said no.

(I love you, I love you, loved you then, love you now.)

Yes to heaven.

No to us?

You're the one giving up, not me.

(No to heaven. Yes to you, believe me, believe me.)

It shouldn't matter now. It still matters.

I keep seeing your stars, your smile, lit up and shining brighter than your creations, we can be together among them again, angels. I don't care about white wings and halos but I care about you, and I can make them care about you; they should care about you like I do.

(I haven't seen you smile like that since.)

You can't leave.

(I never made you smile like that.)

We can make your stars last forever.

There's no we anymore.

(I'll look at your stars and pray you can sense me looking at you.

There's stardust in your eyes, on your skin, and it makes me taste the joy your stars gifted to you.

I don't want halos and white wings if it kills the night sky in your soul.)

I'll wait for you to come back.

[transxfiles]

"the unicorn lived in a lilac wood, and she lived all alone." and what if i cried.