#no shame to people who are into that but it’s not for me and yet there’s so many

[rokkit-story-time]

"I..." I glanced down and took a step back. "...I'd rather not talk about it..."

The big man leaned in, a curious look on his face. "Oh~? Something secret~? What, does it have some big weakness... or maybe it's something you're ashamed of?" I tried to keep any reaction off my face, but he noticed my half-wince and pushed forward. "That's it, huh!? You shouldn't worry, man! There's at least two people here who have some sacrificial ritual to keep theirs going! So just tell-"

A hand landed on his shoulder suddenly. "Drop it." The girl in leather he mentioned before gave me a sympathetic look.

The man didn't move. "Why!? I just want to know what we're working with!"

Her look became a glare as she turned to him. "Because this is loop 37, and I'm getting tired of trying to explain everything to you. This questioning goes *badly*, for everyone present. Stop."

The man blinked, then looked back to me for a long moment while I failed to meet his eyes. Finally he nodded, and when she released his shoulder he took a step away from me. "I'll go see if the magic types have had an idea yet..."

As she watched him leave, I spoke up quietly, just for her ears. "...so. I've been set off 36 times then?"

She looked back at me with a gentle smile and nodded. "Yeah, but don't worry. We'll figure something out that doesn't involve... *That* happening."

I shook my head before whispering, "I don't know if you will... Through those other loops, you've probably figured out what my power does. But, did you ever learn where it comes from...?"

The girl's smile faded, replaced with a wary, worried look. "No. I was more focused on dealing with the others and... Well, left you over here in the corner." She gave me a sheepish smile, but the worry stayed in her eyes.

"A shame that doesn't work, but I'm not surprised... Something always sets me off, in every situation. No matter how much I wish it never happened." I hunched in on myself. "A room full of immortals, trapped and unsure of how we got here? I *know* why I'm part of it..."

Her voice dropped even further, and she took a step closer to minimize the chance she was overheard. "...because you're the only person who can kill most of us." I nodded, the tiniest of motions. "But why? Who would want a bunch of unrelated immortals from across the world dead? And why did you mention where you...?" She trailed off, horrified realization dawning in her eyes.

I nodded again. "Because I don't think Death takes kindly to all of you."

"So, what immortality do you have?" "What?" "Well everybody in this room has a type of immortality, I got hyper regeneration, the guy over the is a lich, the girl in leather can save and reload, and I am not bothered enough to keep talking so what is your immortality?"

[why-bless-your-heart]

Imagine you're a young woman and you're betrothed to a righteous man who's unwilling to expose you to shame and before you leave your father's house (or perhaps the temple) an angel comes to you and hails you as the favored one of God and tells you that you will have a son, and you question him because you are a virgin and intend to remain a virgin, and the angel tells you that the Holy Spirit will overshadow you and tells you that your cousin, who has not been able to conceive for years, is already in her sixth month of pregnancy. So you tell the angel that you want to do whatever God asks of you, and you tell the angel that yes, you will bear this child, and you immediately go to your cousin's house to help her prepare for the baby. And your cousin sees you and she greets you with the words of David welcoming the Ark of the covenant, and tells you that the child leapt in her womb at your coming, and you know that everything God has promised your people is coming to fruition, and He has chosen you to be the mother of the messiah, and you sing the Magnificat. You sing of God fulfilling His promises using the language of the psalms, and you sing of your place in His plan. And imagine an angel comes to your betrothed when he is afraid and tells him to take you into his house because your child was the son of God, and imagine that same angel comes to your husband when your son is in danger and tells him to escape to Egypt, and comes again when it is safe to return home, and imagine the thirty years of the Holy Family. Imagine the years contemplating the face of God, the years listening to His voice and eating dinner with Him, and imagine when you return from the temple and He is not with you, and you are frightened. Because you realize what the prophecy means, that your heart will be pierced with a sword. And imagine that, years later, your husband having died, your son a young man, you are at a wedding, and you hear that there is no more wine. Imagine that you go to your son, and you tell him. And He asks you, "Woman, what is that to you or me? My hour has not yet come," and you know what His hour will be. And you know what that will be to you and Him, you know that this road you set Him on will be agony, you know that you will lose Him. But they have no wine. The groom is here, the wedding feast is waiting, and they have no wine, and so you go to the servants and you speak your last recorded words in the bible. "Do whatever He tells you." And imagine you stood at the foot of the cross, and you heard the Son of God call out to His Father in the words of the psalms, and it was in the accent he learned from you.

[thelightsandtheroses]

one: florida!!!!

Call It What You Want | Frankie Morales x OFC

Summary: Daisy never expected to move to Florida but recovering from burnout in the sunshine state seems a good enough plan. Years after the death of her estranged half-brother, Tom, she finds herself agreeing to move in with Frankie Morales, Tom’s former army colleague and friend. Falling for her roommate, who is definitely keeping secrets about your brother’s death, may not be the best way to ensure a fresh start, or is it actually what they both needed all along? Chapter Warnings: 18+ blog MDNI, mentions of previous canon death and grief, references to corporate burnout Word Count: 3.7k Notes: Please note I am not from Florida, or even the US, so there’s a degree of creative license here, What I know about firefighting probably comes from 9-1-1, other firefighter shows, or google so please don’t think this is gong to be an accurate depiction of the Florida FD for Frankie. It’s fic, babes, let’s let me be a little self-indulgent. This is a rewrite of my first fic which felt too fast, too angsty and not the story I wanted to tell for a concept I really loved. It’s seen some considerable changes since then while retaining several themes, but I am so excited to share this and particularly this version of Frankie who has been rotting my brain for months and months 🔥 🔥🫠

Series Masterlist | Next. | A03

Palm trees, beaches and viral memes. That’s what I’ve always associated with Florida. It never struck me as a potential place I would make my home. I thought I might vacation there one day perhaps; some time in a distant future when I had a real grown-up life and family and we would go to the theme parks, buy overpriced merchandise and fried food and take cheesy photos before flying or driving home.

It’s funny how things work out though, isn’t it?

I pull into the apartment block with trepidation.

This is the fourteenth apartment I’ve viewed this week. Fourteen. I thought the market back in Chicago was bad but this is a whole new hellscape, or maybe it was easier because I knew more people back then. College roommates turn into post-college roommates and your circle is fully formed. It means you have people when you need to find a new place, there’s a whisper network, friends of friends.

I don’t have that anymore.

I want it though. I miss it.

I think I miss it.

The advert says that this listing is for a single room and the apartment is occupied by a group of young professional women. It’s the best option I’ve come across yet in my browsing of online postings which has taken me through several levels of Dante’s inferno. Facebook is just one above Craigslist in the hierarchy of the internet hellscapes I’ve seen recently.  One guy asked for my shoe size and asked if I routinely wore high heels before I could view the apartment. Safe to say, that one went off the list extremely quickly. It was a shame though - that listing had a double room and balcony, but I think I can see why it’s been listed for over sixty days now.

I haven’t had a roommate since college and this whole process has been a soul-crushing exercise on my already fragile self esteem. I don’t think I can take much more of this.

I take a deep breath. I’ve got this. I will find a room so I can move out of Molly’s and do something, anything with my life. Anything that’s not just existing in this strange purgatory I’ve found myself in. I’m potentially placing too much importance on the apartment here, but it’s a symbol, an omen.

It’s a fresh start. A signal to the universe that I’m here, that I’m doing something.

I feel like everything else I’m hoping and dreaming of can’t even start unless I have an apartment, and I can’t afford my own apartment and start a business so I need to find a roommate.

Maybe this is finally the one.

“It was so bad, Benny,” I say, taking a glug of lukewarm beer. “It was like being in high school over again, but worse. Infinitely worse!”

“Worse?” Benny tilts his head as he asks the question, something that only heightens my association between him and golden retrievers.

“Yes, because I’m not sixteen with a promise it’ll get better when I ‘find my people’ in college. This sucks. What was I thinking? Clearly I wasn’t. Maybe I should have stayed …” I trail off awkwardly.

“You were thinking that Florida is the perfect place to start over, which it is, Daisy,” he replies confidently.

Benny and his brother, Will, have played a considerable part in my move here. They served with my half-brother Tom.

Tom died more than five years ago - I don’t really know much about how it happened, Tom and I weren’t particularly close. There was an age difference, I sometimes felt he didn’t want me as a sister. I was only a reminder of his own parents’ relationship breakdown after all. I wish I could say we had that sibling bond but we didn’t. It’s clear to me his real siblings were the men in his team - he was their brother.

After his death though, Will kept in touch with me. I wondered if he thought he needed to fill a gap from Tom, if there was a sense of responsibility there. Tom never called me though except for birthdays and Christmas. I haven’t told Will that though.

It’s been nice feeling like I have a big brother. The irony isn’t lost on me that I feel this the most once my actual big brother is dead.

Will encouraged me to move down here, as did Molly, Tom’s ex-wife. They said I needed a fresh start and maybe they’re right.

I can’t remember the last time I felt like me. I’m not even sure what that feels like now, who I’m supposed to be and who I am really.

Florida seems a good place for reinvention though, for something new. I’m closer to the beach, to weekends spent with my toes scrunched in the sand as I sip coffee and read books. Days spent with Benny and Will

“Hey Benny,” A voice calls as I hear the front door open.

“We’re in here.“

“You remember Frankie, right?” Benny asks casually. “Tom woulda called him Catfish?”

“Uh, sure.” I don’t but I won’t admit to that. I remember the name vaguely, but that’s all. Tom wasn’t big on the details of his life with me.

“You probably saw him at the wake last,” Benny adds.

Even if it hadn’t been four years ago since I last saw him, all I can remember of Tom’s funeral is a procession of strangers and the continual vibration of my work phone as I stood in a strange graveyard. That whole day was a stark reminder of the distance between us, that my own blood was a ghost to me even when he was alive. It bought me Molly, Tess and Will though.

Frankie walks in. He’s a little older than Benny but younger than Tom was. He’s all dark eyes and curls peeking out through a battered baseball cap; softly tanned skin and that smile … that smile is something. If he could bottle that up and sell it, I’m pretty sure he’d find a captive market.

“Frankie, you remember Daisy, right? She’s moved here,” Benny says. “She’s starting a coffee van.”

“Uh - yeah.” Frankie has no clue who I am, but his efforts to conceal that are admirable. “Now you mention it, Will might have said something about that. You’re uh, staying with Molly for now, right? You were in Boston before?” I nod, wondering what Will has exactly said to Frankie about my move. “A coffee van?”

“Eventually,” I add nervously, “It’s a whole process. So, I’m actually just temping for now while I get things sorted.” I have no idea why I’ve told him that, why I still want to introduce myself based on my career, on my outward accomplishments. I’m almost surprised I haven't tried to find an old business card in my pocket or referred him to my LinkedIn profile where it neatly lists all my employable skills and experience.

 Daisy is highly skilled in project management, board engagement, data analysis  and most of all completely falling apart all of the time, but she makes a mean slide deck. Plus, guess what, she’s open to work!

“Oh, right, cool.”

“Frankie works for the fire department. He’s a firefighter pilot now,” Benny says. “Out here making me look bad.”

“Aw, I keep telling you don’t need my job to do that, Benny.”

Benny laughs heartily and throws a cushion at Frankie who catches it with ease and a raised eyebrow.

“Well, that’s definitely cooler than paperwork and admin.”

“Not really,” Frankie says, “I mean, it’s not really cool if you know what I mean.”

“Oh,” you say with a groan, “that might be the most dad joke I’ve heard.”

“It’s a classic though,” he replies lightly. “You got a soda, Benny?”

“Fridge. Wait, I just had a brilliant idea,” Benny suddenly interjects with a grin. “I mean, I’m a genius.”

“Oh yeah?” Frankie asks, one eyebrow quirking up. “About soda?”

“No, no, no. You need a roommate, right?”

“Yes?” Frankie replies slowly with the seasoned reluctance of someone who knows exactly what Benny’s brilliant ideas usually result in.

“Daze needs a room, you need a solid roommate, voila!” Benny makes a complicated hand gesture and smiles widely.

It seems too simple, too obvious but despite the terrible apartment earlier, my heart races as I wonder what if Benny’s onto something.

“Benny, I’m sure Daisy would -”

“How soon is it available?” I ask.

“Uh, immediately. My last roommate moved in with his boyfriend, which is great for him, but I’ve been struggling to find anyone suitable for it since then.”

“Suitable?” Immediately flashbacks of the weird Craigslist ads come back to me, please don’t say Frankie is going to say something odd. “What do you mean, suitable?” I really hope Frankie isn’t actually the weird shoe size guy from Craigslist.

“I have a kid who stays with me regularly. I need someone I can trust, someone safe to be around him, and someone who’s not going to be a …”

“Frankie wanted to mandate a background check,” Benny interrupts, before raising his hands at Frankie’s expression. “I said I got it! Perhaps, if you interrogated people less though ….”

“I’m not gonna apologise for prioritising my kid.”

“So, do I need a background check to apply then?”

“Nah,” Benny says, “you’re Tom’s sister, right Frankie?”

There’s a comforting weight to his words. The conviction in his voice, the simple answer that takes it for granted that maybe I’m not one of them, but I’m adjacent at least. It feels unfamiliar. I’ve never been Tom’s sister, not to Tom at least.

I feel as though I’m wearing someone else’s skin, another identity, and it’s alien but comforting. It’s an identity I never knew I could wear. One I never even knew was an option.

“You’re actually considering this then?” Frankie asks, eyebrows raised.

“Well, yeah. Benny’s heard all about my nightmare of an apartment hunt so far… unless, I mean. If you don’t want to then that’s fine.”

“Alright Tom’s sister,” Frankie begins with a soft smile.

“Daisy.”

“Daisy. “I’ll send you the info. let me know whether you’re still interested then. No pressure.” His voice is honey smooth, low and there’s something else.

His eyes.

They’re kind. Soulful even.

“I’m interested,” I say without thinking. “I’m definitely interested.”

Of course life isn’t as simple as just being interested in the apartment and one magically falling into my hands. Frankie texts me the information which is sadly towards the top end of my truly pitiful budget but includes a double room, furnishings and the apartment has a balcony which in itself is a big reason enough to say yes. I instantly conjure up a romantic image of me sipping from a steaming mug of coffee in the mornings, watching the sunrise.

It’s farcical. I hate the sunrise, or at least being up at that time. I’m not a morning person at the best of times. 

Frankie says there’s a beach view from the balcony though … if you squint, lean one arm and twist at a very precise angle. It’s something he has advised he doesn’t recommend without exceptional health insurance though so that’s definitely off the table for now. He mentioned it’s close enough that the landlord said it was a coastal view but it’s clearly not really.

Texting him feels so easy - there’s a lightness to the conversation, even as we talk about something as serious as becoming roommates. It’s why I’ve agreed to this - the next step and the one that is now filling me with dread.

The coffee shop we decided to meet at is halfway between his place and Molly’s. I haven’t been here before but I mentally take notes of the roast, of the general ambience. The brownies look amazing - the perfect combination of a fudgy middles and the solid crackly top that immediately calls to me.

It’s a neutral space though, one where we can finally make a decision of am I becoming Frankie’s roommate or not.

I think I want to.

I really can’t take another week of Craigslist -especially after watching that true crime documentary last night.

I twist the empty sugar packet into a knot, only looking up as the doorbell chimes. I see Frankie immediately.

He’s wearing a baseball cap, dark hair curling out from underneath and the Florida FD hoodie he’s wearing looks particularly well worn, comfortable. I can almost imagine how it smells.

No. No. This is a roommate negotiation.

“Hey,” Frankie says as I stand up to greet him. I immediately panic - is this a hug situation, that feels too familiar, but a handshake feels like an awkward callback to my corporate days. I have no idea what I’m supposed to do.

“Oh, you already ordered?” Frankie asks.

“Yeah, sorry, I got here a bit early. Overestimated the traffic. I haven’t been here long.” Frankie looks at my almost empty mug of coffee, cocking one eyebrow.

“No worries. Do you mind if I grab a drink though? Want another?”

“Oh no, I’m good, thanks.”

“Okay.”

He walks over to the counter and I sit down and watch him carefully. This is a test really, an opportunity to try and work out his personality further. Does he talk to the barista? Is he cold or insufferable? Is he rude? These are all qualities I should be able quickly establish in just a few moments. Mum always taught me to notice these things on a date, to tease out those basics in the early days. Not that it’s foolproof. Not always at least.

Frankie seems. pleasant though, laughing with the barista but there’s almost a shyness about him. I don’t get it. From how Benny described him - a pilot, a firefighter pilot no less, I would have expected him to be as extroverted as Benny.

Frankie’s a surprise though. There’s a quietness to him, a slow and careful evaluation in each glance, in how he takes in the cafe around us as he sits opposite me. He’s assessing everything too and it occurs to me that as much as I’ve set this meeting up to work out if I can live with him, he’s doing the exact same thing.

The people pleaser in me instantly calls to attention, ready to perform and be perfect, be liked. To succeed. Automatically I straighten my posture, try and remember my very best table manners. I prepare to perform.

“What’s your poison?” I ask, which is a phrase I never use and an immediate sign I need to shift out of performance mode.

“Just an Americano.”

“Oh.”

“You don’t approve?”

“no, I guess it’s fine. I mean, I would personally recommend a pour-over and filter coffee than a watered down espresso. Something like a V60 or a -”

“I see what Benny meant about the coffee truck.”

“I’m not judging!”

He raises an eyebrow.

“Okay, only judging a tiny bit. Mostly I’m rambling. I’m just - I’ve never got the watered down espresso thing.”

“It’s got two extra shots in if that helps,” he confides with a smirk, “I was on shift yesterday.”

“Oh, we could have arranged this for later -”

“It’s fine. The shift wasn’t too bad, even got a few hours sleep!” Frankie empties sugar into his coffee and smiles up at me.

“How did you end up in the FD then? I don’t – I don’t remember it from before.”

Frankie pauses, twisting the empty sugar packet in his hands. The silence holds just long enough I worry I need to change the conversation before he speaks. “A couple of years ago I needed a change. It’s been good, much better than commercial helicopter flights for rich people.”

“Making a difference?”

“Trying to.” A ghost passes over his eyes. I immediately realise the link - Tom. His death. Was that the trigger for Frankie joining the fire department?

“Anyway, the apartment -” Frankie starts, reaching for his phone, “I took some new photos this morning.”

His wallpaper is him with a small boy. His son. I take in the wide toothy smile on his photo, the bright shine in his eyes and the same features I can see in Frankie, accompanied by a head full of brown curls.

“Felix,” Frankie says, a soft smile on his face.

“He looks like you.”

“Poor kid.”

“No, I mean - uh, how old is he?”

“Four and a half. He stays with me on alternate weekends, if I’m off shift, and sometimes in the week if his mom’s working late or something. A lot of it depends on my work patterns but that’s the general rule of thumb.” He wrings his hands together and I wonder what the story is there.

I have limited experience with children to say the least.

I’ve reached that point where half of my friends are parents, sharing photo after photo on their social media and speaking a whole new language. In contrast, the rest of my friends appear still mentally stuck in their early twenties party mindset. I’ve never been sure where I fit in with that; I’m definitely not a huge partier, but that sort of responsibility and commitment has filled me with anxiety. Maybe it’s my choice in friendships, in love.

I try not to think about it too much, the friendships left to dust over, the dates I was too scared to go on. I threw myself into my work instead because it felt safer somehow. I defined myself by my career and made that the only metric that matter.  I poured all of myself into the corporate world for all those years and it turns out I was naive. So naive. I actually thought they cared about me.

It’s hilarious in hindsight. Now I’m in Florida without even a leaving card to commend the efforts I put in. I’m a barely remembered spectre in the place I once thought I was indispensable in. A shameful secret swept under the rug. A never repeated name.

I can’t go back to that world again.

“Are you okay?” Frankie asks, concern creasing his brow. Great, five minutes into talking about becoming roommates and he already clearly thinks I’m disturbed.

“I’m fine, sorry, must have drifted away for a second.”

“Happens to us all,” he says lightly. “So, is that a problem?” Frankie folds his arms and I get the clear sense that he’s annoyed, that I’ve missed an important cue somewhere.

“Is what a problem?” I ask.

“Felix staying at the apartment, because sorry but it’s a non-negotiable”

“No, not at all. No, I just … I drifted away, like I said.”

“Right.”

Great, this is the first apartment that feels reasonable, and Frankie seems like a nice person and I’m wrecking it. Somehow at best, I’m managing to come across as scatty and someone who doesn’t listen, and a child hater at worst.

I need to get out of Molly’s. I need to make Florida work for me.

“I do that sometimes,” I say quietly, “It doesn’t mean I’m not listening, or anything. It’s just … it’s just something that happens. I don’t have a problem at all with Felix or …. it’s your home, Frankie.”

He pauses. “If you take the room, it’s yours too though.”

“And I get why you’re being careful about who takes the room because of that. Look, I can’t promise I won’t secretly judge your coffee choices, or leave coffee grounds everywhere, or watch really terrible TV from time to time, but I …”

“You don’t have to explain. I get it.”

“You do?”

“I do.” Frankie smiles. “So, you’re still interested in the room then? You really wanna do this? I thought Benny might be putting you up to this and I won’t be offended if you don’t want to live with some random guy.”

“Benny keeps reminding me you’re not though, are you?”

Frankie shrugs and looks away, something flashing over his eyes briefly that feels a little haunted.

Since moving back to Florida, I’ve realised that, at least for Benny and Will, Tom’s death is still an open wound even now. It makes me feel worse sometimes because Will was so kind to me after the funeral, so keen to ensure I knew they’d be there if I needed them, that I could rely on them in Tom’s absence and I didn’t know how to say I’d never been able to rely on Tom. My brother spent his life a half-stranger to me and I feel like a fraud pretending we were real siblings.  In five and a half years, the Millers and my brother’s ex-wife have been more of a family to me than Tom ever was.

“It’s okay,” Frankie says, “I’m sure you’ve got far better roommate options.”

“I actually really don’t. One guy asked for foot pics, and these women kind of judged me because I wasn’t corporate enough anymore, so I don’t have a wealth of better options.”

Frankie frowns slightly.

“It’s a brutal market. And your place looks… nice and you seem like you wouldn’t ask for -”

“Some guy really asked for that?”

“I blocked him, it’s fine. It’s the internet, Frankie.”

“Sometimes I fucking hate that thing.”

“Yeah, but I like being able to shop in my pyjamas.”

Frankie laughs. “Okay, fair point. So, Daisy, do you want the room? ‘Cause if you do, it’s yours.”

My heart races. The room is mine? It’s not just that I’ll be escaping from feeling like a perennial thorn in Molly’s life, but it’s a beginning. Finally I have the chance to make something here, to be Daisy 2.0 and leave the corporate burnt out husk of my old self in the rearview mirror.

“You don’t have some weird neighbour who plays the bagpipes at 3am?”

“No, I don’t have one of those. It’s a normal building.”

“Good, just wanted to check. Okay then, yeah, I think I do. Want the room that is.”

“Great. I’ll get the agreement emailed over to you and we’ll go from there.”

“This is going to be good”

“Yeah, yeah it is.”

I think this might be the handshake part.

Tag List

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[polargemini]

So I have a plot for a fic where Wade believes Peter Parker is experimenting on people (like on the comic) and this is like part of the scene when Wade attempts to kill him.

————

Wade doesn’t go right away after he shoots Parker. He stays there, right in front of him, seeing how his face morphs into a new expression. One full of affliction.

“W—“ Parker tries to say something. But his chest moves erratically, hindering any attempt to speak, and the bloods flows out of the injury, staining his lab coat.

He doesn’t have a lot of time left. That much is evident. He’s minutes away from dying, painfully, feeling each second the excruciating agony of the bullet near his heart — until it stops beating.

The fact that Wade isn’t taking the time to prolong this, to make Parker feel the same torment of the people who suffered at his hands, it’s a small courtesy to Spidey. Even if he never discovers that Parker was taking advantage of him, using him to cover his wicked purposes, Wade hopes that making it fast will make it better.

Because he isn’t supposed to be killing anyone. Less Spidey’s boss, the guy Spidey idolizes.

Wade had promised himself he wouldn’t kill again. Not after he changed. He was finally able to be someone different, someone worthy of being near Spidey. But after he found out Parker was behind the experiments, it was impossible to stand still and believe that Parker deserved a second chance. He’s probably throwing out the window all the progress of these few months.

But he has to do this.

Parker’s death will be fast — as fast as the bleed out takes — but he’s not leaving earth without suffering first. That’s why Wade aimed purposely to a spot near Parker’s heart and not directly at it.

He looks how Parker puts his hands around his chest, like he could somehow stop the bleeding just with that. What an idiot. For someone who is famous for being a scientist, he must be aware anything he does will be useless. There’s no going back.

And yet.

“W—“ Parker tries again.

He should be on the floor by now, but for some reason he keeps wanting to talk. It really is bothering Wade.

"Why? Are asking why? Gonna keep pretending til’ the end? You aren't fooling me, Parker. You know exactly what you did,” Wade snaps and Parker flinches at his words. Like they hurt more than the wound on his body.

"Wa—" Peter insists.

Wade grunts. “Is it wait now? C’mon, Parker. Not gonna spent my time trying to guess your last words. And if you’re really asking me to wait, think again. I bet they asked the same, and you—“

Wade groans, and then he aims the gun at Parker’s head, to his forehead. There’s no reason not to pull the trigger. Even if Wade spares him the pain ending things now, there’s no way for Parker to survive. He will accomplish what he came to do.

Wade analyzes the face behind the muzzle, and to his surprise, Parker doesn’t have the face of a murderer. There’s no guilt, not even a hint of anger for being discovered. Or that shame and sobbing that Wade has presence sometimes, when the people he had killed realized it was time to face the consequences of their actions.

If something, there's an indescribable pain in Parker’s eyes. He looks hurt, and it’s a different hurting, not the one he must be feeling from the bullet. It’s like he can’t understand why Wade did that to him. And not for the whole experimenting-on-people-matter. Nor the bullet matter. Its seems deeper, which doesn’t make sense.

Spidey talks a lot about Parker’s job, but Wade never got to meet him. Not until now. This is the first time they’re looking face to face. How should he take that expression? It’s feels personal, but there’s no way for it to be.

“Whatever,” Wade says as he holsters the gun. He isn’t wasting more bullets on this asshole. He turns his back, and walks away. He isn’t giving Parker the satisfaction of having someone to hear his last words — if he even manages to talk at some point.

All the time on his way out of the building, he tries to shake out of his head the look on those brown eyes.

[softerwider]

Response: I need help. I have to think deeply and I do not know anybody who will help me. It is uncomfortable to think, and especially so when one must make oneself vulnerable to do so. But here it is: I'm trying to be vulnerable and explain myself clearly; writing my thoughts. I'm reposting this here because it gave me hope. It gave me pause. It spoke to me deeply. It is kinky--but it really carried a level of introspection about the nexus of kink and shame and power and disgust and pain and pleasure and arousal. Paperfeedee laid a finger on how these all share in a close connection to one another. Her post describes perfectly the insane network of social signifying practices and intuitions that I have, and that I always imagine other people have. Not everybody as I am. I mean to say that this post of hers was, is, and shall continue to be enlightening. I have been a part of the feedist kink scene since some time in the early 2000's. Scary to think of myself wandering all over the internet like that. But anyway, even so, all this never once thought that I have internalized fat phobia. And, just like is described in Paperfeedee's post, there are elements of my kink that I am now realizing that I might have to disentangle from that fearful place. I caught a glimpse of what that might be like. There's a complex story about why my kink is closely tied to fat phobia, and maybe I'll get to speak it someday, but I have always wanted to gain weight. I've always considered myself a feeder switch, but I've had some v e r y intense sex dreams about being fed and fattened--none have been about feeding others. And yet, for as much as I enjoy overeating, indulging in fattening foods, and the idea becoming fatter and fatter, I've never been able to do so. I've blamed my bad (very efficient) metabolism; I've blamed my inability to buy enormous quantities of fast food on the regular; I've blamed my partner for being unwilling to be my feeder. I never looked to myself. Each of these things (enjoy overeating; love fattening food; want to be fat) is also tied in significant ways to formative, stressful, and traumatic times in my life. I won't get into them now. Suffice it to say that each thing, for as desirable as it is, is also overloaded with shame, discomfort, and is incredibly connected to my libido. Here is the nitty-gritty. I do not want to demonize anybody, least of all myself, for having the particular flavor of fetish that they do. I think that shame, discomfort, and arbitrary over-significance play crucial roles in the way that I experience sexual pleasure. Fear and helplessness is singed onto the texture of my jouissance. But what I think is most salient about Paperfeedee's post here is that it makes the case for the way that identification in phobia is sustained by the fascination it makes of the object of its fear. Identification is a process whereby a relationship between more than one thing and itself is defined, sustained, and elaborated. So, when I see someone in the store buying groceries and I notice how fat they are, that they have a lot of junk food, and my mind goes racing as it is wont to do about what an unrepentant glutton this person must be (etc.), I have participated in the process of identification. Phobia is a kind of identification that places the thing that is desirable at as far a distance from the self as possible. This distant relationship is a relationship nonetheless. The "Subconscious Hint" that Paperfeedee mentions here indicates precisely the way that this distance is a relationship, and one of the most intimate kind. My most intense sex dreams (or maybe just all my sex dreams) are about getting fat. Yet I'm afraid of what people will think if I get fat; frustrated that I can't do it; worried for the consequences; don't have the right body for it; etc. SO I think that I have been afraid of getting fat. I have neglected to examine the ways that my interest in feedism and fat fetishism have sustained these fears. I have never looked at the way that these fears could sustain the fetish.

I think that I have gleaned something about how the 'subconscious hint' leads to the inversion of the phobic dynamic in my personal case. I PROMISE that I will be thinking about this post for a very long time to come. I'm sorry if you are already tired of hearing me go on and on about this shit, because I am going to be on this for...ever? But to come back to the main point of this thread: I need help. I would like to use what I've learned here in order to examine the way that I sabotage my weight gain. I may try to gain weight, I may just allow myself to identify with the fear-object in a way that is emancipatory and also erases the fear from the relation. I can let someone else be afraid of my fat ass! I can hear that shitty fat-phobic comment that someone makes about how much I am eating and feel butterflies or go find a room and jerk off about it. I have become that which I rejected. I have embraced the part of myself that I shunned. I do not want to use my fetish as an excuse to sustain fat phobia. The point is that I will need help in thinking about this. (And also maybe tell me I'm looking fatter.) Thank you, and have a good night.

back when I was still thin and had yet to discover the whole "really into making myself unrecognizably fat" fetish, I still had like, a preoccupation with fat people that usually alternated between being super judgemental and being terrified that I'd get fat, which was like, definitely some kind of subconscious hint at like, man, I'm going to find out something crazy in a couple of years, but anyway

I distinctly remember grocery shopping with one of my friends in college, and seeing a woman who was pretty fat buying like, little debbie cakes and whatnot and just like, could not stop talking about it to my friend, could not let go of it, could not stop harping on "how does a person let themselves get that fat? how can you be that fat and not be trying to lose weight? how are you not embarrassed to be that fat and be seen buying those?" Even my friend had to ask like, what is your damage with this random woman?

anyway, obviously that wasn't cool of me and I've clearly gone on my own ✨️journey✨️ with confronting internalized fatphobia since then, but like knowing now that I have fully become that woman in the grocery store is like, part self actualization, probably part karmic retribution, and all like, getting to live a peak horny fantasy for me now, and I'm so here for it

(especially since my favorite grocery store is right next door to this really big, really nice gym, so it's just me and all the Lululemon wearin ass pilates baddies at the grocery store together)

[mr-double-downer]

Like let’s take for example, people who yell at their kids in public. Uncomfortable for everyone involved and often terrible scarring for the child in general. If you tell someone the way they’re treating their kid is terrible, you will probably get yelled at for trying to tell them how to raise said kid. Most people will tell you it’s not your place to even say such a thing, but then why is it okay for a parent to do this in the first place? Are you supposed to put up with personal discomfort because it’s not “rocking the boat?” is saying something more or less selfish then someone screaming at a small child who probably doesn’t know any better in public? What gives them the right to do it all?

Like we need to bring the kind of shaming that doesn’t involve someone whipping out a phone to film a traumatic event for likes on YouTube, but that entirely relies on people having the moral fiber to do the right thing even when it’s hard. Like change really does start with you saying “this isn’t okay.”

Seriously am I supposed to be okay with someone yelling at their kid while I’m at work, and don’t even have the ability to walk away because I’m in the middle of ringing them up? That shouldn’t be so normalized in the first place, and yet I’m expected to just say nothing at all, because it’s not my place to do so even though it’s my place of employment. Like how is that fair to me, let alone the poor kid who’s probably going to have to put up with worse when they get home.

[qqueenofhades]

I bought your 'Empire' the other day (which I am excited about; I haven't started it yet), but somehow completely missed that you had written historical fiction, and about the Plantagenets, my favourite historical dynasty, so I'll be jumping on that.

I was wondering if you had recommendations for historical fiction set during the Plantagenet reign? I've tried Sharon Kay Penman and unfortunately didn't get on with her writing, which is a shame as I've heard good things about her series. I know Philippa Gregory has several novels set during that time period, but her books seem to be verging on bodice rippers, which isn't what I'm looking for. Was just curious if you had any suggestions for well-researched fiction set during the Plantagenet reign.

This ask has been sitting in my inbox for several days (my apologies) largely because I was trying to think of a more helpful answer for you. Medieval historical fiction is VERY hit and miss for me, not least because it is often written by people who, uh, are not historians and thus have Certain Ideas (TM) about what the medieval period is like. Or they want to use various aesthetics, or they want to make some (usually questionable) point about how women were treated in the past, or they just go whole-hog on total nonsense. As an example of all of these things at once, let us all stare in horror at this recently-released book description together:

(The book is called the Stone Witch of Florence, by the way. I took one look at this and ran screaming. WHY.)

A stone witch?? So she channels the power of gemstones like a modern-day Instagram healing crystals influencer??? BUT ZOMGZ WITCHCRAFT. In the middle of the Black Death. "Unorthodox cures" you say. But they also need holy relics for protection, and I totally trust the author to understand about medieval hagiography/cult of the saints. Totally. We definitely won't get some half-baked comparison between Sekrit Women Magical Gems Which Really Work and Dark Ages Church Superstition Holy Relics Which Are A Fraud, or.... something??? And our nobly mistreated protagonist will super definitely be a real physician if she gets these and never ever accused of witchcraft (which LET US ALL SAY IT TOGETHER IS AN EARLY MODERN THING!!!!) Because medieval medicine was just a bunch of gemstone vibes anyway! Makes total sense!

...my head hurts.

Anyway, while not all examples are this egregious, the point is: I love historical fiction, but I almost always can't read it when it's set in the medieval era. I read Sharon Kay Penman a while ago and enjoyed her stuff at the time, though I have assorted gripes with it on a stylistic/historical level. While Philippa Gregory does have real academic credentials, she likewise has gone totally down the bodice-ripper alternate-history crackpot theory Secret Women Magic version of things, which is... fine if that's your jam, but just like you, it is not mine. I thus have to read fiction which is set in other periods or which I know less about or where at least I am more capable of turning off my brain and accepting things for the sake of the story. So as you see, I unfortunately don't have many useful suggestions for you in this field, since the kind of medieval historical fiction that I like to recommend is, say, The Name of the Rose. Which is terrific and written for someone of a professional medievalist's level of knowledge, but is not exactly everyone's cup of tea when they just want something fun and easy to understand.

I am, of course, happy to give other book recommendations if you'd like to broaden your request, and I'll do my best to think -- but yes! As I said, I wish I could be more helpful here. I shall persist.

(Also, of course: thanks for buying EMPIRE! I do hope you enjoy.)

[neyafromfrance95]

i know i have talked about this already, but there is not much else to talk about at this point and i still can't get over how much ick s2's finale gives me when it comes to galadriel's storyline.

everyone except for sauron invalidated galadriel's trauma and treated her like a burden in s1, then they shamed and humiliated her in s2. and it all could have had a good narrative reason... if it hadn't led to a really sexist conclusion.

the whole narrative of the good guy who slut-shamed her "fixing" her, resulting in her putting down the sword and putting on the dress instead? yikes...

i love galadriel's characterization in trop. she is a perfect blend of feminine + masculine. saying this could get me crucified but i think she is much more queer-coded than sauron is; in a way that i can see her being nonbinary-coded. she is gender-nonconforming! she is abrasive and proud and a leader!

and this makes the insinuation of that ending all the more painful - from being this authentic, complex character to being... a tradwife to be.

she did not actually turn into a tradwife ofc. now that would be a real blasphemy against tolkien, lol. as galadriel was always a leader first and foremost, never defined as a wife/mother. but narratively, it felt like that was what happened.

some people will say that it's her transformation, that she must learn not to rely on her sword, yada yada. and sure, it can be a character development. BUT! in what direction? they have to be very careful with this direction if they don't want it to come off as a regressive and bio-essentialist "embrace your inner divine feminine, woman" conservative propaganda. it can be done if they lean into "the witch galadriel" arc.

and man, it's somewhat a similar case to killing eve. one reviewer of ke's finale said that women live their lives told to sit still, be accommodating, be self-sacrificial, and there comes a point in their lives where they have to decide if they are going to conform to all that even if it's inauthentic to who they are. villanelle recognized eve's darkness (which really was her authentic self) and wanted to nourish it. so the framing of eve "surviving" villanelle and being cleansed of her "darkness" felt wrong to many.

in many ways, that's how trop s2 finale felt to me. it's so interesting how haladriel's dynamic turned out subtextually. sauron saw galadriel's trauma, her darkness and yet he alone saw galadriel's greatness in her authenticity, and offered her authority - something that all others stripped her off of. yes, he stabbed her (and villanelle shot eve, btw), but told her that he would make her into an overlord of the universe at the same time, lmao.

worst of all, it doesn't make sense legendarium wise - galadriel is going to continue being a leader; yeah, she is not going to be as abrasive, but she will grow into a stone cold bitch (affectionate) instead; she is going to have a push-pull dynamic with sauron till he evaporates. so what was all that supposed to mean? i do believe they catered to the whiny "make galadriel tradwife again" crowd, and maybe inserted a mormon propaganda where it's the most misogynistic in its' message.

anyways, i still have my fingers crossed that they redeem the story direction in s3 by dismissing the undertones of s2 finale. or else it would really leave a sour taste in my mouth.

[skyrim-forever]

WIP Wednesday

Hey y'all it's another Wednesday <3 I'm scheduling this as I gotta be at the airport tomorrow morning. Probably won't be until the evening but I'm gonna carve out time to see the wips as I love seeing what everyone is doing <3 Thank you @firefly-factory for the tag this morning 🥰

Tagging: @theoneandonlysemla @dirty-bosmer @lucien-lachance @umbracirrus @changelingsandothernonsense

@bougainvillea-and-saltwater @pocket-vvardvark @hircines-hunter @captain-of-silvenar @ladytanithia

I'm currently writing a fic called I'm only happy when I'm with you because it has Theodora/Ondolemar confessing their feelings but was the second fic I wrote for them so, they deserve better! Setting is Windhelm just after the Civil War you ever be so down bad you go to Windhelm to tell a woman you love her Suggestive part so I'll stick it under the cut

It’s not lost on Ondolemar how bizarre it is to do this here. The business of mixing work and pleasure was becoming the norm for him but, confessing his feeling inside the Temple of Talos was a newer, more deranged level of odd. Though, Theodora had tried to convince him to have a liaison inside the shrine in Markarth, citing that “No one will be there, and if they are, you get to do your civic duty.” Her incredibly sound logic was not enough to sway him into leaving the comforts of the Keep, but perhaps now, she may get what she wanted. If he ignored the obvious massive statue, the lowlight of scones could be considered romantic. For now, there was nowhere else they could be alone. Praying that things go well, he can tell her somewhere better, multiple places far mor suitable of such words.

The woman who plagues his dreams walks around, inspecting the different parts of the. simple hall. Poking her head into what was the priest’s quarters, she makes a remark. 

“Oh there’s even a bed here.” She gazes lowly at him. “How awfully convenient for us.” Walking closer, she pulls on his robes. The feeling distracts him yet again.

“Theodora, in a temple? In such a holy place? Have you no shame?” 

“You” there’s an emphasis on the word “of all people, do not get to say that. Need I remind you of your position, Thalmor Justiciar Ondolemar?” It would be  fun to give in now. His eyes floating between the hungry look in hers and her lips, imaging how good they would feel on his after months. It would be very fun to have their uniforms strewn across the temple floor, but he did not come all this way for merely fun. Regaining will, he speaks. 

“As much as I desire you right now, I have something I need to tell you first.” The look in her eyes upsets him, face slightly falling and he is quick to reassure her. “Do not fret, nothing is wrong, quite the opposite rather.”

The Thalmor had done his groveling. Drunken guilt-ridden prayers and pleads going unanswered as he was forced to contend with the gravity of the situation; he did in fact love her and the acceptability of his feelings mattered not. Grand stories always positioned love on the winning side, the side of the virtuous, how could it be wrong when the act of doing so came so effortlessly? The choice to voluntarily come all the way to Windhelm was an easy one, despite the fact this mission did not demand someone of his rank and the weather was atrocious. She would be there, that had been enough to haul himself across the province. Once accepted in himself, it would not rest until spoken. She needed to know, how desperate he was to know if she felt the same and wondered if their last discussion had been indicative that she did. Had her pain surrounding love been the start of a confession? “You told me once you do not do love. The loss of your mother, and your father’s subsequent grief left you fearful of it. I understand that, you rightly feel afraid, I see why you don’t do love,” there are small droplets forming in the corner of her eyes. Wiping them away, he continues “but I do.” Her face softens as she grasps his hand. “I have made a myriad of excuses to convince myself I do not feel what I do. It is embarrassing the lengths I went to in an effort to convince myself I felt nothing for you, that your laughter did not brighten my day, that your thoughts were not compelling, that someone I was taught to hate could never be my greatest joy. Yet, there is only one rational.” The words are caught in his throat as he turns away, needing a moment to collect himself. The fear of finally verbalizing these thoughts is eclipsed by the worry that all of this is one side. He is alone in this insanity. Looking back at her, he finds the courage, wide-eyed and lips slightly curling up. “I love you, Theodora.”

“You do?” 

“I do.” He sighs slightly, unable to meet her gaze in case of rejection. 

Logically, it would be understandable. Opposing sides, duties to their respective nations, they were very much in opposition. She was their prophesied Dragonborn, now a war hero as much as she hadn’t yearned to be. All this in addition to being the most beautiful woman in all of Tamriel. She could do far better than him, far better than an invader of her homeland but he wanted her. Selfishly wanted her even if all he could promise was love. 

“Are you certain you know what you are saying?”

“I’ve never been more so, I love you.” He reaches for her other hand, clutching them both tightly to warm them. “I know I have nothing to offer you. I cannot make you any promises about the future, I cannot be with you openly, I cannot change some of the things I have done” a small concession to remedy the things he doesn’t have the strength to speak about. In time, in time. “You deserve much better, I completely understand if you do not-” The sentence ends midway, cut off as she pulls his robes, bringing their lips together.

[coolingrosa]

Need some help cuz im writing something and idk how to write Geno. Could u tell me how you write him or some tips and how he is diff from classic??? I tried writing him and he just acts like some random dude

Also hot take: Geno x Dream (btw what would be a good ship name for them)

Hey! Geno as a character is a lot more bitter and manipulative than Sans. He’s confident only because he has no reason for being shy and embarrassed when he’s lost so much hope and respect for himself. He knows he’s a “bad person”, and yet still manipulates people anyways b/c he sees no redemption for himself (pulled from his source.)

How I write the guy: I usually write Geno in ships or post save screen, when he got his happy ending and he’s on the surface. In those scenarios, I write GENO to be a lot quieter than Sans and kinda just observing everything. He doesn’t really give his input on a lot because he subconsciously doesn’t believe he’s allowed to after what he’s done (this only extends to his FAMILY. I see him the absolute opposite in relationships. Slightly emotionally abusive in those, but I purposefully pair him with characters who are equally toxic that they end up just balancing each other out. Nightmare being an example.) With strangers, I see him as closed off and very fake. Because he’s so observant, he will clock you a lot quicker than Classic, and will only step in if you interfere with his happy ending. He’s fiercely protective and will lose his goddamn MIND if one of his friends/ family gets hurt (this includes Frisk EXTRA bc he does NOT want them to ever reset). He’s kinda like Error but quiet and reserved, only being kind and soft with those he cares for and then dry and blunt to everyone else. He’s passive towards children of course, but if you’re an adult, he will full on ignore you with a blank face and hide behind Papyrus while on his phone or shove Frisk in front of him to do the talking. Because of this, he DOES tend to cling in his own way. Not because he doesn’t wanna be alone or he’s scared of losing someone, but because he does not want to deal with social situations on his own. He will not leave the house or his lab to go to the store unless he has someone that will walk with him.

When he IS forced into a position where he has to talk, he’s dry and keeps up the fakest smile ever. His laugh is literally robotic and he’s a master at making anyone around him uncomfortable enough to leave the convo on their own with how closed off he is. He, again, has no shame and will go on his phone while talking to you with one worded responses. He’s not a fun guy to try to talk to, and he doesn’t have many friends outside of his family and the monsters he knew prior bc of this. Goodluck even trying to FLIRT with him. He will never be interested. You’d have to be in the WORK.

However, in Roseverse, he doesn’t get his happy ending, so I’ll try to pull from that experience. In RoseVerse, Geno was forced into the God of Limbo role after Reaper was desperate to keep him from dying when he attempted to leave the save screen, so he’s a lot more bitter and cruel to everyone, even those he cares for. The only expeditions are Error and Fresh since Fate and Destiny attempt to shove them into a brotherly dynamic, and he pities the two bc all three are very uncomfortable with this situation. He’s kind to Error and patient with Error, but even then, he’s pretty quiet and isn’t one to smile. I think he’d act like this in the Save Screen too, minus with his interactions with Frisk where he does act kindly to them (both to manipulate them, but also bc he does have a soft spot for them)

Geno with a child or in a family dynamic would be a lot softer. In BlackCoffeeVerse, Geno and Nightmare DO have a child named Haze who he’s very gentle with. GENO is rude and blunt towards Nightmare (they love each other I swear nightmare just needs someone to put him in his place) but very soft and sweet to his child. I think any child that comes from him or is under his care would be the expecting to his rudeness and manipulative tendencies. He’d see them as all the remaining good in him, and would be determined to protect them and shield them from everything- including his own cruelty.

I’ve seen a bit of GENO and Dream flying around and I think it has so much potential! I think a good ship name for them would be Ichor, which is the golden blood of gods!

[ruporas]

invisible scars (referenced previous talk here)

[ID: A colourless, digital Trigun comic of Vash and Wolfwood talking about Wolfwood's scars. They're both laying in bed and topless. Vash lays on top of Wolfwood, playing with the rosary around his neck. Then, Vash kisses a spot on Wolfwood's chest. Wolfwood asks, "What are you doing?" Vash smiles sadly, "You got shot here. In the last town we visited. You didn't even bother moving."

Vash props himself up over Wolfwood, who frowns slightly. Wolfwood is quiet for a moment before he says, "You remember that, huh?" Vash grabs Wolfwood's left wrist and brings it to his face. "And here." He kisses another spot there. "When you helped free the hostages from that robber..." Wolfwood dismissively says, looking away, "Was a lucky shot." Vash huffs, “Don’t brag. Jeez.”

Half of Wolfwood's expression is shown, eyes returning to Vash who is now sitting up, continuing to say, "And..." Vash goes on and kiss Wolfwood's right palm. "You got cut here, even though that girl was aiming at me." A moment from the past flashes, of Wolfwood grabbing a knife aimed at Vash, his hand bleeding.

At present, Vash moves down and puts another kiss on Wolfwood's right shoulder. "And here, from watching my back." Another memory flashes of Wolfwood and Vash back to back. Vash looks back as Wolfwood grins while holding Punisher, bleeding from multiple gunshots in his shoulder.

"And," Vash combs up Wolfwood's hair to reveal his forehead, "Here." A final memory shows Wolfwood with a regeneration vial in his mouth while getting shot on his temple. The next panel is framed in blood with Vash at the center, eyes wide and stunned in horror. The next panel is a closed up shot of Wolfwood's eye, locked on Vash's face.

Back to present, Vash’s head is bowed down as Wolfwood raises a hand to his nape and says, “Spikey.”

Wolfwood looks serious and frowns as he says, "We talked about this. Those were my decisions. They're not there anymore. Forget about them." Vash looks very sad before he smiles ruefully and says, "I still see them. All the time." He leans down so they touch foreheads. Wolfwood’s sorrowful expression can be seen as Vash says, "You protect so much. I could never forget what you've done to me. And many others..."

In the last image, they're drawn more cartoonishly. Wolfwood sweats and asks, "You don't actually remember every wound, right?" Vash points at a spot on his chest. "Kuroneko left a scratch here 7 times." Wolfwood, startled, says, "Why the hell are you keeping count—" End ID]

Credits for ID here and here

[98chao]

truly i love all of you and i'm so grateful for all the support i get on my vanilla milkshake posts here because i've just seen the way people talk about vanilla milkshake and mysticao on twitter and its genuinely taken 50 years off my life. now i've been reminded as to why i should never join the crk fandom on twitter

[eggcats]

I know it's common for, in radiostatic fics that get rid of Valentino, to get rid of the pornography empire they have, and I GET why, but in my own personal opinion I don't think it's always the best move

In my Housewife Vox AU, I've kept that part of the media empire Vox owns and simply changed ownership of being the overlord in charge of that to be Angel Dust (owned by Alastor) - (in the original deal, Val and Vox's agreement was a lot more equal, but to exert control, prevent a power grab, and make sure Angel can't do anything to hurt Vox or his empire, Alastor took Angel's soul)

(I also hate Val, so I did have him killed in the 80/90s and Angel taking over THEN, but even still, in my AU, Vox did decide to partner with Valentino to add control over hell's pornography into his empire because it'd be foolish not to, considering the power that would add)

Because, like, IMO the issue with that section of visual media was because of HOW Valentino was doing it (abusing his staff, using his venom to coerce people into it, creating the date rape drugs, etc) - but if you take that part out, it makes more sense for a media mogul who owns as much of the media and technology in the Pride Ring he can TO also have a monopoly on the pornography available - it's not like simply not owning it would mean it doesn't exist, so you might as well be the one to do it, do it right, and get the money from it, yeah?

I do think, though, that once Angel took over, he and Vox DID go over all of Val's previous contracts to make sure their employees still wanted the job they had signed their souls over for - the ones who didn't want to do pornography anymore were simply moved to other jobs; and Angel doesn't have issues signing new people on (even/especially without the drugging) because the contracts are relatively fair and the staff treatment at the studio is fine, so for many freshly fallen it's a good way to not be begging on the streets and to have a steady income

ALSO, because Alastor would go ballistic if any of Angel's employees hit on Vox or tried to get him to sleep with them, ALASTOR is usually the one visiting Angel at the studio when the need arises (he's not particularly bothered by sex work, he just has no interest in partaking in any part of it and generally doesn't want to think about it)

Alastor is aware of himself enough to know that if Vox came home smelling like the sinners and sex of the studio, he wouldn't be able to control the rampage he'd go on and would unintentionally clear out half of Angel's employees - which would be bad for Vox

Angel agrees, because no matter HOW many times he warns his employees not to, some will inevitably still hit on Alastor - who just ignores it and doesn't see it as anything relevant (so Vox never finds out to be the one murdering them) - but if Alastor saw/heard/smelled even a hint of them flirting with Vox it'd be a bloodbath worse than when he killed Val

Also, ironically, Angel can flirt with them both with no repercussions because somehow neither of them see him as a threat, and other than very close to his rut, Alastor considers Angel's scent on Vox not something to be alarmed about - like he's fine with Rosie and Niffty's scents as well

(Angel will never admit even under threat of death, but if Alastor and Vox ever did seriously take up his offer to be their third in the bedroom he's jumping at the chance - but he knows the only reason he's alive is because they think it's a joke. It's not. He knows it'll almost definitely never happen, but if the offer ever comes up, he's saying yes, immediately, lol).

[fisherrprince]

oh so alisaie’s exaggerated bully behavior is 80% fanon. saying this she casually picks up a large rock

[sunshine-in-a-bottle]

Do you have any headcanons that are true for most/all of your fanworks even if it’s not always noticeable?

fuck. I have to remember my own writing now one second.

Dream is always a sex-positive ace. He isn't sexually attracted to other people but he likes sex and he likes people. Most of the time.

Sam always has a little crush on Dream as a kid because Dream was So Cool and Strong.

I feel like I rant about this way too much but. Dream has adhd, Sam has OCD/OCPD, and Punz has autism. They Are The Neurodivergent Triangle. This Is Always Correct.

Wilbur always has a crush/is way too attached to Michael McChill in any timeline they meet, and McChill simply has to live with this.

DreamXD is a Dream apologist. Every Time.

If Punz is a hybrid, they don't openly show it or draw attention to themselves. They're not keeping it a secret so much as they're really used to people being judgemental bastards in their line of work.

Lasercorn (Maricraft) was the original Blood God/person to have a covenant with the Blood God, and is one of the voices in Techno's chat. He is always the first person to call for violence.

Full-Memory Ranboo is always on Dream's side and is like. Thumbs up. Also when Tubbo finds out they get a divorce, there's no saving that trainwreck of a revelation.

In the minecraft universe, being poly is the norm, and monogamy is typically considered a lot less common. When you live in a world where you can hop server to server with ease, where you don't die of old age and breeding isn't Required for new players to spawn (sometimes servers just decide to spawn some little guys) there was never any pressure for monogamy. People still get married, and communication is still important, but no ones going to bat an eye to find out you're dating a lot of people or in a large relationship.

Puppycat Sam

[hella1975]

all hate to tiktok for taking 'having a space to more openly and actively talk about different cultures' to mean 'cultures are NOT to be shared and we must be vigilantly defensive of our cultures for fear of appropriation, a word that can be applied to any multicultural interaction'. like of course cultural appropriation is a very real problem but ive seen with the access to global multicultural conversation that tiktok provides it's made people TERRIFIED to even interact with cultures other than their own for fear of 'doing it wrong'. like at some point you have to acknowledge that in the real world of the great outdoors, the majority of people are eager to SHARE their cultures. yes there are ignorant questions and biases but also... how do you think those things get unlearnt? i dont understand how deciding that multiculturalism is an elephant in the room instead of a normal thing that should just be talked about and lived with is supposed to benefit anyone? and kids on tiktok are CONVINCED that it's a time bomb of a conversation to have and therefore must be avoided at all costs but like. people generally LOVE their home and their culture and are PROUD of it and want to share it. how have we made it so that showing genuine interest and a desire to understand something so integral to a person's identity is now feared and borderline demonised?