#and i accepted it so it's easier to enjoy

[tifa-simp]

Interesting.

I always felt like SOLDIER Cloud is closer to Sephiroth than Zack. But that's because I associate SOLDIER Cloud with pre Nibelheim Seph more than post Nibelheim Seph. However, with First Soldier and Crisis Core context, I think it's safe to say sane Seph actually torments himself a lot by his sins. Sephiroth called himself all kinds of name to desensitize himself from all the killing, he tried to convince himself that this was his true self, while knowing damn well that it's not. Sane Seph was a liar, and he tricked himself for so long that when Nibelheim happened, he broke. His belief, his life, his purpose, all lies, all fake, nothing is true anymore. And he knew. Deep down, he's always aware of the truth. But that's why he clung even harder on the lie, to protect himself. That's why the Nibelheim massacre is such a turning point for Seph. He didn't discover the truth, he finally learned to accept it.

While Zack is different. If I have to make a compare, he's like Gon from Hunter x Hunter. He's not good, he's pure. He decides what to believe and does whatever benefits his belief. Monster, Wutaian, Soldiers, and Turks are all the same. They're "the other side", as in "me and they". If you're on my side, I'll ride or die for you. If you're on the opposite side, you're enemy. All left is to fill the blank.

If you're on -Shinra side-, I'll ride or die for you. If not, die.

If you're on -honnor side- (the definition based on Zack ofc), you can live. If not, die.

If you're on -Cloud's side-, you can live. If not, die.

Zack has the authority over his own belief. There's a checklist in Zack's moral compas, and anything closer to his criteria will take the place, in which, life is not the priority. Don't take this the wrong way, but Cloud's life isn't what is important. It's Zack's affection for him. The reason Zack tried so hard to save Cloud cos he has become the next closest thing that fits Zack's criteria, his cause to die for. Aerith is also in the same category cos Zack was trying to go back to her, too. Now the first condition is fulfilled, the second part becomes much easier: the enemy to kill.

You can see this trait in SOLDIER Cloud's behavior. Let's take Tifa as the cause and watch:

Bombing reactor is something Tifa can't do? I'll do it.

Johnny is someone bringing trouble to Tifa? Die.

The troopers got in the way of Tifa's business? Die.

Scarlet and her men are putting Tifa in danger? Die. (You can argue that Seph possessed him in Gongaga, but I'm sure he wouldn't have any problem killing them on his own volition.)

Later in the temple, his goal changes to the black material, and the pattern remains. Tifa has openly expressed her uneasiness with this many times and has to physically restrain him on multiple occasions. But the thing is, SOLDIER Cloud doesn't enjoy killing. He does it out of necessity. This is a trait that neither belongs to sane nor insane Seph. Sane Seph kills against his will and insane Seph kills for his own enjoyment. Killing isn't a moral challenge to Cloud, it's just a mean to an end.

And I say THIS is the biggest trait of Zack in SOLDIER Cloud. The trait of a killer.

Zack Fair has a really fascinating relationship with killing where a lot of the rest of the cast doesn't. He fights people as well as monsters and gradually stops being able to differentiate the two. He helps clear out beasties and ghoulies but he also intros the game with a massive attack on a foreign nation just to shore up corporate interests and for a good chunk of the game places those two activities in the same spot in his mind. One of his side projects at work is quashing the last remnants of rebellion in said occupied country and rooting out the spies in their resistance, at which point he hands them over to his bosses to be interrogated and presumably tortured. But if he comes face to face with the same people in a combat scenario, he won't kill them, because he views their desire to see themselves free as an honorable trait. Then he turns around and attacks hordes of people who defected Shinra. He uses the blunt side of his sword, not to spare lives, but because he doesn't want to damage the sharp edge.

Wutai forces and Genesis clones have a different categorization to him, something he can mentally label as "other". But after Nibelhiem, your primary enemy type becomes other Shinra soldiers. Just after Zack has had his realizations that the monsters he was wiping out share a haunting amount of basic building blocks with his coworkers. And with himself.

Actually, let's pause. Zack is the only character we see have any sort of acceptance of being Jenova-ed. Every other character is unwilling and usually not even a conscious being yet, but Zack A) knows what is being done to him, and B) openly states he wants those monstrous traits for himself. "Those wings / I want them too." Up to this point, every other character has equated being Jenova-ed to being baser, to being subhuman, but Zack at the very beginning tried to convince Angeal that it meant freedom. Power to do what you want.

Zack Fair willingly and with open arms embraced being made less than human because he thought it would give him the strength to break out of captivity.

So he busts out, and the first thing he's greeted with it a horde of enemies that he knows are human, has worked and talked with, and are in fact the same shape and type of person as Cloud. Just a couple cutscenes ago, these were his coworkers.

The easiest way to get through them is to set them on fire and blow up the munitions they're carrying on their person.

(It's such a beautiful demystifying of the elemental system. I love it.)

Oh also, you're on a time limit, so you gotta kill all these guys fast, because they're trying to go for the weak spot, Cloud, who can't fight and is getting dragged away.

After that, the next thing Zack does is find a gun and start taking long ranged killshots.

There's a tangible feeling of a lesson being learned.

Zack is (I think?) the only SOLDIER we ever see use a gun. It's worth noting that even the most fallen of SOLDIERs stick to their flashy blades and their weird swordfights. Other characters even comment how bizarre it is, but ffvii also runs on that fantasy world logic where if you just Get Good enough, swords are just as good as guns if not better. Guns are the lower, more primitive weapon, fit for grunts and hitmen but not elite fighters.

(I could also go into detail on how some of the SOLDIERS weapon are sold as bespoke merch in world, and basically another tool in the toolbox of how to sell these flesh and blood men as mythologized products. But we don't have time to unpack all of that.)

For Zack, we know that his sword is even a symbol of honorable combat and a legacy of trying to do the right thing. Zack picking up a gun is basically debasing himself to being just another man in the field. And it's a sniper rifle. The weapon guaranteed to get him as little contact with his opponent as possible and does not even give them a chance to fight back. But it's whatever gets the job done.

Zack starts the game as someone who kills people, but it's hand-waved aside the same way it is for most everyone else, only for him to bite that awareness apple like five minutes before it becomes absolutely vital he survive at all costs. Zack becomes aware that he's on a slippery slope and due to circumstances has to start sprinting. Over the course of the game, we watch as Zack Fair goes from being someone who kills people to a killer.

[tywrites]

heavy | mateo manta

pairing: mateo manta x gn!reader

word count: 1,360 (not proof-read)

warnings: reader is implied to have depression

a/n: okay so this is really bad since i haven't written in quite a long time but!! i love him and i Needed to write something abt him. i desperately need more mateo fics lmao. hope you enjoy <33

-----

You rolled over in your bed, the usually comforting plush of your mattress feeling awfully cold today. You sighed, closing your eyes and quietly hoping to just fall back to sleep. Things had been… difficult recently. Losing your job had definitely taken its toll on you – on your mental health in particular. Even when working from home, you still had to make the time to leave every so often and interact with the real world. But with everything that had happened recently with the dateviators, you hadn’t been able to leave at all.

Of course, you still had the objects. And they were great company! Most of them anyway. But it didn’t stop you from feeling a bit… alone sometimes. You sighed softly, finally accepting the fact that sleep wasn’t coming. You looked over to your end table at the dateviators. You had a lot to do. It was really overwhelming, honestly. You hadn’t even met all of the objects in the house yet, let alone made any progress towards realising any. You had made a lot of close friends through them though. And even one very special, different relationship…

Even just thinking of Mateo brought a slight smile to your face, cheering up your bleak mood ever so slightly. If you’d told yourself a few weeks ago that you’d soon be dating your blanket… well, considering your track record with love, it wouldn’t be all that surprising.

You bit your lip, reaching over to the dateviators. You popped them on, blinking at the warm, pink hue that enveloped your vision. You didn’t think you’d ever get used to this. In a second, Betty had materialised in front of you, perched on the edge of the bed – or uh, on the edge of herself. She gave you a soft smile.

“How’re you feeling today, gorgeous?”

You made a face. “Well for starters, I don’t feel very gorgeous,” you reply groggily, sitting up as you wiped a hand over your tired face.

She chuckled. “Sweetie, you’re always gorgeous to me. But what’s got you so down? You barely slept last night, or the night before… should I be offended?” She was clearly joking, but there was a definite tone of concern in her voice.

“Nah, it’s not you, it’s me,” you admit, looking down at the sheets. “I just… I don’t know. I feel so… heavy? I’m so tired, all the time. Which makes no sense, let’s be real, I’m doing nothing all day but..” You trail off, unsure of how to word it. “I just can’t sleep though. I can’t relax. I feel so tense all the time and I don’t see a way out of it. Easier to just lay in bed, I guess,”

She looks at you, worry in her eyes. “Is there anything I can do?” she asked. You try your best to force a smile.

“Not really. I think it’s just… something I have to deal with on my own,”

She frowned. “Honey, I don’t think-”

“I’ll see you tonight, Betty. Thanks for the talk,” you said quickly, standing up and heading to the bathroom, leaving Betty sitting on the bed, her face twisted in concern.

-------------

You’d spent most of the day dodging the other objects. Mateo especially. You just couldn’t bring yourself to talk to anyone right now. You left the dateviators on the table next to you, doom scrolling on your phone until the socially acceptable time to hit the hay. You were planning to go straight to bed, not call on anyone with the dateviators. The idea of bothering any of them, of forcing them to sit and listen to your silly problems was excruciating. But as you settled down into bed, trying in vain to close your eyes and let sleep come for you, there was only one thing on your mind.

You knew how upset Mateo would be if he knew you were avoiding him, especially if he knew it was because you weren’t feeling the greatest. Helping others is what drove him, it was the one thing he took pride in the most. He’d never let you wallow in your own self pity. You glanced at the glasses on your bedside table and sighed in defeat. You slid them on slowly.

You hadn’t even had them on for a few seconds before Mateo was materialising. You didn’t expect him to be right here, waiting for you. He was usually in the living room, caring for the inanimals. That man never took a break. When you saw the worried expression on his sweet face, you wanted to break down there and then.

“Ah mi vida, finally!” He said, sitting down onto the edge of the bed. “I’ve been waiting for you all day,”

You flushed in embarrassment. So he’d been watching your pathetic display of self-loathing, huh? “Sorry, Mateo… I’ve just been, um, tired,” you said, avoiding his eyes. If there was anything in this world that could make you immediately spill all your darkest secrets, it was Mateo’s big, brown eyes.

“I’ve noticed… my love, I’m worried about you. Betty came to me earlier and told me you haven’t been sleeping. Is that true?” He asked tactfully.

“Betty said that?” Betrayal, you thought.

“She was worried. Honestly, a lot of us have been worried. You haven’t been acting like yourself for a while now. If there’s anything I can do, anything at all, you know you just have to ask, right? I would do anything for you,” he said, a small blush rising to his cheeks. “I mean, I’d hope you’d know that…”

You finally look at him, truly seeing the concern on his features. His bedhead was especially messy today, as though he’d been running his hand through it every five seconds. His usual easy smile was replaced with a small frown and you realised something. In that moment, you would do anything to see that smile again. As you were preoccupied with gazing into his eyes, Mateo took this opportunity to place his hand over yours. His touch was feather soft as his thumb gently traced the back of your hand. You could almost feel your anxiety melting away.

You finally spoke.

“Mateo?”

“Yes, amor?”

“Could… could we cuddle?”

You ignore the burning in your cheeks and make your request, looking down at his hand still on yours. You focused on his touch. His touch seemed to make many things a whole lot easier.

At your words, a huge grin took over Mateo’s face. “You never even have to ask,” he said, bringing your hand up to his lips and placing a soft kiss onto the back of it.

You manoeuvred yourself so there would be room for Mateo beside you, turning so your back was towards him. He wasted no time in enveloping you in his arms, pulling you into the comforting warmth of his chest. His face snuggled into the crook of your neck and he took a deep breath in.

“You have no idea how much I’ve missed this. The inanimals have missed you too…”

An arrow of guilt hit you right in the heart.

“I’m really sorry, ‘Teo… I-”

“You have no reason to be sorry, amor. Look, I can tell you’re struggling right now. And there’s nothing wrong with that at all, you have nothing to be ashamed about. But you have people around you that can help share your load, okay? You taught me that when we first met. When you bottle it all inside, it’s just too heavy for one person to handle. I want to help you. Please let me,”

You could feel the tears welling up in your eyes. You sniffled, wiping them away as quick as you could but they just kept coming. Mateo brought up the sleeve of his plush duvet jacket, wiping away the tears as they trickled down your face. You both said nothing. You laid there, wrapped up in Mateo’s arms, feeling more safe and secure than you had in a very long time. If Mateo was there to help you hold it, maybe things could be a lot lighter from now on.

[mysticgoldfish]

“ azizam ” — amir (date everything) ~1.4k words

tldr bc i’m too lazy for a proper description; amir loves you more than himself (shockingly) and fucks you in front of a mirror to prove it!

cw :: smut, mdni !, p in v, no protection, prob ooc i haven’t played this sorrz, cunnilingus (he’s a munch), afab reader, body worship, genitalia referred to w/ female pronouns

a/n :: i’ve written smut on ao3 once before (ironically also mirror sex) but i’m an amateur writer so don’t expect too much, alsooooo i’m gonna use the nicknames he uses in the game (azizam & dear) + one other persian term. i’m not persian so if any corrections are needed plz tell me! okok ill stop now, enjoy!! also i didnt proofread

———

getting sent glasses that allowed you to speak to inanimate objects in your home was still a concept you were accommodating to.

the attention was certainly new. even outside of your home, you didn’t relish in any compliments you might off-handedly receive. you were average. you’d accepted this as a fact of life years ago.

some objects were nicer than others, some flirtier…or meaner. in a way, you almost preferred the meaner ones. the honesty was much easier to digest, no second guessing needed. the flirting made you feel as if you needed maggie by your side every second to decipher it. who was genuine, who was just trying to get into your pants, who was saying it because that’s just how they were?

so, needless to say you were quite surprised when you aimed skylar’s beams at your bathroom mirror and was met with amir. a beyond beautiful persian man. his lusciously thick black hair fell to his shoulders, which really only made you wonder if you needed to invest in more expensive shampoo.

plus, his eyes. god, his eyes. any time you stared at them for even more than a second, it was as if you’d spawned on a beach right as a tsunami had started to pull the waves back. yet, the disaster called to you. the storm pulled you back with the waves rather than striking the fear of god in you. his eyes the color of the storm clouds, of murky deep water.

but that was weeks ago.

he’d confessed his love to you officially only two days ago. not that he ever tried to hide it.

you aim skylar’s beams at the mirror and amir appears with a larger-than-life smile on his face. having just gotten out of the shower, a towel was wrapped around your body tightly. you almost just wanted to see what amir would have to say.

“ah, eshgham! you look especially dazzling today.” he pouts his lips slightly, taking in your form with a finger to his mouth. “you’ve even taken my recommendation on what colors suit you.” he smiled at the realization. he was blunt, but it came from a good place. you knew that by now.

“i did. i’ve stepped up my game, right?”

“more than that, azizam. i’m shocked you have yet to receive a call to be on the cover of a magazine.” amir was always gentle with his words when it came to you. even the harshest criticisms were delivered softly. you could appreciate someone like that.

you laughed at the idea of that even happening. with him still in front of you, you reach for your blow dryer.

“you’re a charmer, amir, truly.” taking amir’s compliments seriously had always been quite difficult for you. he always wanted to help you look your best, because that’s when he looked his best. he reflects what he sees.

you notice something different in his gaze today, something that makes your skin buzz. buzz as if you’d taken five shots of vodka without a chaser.

“i reflect what i see, dear.” he stepped towards you, taking the blow dryer out of your hand and placing on the sink countertop. “must i prove my affections another way?”

your heart flutters, hands coming up to clutch your bath towel. a soft, nearly inhumanely soft hand comes to your cheek. it tingles your skin like a sparkler, goosebumps rising at every small brush.

a shaky breath escaped your parted lips. “please do.”

“we’re begging now, dear? no need. whatever you need, it’s yours.” with that, amir’s lips dropped to yours, grazing against them ever so softly. your hands found purchase on his chest, his kiss quickly turning bruising.

the porcelain of the sink pressed up against your lower back, sending a shiver down your body. amir’s hands make quick work of your bath towel. the damp fabric hit the tile with a soft thud.

you shuddered at the cold air hitting your body. of course, amir has to pull away to admire you. his hands go just about anywhere they can reach. his lips part, but he doesn’t speak. it’s like he’s awestruck. at a loss for words.

his hand grazes over your breast, causing a shudder to rack through your body. the way he pinches your pert peak has you starting to pant.

before you know it, you’re on top of the counter. amir starts to suckle at your peak, looking up at you whenever he grants you with soft kitten licks. his other hand massaged the opposite breast.

he’s beyond turned on. partly because he’s mirroring you and partly because he’s so in awe of how perfect you are. when you’d moved into this house, he’d felt like an utter creep every time you’d look at yourself in the mirror bare.

now, he got to appreciate this bare form as much as he liked.

“ah, azizam, azizam.” he pants out against your breast, kissing and sucking at the flesh. he pecks his way down your body, kneeling down a bit more until he reaches your mons.

“she’s beautiful, eshgham. it looks like she wants me just as intensely as i desire her.” his thumb grazes up your slit, finding your bud almost immediately. he thumbs at it for a moment as he lifts your legs over his shoulders.

a stripe is licked up your folds, making it nearly impossible to keep any sounds quiet. you wanted to sincerely apologize to every object in the house for every sound you knew you were about to make.

he moans against you, licking and tonguing at every inch of your mound he could reach. his eyes are closed for most of it, until he decides to look at you. those beautiful mercury eyes are hooded, pupils blown out.

“eyes on me, azizam.”

you did as he said, not looking away as his tongue started to do circles around your clit. your jaw went slack, sounds beyond what could be described as lewd leaving your lips.

it doesn’t take long until you’re grasping at his hair and warning him you’re extremely close.

“amir…amir!” you cry out his name as you finish. all he does is smile with affection as he laps at you. for a moment, you got scared that you had ripped out a chunk of his hair. luckily, his beautiful waves were safe.

he stood up, hips between your legs. “i want you to see how beautiful you look when you come for me.” amir’s voice was a whisper as he picked you up and turned your back toward him.

you heard him undressing behind you, not to mention you could see him in the mirror. his body, like the rest of him, was undoubtedly perfect.

he wasted no time as he slid his cock into you with ease, bottoming out with a heavy groan. “ah, aziz-e delam.” the words were practically a whimper into your shoulder. he kissed over the birth marks there. his hips stuttered into your wetness, your warmth transferring all the way to his face and reddening his cheeks.

your hands gripped the counter in front of you, throbbing around amir’s cock as it slid in and out of you.

amir was a confident man, that was a fact that couldn’t be denied by you or any other object in the house, but that confidence wilted the moment he saw your parted lips and dazed face in the mirror.

“oh, azizam. you feel incredible.” his eyes met yours in the mirror, and he reached up to hold your jaw so you could see your face as well. “absolutely gorgeous.”

you wanted to respond to his words, but the way he was pressing up against your cervix with every thrust had you unable to speak.

you intentionally clenched around him, causing his hips to stutter. “ah, azizam…!” he moaned out, his large hands gripping your hips tightly. his thrusts got sloppier, his sounds got louder. you knew he was close. “can i finish inside, dear? tell me no if you must.” he murmured his words against your shoulder, trying to control himself.

you bit your lip, thinking over your answer. well, no. you didn’t actually have to think much about it. “god, yes.”

amir didn’t need any more convincing. with a breathy groan, the both of you came at the same time. he whimpered your name as he came inside you, kissing up your neck gently.

you panted, heart stuttering as you relished in the afterglow of it all. amir leaned to whisper in your ear.

“âsheghetam.”

[clockwayswrites]

hope you're having a great day! I'm thoroughly enjoying your Dp x Dc stories and heard a passing comment that got me thinking about A Hill to Die on specifically that I thought I'd share. The comment was "I wish my brain wasn't so messed up", which is a totally human and natural passing comment for anyone with mental difficulties on earth. But for someone like Alvin, who has shown to have complicated feelings regarding sharing a body, in a universe/reality where physical manifestations of separate identities of the same person have certainly happened before (ie. Fun Danny/Super Danny. or Raven's emotional spectrum) such an offhanded comment is much more complicated. SO, thinking along those lines, I really appreciate that you're an author willing to portray DID and other physical and mental difficulties in your works so respectfully.

Oh, thank you!

It is a complicated thing. I mean, I was just lamenting how 'broken' my body was yesterday as I climbed up a hill, pulse hitting 174 and my ankle and knee trying valiantly to give out on me. But it's also just... what I have to deal with, you know? And I have to respect my body and brain for managing to do what they can! And on a whole they've done great! I got up that damn hill to the park in Bath and it was a lovely view.

I was told 'they'd get me reading' elementary school because my vision doubled on letters so badly when I was already an avid reader. I was deaf for 6-12 months as a little. I had consonant swapping and was in speech therapy twice. Now my whole job is to talk. And I'm writing! (With a lot of word swapping still mind you.)

I did dance (ballet, tap, jazz) and soccer and marching band. My hands are healing. My body tries so hard to manage despite everything! When you have chronic issues it's such a line between hating it's a thing, but also respecting what you can still do. And accepting when you need rest (hardest one for me).

I'm sure that being (I say fondly) the mess I am, that it helps me write it. And it is certainly why it comes up a lot! I know I will mess up, it's inevitable, you know? Or at least some people won't find what I write matches their experience, especially with something so diverse and complex like DID. But I do try my best and always to go with respect.

A lot of the world is easier when you go with respect.

[autumnslance]

Even if OP is being a bit tongue in cheek (IDK honestly) prev tags:

#housing is very badly setup in ff14 #I think framing it as a money hostage situation is a bad take though #demolition is a response to people buying houses decorating them and then disappearing for months and years #leaving their homes to sit there and be pretty and empty #it's a symptom of the core problem not a designed intent

The lottery RNG is bad yeah - and is still better than what we had before! Which was first-come-first-served click on the sign as soon as the house became available and hope you got lucky over the jerkass using a bot to do it for them.

We also have had people buy up entire wards on their characters (before you could only own 1 a world regardless of alts) and hold those wards indefinitely as their own personal private playgrounds and housing showcases. Which, when the population was much smaller, wasn't so much of an issue. I think a few people still have those grandfathered houses.

The real problem with FFXIV housing is it's all bandages atop of bandages. They never expected to be one of the biggest MMOs in the world, they were just trying to survive after the disastrous initial release and revamp. Housing came in the ARR patches and has been iterated on and expanded and rules changed since to try to make it more fair to active players, instead of keeping people currently playing locked out of the chance for houses cuz someone who hasn't played since Stormblood has a house sitting there.

And when there are disasters or issues, they will turn off the demo timer in regions to keep affected players from losing their homes, like wildfires, hurricanes, earthquakes, etc.

Does the housing system need a revamp? Oh boy it sure does. But that's going to take a massive overhaul of the system, which is time and money that's hard to come by for a side feature. Hopefully WoW's coming implementation (taking pros and cons into account from multiple other MMOs) is a kick in the pants SE needs to do something about FFXIV's housing situation, but I wouldn't hold my breath on that, either.

As for people feeling held hostage to their housing: honestly, that's a sunk cost fallacy skill issue people have got to grapple with and accept on their own. If you're not enjoying the game and need a long break or to quit altogether and your house is keeping you there? It's pixels. The real money and your time and peace of mind is more important than a pretend house and game you are not enjoying or can't afford. I have seen some people willingly surrender their house to not feel beholden to subscriptions when they can't/don't want to play.

Also, apartments never demo. They're small and limited compared to a house, but still a place for one's character, easier to get one, and able to leave decorated as one likes for however long.

kids these days don't even know how good they have it. they don't even know about the final fantasy 14 artificial housing crisis

[loganwritesprobably]

Back Pain (T.S.)

Synopsis: Reader is Tony’s physical therapist turned lover, and he has a horrible habit of spending too long in his workshop and ending up in pain. As reader helps soothe that pain, Tony asks a question, and reader immediately soothes that pain too. Tags/Warnings: Tony/GN!Reader, physical therapist!reader, age gap, established relationship, Tony is insecure, non-sexual massage Word count: 931

Tony was ridiculous. Even as he got older, the man insisted on holing himself up in his workshop for hours at a time, focusing on his new genius idea. You’d told him time and time again that he needed to take more breaks, either longer breaks or more regular breaks - it was up to him which he preferred - yet he didn’t seem to heed your advice. Which was made even more insulting by the fact that you were his physical therapist before you were his lover, but you chose to understand that it wasn’t personal. The man is just a fool. Lucky for him, you still acted as his physical therapist when you were needed.

When, without a word, Tony threw himself down on the bed beside you with a loud groan, and a twitch that you recognised as a sign that he’d hurt his back quite bady, you only sighed.

“How many times have I told you?”

“I know- more breaks, I didn’t realise how long I’d been there.”

“Liar. I told FRIDAY to remind you to take a break every half hour.”

“I tune her out you know that.” Tony retorted, and you just sighed. Carefully, you lifted yourself up to straddle his hips and sat yourself on his ass, beginning to gently rub his back, helping to ease his pain.

When he’d first hired you, it had been because Tony had torn his ACL and it was giving him a lot of trouble, especially when trying to do his work as Iron Man, and he needed assistance with the pain and recovering from the injury. You’d worked well, he’d told you as such and tipped generously when you refused to let him pay double your usual rate. You’d accepted the money, because you would’ve been a fool not to, even if you didn’t feel good about it. You were doing the same work anyone else with your qualifications would’ve. Happy explained later that it was because you didn’t fawn over him, or attempt to seduce him, which the three young women he’d spoken to before you had done.

That reasoning came back you four months later when Tony asked you on a date, and the irony was certainly not lost on you, but you’d come to enjoy his company and value his opinions, so you’d accepted. The two of you had dated casually for two months before becoming official, and three months after that you were living with him. You were glad you’d been friends first, and then dated for a prolonged period before moving in, even if having a live-in physical therapist wasn’t particularly uncommon for people with Tony’s wealth, because you had more time to get to know him as a person, and come to understand the habits that now pissed you off beyond belief. You were able to ignore them, or accept them easier with a deeper understanding of where they came from.

Tony grunted as you worked on a knot in his back, but you didn’t let up until you were done.

“This is why you’re meant to take breaks. You’re getting too old to be hunched over your desk for so many hours at a time.” You scolded, and Tony turned his head so he could look up at you.

“Don’t call me old. I’m not that old.” He insisted, tone stern though the playful smile on his face completely ruined the effect.

“You’re over ten years older than me, Tones.” You pointed out with a raised brow, then nudged him back into the proper position for you to continue with your massage. You shuffled backward slightly, to be sitting at the bottom of his thighs so you could work his lower back, which you knew from experience would be more sore. His posture was a thing of nightmares.

You lifted yourself back down to the mattress, and took Tony’s hand in yours, returning to your aimless scrolling on your phone while Tony stewed. If asked, you’d have said you figured he was enjoying the relief from your massage, or his current project was running through his mind, thinking of calculations you’d never understand. So, when he instead said, “does it bother you?” you were caught entirely off guard.

“Does what bother me?” You asked in response, turning to Tony with a small frown.

“That I’m over a decade older than you.” He said simply, shifting slightly to sit up fully, holding your hand in both of his, absently playing with your fingers. That was an easy sign that he was nervous.

“If it bothered me, I’d never have agreed to go on that first date with you.” You replied, shuffling in closer, lifting your legs up to rest over top of his, then wrapped them around his waist.

“You sure? I mean, I’ve seen the shit the tabloids say about you.”

“The things they used to say, until you sued them all and bought two. You fixed it. For me. Because you care about me. And I care about you, Tony. I don’t give a shit what anyone else thinks.” You assured, and it was so easy to close the space between you both, pressing your lips firmly together in a warm, reassuring kiss.

“I love you, Anthony Howard Stark.” You said firmly, cupping his face in both your hands.

“I love you too, doll.” He replied, a completely lovestruck look on his face.

“I’ll love you for the rest of my life, not just yours.” You said softly, pressing your lips together for another gentle kiss, as if sealing a promise.

Tag list: @claryeverlarkf @uselessboots @cainnoable @hyperfixationthingss @queenmimi2817

If you'd like to tip me you can head over to my Kofi

[calmcoldevening]

Okay, okay, last request so I stop procrastinating actually writing but Micheal x sweet devout christian reader with a bad case of 'I can fix him-itis'

Michael Myers x Christian!reader

• You believe in the unconditional power of love and God, and he is a man with his own demons in his head that tell him to kill.

• You were supposed to be one of his victims, but when his sharp knife flashed in the darkness, you were not afraid. This puzzled him. He decided to leave you alive for now. You took this as a sign from God that you were the one who could help him get off this crooked path and redeem him.

• Instead of fear, you feel a desire to save an innocent soul and pity. You're like, "God, he's so miserable and lonely... Of course you'll kill when you don't have any good friends."

• When you know he's around, you read the Bible. Michael likes your voice, so he enjoys finding your house and becoming your main visitor. One night, you wake up to a strange presence. When you open your eyes, you see Michael standing in front of you. He's standing there, in front of your bed, holding an open Bible. That's right, it was a bookmark with a prayer, which you used to pray for the purification of his soul. Apparently, he really enjoyed it.

• Michael often appears near you. Your first thought is, "Yay! He's starting to trust me!! This is progress, baby." However, is he just... comfortable with you?

• You cook for him. What if he kills because he's hungry? It's easier to steal money and stuff from a dead body, so why not feed him? He likes sweets, so there's always plenty of chocolate in your fridge.

• He'll kill anyone who gets too close to you, just because he wants you to pray only to him and for him.

• One day, you even managed to remove his mask and bring him to church for "soul cleansing." The priests are horrified. You're smiling. Michael isn't. "See? I told you everyone here is ready to accept you!"

• But you did buy some church candles because Michael liked them. Isn't that a success?

--------

Bro, you're the reason I'm getting my own Bible soon.

[tunastime]

On Bone and Heat

In the aftermath of his unsuccessful fight with Welsknight, Helsknight crawls his way back to the Nether, his sanctum and home, equally unsuccessfully. As stubborn as his counterpart, his twin, his clone, he's reluctant to accept help from anyone, especially someone with a steel toe to his bruised ribs. Against his better judgement, Helsknight lets Evil Xisuma carry him home.

so in lieu of stressing myself out about artfight I instead have written a somewhat standalone mirror piece to On Blood and Metal. I hope y'all enjoy :3c (3480 words) (read it on ao3!)

The wide berth of the Nether stretched out in every direction. This was something, much like the overworld, that every player knew. Every living soul, every entity that chose to make either domain their home, knew that the infinite spread of chalky red cliffs, jagged blackstone walls, and bubbling lava pits made the inhospitable wastes a derelict, and endless, stretch in opposition to the world above. Or in mirror to—there was no real above here, which is what Ex hated the most about the term overworld. The Nether wasn’t ever, had never been under the overworld. It was separate. And that was the way he liked it.

Tucked away in his own tower of sorts, his own house, castle, whatever those who saw it might ascribe names or fears to it, Evil Xisuma made his home, away from any hermit settlements, away from, basically anything. Almost anything. On a good day, when the ash-fall was thin and the fog was clear, he could see the jagged spires and dark parapets of Helsknight’s castle. And a castle that one was, for such a knight that roamed its barren halls. 

Ex was standing, now, in one of the winding tunnels not far from his own tower. It spanned the length between the two bases in curves, branching off in its wide archways to locations marked off by signs that glowed faintly in the lantern light. Tunneling was pretty much the only way to travel through somewhere so inhospitable for something as squishy as a human-like knight and, well, whatever Ex was, and neither had yet bothered with trying to quarantine their own space on the Nether’s bedrock roof. Ex had little interest—it was easier to squirrel away here, to scheme, to plan evil and not be bothered by the hermits and their ilk.

Ex was standing, and he was looking over the body of Helsknight and his angular, blackened armor. He frowned, instinctually, behind the visor of his helmet. Then he gave Hels a weak kick with the toe of his boot, steel clanking against his netherite armor. It sent a small, thorny shock through Ex’s foot. He did it again.

“Hey,” he said dully. “You alive?”

Hels gave a weak grunt. Of course he wasn’t dead . He was lying here, still in his armor, all of his various accouterments still attached to him, with a smear of red-black against the patterned floor, trailing where he’d fallen. But alive didn’t necessarily mean not dead —at least for them. Alive , in this case, meant: are you getting up, you’re causing a tunnel blockage with your ten-tonne armor. Ex kicked him a third time, and Hels’ hand shot up to grab his ankle, clutching it in his gauntleted fist, threatening to dig in the sharp points of his clawed fingers. The grip was weak, but pointed.

“Look at that!” Ex said, with all the annoyance he could muster. And it was a lot. “You’re awake. D’you mind? You’re blockin’ the tunnel.”

“Shut up,” Hels grit. His voice came raspy and wet, like he was talking through a mouthful of his own blood.

“D’you need help getting up? Or are you just gonna lie there and bleed?” Ex cocked his head to the side. He studied what he could see of Hels’ screwed up face through his slotted visor—which was very little of it. His face and neck were off-white in the low light, but the pale-yellow hue wasn’t anything that Ex would consider healthy by any standards, including his own. He squinted. Hels’ eyes were squeezed shut, brow furrowed sharply together. He could faintly hear the way he rasped as he breathed. It was shallow. It was wet . He could see the shredded fabric against his leg, stained deep red, the way he favored his left hand as he attempted to weakly push Ex back and get a hand under himself. He failed, ultimately, falling back into his own blood and armor with a dull thud. Another wheeze came through the helm. 

Ex rolled his eyes through his visor, red eyes that much redder through the tint, before he bent. He pinned Hels’ flailing wrist with one hand and with the other, lifted his shoulder enough to set him upright. Hels let out a brief, but strained groan in protest—his opposite shoulder was slick with blood as Ex pushed him into a sit, and from his new angle, he could see the bent twist of Hels’ knee, right under the gash in the fabric. Ex huffed, restrained another eyeroll, and flung Hels’ arm—his good arm, it seemed, over his shoulder. Then he pulled them both into a stand. Hels made another gurgling noise, longer this time, and spit. Blood coated his mouth, but he didn’t seem to be swallowing any. That was a good sign.

“Can’t even get yourself off the floor,” Ex muttered to himself. He heard Hels laugh and almost felt something stir in the pit of his stomach. “Kind’ve useless, aren’t you?”

“Whatever,” Hels wheezed. Then he fell silent. Ex helped him straighten into a stand and start walking, hobbling beside him. They picked their way through the tunnel in near silence, aside from the wet breaths Hels took in, his huffs in pain, and Ex’s own thunk of armor and plates together as they marched forward. 

The door to Hels’ castle—the arch, portcullis, the whole kit and kaboodle of a creation that was his front gate—was thankfully open when they arrived. They shuffled, stumbled, swayed as Hels leaned hard into Ex’s shoulder with the confidence of someone who clearly didn’t know or didn’t care who was helping him through his foyer and up the steps into the main castle. His wheezing had grown worse with each step, until it was pitchy, uneven, and clearly wet, the blood from his nose trickling down into his throat. He’d be lucky not to get an infection by the time Ex was done with him.

With his good arm, Hels beat at his shoulder, trying to stop their momentum. Ex frowned, still walking. 

“What?”

Hels hit him again, weaker.

“You’re not stopping here. Not when you’ve got a perfectly good bedroom. Or living room.”

“No,” Hels spit out. “Can’t.”

“Not can’t,” Ex complained. “Won’t. Which we won’t be doing. Should I carry you?”

He paused then, and felt all the weight drain out of Hels body as he sagged into him. Ex jolted, his other hand coming under Hels’ bad knee as it buckled. He swung him up, his own legs straining as he lifted him. 

“Fucks sake ,” Ex grit out. “What do you eat?”

Hels said nothing. His head had hit the pauldron on Ex’s shoulder as he’d lifted him and now his helm hung crooked off his face. Ex shifted, let it clatter to the ground, let Hels’ head fall against his shoulder even as it smeared blood across his shoulder pad. 

In silence again, Ex carried him up the short flight of stairs, winding around the tower steps until he reached the landing that spilled out into Hels’ sparse bedroom. It was just as decorated as Ex could expect from someone like Hels—utilitarian: a plain, soft collection of blankets and pillows that made up a bed, an armor stand, some storage, a workbench cluttered with sharpening tools, broken knives, bits of armor he wasn’t wearing, shoulder plates that were dented beyond simple repair. He kicked aside strewn clothes as he set Hels against the closest wall with carpet under him, trying to keep the space padded against cold stone and crimson wood. Hels let out a breathless exhale as he was set against the wall. Ex saw him swallow and creak a dazed, unfocused eye at him. His hands pooled in his lap.

“Ex,” Hels said, frowning.

Ex raised his eyebrows. It was almost inconsequential to keep his helmet on now—maybe seeing his expressions would mean something. Maybe not. He kept it on for now, kept that expression obscured. Ex asked:

“You gonna die on me if I leave you?”

Hels gave a weak snort and shook his head. He was smiling slightly. Faintly delirious, maybe.

“Good,” Ex huffed. He folded his arms and stalked out of the room.

He had no intention of leaving Hels without patching those wounds, but with so little to work with in his bedroom, he searched blindly for a place Hels would actually store things in. He wound his way down the spiral stairs until he spilled out into a small common area, well-lit and padded with soft, plush furniture, carpeting, tables, tapestries. He resisted the urge to roll his eyes—only slightly. It would be hypocritical, despite how much he loved to play the hypocrite. He curved through the room, following the wall until it split into another smaller one: a kitchen, and a small storeroom. Despite its panache, he assumed that the rest of the castle was empty—if this was the space Hels found himself entertaining in. Entertaining Ex, at least. He’d been here countless times.

It took a moment for Ex to find a barrel worth his time. Nudging aside empty bottles and dark potions, Ex found the slightly glittery, deep red of a health potion. He gathered up a stack of cloth bandages, a bottle of water, and the health potion in one careful swoop. Hooking his fingers around the spout of the bottle, he stuck the bandages under his arm, and started back upstairs.

Hels was still in the same place he’d left him, thankfully, meaning he hadn’t tried to crawl his way across the room, or out the window, or something equally stupid. He managed to open one eye as Ex stepped into the room and set the potions beside him. Hels’ hand went to one, knocking it over. It rolled into his knee.

“Don’t spill it,” Ex said, turning from him to unhook the helmet from his suit. The gloves would be fine to navigate, but with such limited view close up, he needed to take the helmet off. He took a small breath of stale, Nether air, and the iron scent of blood struck him. He coughed, growled low in his throat. Fixing his hair behind his neck, he frowned and turned back to Hels. 

He’d successfully gotten his good hand around the potion bottle at his knee, and was now trying to pull the cork out with his teeth. As he did, he sloshed potion down the front of his armor, spat the cork, and drank, quickly and ungracefully. It must’ve hit the back of his throat because he coughed, licked his teeth, and grimaced.

“Fuck,” he managed in a voice slightly more clear than it had been previously. “That hurts .”

“You’re gonna need to stay still so your hand doesn’t heal wrong,” Ex said, raising his eyebrows. Hels shot him a look as Ex moved to crouch in front of him.

“It’s fine ,” he barked. Ex snorted, flashing his sharp teeth at him.

“It’s not fine. Stay still. I’m getting you out of this armor.”

“You are not ,” Hels said, but didn’t move. His voice had only a fraction of the heat it usually did. He eyed Ex, not like he was sizing up an enemy, but warily, like an animal about to eat from an open hand. His pupils were blown wide, eclipsing the normal dark red-brown of his iris. Ex looked him over, his expression fading into neutrality, into pressing his mouth together in a fine line. They watched each other for a long moment. Then, Hels sighed, slightly strained, set his head back against the wall, and shut his eyes.

Ex took that as his cue.

He folded his legs under him and sat, reaching first to remove his gauntlets, prying his gloved fingers beneath the straps of leather that held them in place over chainmail and gambeson. It was a slow and arduous process, especially with his dominant hand, where the wound that had punched through it was already trying to close. He tugged the gauntlet down and reopened it just slightly. Hels grunted, face screwing up. So Ex started working faster. He peeled back the heavy metal chesplace with both hands, slipped his fingers into the ties of his pauldrons, the braces, even down to the epaulets still hooked into the fabric of his gambeson, the chainmail over his midsection, his boots and greaves. All that distracted him was the faint and heavy breathing Hels managed, the way he hadn’t moved except to crane his neck from side to side, and the still paling color of his face. 

Ex flicked his eyes up to watch him as he dampened a cloth. Hels blinked open his eyes, flicked them over his face, and Ex watched his expression visibly soften. He almost bit into his tongue to prevent himself from speaking. Luckily, Hels sighed and weakly held out his hand instead. Ex took it, cradling the back as he began to wipe away dried and drying blood. He worked his way around the wound, careful with the frayed skin, cleaned down the pads of his fingers, along his sword-calloused palm. Every time Hels winced, he paused, let him take a breath, and started again. It felt odd to attempt to soothe him—Hels was a knight, an honorable one, a stupid one, but good at what he did. Good enough. So the idea of patronizing him with niceties while he was in pain just sounded nauseating. He cleaned the wound and dressed it in silence, letting Hels grip his other hand in between the pieces of Ex’s armor at his knee, only pausing to glance up at him once he’d finished.

And once he’d finished, Ex moved immediately to unfasten the heavy, jet-black gambeson. Hels made an immediate, choked sound. Ex blinked.

“What?” he grumbled, more annoyed than upset. Hels huffed.

“D’you have to?”

“Unless you wanna get something nasty happening with that shoulder wound, I suggest it,” Ex shrugged. “Already cut a patch in your pants for your leg, so I saved you that embarrassment .” 

He wasn’t sure if Hels had been flushing before, but it grew darker nonetheless. He huffed again, tightening his jaw.

“Fine,” he grit. He tilted his head up and let Ex unfasten the heavy cloth. He peeled the fabric off his linen and skin, the shirt underneath damp with sweat and sticking to his chest. He took his time to carefully pull it from his shoulder, the same with the off-white tunic underneath. Ex tried not to let his gaze linger on the way his shoulders sloped down into his arms, or how his pale skin was littered with scars, jagged, smooth, winding around his arm, tucked under his ribs, across his collarbone, and the sluggishly bleeding puncture wound in his shoulder. He was softly defined, muscle hiding under padding, much like Ex could only expect of his counterpart. His skin didn’t have the same warm paleness, instead was a washed out white-tan, with his stark black hair, scruff, with dotted marks on his face rather than the spray of sun-set freckles he’d expect on someone getting that kind of sunlight everyday. But he was strong, and his jaw was tight with pain and apprehension, and Ex got to work cleaning the puncture in his shoulder. 

Much like his hand, it had already begun to heal, but he worked the dried and tacky blood from his shoulder and where it had dribbled down the side of his arm. He was lucky he hadn’t broken any of the bones in his collarbone or shoulder, but the wound was deep, only just beginning to knit back together, slow, shallow. Wrapping the wound, Ex looked over to Hels, and surprisingly, met his eyes. Hels blinked. His cheeks were ever so slightly pink.

“Feeling better, are we?” Ex asked, raising his eyebrows. His eyes drew back to his shoulder as he tucked the bandage back under itself.

“No,” Hels laughed—laughed, mouth in a small smile. “Feel like shit.”

Ex sat back on his haunches. His left foot was asleep. He grimaced, lips pulling back against his teeth, and he heard Hels laugh again. He looked him up and down. Didn’t linger on his chest, or neck, or hand balanced on his knee. He raised his eyebrows.

“What?”

Hels shook his head. It fell back against the wall with a dull thud .

“Nothin. Just stupid,” he scrunched his eyebrows together. “Can’t believe I let that idiot do this to me.”

“Did you win?” Ex asked, still studying his expression. Hels hummed.

“ ‘Course I did.”

Ex snorted, then laughed. “ Sure .”

Hels lapsed into a short silence. Ex cleaned his hands in that time, didn’t look up at him, even though he felt his eyes on him. He scrubbed his gloves clean of the blood that had started to go tacky on his fingers, across the lines of his gloves. He left the cloths in a small pile with the empty bottles, Hels having drunk the last of the dark red potion. As Ex began to rise into a stand, he felt Hels grasp his wrist, skin cold and clammy. Even through the fabric and armor, Ex felt all his nerves light up under his skin, took a soft and fast breath to keep from jolting. 

“Can’t,” Hels managed. Ex hummed, frowning. “Can’t stand.”

“Not won’t ?” Ex said, almost amused, under his breath. Hels shut his eyes. 

“Can’t,” Hels said, softer, more pained. Ex felt something twist nauseatingly in his stomach. He swallowed, prying Hels’ fingers free of his wrist. Moving carefully, Ex wrapped Hels’ now-bare arm around his shoulders and helped him stand. He adjusted as they took the short handful of steps over to the soft cushions, pillows, blankets of Hels’ bed. Hels’ head immediately fell to his shoulder, the dried blood there flaking against his cheek, his nose wrinkling at the sensation. Ex chewed the inside of his cheek to keep from speaking, clamped his jaw as Hels exhaled against his neck. When he leaned to help lower him into the nest of blankets, Hels pulled away, peeled away, from him slowly, as if the exhaustion had made him want to linger. He was still pink in the face, warm to the touch, eyes still shut. He wormed away the minute Hels unlatched from his neck, skin unexpectedly crawling, itchy, tingling in every place warmth had been. Ex turned away, retying his hair as Hels sank into his pillows with a small, tired sigh.

In the time Ex had finished winding his hair back into its braid, Hels had fallen asleep.

For a short moment, Ex watched him, brow furrowed, mouth in a small, tight frown. Something inside his chest sat heavy and solid, like he’d swallowed chunks of blackstone, or a baby strider was sitting on his chest, or something equally painful and heavy and something he tried to massage out with the heel of his hand. He blew out a slow breath, shoulders deflating. His eyes were still lingering on Hels’ now softening face, the way the typical lines grew soft, the frown around his mouth fading out, his freckles more pronounced across his face and along his nose, dark hair obscuring part of his forehead. He was less pale than he had been when they’d first stumbled in, the color returning to his normally washed-out pallor. He was sharp in all the places Ex knew Wels wasn’t, from what he remembered under that stupid helm with its stupidly obnoxious plume. Hels’ helmet had horns that made it even stupider, made him look that much more dark and sinister, when he was really just someone who slept on millions of fluffy blankets and was small under the armor in comparison to, well, to Ex, who wasn’t small at all. He was just a knight. Just a knight.

Ex shut his eyes.

Fuck .

He was his knight, in a way, their fate twisted in braids with each other in a way that Ex could not even attempt to separate nor did he want to. He hated him. But his chest hurt something fierce seeing the small shape he made in bed.

Slowly, like he might wake him, Ex unbound the leather straps of his armor, stripped down to the skin-tight clothing underneath, gloveless, bootless, stood quietly scrubbing his eyes. Without another word, Ex lied down beside him, folded his arms, and shut his eyes. He did not move. He didn’t even try to breathe.

He was quiet. And he slept.

(And in the dark, Hels turned, curled his tired and aching body around Ex’s shoulder. He set his head there on the sharp of his collarbone, pinned his arm, breathed a sigh against the skin-tight clothes he wore. Neither moved, and neither made a sound, and both slept.)

[scutesketch]

@microwaves-reblogs

You aren’t aggressive, dw, and I hope I’m not either.

I totally understand the HC of Jax being bi but dating a woman, but I personally don’t relate to that, so I wouldn’t want to draw fanart of it. Ships aren’t all about gender, yes, but it does play a role in how much I like it for personal reasons.

I don’t relate to wlm bisexual ships because they have an easier way of blending into “societal norms”. (This is not to say wlm bi relationships don’t face backlash, I’m just saying there is a decent difference in surface-level acceptance.)

I enjoy drawing mlm ships better than wlm ships because it’s a way of me saying “hey, this is ok to love someone outside the societal norm” It brings me comfort to draw those ships in scenarios where they face no homophobia. It’s human expression, it’s relatability, it’s my art.

When it comes to TADC, we have a lot of wlw ships, some wlm ships, but barely any mlm ships. I love mlm ships more because, again, there is a level of relatability.

WHICH ALL JUST GOES TO SAYYY: I really hope Ribbit is a boy because it would be the ONLY mlm ship in this entire show that I would be into. The others feel like too much of an age gap or I’m not interested in the character dynamic.

When it comes to ships, it’s the relationship dynamic that gets me interested, but it’s the gender that makes me a die-hard fan.

I want to emphasize that this is just my personal opinion, and it is completely valid for others to like whatever ship they want (EXCEPT pro-ships obviously). If Ribbit ends up being a girl, and people like the ship still, good on them, but it’s just not my cup of tea. 🫖

My take on Ribbit.

I already have a few headcanons based on the design. They’ll change if it doesn’t fit Ribbit if they are mentioned or shown.

-Ribbit is older and the role model for Jax

-Worked at bars or clubs

-Female because of the eye lashes but like I said, it’ll change if Ribbit is a them/they or a guy or something else

-Seen like a parent, fun and mischievous but caring and emotional.

[stop-breaking-my-heart-telltale]

Hey CJ 👋 I hope you’re doing well in life.

I’m on the same page as you, when it comes to taking a step back from TWDG & the fandom. And, coming back to the games after sometime & seeing it in a different light. Some things that didn’t click with you back then, makes a bit more sense now.

Also, I’m curious.. what are thoughts on true colors? Steph & Ryan? 👀

Hello, my friend! 👋 Been a while! But yeah, I'm doing fine; a lot of the usual work with writing fic and blog posts in between.

Yeah it's funny to step away from a fandom you're so engrossed in for so long, like twdg was such a huge part of my life back in 2018-2020 with me running this blog, writing fic, and streaming. Now I'm just in a completely different headspace in general, and looking at the games now, they're still amazing but my reasonings are different. Also I talk about the comics a lot, which isn't something I would've guessed I'd be doing. If you go back to when they were announced, I made posts being like "yeeeeeah I dunno if I'm gonna read them :/" jokes on me. I read them multiple times, I need to make that useful haha.

As for LiS True Colors, I actually super loved it?? way more than I ever did the first LiS game?? though I think I might've loved it for the wrong reasons. I don't know, I haven't actually looked into what LiS fans thought of it compared to the other games, but for me it was a "perfect time, perfect place" game in the moment. To me the whole thing was nearly a perfect escapism game; the music is an A+, the entire town is gorgeous and covered in flowers and woods, Alex gets to live in a nice apartment for free [the true fantasy], there's a whole LARP campaign to play through, a flower festival where I've never been so conflicted on who to give a rose to, and overall just the coziest vibes. I swear, I spent most of the game just wandering around the town looking at all the flowers, it was great.

Like if Gabe didn't die and True Colors was just about Alex moving to this fantasy-like small town and working through her issues with the help of her powers, I would've been 100% on board. I didn't mind the mystery, though I totally guessed Jed would be the twist villain given the first episode immediately presents him as a hero who saved a bunch of people in the mines, I was like "Oh did he now... mmhmmm mmhmmm and he's Ryan's dad, oohhh he's gonna be this game's Jefferson-" except he was done better than Jefferson imo. He didn't turn into a cartoon character and his motivations behind the cover up were interesting. He didn't do it for the aesthetic like Jefferson did. And in the end I got everyone to side with me, except Charlotte because I told her to take the money so she wanted to speak out but couldn't, which was honestly fine with me like take their money, send Ethan to college, we'll stab Typhon just fine without your vocal support.

I liked most of the characters, except for Diane and Mac, though I reluctantly disliked Mac less by the end... Diane can suck an egg, though. I don't think I've ever wanted to throw a character out a window more than when Alex came back all bloodied with a bullet wound on her head as she exposed the truth and when she asks why no one's saying anything, Diane just goes, "We don't want to embarrass you" kjlkajdslkjalkjdl LADY DON'T PISS ME OFF

As for Ryan and Steph, I liked them both, trying to choose between them was absurdly difficult. It was like True Colors saw how easily I picked between Louis and Violet and took it as a challenge to create Ryan and Steph specifically to stump me. I mean, soft boy who loves nature, goes out of his way to be kind and helpful to those around him, has a slow build up to being emotionally available with someone he trusts, and has some daddy issues? A girl with pretty brown eyes who loves DnD and LARP, has a passion for music and will deflect with humor, who knows who she is and is eager to help those around her, and who isn't just another rehash of Chloe? They knew what they were doing; they dressed Steph up in as a witch after having Ryan act like a goof acting like enemy creatures, they were made for me.

Having done both routes, I do prefer Steph. I adore her and Alex together, but Alex and Ryan are super cute, too.

It's not a perfect game and there are issues in the writing but honestly, I don't care. I had a good time. I was engaged. I looked at every single flower and kissed a pretty girl so good that the world exploded. What a great game.

[ria-starstruck]

and also "putting everyone in a simulation will make it all ok 👍" and also "let's park next to this random system's sun" and also "we can't live on our own planet because of our own folly" and so on

[funishment-time]

as i've gotten older i've prized sincerity in fandom/content spaces more. i find it harder and harder to watch, for instance, Let's Players who are clearly trying to find reasons to shit on a game and pretend like they're not invested. i used to think it was funny in a schadenfreude kind of way, and now it's just kind of sad, especially if those content makers are Middle Aged. if you're like 40 and making videos where it's apparent you're hiding your excitement over FNAF Lore and using slurs to refer to anyone who does dare to get excited, that's, i think, way "cringier" than just being 40 and openly into FNAF. why do we police ourselves like this

[blitzwhore]

Okay, here they are! My Stolitz Spotify playlists 🎶

[hellscreen04]

Whack!

M!A, you 🫵 get Whistling Kite wings for as long as mod desires.

The Child gazed at the ask in her inbox, staring at it with a blank expression. Magic Anons- She’d become quite familiar with these as of late.

Oh yes, she was well aware of them and all the havoc they could cause. The shard of her Lobotomy Corporation Identity sat on her lap as she scribbled down some notes, labeled elegantly with the letters T.F.

This was the method she used to gather data to uphold her end of the bargain. It displeased her, but it did get her out of recording Abnormality Logs. The luxury cigarettes were just a nice bonus, and whatever work she didn’t want to do, her Identities could pick up.

Hmph. First M.A. Took long enough.

It was becoming increasingly apparent that the Anonymous Magi, whoever they were, were one of three things: A Distortion, an Abnormality, or an Egoist. If it was one of the former two, it would be the Sinners’ problem sooner rather than later. If it was an Egoist, though…

N.B.D.

The Child puffed a ring of smoke into the air. The rich scent of fine tobacco mingled with the burning candle wax in her room. Her left hand hovered carefully over the post button, while her right hand sat poised to insert an Identity into her badge. Kurokumo Wakashu was decided to be the sacrificial lamb for this experiment in body art.

This ought to fetch a nice bonus. Maybe even a raise. S.R. and get ready to fly.

A sound like shattering glass reverberated, two impossibilities merging into one. With black and brown wings folded over her body like an overcoat, the Child stepped into the dusky hall. Her next order of business: To see how well she can paint with wings.

PROFILE WORD/PHRASE UNLOCK: S.R. and get ready to Fly.

[f-imaginings]

did ford dislike the appearance of bill’s true form when he brought him to earth? or was it just later, because he associated his crimes more with that form than his human form?

Definitely the latter. He never disliked Bill's appearance as a triangle, finding him cute. Before he pulled him down to live in the human body he designed for him that appreciation was probably almost patronising endearment, thinking this small glowing triangle was a novel little creature, more drawn to Bill's mind and the enlightenment he provided. Once he got to know Bill in the human body he fell more deeply in love with him there, and that's where the sexual attraction began because he could convince himself it was more normal to be attracted to a human than a shape. When he discovered Bill's betrayal and banished his human body he started associating everything evil with Bill as a shape so he could keep the memories of their good times pristine in his mind, like there was a good Bill (human) and an evil Bill (triangle) but as their relationship continued after the betrayal it became harder to separate the concepts. He couldn't split them anymore since it's all Bill, good and bad and you'll see that by the time he starts becoming intimate with him again as a triangle he's in this murky mindset of believing Bill is wholeheartedly bad but being attracted to him anyway. By the time they're getting it on freaky style in the mindscape again, the attraction in Ford's mind is indistinguishable whether Bill is a shape or not because of that personality bleed through, since Ford is attracted most to Bill's mind, a true demisexual connection (maybe even sapiosexual since Ford would be that pretentious).

So yeah, tldr he always liked Bill's appearance, and even though he associates Bill's triangle form with his evil actions more, it still didn't stop him from banging Bill both as a human and as a shape.

[lunarharp]

figured i'd do this again..bit early i guess..