More random tropes that I fucking love: Becoming the mask you wore.
Like oh shit, this character who was sent to spy somewhere under a false identity suddenly realises they've started to genuinely become the person they claimed to be? Someone who's been telling the same lies about who they are for so long that they're actually forgetting that the story isn't true? Finding themselves genuinely doing the things they pretend to do in front of people, when they're alone and nobody's watching? Answering to a name that wasn't supposed to be theirs without thinking?
Ooohh-hoh-hoh, you lost track of yourself in pretending to be someone else? You were only supposed to impersonate somebody, a plausible background and a name you came up with on the spot, and now that the people you were supposed to infiltrate have become your true companions? You lost yourself in the game you played, and no you no longer know who you truly are, and where your true loyalties lie? And both sides would mark you a traitor if you came out with the truth. On a scale of one to ten, how bad did you fuck up.
Fuck that is a good trope. Never seen it done badly. Pour that shit on a table and I'll chop it into lines and snort it.
no matter how the media spins it remember that the US would rather watch the region burn than give up its little pet genocidal colonial ethnostate project
Bit telling that for years and years evangelical religious extremists have been allowed on university campuses with their bullhorns and horrific imagery where they harass students into physical altercations and when students complain to the university’s administration they just shrug their shoulders citing freedom of speech but when those same tuition-paying students start protesting against war and genocide they call SWAT
[ID: a realistic digital painting of Gwen from BBC Merlin over an olive green background. Gwen is in 3/4 view, shown from the waist up. She has a soft, neutral expression on her face. She is wearing a purple linen dress with a natural linen apron and a natural linen corset embroidered with flowers and animals, and her hair is down.]
Imagine calling Palestinians documenting their own genocide on their iPhones powered by a MacGyvered car battery "misinformation" because it hasn't been backed up and approved of by 40 peer-reviewed data analysts from the West that you personally approve of. I can't imagine being that ghoulish and heartless
i dont think women should take their husbands name but i DO think married people should be legally required to have the same last name. otherwise people may have secret alliances theyre concealing from you.
In the end, if children bother you for sensory reasons and that's why you don't want them to be in the same public spaces as you, there are disabled adults who can and would cause the same sensory issues for you. Adults who are loud, who vocally stim, who have poor boundaries, poor hygiene, who cry in public, etc etc etc. And they're already socially ostracized for all of this.
So actually yeah, it's the bare minimum you can do for the group with the least human rights on the planet to figure out how to accept children as part of your public community without hating them for it, even if you are child-free yourself.
Foggy’s gotten pretty decent at naming which red-themed vigilante is coming through his window in the middle of the night without even opening his eyes: Matt tries to be quiet so he doesn’t wake him up, Deadpool is talking before he even gets the window open and Peter knocks like a goddamn decent human being.
“Come in!” he yells, deciding that he won’t get out of bed until he knows if there’s an emergency or Peter just wants to raid his first aid kit and fridge.
“Sorry, Mr. Nelson,” Peter says, climbing inside and dropping lightly to the floor. “I know it’s late but I had a question.”
“Shoot, Spiderboy,” Foggy says, sitting up to see Peter lingering awkwardly close by in full Spiderman gear and oversized hoodie, backpack slung over one shoulder.
“It’s just that Mr. Murdock said that you might be willing to look over one of my essays,” Peter says, “but I kind of got distracted doing, y’know--” Peter makes a vague punching motion with a soft pow sound. “--and it’s kind of due tomorrow morning.”
“Oh my god,” Foggy says, sighing and pushing aside his sheets to get out of bed. “This is actually the least stressful thing one of you weirdos has ever asked me to do. What’s your essay about?”
“Macbeth.”
“Y’know, Matt was an English major,” Foggy says, huffing out a laugh and finding a sweatshirt to pull on before he turns on the lights. “You should probably be offended that he passed you off on me.”
“What was your major?” Peter asks.
“Business,” Foggy says. “Did I ever tell you about how my mom wanted me to be a butcher?”
“You have,” Peter says, dutifully, sitting his backpack on the floor and digging through it, “but you can tell me again, if you want.”
“You’re a good kid,” Foggy says, taking the essay when Peter finds it and hands it to him. “There’s leftovers in the fridge. Go eat while I check this bad boy out.”
"You're my hero," Peter says, fervently.
Foggy's never been called that before.
He doesn't hate it.
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