#but this is about those two distinct identities

[pjowasmy1stfandom]

Okay, first off. THANK YOU SO MUCH for noticing the little details I put in. Even ones I hadn't consciously noticed!!

Some of these shots I had planned since the beginning and others were cause I needed a good transition or bc they came to me partway through. The book going to the TV report was one planned from the beginning, especially because, in the beginning, all Techno really wanted from life was to become one of the legendary authors. Now, he wants to stay out of the public eye as much as possible. (I'm not saying it's impossible for him to want, or even have, both things, but it'll certainly be difficult)

I was really hoping the viewer would be able to tell who the three shadows were. Phil I wasn't worried about, but the Piglins were basically just people without super distinctive silhouettes beyond 'there's two of them and Techno's been hallucinating them too' so I just hoped the silhouettes would be enough. Also part of me wanted to put the Wither in somewhere, but 1) I couldn't figure out how to add her exactly in a way that would make sense bc 2) I honestly couldn't remember if he hallucinated her or not because 3) Strangely enough, getting kidnapped by the Nether wasn't Techno's highest paranoia problem, haha

And yess, the fact that Phil won't stop showing Techno love, even when Techno's straight up hallucinating him is another one of the scenes that I daydreamed and instantly went 'yes, this is happening'. Hands are HARD, but it was worth it. Honestly, that third scene, right before it switches to Phil's face, is probably one of my absolute favorites.

I also really like the head jerk, Techno is just done with Phil and his love.

I wanted to do a whole spin sequence with the 'panicking again, dancing with adrenaline', as Techno did the whole running his bloody hands through his hair, to kinda have it be like everything's spinning out of Techno's control, but that was too hard for me to figure out when I got to that point and I didn't want to fight my brain, so I just did the swivel with Techno yelling instead.

Aaaaaa YESSSSS my ABSOLUTE FAVORITE PART OF THIS WHOLE THING. The hair flip is amazing and awesome. I kinda wanted the colors to be slightly closer, so it'd be more like the blood is staining Techno's hair as he's desperately trying to keep his personal identity to what he's made himself to be (rather than mold his entire way of thinking to what Phil wants or to what the Wither wants or to what anyone else wants). But yeah, the running his hands through his hair with stress and panic (I do it as a person with long hair, so it made sense. Also, I actually used myself as a perspective model for some of the shots to get angles right and such. Especially bc I have long hair, so I could figure out how his hair would fall) and the just kinda staring at his hands in shock and horror before looking up at Phil... Yessss

The eye shots were one of those transitions I just kinda did bc why not, honestly. I needed something more between the hair flip and Phil, but I wasn't sure what. Then my brain gave me this and went, 'you gotta' and refused to give me any explanation why it worked. I wasn't really sure why until you pointed it out. Yess, it'd be because he's seeing blood everywhere... (Also the fact that other versions of him are literally called Blood God...)

Fun fact, I was actually planning on having Phil have the blood-stained hands the whole time, but I didn't like it, it was too.... Mmm, stationary, I think? It wasn't interesting enough. So I changed it so he was just an ominous shadow standing guard until the last scene, where he reaches out to Techno with bloody outstretched hands, like he's waiting for Techno to run into his waiting arms

Do you think the minimal color pallette's good or would it be better in color? I went with it bc I was trying to see if it would affect my drawing/perfectionism, but in color would probably be cool too. It'd definitely take away from the dramatic hair flip scene though.

Anyway, happy Thanksgiving if you celebrate, and hope your probably semi-normal day goes especially well if you don't!

@nomsfaultau Here it is!! Voices In My Head, one of the songs that has joined my MFR playlist

I'm actually incredibly proud of this. I tried a new brush to try and combat my perfectionism and I think it worked, considering that this is done. I'm not super happy with some of the shots, but I think overall it looks alright!

Let me know what your favorite parts are!

[jellyfemmedyke]

I've been out as both a trans man and a butch lesbian at different times and I feel like, if I make a post about feminism or talk about how women are treated or anything revolving sexuality or sexualization or honestly really anything, in "leftist" spaces;

people treat me with MORE misogyny if I tell them that I'm a trans man vs telling them that I'm a butch lesbian, being a trans man really does give people permission to treat you with absolute vitriol.

It's the same kind of opinion they hold regardless, but they really just let loose if I say I'm the first one vs saying I'm butch, which causes them to pause more, and be less open about it. I have the same knowledge regardless of my identity, the information and experiences I'm giving you are the same. i'm bigender, so I'm both, but as a trans man it's like I've have to detranstion myself, I have to hide one side of my identity that's just as important as the other, to even be listen to at all. I know this has been said before. I've seen it, but to have it happen to frequently to me is really really weird

[exhausted-archivist]

On the topic of the inherent racism in the Qun and its people, with how baked in racism is, you can't buff it out and reformat. You can't remove it, and BioWare has only been doubling down on it up to Tevinter Nights in 2020. Which means you need to be careful with how you interact and build on it. At least that is how I approach it, in general I don't like to engage with it because it's just so difficult and not in any thought provoking or insightful way. So I refrain from doing so as much as possible in public spaces anyways, because it is so inherently unsafe for me to do so. From an interaction with fandom level, but also on a personal level because some of it makes me want to crawl out of my skin.

I am extremely weary of how da4 is going to portray them, I hope it will be better since the writing team has been moved around and there have been some acknowledgements on poor writing of stereotypes and biases in 2020. Which I take with a salt mine worth of salt, especially with the way the new comics like the Missing having lingering themes and stereotypes remaining. How Patrick Weekes described the rebelling antaam in Three Trees to Midnight (Tevinter Nights 2020) was the biggest red flag, followed by the yellow flag from As We Fly short story by Lukas Kristjanson (short story 2023).

With how BioWare has racism and harmful elements baked into the Qun and people in general it is going to difficult for them to fully separate it, update it, or reformat it. But I hope they do. I hope that they actually attempt to make it better like they have suggested they would. Because it is so harmful and they should. I don't think they'll get it right on the first try, but I hope they try. It won't magically fix the racism in the fandom but I would like to not feel the need to crawl out of my skin when playing a vashoth. I would like to see the franchise grow and become better than it started out as. I don't want it to stay stagnant for the sake of "consistency" which it doesn't have by design.

[askshivanulegacy]

THANK.

I had to suffer the psychic damage reading about how people have just decided experts don't matter because occasionally they're ... wrong?

TF, who do you think experts are SUPPOSED to be? And who do you think YOU are to decide they're wrong? Like YOU'RE never wrong about anything ever? What are YOUR credentials to be right? Are you equipped to give a sourced and cited argument??

Good grief, it's fine and dandy to question things and then go educate yourself about it, but like. These people are looking up nothing new and then barfing fantasy like it's real.

In less than 10 mins, I did my own superficial research, learned that 4th person pronouns didn't exist, AND identified the 4th wall/4th POV errors before anyone on Tumblr ever pointed it out, AND learned about pronoun categories which made everything crystal clear just in case there was any lingering confusion.

It's not like it's hard. "We can just MAKE 4th person pronouns real because we WANT to beCauSe tHaT's lANguaGe. And how dArE you qUesTIon scHoOlTeAchErs." Eat dry cinnamon.

I keep seeing the "chat is a fourth person pronoun" post and it's getting increasingly hard to avoid starting discourse in the notes of it. chat I don't think they know what these linguistics terms they're using mean

[owlbelly]

so. i understand where the sentiment "listening to an audiobook is the same thing as reading the book" is coming from - i mean, yes, the bottom line is you are taking in the same words in what is possibly a more accessible (or maybe just more enjoyable) format for you! and i'm 100% in agreement that "book snobs" who say "no you didn't really read it" if you listened to the audiobook are full of shit. ofc you should engage with stories in whatever way works for you, there is no moral or intellectual superiority to reading words off a page vs. listening to them

but it also is different? an audiobook is a performance. choices a narrator makes about line readings can drastically influence the meaning of the lines. even just different voices, accents, etc. - there are creative choices being made by the person delivering the words to you, and that affects your experience of the story in a different way than if you were making those choices in your own head. it might even change the way you visualize what's going on!

this isn't a bad thing it's just An Actual Thing & i think it's worth talking about. it rubs me the wrong way when people act like accommodations (and for many people audiobooks are an accommodation) always result in a completely identical experience, or even that they should, & if you suggest that people accessing media in different ways are having different experiences it's somehow ableist

anyway on rare occasions i really enjoy audiobooks but mostly they are much less accessible to me than words on a page (i need to be able to reread, flip back and forth, go at my own pace) & i also just really strongly prefer to encounter a text on my own before hearing someone else's performance of it, if possible! again i don't think it's "better" to read a physical book i just think it is a Distinct form of experiencing a story & acting like the two things are entirely the same is sort of doing a disservice to both

[mashpotatoe]

im a white jew, i was born in israel,

ive lived there all my life and was brought up in an environment that fosters racism driven by nationalism, nationalism driven by racism.

in israel, they teach you jews and muslims (though usually, they just say arabs) have always been enemies, the same way the US deems the entire middle east as a inherent war zone, ridding them of the responsibility for perpetuating war in thst region.

they tell you "were the fair and humane side who strives for peace! its the arabs who never accept the offer!"

i remember the first time i began doubting that sentiment was in fourth grade, when we were having a discussion in class about the character of Saul from the Torah. the teacher was talking about how Saul, the first monarch of the Kingdom of Israel, used to fight the Philistines, and when she added that the Philistines were the natural enemy of the Israelites, she asked the class what group of people is their modern equivalent to which everyone very eagerly replied "Arabs!" and nevermind that there in that same class sat two arab boys, one of whom sat next to me, who i looked at and thought "but he isnt my enemy? hes just a boy in my class."

they teach you to hate arabs. sometimes they say it outright. sometimes they say it more carefully, or make a distinction between good and bad arabs, those who are with us and those who are against us.

in a state based on the idea of (white) jewish supremacy, they teach you jews are naturally superior. they use the conspiratorial narrative of "jews controlling the world" to their favor, giving their own watered down explanation for why antisemitism exists, saying that it must be driven by jealousy.

the zionist movement always used antisemitism to its advantage, either for reinforcing the notion of jewish supremacy or appealing to the real pain and trauma of generations, people who survived the holocaust, connecting them to stolen land where they are "guaranteed" safety ergo granting "justification" for the suffering of others.

its using peoples real pain that makes fear mongering so effective, and when the israeli population grows up being told all of their neighboring countries want to kill them, they quickly get defensive of the "only land where they can feel safe", but the only explanation ever provided for Why these neighboring countries are considered enemies is because theyre arabs.

and when it comes to palestine, it isnt even recognized as a country, nor identity. just a threat. ive talked to many people who are genuinely unaware of the occupation, and they arent willing to believe it either, because the media narrative has successfully shifted the blame on hamas. because "how could it be us? we want peace! its the terrorists who make us look bad! and their children, they grow up to be antisemites*, might as well get rid of them too!" they never stop to think what environment these children must grow up in to develop these "radical" ideas.

* what they mean by antisemite is really just antizionist, but the term anti/zionist isnt practiced in local dialect, being a zionist is treated as a given

any jew who stands against israels oppression is dubbed a self hating jew, but the biggest contributors to antisemitism is the people in charge of an ethnostate, because at any moment they could decide who is not white enough to be jewish, who is too jewish to be white, who stood against the current coalition government and who is an obedient dog.

israelis arent a monolith, but many of them have been won over, convinced its an "us v them" situation, when in reality it could never be the "us" that "loses"

the israeli government was waiting for an event like the massacre on the seventh of october to declare war, to have the so called "right to defend itself", so they could initiate the final steps of an ethnic genocide and displace, if not kill, all remaining palestinians. under the guise of bringing peace.

it isnt too late to call for a permanent ceasefire, to end the occupation.

please contact your representatives, attend protests and rallies if you are able. palestine will be free, and the flowers will rise again.

[madelynraemunson]

pass the salt • e.m. smut

DAD’S BEST FRIEND!OLDER!EDDIE x FEM!READER

part two here

summary: you’re home from college and staying with your dad for the summer, spending as much time as you possibly can with him…and his hot best friend that you’ve never seen in your life.

authors note: okay have you guys ever seen those text posts like “when you say ‘daddy pass the salt please’ and your father and your man both reach for it” 💀💀 well this is inspired by that concept. also i went overboard and this is a LONG BOI

disclaimers — photo credits to @eddiemunsons-missingnipple 🫶🏼porn with plot, reader’s nickname is “sunshine”, reader has female anatomy, race unspecified, divider: @iluvpooks

NSFW — 18+ obv, porn with plot, daddy kink pls keep scrolling if it’s not ur thing, slight age gap (eddie is mid to late 30s, reader is in her early 20s), corruption kink, size kink, masturbation (m&f), p in v sex (protected), dirty talk, teasing, sexual innuendos, extreme flirting, eddie kinda being a perv, praise kink

The sound of breakfast on the griddle summons you downstairs.

Dad never cooks.

For as long as you can remember, weekends at your dad’s have always consisted of Lucky Charms cereal and powdered donuts. That tradition continued even after you started college.

Oh yeah. Someone is here, alright. Someone Dad desperately wants to impress.

Trailing after the commotion, your fuzzy pink slippers guide you down the wooden steps of your dad’s ‘bachelor pad’ and into the kitchen. And when you near the bottom of the steps, you can make out two distinct voices — one belonging to Dad, another belonging to someone who's identity is obscure.

“God, I fucking missed you, Jeff. Missed everyone so much.”

The smells of pancake batter, cigarette smoke, mint, and petroleum fuel reel you in, but not nearly as much as the sight of the man sitting on the opposite side of your dad. He's built, handsome with wavy brown hair, leather, black denim, twiddling a toothpick between his teeth as he listens to your dad speak with a smile on his face. That is, until you come into sight. It then that his intense focus circles in on you.

Funny. You don’t remember this friend. And something in your gut tells you that you won’t ever be forgetting him after this.

The stranger's grin curls into a wonder-filled smirk. You can feel your knees start to buckle.

“Uh oh. Looks like our shenanigans woke up Sleeping Beauty.”

When you get a closer look at Dad’s friend, you observe his faint brown beard — neatly kept and lightly peppered with some gray — delicious lips, shiny white teeth, and grooves along his laugh lines that would deepen with every theatrical cackle he belted out.

You can't help but freeze in your tracks as him and your dad continue on with their banter, reliving their glory days like it was yesterday. Man. What a damn dreamboat.

Your dad’s eyes light up with glee when he sees you.

“Hey, good morning, Sunshine!” Dad cheers. “Thought you’d never wake up. This is my friend Eddie. We were in that band together in high school. Come say hi.”

"Yeah, come say hi," Eddie agrees. feeding into the obvious tension in the room. "I don't bite."

The stranger laughs at his own comment as soon as he utters it.

There’s a charm — a magic — about Eddie that could only be found in Hollywood or the Big City. But of course, you didn't expect any less from Dad's supposed ‘Rockstar Friend’.

When your parents had you at 17, life went on for Dad’s band Corroded Coffin. And although he missed out on the ‘Sex, Drugs, and Rock&Roll’, Dad insists that tea parties and white picket fences were an ideal trade-off. Because — despite how things ended with Mom — it still meant a life spent with you.

You tell him your name as Eddie offers you his hand to shake. Electricity serges through you when your hand is enveloped by his firm, calloused one. Eddie smiles down at you, his presence all-consuming. It's almost as if he knows it. And as much as you were dying to, you resist the urge to fall into him.

Eddie's no better.

It takes everything in Eddie's power to keep his eyes above your collarbones, reprimanding himself with the utmost tedium. Because heaven knows he'd be TOAST if his best friend found out that Eddie thought that you were absolutely stunning — strutting around the house the way that you do, without a bra underneath that poor excuse of a sleep shirt — a sleep shirt far too tight for your own good. With tight, pajama shorts to match…

Of course, this is all an assumption…Not that he caught wind of it or anything.

“You know…” he mentions. “Your dad has told me SO much about little miss Sunshine.”

“Me, really?” is all you can say behind those fuscia cheeks.

“Really,” Eddie insists. “He never shuts up about you, darling.”

“Hopefully you’ve only heard good things,” you mutter faintly.

And instantly, your dad and Eddie share a laugh.

“Only good things,” Eddie assures you. He nudges your dad playfully.

Your dad doesn’t exactly deny the last part, basically confirming to Eddie that you’ve got a hint of spunk to you. The heat settles at your cheeks as you shy away from your father’s curious friend.

Taking note of how timid you’ve just become, Eddie furrows his brows.

“What — was that an implication that you’re not always good?”

“No comment,” your smile melts into an awkward one.

“Kept me on my toes back then,” your dad reflects with a sigh. “Keeps me on my toes now.”

“You don’t say…” Eddie smirks slightly, gaze panning back over to you.

Eventually your dad leaves you two alone, going into the garage to fetch something that he insists Eddie would like. But little did he know that such thing was already in the room, leaning…reaching into the fridge for some orange juice, not realizing its atmosphere caused your nipples to harden.

Eddie’s eyes proceed to follow you as you strut back to the griddle, flipping some hot cakes over before tending to your messy bedhead.

Eddie probably doesn’t know — or maybe he does, who knows? — that you feel him staring at you. It’s a burning gaze that practically impales you, but you’re too nervous to say anything. You’re better off pretending like it’s something you don’t notice.

You and Eddie continue to help yourselves to breakfast, enjoying the company of each other and your mutual silence. That is, until Eddie speaks up.

“Got some sausage for you if you’d like.”

“I’m sorry?” you sputter, looking up from your food.

Eddie shoots you a weird glance as he holds up some breakfast franks.

“Sausage?” he repeats. “Store was out of beef so I settled for turkey. Hope that’s not a problem.”

“Not at all,” you clear your throat. “I love turkey sausage.”

“Okay, good,” Eddie chuckles, seemingly relieved at how quickly the situation had diffused.

“Cool,” you chuckle with him while taking some links to cook.

The silence returns once more and is replaced by the sizzling of the grill. It’s short lived, however, because soon, the man nearly twice your age speaks again.

“What’d you think I said?” Eddie circles back.

“Nothing, why?”

“You just looked stunned.”

“I just woke up,” you shrug. “My mind’s somewhere else.”

“I can tell,” he smirks. “Get that thing out of the gutter.”

The coming days paved way for some more innocent flirting.

…Like when you make sure to wear the shortest skirt in your closet when running Eddie his afternoon beer in the garage.

“Well don’t you look absolutely darling…” he says as he peers up from his guitar.

“Hehe,” you smirk connivingly. “Thank you!”

“You are so welcome.”

Eddie downs the liquid guilt along with his pride, watching you strut around…the hem of that pleated cotton fabric just barely covering the roundness of your asscheeks. And as you blush a rosy pink when you process his little remarks, Eddie can only clear his throat in arousal, fantasizing about just how badly he wanted to turn your other cheeks that very shade.

…Or when you come downstairs the next day to help Dad manually wash his car.

While he and Eddie are harassing each other with soap and that god-forsaken hose, you decide to join in on all the fun.

“Watch out, Sunshine,” Eddie forewarns. “You’ve just entered the splash zone!”

And with the intention of cooling you off on a hot summer day like this, Eddie teasingly sprays you with said hose, your white shirt becoming transparent when lathered with water. He could see everything. Your erect nipples. Your perky tits bouncing in the sunlight as you jump around in excitement. How glazed your oil-nnuendo’ed skin looked when glimmering in the sun. All as intended.

“You got me,” you surrender yourself to him. “You got me good, Eddie.”

And when you walk away, Eddie mutters slyly to himself.

“Yes, yes I did.”

…And then there’s dessert after dinner.

Eddie watches as you lick your popsicle, his fingers curling at his thighs in arousal as you retract the wrapper before enclosing your lips around the bright pink dessert. And he swears he’s going to blow his pants when he envisions the melted sugar shooting into your mouth with the swiftest hollowing of your cheeks, the quiet suction noise you make with your pursed lips forcing him to adjust the way he’s sitting.

…The final instance takes the cake.

“What’s your major?”

You’re in the home library grazing some of Dad’s old books and vinyls, talking to Eddie while your father gets ready for the day. Meanwhile, Eddie is perched at your dad’s desk, rolling around in his expensive swivel chair and occasionally doing some spins on it to make you laugh.

“History.”

“Sounds boring.”

“You just haven’t found a topic that interests you,” you point out.

“Mm,” is all Eddie says. “Maybe I will eventually.”

Eddie watches as you waltz around in front of him, following your movements with his eyes as you get onto your tippy-toes in order to grab some books on the top shelf.

“Oh my god!” you yelp.

Your plan to entice him seemingly fails when you graze a book that’s halfway off the shelf. It’s already flying off of its platform, headed straight towards Eddie's lap before you can even stop it.

Eddie catches it before any damage can be done, saving Dad’s old campaign book with the hand furthest from you and snaking the other around your waist to prevent you from sinking any further into him.

Phew. Crisis averted.

Your eyes meet again.

“I’m so sorry, Eddie,” you gasp in embarrassment. “That book has a mind of its own.”

“You’re fine,” Eddie laughs. “Can’t defy the laws of gravity. Sometimes it betrays us.”

You feel yourself burning up a fever. Excusing yourself from the room, you leave Dad’s library and make your way over to the kitchen for a glass of water.

But you’re nearly taken aback when you feel tight, calloused hands wrap around your hips, and like a feather it’s like you’re whisked away into the air, and soon your body is pressed up against the wall.

Slam!

Breathing heavily against each other now — chest to chest, lips so unbearably close you can smell the whiskey — Eddie draws you even closer to him. You both study each other intently. It’s like you’re waiting for the other to say something. Eddie does the honors and speaks first.

“I wasn’t born last night, doll. I was also your age at one point.”

———

To his own despair, Eddie touches himself later that night. Facing your room, he strokes his rock hard cock with his lotioned-up hand, running his thumb across the slit of his head, pretending it’s your tongue giving him a little tease like you did the popsicle.

“Fuuuck,” he grunts quietly. “You like when I fuck your throat, baby? Gonna suck me dry with that pretty little mouth of yours?”

You’re playing make-believe just as much. Because at the same time, in your room, you’re a drooling, pathetic mess, riding your wall-mounted toy to oblivion in your bathroom, legs trembling when the thick, veiny piece of silicone slams into the spongy part of your heat, initiating shock-waves all across your body.

“Eddie,” you find yourself blubbering. “EddieEddieEddieEddie…”

You both know it can’t be like this, but that was the mere thrill of it all. And when you both have overcome your peak, just one mere wall apart, the floodgates of guilt outweighs both your arousals the way it comes pouring in.

So, so wrong. But oh, so right.

You’re anticipating…waiting…aching for Eddie to make the next move.

He doesn’t.

“Going to the store again,” Eddie announces. “Hopefully this time they’ll have beef sausage. Need anything?”

Need you, is what you think. But you end up shaking your head, a part of you disappointed that you and Eddie won’t be able to spend some time alone together.

“No,” there’s defeat in your voice.

“Are you sure?” Eddie questions softly.

“Mhm,” you nod.

“Okay,” he gives you a grin, one in the form of a tight-lipped smile. “I’ll be right back. You be good.”

“Ha-ha,” you roll your eyes.

——

Eddie leaves the door of his room open that night. Just a smidge. You end up following the sound of his TV that he’s placed at a low volume, making out that it’s Seinfeld just by Jerry’s voice and the laugh track.

Your heart skips a beat as Eddie laughs along with the show, shaking his head at a stupid joke. But he shifts his focus immediately onto you when he sees you at the doorway.

“Having some alone time tonight?” you ask him.

“Mmm…not by choice,” he responds. “Tuckered your dad out after dinner doing P90X.”

Eddie follows a crazy workout routine. He says that it helps with his stamina, especially when he does crowd work during his stage performances. Your mind can’t help but wonder what else he may be using it for.

You snort. “Yeah. Dad wasn’t what you’d call an athlete in high school.”

Eddie laughs at that too. Both you and him know that.

He then pats the space on his bed beside him. “Wanna come watch with me?”

Your stomach does a series of cartwheels when you process Eddie’s question. You know what’s bound to happen if you follow through. And it seems Eddie knows it too. Even if there wasn’t any sexual tension between you both already, the concept of it all would rub anyone that way.

But you still follow through with it. Just like Eddie knew you would.

“You comfortable?” Eddie asks you, eyeing you endearingly as you squirm around on the bed.

“Yeah,” you breathe.

“Good…” he replies, voice nearly at a strained whisper now.

You two watch the show in silence for a few minutes, exchanging commentary and pleasantries regarding the show every so often. It’s not too long after Eddie pulls a laugh from you that he starts closing up the space between you both, scooting himself closer…and resting his gruff palm over the base of your knee.

You inhale sharply as he does so. And evident by your refusal to pull away, it’s enough of a green light for Eddie to hike up further.

A soft moan escapes your mouth from the back of your flustered throat, but you bite your lip in restraint.

"I'm sorry," you whisper.

"For what?”

You shrug sheepishly as Eddie continues to graze your thigh. Your breathing falters even more.

“Don’t be scared,” Eddie coos.

“I’m not,” you insist.

“Then what’s stopping you from getting on top of me? Hm?”

He’s in between your legs now, the rough material of his denim jeans riding up your sex, teasing your clit with every calculated rub against it.

“And riding my rock hard cock til those pretty legs give out?” Eddie continues. “I see how you’ve been looking at me, doll. It's all over your face how bad you want it.”

“The bed is squeaky,” you answer honestly. “And that headboard is a lost cause.”

Eddie puts the dirty talk on pause, squirming around to assess the guest bed’s squeak factor. When it checks out, he gives you an understanding nod. You giggle.

Eddie wastes no more time. You watch as he grabs one of the pillows on the bed and wedges it between the wall and headboard. He issues you a sly smile.

“Oldest trick in the book.”

You're back to fooling around shortly after, your aching core burning with lust as you pine for him.

“The boys at school ever touch you this good?” Eddie quips rubbing circles around your puffy, needy folds as you hopelessly cling to him out of pleasure.

“No, Eddie.”

“Didn’t think so.”

He continues to tease, gliding his fingers along your slit before slowly inserting two large digits inside of you.

His calculated pumps into your needy pussy are steady, a pace so agonizingly beautiful that it makes you squeal sweet nothings into the crook of his neck.

"Shh, baby," Eddie hushes you. "Your dad's gonna hear us. Gotta be quiet for me, mkay?"

Your hot, messy, and muffled sounds cease as Eddie soothes your quivering lips with his tender ones.

The wet sounds that ricochet and fill the room in tandem is almost enough to send him over. And Eddie is sure to communicate that… with an abrupt curving of his three thick fingers.

Fuck.

Needing him direly now, you tug helplessly at his pants.

“God, Eddie,” you whimper. “Just fuck me already. Please.”

Eddie laughs at the desperation. He hasn’t ravaged you to his fullest extent yet, and you’re already a pooling mess beside him.

“Well since you said please, sweet girl,” Eddie obliges as he starts to undress himself. “Your wish is my command."

You watch Eddie as reaches over into the bedside drawer for a fresh box of condoms. Looks like the sausage links weren't the only things he went to the store for.

“Oh.”

Eddie chuckles at your observation before shrugging. Can you really blame him? You both knew what was coming.

You watch with absolute lust as Eddie slides the piece of rubber over his long, girthy, throbbing cock. He’s bigger than anyone you’ve ever had before, and the snarky, hooded-eye smile as he watches you fawn reveals to you that he knows exactly how to use it.

"On your stomach, babygirl. Will have you all nice and pounded out just like you wanted.”

You situate yourself in prone and spread your legs for Eddie to line himself up against them. He teases his wrapped cock against the entrance of your pussy, and when his soothing countdown is over, your lips part in disposition as you accommodate his ruinous stretch.

A throaty moan spills out of the both of you the moment Eddie snaps his hips in and out of you. Meanwhile, one of his hands lays tauntingly at your stomach, so the prideful man can feel himself wriggling inside you, glazing his shaft with your slick more and more with every pump into your weak cunt.

"Fuck, Eddie... yes..." you mewl. "R-right there, Eddie, please..."

And then it picks up. You can feel Eddie’s hips practically collapse right onto you, his balls slapping against you as he digs further into your body.

"God damn..." the man sighs in disbelief.

He can only beam down at you in awe. You were taking him so good, pussy swallowing him so nice and tight. And when you nestle your ankles between each other to keep him there in prone, the nearly cries out in pleasure, but refrains because he knows your dad is resting — just a thin wall over.

That still doesn’t stop him from going to town though. Practically seeing stars, the broken record of a mouth that belongs to you chants Eddie’s name like it’s all you know. Eddie attempts to keep you contained, offering you his fingers to suck on as he’s railing you dumb.

And when he fucks you through your climax, Eddie continues with his string of lust-filled praises, satisfied at himself that he was able to make you wet enough to soak the mattress.

“Did so good for me, angel,” he praises you as he sucks at your temple. “Always knew you weren’t all that innocent.”

The griddle comes out again on Eddie’s last day. But this time, for a homestyle southern dinner.

You and Eddie were on mashed potatoes and gravy duty at the stove, an ordeal that only opened doors for lots of innuendos on Eddie’s part. Meanwhile, Dad insisted on making the rest, having taken pride in continuing his Mama’s legacy.

“This is amazing, Daddy,” you rave. “I really missed this. Do you mind passing the salt, please?”

And to your horror, you watch as your father and Eddie automatically extend their arms, bumping into one another in the process en route to getting you the salt.

The gentlemen meet each other’s eyes.

“Ohp!” Eddie exclaims, letting out a slight chuckle. “Sorry.”

You try your hardest not to blush. Eddie kicks you from under the table, and softly he oh-so-seductively he mutters,

“I was just tryna help her out.”

[whateveriwant]

18+ mdni

I know I’m far from the first person to say this, but I love the idea of Simon and Ghost being like two separate people.

Like on the one hand you have Simon, the caring, devoted family man who holds his duty to his loved ones above all else, and on the other hand you have Ghost, the cold, detached soldier whose only driving forces in life are his need for blood, order, and karmic justice. Or one moment he’s Simon, the wisecracking goofball trading jokes with his comrades over the radio, and the next moment he’s Ghost, the sadistic interrogator hooking up enemy combatants to live car batteries.

And those are just a few in-universe examples we’ve seen of this divide in Simon Riley’s identity. Imagine what it’s like in his day-to-day life; what it must be like as his significant other trying to navigate such a personality schism.

Is it Simon who you’re about to pick up from the airport, the one who’ll eagerly take you into his arms the second you step into the terminal? Or is it him, Ghost, the one who’ll not hug you or kiss you or so much as hold your hand over the center console during the drive home?

Is it Simon who sits across the dinner table from you tonight, the one who, given the right amount of liquor, will regale you with (heavily redacted) stories of his time away? Or is it Ghost, the one who, no matter how well fed, fueled, and fucked he is, remains as tight-lipped as a corpse?

Is it Simon you’ll wake up beside tomorrow, finding him gazing at you like you’re a gift from God? Or is it Ghost who’ll leave behind cold, carefully tucked sheets for you to discover in the morning, wondering if he ever came to bed at all last night?

Is it Simon you feel beginning to stir behind you, who warms you up with soft kisses and sweeter touches before he makes gentle love to you? Or is it Ghost you feel pressing hard and hot against your lower back, who holds you down by the throat as he fucks you through the mattress?

Is it Simon who stumbles into the kitchen when you accidentally nick yourself with a knife, who helps wash and bandage your finger until it’s as good as new? Or is it Ghost who spots the crimson spilling from your hand, who sticks your bloodied finger in his mouth so he can suck it clean?

Is it Simon who’s dying to spend hours with his head between your thighs, much preferring to give over to receive? Or is it Ghost who’s pushing you down to your knees, clutching your head between both hands, and skull-fucking you until you’re dripping with spit and almost passing out from lack of oxygen?

Just the thought of these two distinct, almost opposing personalities coexisting in the same body is super intriguing to me. And how at the drop of a hat, he could switch from one to the other, leaving you guessing who it is you’re really dealing with at any given moment.

[gossippool]

hi welcome back to leanne rewatches deadpool & wolverine and goes insane about every single detail in this movie. in this edition: how logan's clothes reflect the trajectory of his character

1. the suit—inside

so we start off with the scene in the bar where logan appears to be wearing what we're used to seeing him wear. flannels, leather jackets. his outfit and even the setting is not at all unfamiliar for him. but, as we later find out, he was wearing the suit underneath all those layers the whole time.

during his talk with laura, he reveals that he wears the suit to remember those he'd lost, and as a reminder of what he'd done. he's had the suit on permanently for god knows how long, hidden under his clothes. at this point he bears the suit like a cross, suffering in silence under the guise of normalcy, yet sacrificing what's left of his identity by reducing himself to what the suit represents; by taking all the jabs and nasty looks people throw at him that he thinks he's too deserving of to combat.

2. the suit—outside

after wade pulls him out, he has the suit on display for quite a while. on one hand, it shows the fight that's in him now as a contrast to his passivity in his own world. on the other hand, it's also a sort of vulnerability: what that suit stands for and by extension what he himself is is now laid bare to the world. out in the open for people to question. maybe that fight that's in him now stems precisely from this vulnerability.

this vulnerability is both good and bad for him: it causes him to lash out at the questions from wade that he's not ready to answer. it also leads him to open up to laura and finally speak about what happened—who knows if he's ever said any of it out loud before. fun! even with just the suit, we're already seeing some development.

and THIS is where it gets interesting.

3. the white shirt—his mind

the first time we truly see him without the suit is when cassandra nova looks into his mind. i've been going back and forth on whether this is logan's own manifestation of himself or if it's cassandra's, and i still don't know. i think the distinction does matter, but in the end what it conveys is the same.

firstly, another layer of vulnerability again. he's already on his knees for cassandra, submissive—now in his mind he's also stripped as bare as he can be (i think we all know white shirts can sometimes leave little to the imagination). cassandra looks at him and says "you're hiding ... from all the ones you let down." how interesting is that?? if we go all the way back to the first scene, he hides his suit under normal clothes. and he hides this version of him in his mind even further underneath all of that.

secondly and as an extension of that point, white symbolises purity. cleanliness. even a promise of new beginnings. let's tackle this from the two possible perspectives.

if this is logan's manifestation of himself, it would be so intriguing that this is how he appears. maybe it means that despite it all, there's some good in him. maybe it means that deep, deep down, past all the shame and the guilt and the grief, there's still a part of his mind where he can just be.

on the other hand, the white could also symbolise a second chance—like i said, a promise of new beginnings. i made a post about this scene here, but the basic point is that cassandra is offering him something that no one else may ever be able to offer him. a chance to fully be himself, to silence the voices. the white is such a stunning visual representation of what she is saying logan could be if he stays with her. which makes it even more poignant that he doesn't.

4. the time ripper

after this scene, he's in the suit again, necessarily. but then! BUT THEN!!!!! the time ripper!!! y'all need to understand the significance of this scene in all its nuances FR! here you can look at his abs again:

but the thing is we know by now what the suit represents. all his failures, all his guilt, his inability to let go of his past. it represents him. isn't it just so fitting that it's at this point where he saves the fucking world that the suit breaks away. it breaks away from him. he's free. this not the same as him just taking it off, because with it breaking into pieces he literally cannot wear it anymore. this is not just a hugh jackman body appreciation, this is logan finally moving on. this is him realising that he is not a failure, that he is not his failures, that he has something else to live for.

5. him

and oh my god, we finally make it to the extremely satisfying ending. after all of that, we finally come full circle. he's in his normal clothes again, the wife beater and the flannel, except this time without anything underneath. he's no longer defined by that one incident, defined by his mistakes and the people he let down. he is just him.

[greengoblinswifey]

More than Friends- Brother’s Bsf!Nicholas Chavez x Fem!Reader

summary— you’ve always had a secret crush on Nicholas, your brother’s best friend and your childhood friend. when he invites you to his show’s premiere, long-buried feelings finally surface, and you face what’s been growing between you all these years.

warnings— friends to lovers, loss of virginity, jealous!nicholas, oral, unprotected sex(don’t let a 🥷🏿 fuck you without one) , fingering, praise kink, fluff, aftercare.

a/n— requests are open <3

You had known Nicholas Chavez for as long as you could remember. He’d been your brother’s best friend since the early days, which naturally made him a big part of your life, too. He was only three years older, but there’d always been a distinct gap, he was your older brother's cool best friend, the one you looked up to, even if you’d never admit it out loud. There was something about him, though, that always lingered in the back of your mind, a pull you couldn't quite name but always felt.

Growing up, you and Nicholas shared a special bond, separate from his friendship with your brother. You’d go out together, always managing to find matching clothes or even wearing identical rings. “Twins,” he’d joke, holding up his hand to show the ring you had given him on his birthday. It was simple and unassuming, but every time you glanced at it, there was an unspoken tension that lay just beneath the surface, neither of you daring to bring it up.

But as the years went by, things changed. Nicholas landed a role on Monsters and Grotesquerie, the TV shows that catapulted him to fame, and it wasn’t long before his life was full of red carpets and late-night shoots. He was often away, and you’d find yourself scrolling through TikTok edits of him when he was too busy to FaceTime. Everyone on social media couldn’t stop talking about how attractive he was, how lucky any girl would be to date him. A knot would twist in your stomach every time you saw those comments, jealousy mixing with a feeling you weren’t quite ready to acknowledge.

Whenever he did have a moment to breathe, he’d reach out, sometimes posting photos of the two of you together on his stories. His fans would flock to your profile, leaving jealous comments or speculating if you were more than just childhood friends. One time, you’d posted a shot of your hand with his, each of you wearing those same rings from years ago. Fans had gone wild, and your brother hadn’t missed it, either, throwing you a suspicious glance when he’d noticed.

One day, he called you out of the blue with a proposition: he wanted you to be his plus-one for the premiere of Monsters. You’d agreed, trying to keep your excitement in check, though a part of you hoped this might finally be the moment when something would shift between you.

The night of the premiere, you could hardly believe it was happening. The cameras flashed as Nicholas introduced you to his co-stars and other industry people, and people couldn’t stop asking if the two of you were together. Each time, though, he’d shake his head with a soft laugh, throwing an arm around your shoulders and saying, “Nah, she’s like my little sister. We grew up together. It’s nothing like that.”

The words cut deeper than you’d expected. It wasn’t until that moment, standing beside him under the bright lights, that you realized you were in love with him. Maybe you had been for a long time.

It hurt, watching him play it off as though your bond meant nothing more than childhood nostalgia, knowing he would never see you the way you wanted him to.

He turned to you at one point, noticing your silence. “Hey, are you okay? You’ve been really quiet tonight.”

“Yeah,” you replied, forcing a smile. “I’m fine. Just, taking it all in, I guess.”

He raised an eyebrow, looking like he didn’t quite believe you, but he let it go, just pulling you closer for a photo.

At the after-party, you decided to let loose a bit. Nicholas was busy mingling, so when Cooper Koch found you, you didn’t hold back. With a mischievous grin, you allowed yourself to dance, feeling free as you moved with Cooper, who, to your surprise, didn’t seem to mind the attention either. You leaned in, laughing as the music pulsed around you, and let your body fall into rhythm with his.

Suddenly, a firm hand grabbed your arm and pulled you back, breaking the spell. “What the hell was that?” Nicholas’s voice was low, his eyes narrowed as he stared at you. He looked annoyed, even... jealous?

“I was just having fun, Nick. It’s a party,” you said, shrugging nonchalantly, though your heart was racing.

He clenched his jaw, looking away from you, and after a tense silence, muttered, “Whatever.” Then he ignored you for the rest of the night.

In response, you doubled down, laughing a little too loudly with Cooper and reaching for his hand as you leaned against him. You could feel Nicholas’s eyes on you now and then, but he kept his distance.

When the party finally ended, you were a bit tipsy, and walking in heels felt like a challenge. Nicholas was by your side in an instant, his arm slipping under your shoulders. "Come on," he muttered, guiding you out. The car ride back was quiet, filled with tension you could almost taste.

Once you reached his place, he carried you to the guest room, careful but intense, his gaze meeting yours with each step. He laid you down gently on the bed, eyes dark as they flicked from your face to your lips. For a moment, he lingered, and before you could stop yourself, you leaned up and kissed him.

The kiss was electric, and he leaned into it, his hands moving instinctively, pulling you closer. But just as quickly, he pulled away, shaking his head. “I can’t do this. Not with you. I can’t do that to your brother.”

You looked at him, a mix of hurt and defiance swirling in your eyes. Before he could say more, you slipped out of your dress, revealing the delicate lace you wore underneath. His breath hitched, and his eyes traveled over you, unable to tear away. "Damn it," he muttered, running a hand through his hair before lowering himself back down, his lips meeting yours again, more desperate this time.

“Forget everything I said,” he whispered against your skin.

Nicholas's fingers slipped down, finding your pussy wet and eager, his touch precise as he stroked and teased you. He rubbed your clit slowly, staring into your eyes, the moment was intimate and everything you ever dreamed of. His thumb rubbed your clit as he slipped his finger inside you and you felt like the world around you ceased to exist. The pleasure built until you couldn't hold back, your body arching as he pushed you over the edge. You lay there, breathing heavily, and as he leaned back, your words broke through the haze between you.

"Nicholas, I'm a virgin," you confessed softly, your cheeks flushing as his eyes widened.

Nicholas looked down at you, visibly stunned, his voice a little rough. "Wait, you're a virgin? But, what about your exes? I thought—"

You shook your head, a small smile tugging at your lips. "Yeah, two boyfriends, but my brother scared them off from anything serious. And, honestly, they just weren’t, the right one." You met his gaze, your hand reaching for his. "But you are, Nicholas. I want this. I want it to be you."

He hesitated, taking in your words, the sincerity in your eyes. “Are you sure?” he asked, his fingers brushing softly against your cheek, still searching for reassurance.

You nodded, your answer clear in the warmth of your expression.

He leaned down, pressing gentle kisses along your body, his touch reverent and careful. As he moved lower, he whispered, “I want to make this good for you.” His mouth pressed against your sensitive clit, eyes never leaving yours as he tasted you slowly, purposefully, coaxing wave after wave of pleasure from you until you finally came, breathless.

You reached out to his clothed cock to help him, but he shook his head, a smile curving his lips. “Tonight’s about you pretty girl,” he murmured, his voice warm and low. “This is your first time, and I want to make sure it’s perfect. Just relax. Let me take care of you.”

The room was quiet, the kind of stillness that carried a weight of its own. The two of you sat close, the low lighting casting soft shadows across his face. Nicholas had been your friend for years, practically family, and yet, right now, that familiar face held a depth you hadn’t seen before.

He brushed his thumb along your cheek, a touch he'd offered countless times in comfort or friendship, but this time, he lingered, his thumb tracing the delicate line of your cheekbone. Your breath caught, the air thickening between you. The words tumbled from his lips, barely above a whisper, as if he feared breaking the fragile tension. “Are you sure?”

You nodded, heart pounding, and took his hand, intertwining your fingers as if grounding yourself in the moment. “I’ve waited so long, Nick.” He swallowed, his gaze steady, the quiet weight of everything unspoken passing between you.

With a hint of humor to ease your nerves, you took in the sight of him, and your eyes widened. “That’s gonna go inside me?” you said, slightly stunned. He chuckled softly, with a smirk that was all confidence and warmth. “It’ll fit. I’ll make it fit.”

He placed your hand in his, pressing a gentle kiss to your knuckles. “Just say the word if it’s too much, and I’ll stop.”

Every step was deliberate, every touch gentle as he moved slowly, his focus entirely on you. He watched your face, the slightest changes in your expression, waiting for any sign of discomfort. “You’re doing so well,” he whispered, his voice filled with awe as your grip tightened around his fingers. Each small movement was slow, careful, his whispered reassurances grounding you.

You gasped, and he immediately stilled, eyes scanning your face. “Everything okay?” His tone was soft, a mixture of concern and patience. A shaky breath left your lips, and you nodded, steadying yourself as his gentle encouragement filled the space between you.

“I’ve always loved you, you know that, right?” you whispered, almost afraid to say the words out loud. He hovered just inches from your face, his lips brushing against yours as he replied with a smile that held years of unspoken emotions. “Yeah,” he murmured, voice soft and warm. “I think I always have too, I was just too scared to admit it.”

Nicholas stayed close, his hand finding yours as he moved slowly, stretching you and practically reaching your cervix before whispering, “Are you okay, sweetheart?”

You nodded, breathless. “Yes Nicholas, please, don't stop.”

He chuckled softly, eyes full of adoration as he pressed a tender kiss to your forehead. “You're taking me so well,” he murmured, his voice warm and encouraging. “I knew you would.” His words and steady movements built you up again until you came all over his thick cock, your body clenching around him as he held you close, grounding you with gentle praise.

“That's it, beautiful, let go for me,” he whispered, kissing your shoulder and neck. When your breathing slowed, he gently flipped you onto your stomach, his touch delicate as he continued, tracing kisses along your shoulders and down your back. “You’re so beautiful, do you know that?” His hands gripped your hips, guiding your movements as you felt the tension building again, his whispered words filling you with warmth and reassurance.

With one final thrust, he groaned, spilling onto your back, then smiled, tracing his fingers along your spine. “You’ve always had the most perfect ass,” he teased, making you laugh as you both caught your breath.

Afterward, he was attentive and gentle, cleaning you up carefully, checking in with soft words and brushing stray hair out of your face. “Are you okay baby? Did I hurt you at all?”

You shook your head, a peaceful smile spreading across your face. “No. You were perfect, Nick.”

He climbed into bed beside you, wrapping you in his arms and pulling you close, pressing gentle kisses along your face, your nose, your eyelids, and murmuring, “You’ve always been mine. I just, didn’t know how to tell you.” His fingers traced patterns along your back as he held you, letting the night settle around you both.

In his embrace, with his whispered reassurances, you felt safe, warm, and exactly where you’d always belonged. He was finally yours.

[thewanderingconstellation]

Dimensional traveling Prince!Danny Fenton & Obsessed but still somewhat sane and logical! Damian Wayne

Just a random DeadSerious prompt I thought of at like 2am :>

Clockwork stumbled upon a peculiar universe where a group of humans had been engaging in bizarre activities. Recognizing the need for investigation, Clockwork assigned the newly announced Prince Phantom, a 14-year-old named Danny Fenton, to venture into this realm. It was a training opportunity for Danny, preparing him for his future role as King. Through a portal, Danny found himself suspended above the Lazarus pit, with Ra's al Ghul standing below him. Fortunately, Danny was dressed in his regal attire, which inexplicably aged him to 18 years old, sparing him from too much embarrassment. Ra's began questioning him, leading to a discussion about the potential dangers of the pit.

During his stay, Danny crossed paths with Damian, who was in the midst of his training. The 8-year-old assassin-in-training wasted no time in challenging Danny to a duel. As expected, Danny emerged victorious, leaving a lasting impact on Damian. Danny revealed that he too was an heir to a throne, possessing strength, power, and a tolerable personality, as Damian had previously remarked. These qualities managed to thaw Damian's cold and unyielding heart, finding a special place within it. From that moment on, Damian began courting Danny using the rituals he had learned from secret books in the league's library. He showered Danny with small gifts, heartfelt letters, acts of service, and even presented him with his second favorite knife.

In the meantime, Danny had been well aware of the situation right from the beginning, and he wasted no time in creating distance between himself and the child. Forget about it! Sure, he might be clueless at times, but he's not foolish! When a child hands you a thornless Rose and affectionately calls you 'Habibi', 'Rohi', 'Hayati', 'Albi', and/or 'Ya Amar'—even though he may not fully understand the meanings behind those words, he definitely knows what 'Habibi' means—you can't help but have doubts, you know?! So Danny tried his best to keep the kid at arm's length, not wanting to give him false hope. After all, the kid was only 8 years old for crying out loud! But you have to give it to the kid, he was incredibly stubborn and persistent.

As time went on, two whole months flew by, and Clockwork finally informed Danny that there was no longer any need for him to investigate or keep an eye on the pit. When Danny asked for an explanation, the old man, true to his cryptic nature, simply delivered a mysterious message and left, much to Danny's annoyance. All he could do was leave a letter of explanation for Damian. Damian's heart shattered into a million pieces when he read the letter, realizing that he would never be able to see or even meet Danny again, as they belonged to different dimensions.

Time flew by and it was finally the moment to reveal his secret identity to his parents as Phantom. Unfortunately, things didn't go as planned and he ended up being captured by the GIW, strapped to a surgical table for three days. After escaping, he made a quick exit from home, promising his friends and sisters that he would keep in touch. Clockwork then whisked Danny away to another dimension, sensing that he needed a change of scenery. Dropping him off in a crime-ridden city with just a backpack of essentials, including a dagger from Damian. As he transformed back to his human form in Gotham, he pondered his next move. Suddenly, a young vigilante? Hero? appeared and whisked him away through the city with a grappling hook. Just when he thought things couldn't get any worse!

Damian, now taking on the role of the vigilante Robin, was out patrolling alone. His father wanted him to gain more experience on his own. As he made his way through the city, he noticed a faint but distinct bright light coming from one of the nearby alleys. Curiosity piqued, he decided to investigate.

To his surprise, he saw his beloved from years ago emerging from a strange green portal. Gone was the royal attire Damian was accustomed to seeing him in. Instead, he was clad in a black and white HAZMAT suit, with a symbol in the center. And astonishingly, he even held the second favorite knife that Damian had given him all those years ago.

In a matter of seconds, his beloved transformed into what Damian believed to be a Wayne adoption bait. Without hesitation, he sprinted towards them, landing in front of them and carefully assessing the situation. In one swift motion, he slung his beloved over his shoulder and shot his grappling hook, swiftly taking off with them.

Damian wasn't sure what he would do next, but one thing was certain - he would never let his beloved out of his sight again. He had lost him once, and he refused to lose him again. His possessiveness over the things and people he considered his had grown stronger.

Perhaps he would find a way for them to sign marriage papers, or at least become engaged, despite their young age. Of course, it would only happen if his beloved, Danny, agreed to it. Consent and trust were crucial in any relationship, after all. If Danny disagreed, Damian would resort to the courting rituals his mother had taught him. The conventional methods from books hadn't worked, so he would try his mother's unique approach. Granted, he was technically kidnapping him, but it was only a few steps ahead. Damian was determined to win his beloved's heart, no matter what it took.

[p0orbaby]

In Vino Veritas

summary: you’re drunk, aitana is missing and whose house is this?

warnings: alcohol

a/n: this is cute, and it’s made me want to write for tana more

word count: 2.5k

-

The music pulses around the house, loud and relentless, like it has a personal vendetta against silence, and you feel it vibrating through your bones. It’s some mainstream electronic track, too cheerful for the kind of reflective mood tequila usually grants you. Everything around you is a little hazy, a bit too bright, and you’re squinting at it all, like you’re looking at the world through frosted glass.

The wallpaper here is too clean, too deliberately “vintage,” with little pink roses blooming in neat, identical rows. You imagine, briefly, peeling the wallpaper back, layer by layer, finding more roses, more decades of them, stacked on top of each other like memories no one wants to talk about. But that’s a thought for another time, another you, one not stumbling over someone’s overly expensive thrifter rug and nearly tripping on a pair of boots discarded in the hallway.

Where the hell is Aitana?

It’s around the fifth time you’ve drunkenly circled the house when you spot Sunglasses Guy, a figure that almost feels like a test placed here by some malevolent spirit—an obstacle on your journey. He’s in the kitchen, leaning against the counter like he’s in a photoshoot, arms crossed, eyebrows raised. Indoors, sunglasses on, even though it’s dark outside. He’s got that air of self-importance, like he’s convinced that sunglasses are mysterious, that people look at him and think, Wow, who’s that? In reality, they’re thinking, Why is this guy wearing sunglasses in the dark?

He nods at you, a slow, deliberate motion, clearly trying to make you feel “seen” in some profound way, as if this is a moment the two of you will remember forever. But all you remember is your drink, the way it sloshes precariously as you shift your weight, and the way he leans in, smelling faintly of something vaguely woody and way too expensive.

“Do you know what NFTs are?” he asks, his voice low, a little sultry, like he thinks NFTs are the new “what’s your sign?”

You stare at him, and the words that spring to mind are “sunglasses,” “pretentious,” and, inexplicably, “parsley.” You’ve no idea where “parsley” came from, but your mind clings to it like smoke on cotton. “NFTs,” you repeat, as though it’s the punchline to a joke he hasn’t told. He takes this as an invitation to launch into what sounds like a memorised TED Talk, and you wonder, briefly, if you could just interrupt him by throwing your drink on his shoes.

“Aitana!” you yell instead, desperate, cutting him off mid-monologue, which he handles with a slightly indignant flick of his eyebrow.

“Where’s my girlfriend? Have you seen her?”

The phrase my girlfriend makes you beam internally. There’s a glow that forms when you think of her, a warmth that starts in your chest and blooms outward. She is, after all, the reason you’re here. The reason you even pretend to tolerate these kinds of social gatherings, with their sunglasses indoors and their endless monologues about digital assets.

He blinks, trying to recover from the abrupt derailment. “Uh, blockchain—”

“Ugh,” you mutter, interrupting again, giving him a very distinct dismissive wave, the kind of wave that says Please stop talking or I will find a way to escape this dimension entirely.

A girl nearby spills beer on your shoes. She mumbles an apology, not that you’re in a state to care; you brush it off. Aitana is the focus, the centre. Shoes don’t matter when you’re looking for someone who does.

Then, finally—finally—you see her. She’s leaning against the far wall, her posture so casual, like she’s posed there on purpose, like she’s an ad for the kind of life you’re pretty sure only exists in those short films that play before foreign films at independent cinemas. She’s listening intently to some guy in an aggressively patterned shirt, nodding along like he’s actually saying something worthwhile, and you can’t help but marvel at the patience it takes to look interested when you’re not.

“Oh my god, she’s so beautiful.” It’s supposed to be a whisper, but it comes out loud enough that a girl nearby laughs. You’re only mildly mortified; who cares? Aitana has just noticed you across the room, and now she’s looking at you with that expression, the one that melts your insides, that says, There you are.

You start walking toward her, though “walking” might be generous. It’s more of a determined stumble, like a baby deer on its first attempt at standing. Your brain registers that you’re approaching her, but your legs aren’t quite sure if they’re fully on board. At some point, you even have to pause and grab a nearby chair for balance, flashing a sheepish grin at a couple nearby who look half-amused, half-concerned.

“Aitanaaaa,” you call, drawing her name out like you’re serenading her. She’s already moving toward you, though, weaving gracefully through the crowd like it’s easy, natural. You think, Of course she’d come to me. Of course she’d know that I need rescuing.

“Hi, cariño,” she says softly, her voice lilting with that soft Spanish accent that, even now, sends a thrill up your spine. And it’s so gentle, so warm, like she’s wrapping you up in some invisible blanket. You lean into it, the warmth, her presence, like a moth to a flame.

“You’re so pretty,” you blurt out, your words tumbling over each other in their eagerness. “Like, stupid pretty. Like, why are you even with me?” Your voice drops to a conspiratorial whisper, as if the two of you are sharing a secret in a room filled with strangers. “I’m a disaster. I can’t even find the toilet in this place”

She laughs, this soft, lilting sound that feels like honey, thick and golden, spreading warmth from your chest to your fingertips. Her hand settles on your shoulder, steadying you, pulling you closer, and you realise how desperately you want to bury your face in the crook of her neck and just exist there, where things are quiet, soft. She smells faintly floral, and you realise it’s that same perfume she always wears, the one you borrowed once and promptly drenched yourself in until she told you, with a smile, that subtlety might work better.

“Why am I with you?” she echoes, the question hanging there between you, laced with a smile, with that familiar mischief. “Because I love you. And because you’re funny. And because you make my life interesting”

“Interesting?” You narrow your eyes, leaning back slightly, pretending to be offended. “I thought I made your life amazing. Like, top-tier, VIP-section amazing.” You’re about to launch into a whole speech, but your brain hiccups, lost somewhere in a thought that doesn’t quite finish. You grin at her instead, and she just shakes her head, amused.

She grins, and it’s that cheeky, self-assured grin that makes you both melt and want to argue. “That too”

It’s at this moment, this little pause, that you get an idea. It’s not necessarily a good idea, but it’s there, persistent, because your tequila-fuelled brain won’t let it go. “If you were a sandwich,” you say seriously, “you’d be the kind with all the best fillings. Like, avocado and caramelised onions and, like, artisanal cheese. And I’d eat you every day and never get bored”

She laughs, that infectious, melodic sound, and you feel a swell of pride that you can make her laugh like that, even in your current state. Her eyes soften, that look of adoration flickering there, just for you, and she reaches up to brush a strand of hair off your face. Her fingers are warm, soft, and your eyes flutter closed for a moment as they linger on your cheek.

“Come on, let’s get you some water,” she murmurs, her voice gentle as she takes your hand in hers, and there’s a comfort in that touch, in the way her fingers intertwine with yours.

As she guides you through the crowd, you find yourself staring at her hand in yours, marvelling at how naturally it fits, how perfect it feels, as though it’s always meant to be there. The thought makes you feel almost childlike in its simplicity, but you hold onto it.

“You’re the best, you know that?” you say as Aitana threads you through a crowd that’s moving with the sludgy, undulating rhythm of a creature with too many limbs. Faces pass by in flashes of laughing mouths and narrowed eyes, pupils blown wide by God knows what, maybe tequila, maybe… more. None of them matter, though. They’re simply the backdrop to this little tableau: you, lit up and fizzing, tethered to the only person in the world who’d think to take your hand and lead you to salvation (water) instead of just letting you unravel on the sticky floor of someone’s overpriced house.

She looks at you like you’re amusing, like she’s doing you this great favour by holding your hand in public. “I know,” she says, her mouth quirking in that way that makes your chest feel both hollow and unbearably full.

And then you stop—there’s an odd elegance to it, almost like a dance, because she half-turns, looking back at you as if she knew this was coming. Like she’s been expecting you to stop her and do something wild, something foolish. The patience in her eyes, well, it almost feels like she’s giving you permission to make an idiot of yourself. Again.

“I want to kiss you,” you announce, dead serious, as if declaring something truly revolutionary.

“We’re in the middle of a strangers house.” She says this lightly, but she’s already leaning in, her chin tilting, the light catching in her hair just so, like it’s the climax of some impossibly chic music video.

You want to tell her that kissing her here, now, with people everywhere and the taste of cheap tequila in your mouth, is the single most important thing in the world. That nothing in this moment matters, except her—your Aitana, who has somehow, against all reason and logic, decided to love you back.

So, when she presses her mouth to yours, soft, barely-there, like you’re made of fine china, you think you might just melt into the floor. The crowd around you recedes; they fade away, just shadows in the periphery, and it’s as if you and Aitana are standing in a bubble, suspended in time. You’re floating, really, an ethereal, drunk ghost of yourself. She’s kissed you like this a thousand times, but right now, it feels so outrageously perfect that you think, absurdly, that maybe you don’t deserve it. Like you’ve somehow won this cosmic lottery.

When she pulls back, you’re vaguely aware that your mouth is still open, probably looking ridiculous, but she’s smiling at you, all fondness and amusement, as if to say, “Yes, you’re a total disaster, but you’re my disaster.” It’s a little terrifying, if you think about it too long.

“See? This is why you’re the best,” you mumble, clutching her a little tighter, almost swaying in place.

She tilts her head, giving you this look that’s so completely Aitana, so fully her, it borders on cliché. “You’re a mess,” she says, but her eyes are bright, shimmering with something almost mischievous.

You shrug, proud, defiant. “I’m your mess”

“Yes,” she agrees, not even trying to hide her smile, “you are”

And with that, she’s tugging you along, moving with a fluidity that makes you wonder, briefly, if she’s choreographed this entire evening just for you. You’re half-convinced she’s orchestrated the entire universe to align with this moment—the sounds of people talking too loud, the stickiness of the floor, the faint scent of stale beer and expensive perfume all melding into a cocktail that feels uniquely yours. Aitana, your perfect Aitana, leading you through this mire like she’s guiding you through a rainforest or a canyon, somewhere treacherous and fraught with danger.

You stumble into what you desperately hope is the kitchen, but honestly, it could just as easily be a poorly-lit hallway or an oddly-configured living room. Someone has drawn a Sharpie mustache on a framed photo of a golden retriever; the countertop is littered with crumpled napkins and red Solo cups, each one bearing the lipstick marks of strangers.

“I’m gonna drink, like, four litres of water,” you declare, full of bravado, as she hands you a slightly dented plastic cup that smells faintly of gin.

“Good idea,” she replies, crossing her arms and watching you with that expression she gets sometimes, like she’s trying to contain her fondness, keep it manageable, as if loving you too much would somehow be irresponsible. Like her heart could actually explode if she indulged herself too much.

You take a sip, but you’re not really tasting the water. No, you’re watching her, the way she brushes a loose strand of hair out of her face with her pinky, the way her eyes are this exact shade of dark that you’ve spent hours trying to name in your head. Like burnt caramel, maybe, or wet soil. It’s frustratingly poetic, the way she looks at you, like she knows every ridiculous thing you’ve ever thought and loves you for it anyway.

“Aitana,” you say, fully serious, as if you’re about to impart some life-altering wisdom. “You’re my favourite person ever”

“I know,” she replies, but there’s something so gentle in her voice that you’re pretty sure she means it as much as you do. She reaches out, smoothing a stray hair behind your ear, a little gesture, the kind that’s both tender and practical, reminding you of the time she told you to cut your nails because you scratched her during a tickling fit. Practical, pragmatic Aitana, the girl who brings you plasters when you’ve tripped up the stairs and curses in Catalan when she stubs her toe but tries to blame the wall for it.

“No, but like…you don’t understand,” you say, stumbling over your words, the alcohol making you louder and sloppier than you’d like. You lean in closer, conspiratorially, like you’re about to reveal some great cosmic secret. “I’m so in love with you. It’s, like, a problem”

She laughs softly, the sound low and warm, wrapping around you like a blanket. She pulls you into her arms, your head pressing against her shoulder, and you breathe her in, that familiar scent that’s all her—floral and a little musky, layered with the faintest hint of some expensive perfume you’ve never bothered to learn the name of.

“It’s not a problem,” she murmurs, smoothing a hand down your back. “It’s perfect”

And it is. Perfect, that is. You’re here, tangled up in her, your thoughts swirling in a chaotic, messy cloud of tequila and love, and it’s perfect in this fragile, unsteady way. You’re her mess, her drunken mess, and there’s something so intensely beautiful about it, you think you might actually cry.

“I’m never letting you go,” you mumble, your words muffled against her shirt, which is soft and smells like laundry detergent.

“Good,” she replies, holding you a little tighter, as if she means it more than anything. “Because I’m not going anywhere”

[transandrobroism]

an observation from several posts/conversations that could really help in avoiding a lot of misunderstandings: often when people talk about 'transmisogyny', they are using the term 'transmisogyny' to mean at least three different things simultaneously and conflating different meanings of the term in discussions. in general usage i've seen 'transmisogyny' used to mean:

transmisogyny-as-phenomena - i.e. 'transmisogyny' as a term for the intersection of transphobia and misogyny, a common feature of transfems' experiences;

transmisogyny-as-framework - in which transmisogyny is elevated to the level of a conceptual framework for understanding all transphobia. under this meaning everyone is encouraged/expected to conceptualise their experiences of transphobia through the lens of transmisogyny and run it through a filter of "how does this relate back to transmisogyny as the primary driving force for all transphobia"

on top of this both uses of the term are also conflated with the TMA/TME framework that divides people into two neat categories of those affected or primarily targeted by transmisogyny (transmisogyny affected, or TMA) and those exempt from transmisogyny and only accidentally impacted by it (transmisogyny exempt, or TME).

conflating all these meanings with each other is how you end up with soggy takes like "rejecting the label of TME is denying transfems the right to define and discuss their own oppression" which is a real thing that someone (transmasc) said to me. treating these concepts as all interchangeable meanings of the term transmisogyny contributes to a lot of the discourse and (frankly) animosity about discussions of transandrophobia, because when someone says something like "idk i just don't think transmisogyny is adequate as a robust framework for understanding how all transphobia works" or "dividing the world into TMA/TME is a flawed way of viewing transphobia and replicates the gender binary we're all trying to dismantle", that's a critique of transmisogyny-as-framework, but is read as a rejection of transmisogyny-as-phenomena, and thus is viewed as invalidating transfems' experiences.

add to that the fact that i've seen some people insist that transmisogyny is not just an umbrella term for the ways transfems experience transphobia but just means the intersection of transphobia and misogyny - but at the same time people insist that AFAB (trans) people are all exempt from transmisogyny by default and that our experiences should be discussed as 'misdirected transmisogyny'. which renders the de facto meaning of the term 'transmisogyny' an umbrella term for transfem experiences from which anyone not transfem is exempt.

the conflation of terms and definitions means any critique of transmisogyny or TMA/TME is taken as a denial of transfems' experiences. it also means that when transmascs propose a term like 'transandrophobia' - meaning the intersection of the identity positions of 'trans' and 'man', or more broadly a term for commonly-shared experiences of transmascs - that's read as an argument that all men are systemically oppressed for being men (it's not) and/or that transmascs are proposing transandrophobia-as-framework (again, not the case). but because 'transmisogyny' can refer interchangeably to both transphobic phenomena and experiences and a proposed conceptual framework for transphobia in general, the term 'transandrophobia' is misconstrued as a conceptual framework. we say "we've come up with a term to describe our experiences as transmascs" and people hear "you need to conceptualise all your experiences with transphobia in terms of the oppression of transmascs and centre our experiences in your discussions about your own marginalisation".

the reality is that most people discussing transandrophobia are not denying that transfems experience transphobia or denying that transmisogynistic phenomena happen. objections to the TMA/TME distinction are objections to a conceptual framework that treats all transphobia as just transmisogyny in a trenchcoat, and not a denial that transfems experience transmisogyny or are 'not oppressed' or whatever else.

for the record, i have no beef with transmisogyny either as a term for the intersection of transphobia and misogyny or as a term for shared transfem experiences. my critiques of transfeminst thinking are theoretical, namely:

transmisogyny-as-framework presupposes that the major driving force of all transphobia is a desire to target/punish trans women and that everyone else is caught in the crossfire. i don't think that's adequate as a conceptual framework because transphobia is better understood as a result of a gender-essentialist society punishing all non-normative performance of gender. it also relies on a lot of faulty assumptions about the transphobia that transmascs experience. transphobia experienced by transmascs is treated as a category-typical experience of transphobia (i.e. trans men get the 'just transphobia' version, whilst transfems get the 'transphobia plus' version)... but also transmasc oppression must be framed in terms of 'misdirected (trans)misogyny'. you can't treat trans men as having the most typical, 'basic' experience of transphobia whilst also insisting all transphobia is actually a form of transmisogyny misdirected at other trans people. those two positions are mutually contradictory. if all transphobia is actually about transmisogyny then transfems are getting the default transphobia experience and transmascs/trans nonbinary people/etc are all getting variations of that, not the other way around.

if you want to use transmisogyny as a framework for understanding all of transphobia, you cannot label anyone as exempt from transmisogyny. if transmisogyny is the proposed framework for understanding all transphobic discrimination of any trans person of any gender, then you are saying we all exist in a system of transmisogyny. therefore none of us are exempt from it. and if you're proposing transmisogyny-as-framework for all trans experiences, then all trans people get to weigh in on it, because you're applying it to all of us. i get to disagree with the framework being coercively applied to my experiences and i should be able to do that without being called transmisogynistic, because critiquing a framework you're asking every trans person to submit to is not synonymous with hating on trans women or denying their lived experiences or saying they're not oppressed. you can't insist that transmascs are TME by default whilst also insisting we only ever discuss our experiences as 'misdirected transmisogyny'. and you definitely can't label all transmascs as exempt from transmisogyny whilst simultaneously insisting we use transmisogyny as the conceptual framework within which we understand our oppression. that's trying to have your cake and eat it.

the TMA/TME framework is just reinventing binary gender but with extra steps. especially since in practice determining whether someone is TMA or TME seems to involve an awful lot of focus on people's assigned gender and what genitals they were born with.

a lot of this theorising follows a very radfem pattern of dividing everyone into two gendered categories, labelling one of those categories to Privileged Oppressor Class, and then heavily policing who gets to belong to the Oppressed Victims Class based on their genitals and socialisation. at which point you're just doing TERFism from the other direction. any framework that proposes we can understand gendered experiences in terms of a strict binary is automatically throwing intersex and nonbinary people under the bus. a comprehensive theory of trans experiences must have space for nonbinary identities and intersex experiences otherwise it is incomplete.

i'm making this post in good faith and i'm not denying the impact of transmisogyny on transfems. but i do think theorising around transmisogyny and TMA/TME as a framework have a number of flaws and i'm not going to use those frameworks to talk about my own experiences because they are theoretically inadequate. a robust theory of transphobia and trans experiences must have room for all trans experiences within it, as well as overlapping experiences of gendered oppression such as intersexism, misogyny, butchphobia etc. TMA/TME ain't it.

[allaboutthemoonlight]

How to Master Motivation

Hi friends,

Today I want to talk about motivation and finding ways to maintain it in our daily lives. Motivation is a crucial factor that drives us to achieve our goals, overcome challenges, and stay committed to our development.

Understand the locus of control

Our locus of control, internal or external, is the degree to which we believe we have control over what happens to us in our lives. It influences how we respond to circumstances that impact us and how motivated we feel to take action.

An external locus of control is when we believe that our life and the outcomes we experience are a result of external forces beyond our power. We think everything that happens to us occurs because of chance or luck—two things we can’t control.

The key to staying motivated is to develop an internal locus of control. This is when we believe that we’re responsible for the things happening to us and understand that we have control over the outcome. It’s a level of self-determination where we realize our efforts, decisions, and habits create the life we live.

So, how do we adopt an internal locus of control?

The first point I want to emphasize is that, regardless of your perception of how much control you have over your life, the amount of work you put into something is always within your control. The first step is to abandon the mindset that everything is left up to chance and, because of this, you should stop trying. You need to understand that you always have some level of power over your circumstances, even if you’ve been told otherwise:

Be more aware of the choices you make and realize there is always a choice to be made.

Don’t be afraid to ask for help or guidance from those around you.

Spend time self-reflecting and trying to understand yourself better. Reflect on previous instances where you’ve felt a lack of control and write down what could have been done instead.

Don’t be afraid to fail; it’s an opportunity to learn.

Know the different types of motivation

Next, I want to talk about the different types of motivation and how they impact you.

There are 4 different types of motivation, each with their own distinctions:

Intrinsic motivation: This is where you do something because it aligns with your values or just because it’s fun. Although it’s good to have intrinsic motivation, this type is fragile and can be undermined when we start feeling like we’re losing autonomy over our choices.

Extrinsic motivation: This is what most people think of when they imagine motivation. It’s when our motivation comes from outside of us—we’re doing something for a reward or to avoid a punishment. It’s the opposite type of motivation that you should seek if you want to be self-driven.

Introjected: This type of motivation can create resentment or tension. We do something because if we don’t, we’ll feel shameful or guilty. For example, you might go to the gym not because you enjoy it or care about the health benefits, but because you feel guilty if you don’t work out.

Identified: The reason you’re doing something is because it aligns with your idealized self. It’s something that you’ve internalized to be important and allows you to behave in accordance with your self-concept and identity. This is the most important type because it creates habitual behaviors are no longer choices. We understand our identity and that certain habits and behaviors need to be done so that we’re constantly aligned with our higher selves. For example, you might regularly volunteer at a local shelter or organization because you’re someone who values compassion and community service.

So, how can we implement identified motivation more into our lives?

Really try and understand the reasoning behind a goal you want to achieve. Ask yourself “why do you actually want this thing?”. This is also a good time to review your values and whether or not your goal aligns with them.

Constantly remind yourself about why the outcome matters to you because we often forget the reason that we started in the first place. —ex.

Like James Clear said, make your goal, system, habit, or whatever you’re wanting to accomplish more motivating or fun. Beyond that, start associating the reward with the challenge itself. If you’re training for a marathon, instead of seeing the finish line as the only reward, find or fulfillment in the training process and the discipline you developed along the way.

Adopt a positive mindset. Rather than complaining about having to workout in the morning or studying for an exam, start saying “I get to study for this exam and further my education” or “I’m blessed to have a body that works for me and allows me to exercise”. It’s all about perspective and embracing gratitude. If you put half the energy that you use from complaining into figuring out how to take the next step, you’ll accomplish a lot more.

Don’t neglect your emotional and mental health

Slumps are very real, and mental health can impact every aspect of motivation. Self-improvement and changing your life aren’t easy journeys by any means, and there will be times when stress and feelings of being overwhelmed can paralyze you. In these moments, it’s critical to take a break, a breather, or anything that can help reset your mental health. Remember to engage in activities that support your emotional needs. Not every second of the day needs to be spent doing something productive or working toward your goals. It’s okay to take breaks and have rest days; in fact, I think it’s crucial.

Reward yourself often, even for the smallest achievements. It’s not about what you completed, but the fact that you completed something at all. Spend time acknowledging your accomplishments.

Take it one step at a time and remember no action is too small. Starting small is what helps us build consistency in the long run.

Embrace positive self-talk. Avoid talking yourself into a negative spiral, as it will only make you lose motivation and put you in a slump.

Get an accountability partner. Having someone in your corner who will cheer for you and keep you accountable is a game changer.

Stay motivated, stay grateful, stay resilient.

Love,

Luna<3

[mamawasatesttube]

someone sent me an ask about timkon love square au stuff and i, dingus that i am, accidentally deleted it instead of answering 😭 i forgot who sent it BUT hopefully they will see this post. because yes! i think it's very fun if they manage to get into a true ridiculous love square situation between themselves and their hero identities. i have created a chart to illustrate:

the thing that fascinates me about kon and secret identities is that while tim is great at compartmentalizing and separating "tim drake" from "robin" or "red robin" (to a frankly kind of concerning degree? tim are you fucking good?), kon is... not. conner kent comes later, after kon-el. he's a hero first, and only starts to learn how to be a regular person after that. this is in direct contrast to tim, who is by all counts a mostly normal kid before he becomes robin, and has to learn to be a hero.

for kon, secret identities are therefore tied directly to trust. he doesn't have a secret to protect for a long time! and when he finds out that superman does have a secret identity, it kinda blows him away. he's shocked that superman isn't just superman all the time. before he even learns that, he expresses that it's nice in smallville, that it must be nice to have a place to "fall off the map" (superman '87 #155). when he does learn superman's identity, he's upset that superman never told him, not because he feels like he's entitled to that information but because he feels like he's failed to be someone superman would trust with it (superboy '84 #70). to me, that feeling is the crux of why he's so upset about tim not sharing his identity in yj98: everyone else in the group has deemed him worthy, like cissie and cassie and bart. so what has he done to tim, that tim won't tell him or any of them? (and like, he's 15-16, he's not grasping the whole picture, sure. but it's not just coming from a place of entitlement, is my point. it's about trust and feeling unvalued.)

BUT in an au where the supers are more closed off from the rest of the world or something, where literally anyone but karl kesel got to control kon's narrative, kon would have a secret identity earlier on, because he'd end up at the kents' way sooner, etc. so suddenly he has to grapple with a whole new set of feelings: that superman has trusted him with his biggest secret, and brought him into the family as part of it, and he can't let superman down. so he has to learn to make those distinctions, to accept that people can trust him and he can trust them and that's why they don't share their identities with each other until circumstances dictate it's actually a good time.

so. let's say tim somehow ends up in smallville for a bit, has absolutely NO idea that the superfam even have secret identities, and kon's going aaaa!!! aaaaaa!!! why is red robin here!!!! ma whatever you do DON'T look at him!!!! and meanwhile tim's going oh god i think i'm bisexual but i didn't know that that means i might like TWO boys?!?!? oh god. oh fuck. (he may be stupid.)

[edenesth]

The Way to His Heart [12]

Pairing: general!Seonghwa x wife!reader

AU: arranged marriage au (Joseon era)

Word Count: 3.1k

Summary: Life has been hell ever since your mother's passing many years ago. Despite being from a prominent family, you've never received the privileges associated with it. It only got worse with the arrival of your stepmother and her daughters. When the intimidating General Park was in search of a wife, your father seized the opportunity to dispose of you, simultaneously securing a connection with the powerful general—killing two birds with one stone.

Part 11 | Fic Masterlist | Part 13

Prince Yeosang.

The fourth son born to the King and Queen of Joseon, was among the most widely recognised princes in the nation, though not for reasons one might consider positive. Unlike his numerous brothers and sisters, he adamantly resisted marriage despite reaching a suitable age.

But of course, his singledom was not the main reason for the constant chatter about him. The real cause for the heightened attention was the prominent birthmark beside his left eye.

In Joseon, beauty held immense significance, particularly for members of the royal family, who were deemed superior and held to higher standards than the commoners. Consequently, the prince's distinctive mark marked him as an anomaly within the royal lineage.

Throughout his life, Yeosang had been accustomed to the constant scrutiny that came with being perceived as a defect. From what he understood, even his own parents had reacted with alarm upon witnessing the sizable red birthmark on the side of his face when he was born. In reality, the mark didn't diminish his attractiveness, but societal taboos surrounding such markings led people to overlook his overall appeal and fixate solely on the spot.

As a result, he rejected all marriage proposals, having observed the disdainful glances directed at him by potential candidates. The thought of being wedded to someone who did not genuinely appreciate him was unappealing. Besides, he loathed the constant parade of pampered girls presented to him annually.

He would prefer to remain alone for the rest of his life than be tied down to any of those brats. Having always believed that no one could ever empathise with the pain of having such a mark on their face, he was more than astonished to discover you proudly displaying your scar. What's more, you stood in stark contrast to any of the snobbish noblewomen he had met.

It was when he was evading his many princely obligations meant to prepare him for the throne, despite being fourth in line, that he unexpectedly came across you, the beautiful stranger, while seeking a brief escape in the garden. For the first time in a long while, his heart quickened as he approached you, fearing he might lose sight of your enchanting presence.

"Allow me to express our deepest respect, Your Highness. This is Lady Park, the esteemed wife of General Park. Mistress, may I present to you Prince Yeosang." As if sensing his intentions, the servant standing beside you quickly clarified your identity.

However, if she thought this revelation would dissuade the fourth prince, she was sorely mistaken as Yeosang only smiled wider. So, you were the famous Miss Jang, currently the talk of the town. Knowing that you were here only to discuss wedding arrangements, he deduced that you and the general were not yet properly wedded.

That meant not all hope was lost for him.

Your eyes widened at Eunsook's words, the realisation sinking in that you were in the presence of a prince. Without wasting another second, you performed the formal bow you had practised countless times with the head maid before visiting the palace. Greeting the prince respectfully, you maintained the poise and grace befitting your status as the general's wife, "It is my greatest honour to be in your presence, Your Highness. Forgive this humble subject for failing to recognise you."

Up close, Yeosang's admiration for you only intensified. The genuine respect you demonstrated meant more to him than you would ever know. The prince had rarely been shown sincerity, and he knew then that he was right about your purity. Unlike any other noblewoman, you didn't eye him with even the slightest hint of disgust.

She's the one.

"Please rise, Miss Jang. It is quite alright; no harm is done. If anything, it feels very refreshing not to be recognised in an instant." He extended a hand to assist you, gently lifting you from your bow. Your eyes widened in wonder, and you offered him a grateful smile, not recalling Eunsook mentioning this part of the greeting.

Meanwhile, the head maid was in a state of panic, realising that the prince seemed interested in you. He had disregarded your title as Lady Park and had taken the opportunity to be close to you. Seonghwa would not be pleased if he found out.

"I'll be honest, I have yet to meet anyone who adores flowers as much as I do. It's almost as if fate brought us together." Yeosang said, chuckling as he took in your eyes sparkling with sincere enthusiasm. You seemed innocently happy just to make a new friend.

How precious.

"Would you care to take a stroll with me, my lady? I know of a perfect spot with a view that surpasses even this one."

Eunsook's stomach sank as you agreed to his invitation. It wasn't that she blamed you for being unfaithful to her master; she knew you were simply too clueless to see through the prince's intentions. Her concern was for the potential aftermath of the situation – what would happen if the general were to learn about Yeosang's interest in you and your willingness to spend time with him.

In another part of the palace at the War and Strategy Department building, the atmosphere was the furthest thing from peaceful as the words spoken by His Majesty weighed heavily on your husband's heart, "I'm so sorry, my boy. It seems your wedding will have to wait. Relations with the neighbouring nation, Ruhon, have not been very good lately. I fear war is inevitable this time, and... we need you."

Seonghwa sank into one of the chairs, his eyes blinking rapidly as he absorbed the weight of the words just spoken, "War...? H-how serious is the situation? And why haven't I been informed about the strained relations with Ruhon?"

San, taking a seat beside him, sighed and responded, "We've been attempting peace negotiations with them for months, but an agreement seems elusive. They've been making unreasonable demands. We didn't want to burden you with any of this at first, we wanted you to focus on your new marriage. But the situation has escalated, and it appears we're left with no choice but to prepare for the worst."

The King continued with a heavy heart, "Unfortunately, despite our efforts, we haven't been able to reach an agreement with Ruhon regarding their latest demands. They are now threatening to settle matters through force. We must start preparing and strategising immediately; their attack could come at any time."

The implications of the impending conflict raced through your husband's mind, the weight of responsibility pressing down on him. The realisation that he would have to lead the army into battle overshadowed the joy of his recent marriage. Just when he thought things were finally looking up for the two of you, the looming threat of war cast a dark shadow over your lives.

He pressed a hand against his head, eyes shut tight, muttering, "I could be gone for months or even years..."

"I'm sorry, Seonghwa-yah. I know this is not what you expected, especially right after your marriage. I wish we didn't have to ruin your plans like this." The King apologised with a solemn expression.

With a shake of his head, the general replied, "No, Your Majesty, I understand the gravity of the situation. My duty lies in protecting this nation. I promise I won't let anything jeopardise its safety, even if it means altering my personal plans."

Nodding, the ruler pursed his lips appreciatively, "We thank you for your dedication, General Park. We'll need you to lead our forces and devise a strategy to repel the impending threat from Ruhon."

"I'll do everything in my power to safeguard our country, my King. You have my word." Seonghwa knew that safeguarding his nation also meant keeping his own wife safe. As much as he hated it, there was no time to dwell on the disappointment of the changed plans; he needed to get to work immediately.

Transitioning into his professional demeanour, he interlocked his hands as he met the gaze of the ruler of Joseon, "When is my deployment to the war zone scheduled?"

His Majesty sighed deeply before answering him, "You have a few days to spend with your wife; the troops are still establishing the base as we speak. You can head over when it's ready. General Officer Song has also been notified and will be there to start strategising in detail with you by then."

Following the finalisation of the main details, the meeting came to a close. As the general prepared to leave, the King stopped him once more. Before he could offer yet another apology, Seonghwa intervened, "You don't owe me any apology, Your Majesty. None of this is your fault; you've done your best to protect your people. Now it's my turn to perform my duty. I... I only have one thing to ask of you while I'm gone..."

The ruler nodded, aware of the request that would follow, "I ask that you watch over my wife for me and make sure she's well protected until my return," His Majesty agreed, a hand squeezing your husband's shoulder, "Of course, my boy. You don't even have to ask."

As your husband headed towards the cherry blossom garden to find you, the unexpected sight of you with the fourth prince caught him off guard. Suppressing a sigh, he shook his head, preventing another wave of irrational jealousy from taking over. He reminded himself that, as San had assured him, you were his. Perhaps, he reasoned, you were simply making new friends.

Moreover, he recalled Prince Yeosang's firm stance on not settling down. Seonghwa reassured himself that there should be nothing more to this than platonic bonding.

Catching sight of her master approaching, Eunsook's panic began to seize her. Mentally preparing herself for the incoming wrath, she knew he wouldn't be pleased to see you spending time with another man. Turning back to you, she hoped to catch your attention, intending to warn you of his presence. However, you were too engrossed in your conversation with the prince, discussing your favourite flowers.

"I think my favourite might be the lotus flower, but that's probably because my husband has dedicated an entire pond full of it to me." The general's heart swelled with affection at your words, confirming that his trust in you was well-placed.

That's my girl.

Before the prince could respond and tell you that he could give you so much more, Seonghwa had finally arrived behind you.

"You're here, master," The head maid greeted, but he waved her off and bowed at Yeosang, "Yes, I'm here now. Thank you for keeping my wife company while I was busy, Your Highness. If there is nothing else, we will be taking our leave now."

Brightening up at your husband's presence, you stepped over to him, and he instinctively circled an arm around your back. Despite the enjoyable time with your new friend, the instant comfort of being with Seonghwa made you feel at home again. The fourth prince's eye twitched at the interaction, but he did his best to maintain a smile on his handsome face.

The elderly woman was genuinely surprised; she blinked as she tried to comprehend her master's calm demeanour. It was unexpected, especially considering how unhappy he had been when you were around Yunho and San. But she found relief in not witnessing him explode or resort to his usual passive-aggressive self.

"Ahh yes, General Park, off to make arrangements for your upcoming wedding ceremony, I presume?" The prince's tone carried a hint of smugness, almost as if he were privy to some knowledge.

Your husband's expression dimmed at the reminder; there would be no wedding plans for some time. Mustering a cordial smile, he bowed lightly, "Something along those lines, Your Highness." He had no intention of breaking the news to you in this manner, and he certainly didn't feel obligated to provide Yeosang with any explanations, so a little fabrication wouldn't hurt.

As if on cue, a few palace servants finally caught up to the prince, out of breath, "There you are, Your Highness! Please don't make our jobs any more difficult than they already are. Will you return to the library with us? The royal tutor is still waiting for you." Yeosang sighed and reluctantly turned to bid you goodbye.

"Very well then. It was nice talking to you, Miss Jang. I hope to see you again. And you, General Park." You and Seonghwa bowed politely as he left the garden with the poor servants trailing miserably behind.

The general did his best to brush aside the prince's borderline irritating behaviour, particularly the way he insisted on addressing you as Miss Jang despite your change in marital status. In the grand scheme of things, such trivialities held no importance now. Chances were slim that you would ever meet Prince Yeosang again, given the impending war and the duties that awaited your husband.

With a deep breath, he focused on the immediate task at hand – spending precious moments with you before he had to leave for the war. Gently tucking a strand of stray hair behind your ear, he offered a warm smile, "Come, my love. Let's make our way home."

Furrowing your brows in confusion, you questioned, "We're heading home already? Aren't we supposed to meet His and Her Majesty?" The head maid shared your astonishment; she was equally puzzled.

Seonghwa let out a small sigh and nodded, "Yes, there's been a change of plans. I'll explain on our way home."

As you walked back to the waiting carriage, your husband's mind raced with thoughts of how to break the news to you. You had only just overcome a traumatising ordeal and were finally getting your happily ever after. The daunting task of telling you that he would have to leave for war for an indefinite amount of time loomed over him. He wondered about your possible reactions and couldn't shake the uncertainty of whether he would return.

Despite being the great General Park, he couldn't escape the reality that, at the end of the day, he was still human.

Settling down into the vehicle, you noticed your husband staring anxiously out the window, lost in thought. Placing a hand over his, you softly called out, "Seonghwa," When he turned to meet your concerned gaze, you inquired, "What is it? What was the emergency meeting about?" He grasped your hands, squeezing them, as he prepared himself to share the news with you.

"I... I'm so sorry, my love, but our wedding ceremony will have to be postponed... indefinitely," As disappointing as that was, you wanted to know the actual reason, so you nodded and waited for him to continue, "That's because... there is an incoming war."

He didn't need to elaborate for you to grasp the situation immediately. Naturally, it meant he would have to go and fight. As the most promising general in all of Joseon, the King's most trusted warrior, if it wasn't him going off to fight, then who else? Your heart clenched uncomfortably at the revelation, but you understood it was only part of his job, so you smiled reassuringly at him, "Oh... I-I understand, Seonghwa. Wh-when are you leaving then?"

Raising his brows in surprise, it took him a minute to react, "W-wait, are you not upset with any of this? I will be leaving you, and it could be for months or even years... and you're okay with it?"

You sighed shakily, the smile now dropping.

"Of course, I'm not okay with it... If only it were possible, I would like to keep you all to myself, but it's your job to defend the nation. You're General Park, and I'm so proud of you for that. You've won so many battles; I'm certain this will be another easy victory for you. As your wife, I will do my duty to safeguard our home until your return."

Just as he believed his love for you couldn't deepen further, your words proved him wrong. He felt incredibly fortunate to have such an understanding wife. He should have known better; he didn't know why he expected you to throw a tantrum. Without hesitation, he wrapped his arms around you, pulling you close and pushing your head into the crook of his neck, "You're right; I'm an idiot. I hope you know you're not making it any easier for me to leave you."

Despite the tears welling up in your eyes, you chuckled, trying to maintain a positive outlook amid the looming dread. Inside, you were trembling, and letting him go was the last thing you wanted. Yet, you had to face your reality, "You haven't answered me, Seonghwa. When are you leaving?"

He squeezed his eyes shut, tightening his hold around you before whispering, "In a few days, my love. A few days."

« Preview of Part 13 »

"Your Majesty, the fourth prince requests an audience with you." The Queen arched an eyebrow, surprised that her most rebellious son would willingly seek to meet her. She had anticipated him doing everything in his power to avoid her due to her constant nagging for him to settle down.

"Hm, does he now? Allow him to enter."

With a deep bow, the eunuch complied, "Yes, Your Majesty, as you wish," before exiting the Queen's chambers to fetch her son.

"The fourth prince, Your Majesty," Yeosang made a grand entrance with a half-hearted bow and greeting, "It's been a while, Mother."

Her Majesty snorted in disbelief, but it no longer surprised her. He had always been the most disobedient among all of her children. She tried to be understanding, acknowledging that his life hadn't been as easy as his other siblings due to the birthmark on his face. This understanding explained her leniency with his attitude.

"What a surprise, Yeosang. To what do I owe the pleasure, my son? If this is regarding more funds or approval for another one of your expeditions out of the palace, you can forget it. I don't want to hear it unless you're telling me you wish to get married—"

With a smirk, the prince crossed his arms over his chest, "That's exactly what I am here for, Mother. I came to tell you I have changed my mind and would agree to get married, on one condition."

The Queen immediately straightened in her seat, wondering if she had heard him wrong, "Y-you're willing to get married?" He nodded, and she widened her eyes, "Name it; what is your condition?"

"It has to be the eldest Miss Jang promised to General Park Seonghwa. It's her or nothing, Mother."

Y'all, my new and final semester of uni starts next week. Here's a heads-up; updates are probably not going to be as frequent, but I will do my best! Also, I apologise if this part felt like a filler chapter HAHA gotta let the drama build up slowly.

As always, thank you for reading and let me know your thoughts! <3

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