#the mirror doesn't define you
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monstersqueen · 2 years ago
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akutagawa's capability for gentleness and atsushi's ability for violence <3
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dreamingofthewild · 6 months ago
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Edit: I have edited this because I think my first reblog was misconstrued.
This post was in response to a post that said Gale didn't have any hubris and only wanted to take the crown in act 3 as an alternative to dying. I am adding this because context is important. I wanted to respond to that and this post with my own analysis. This is not a Gale wasn't groomed and hurt Mystra post.
Tl;Dr. his so-called 'hubris' is not typical hubris. His ambitious nature is his way to cope with feelings of powerlessness and vulnerability. The crown is a desperate attempt to take control of the over his life because he feels powerless. His 'pride' masks his underlying securities, and his personality is a direct result of being groomed and being a prodigy. He is curious and ambitious. He wants to be the best at what he does, and that was used against him.
In Act 3, Gale’s motivations for taking the crown are more complex than his survival alone. It represents a way to take control of his destiny and to retaliate against the divine manipulations he has suffered. This mirrors other characters’ arcs, like Astarion’s, where the pursuit of power is tied to a need for control and safety.
Returning the crown is a humble act for Gale. It signifies his realization that he does not need godly power to prove his worth or control his destiny. This act is about reclaiming his humanity and accepting that he is enough as he is. Gale’s pride and ambition are deeply intertwined with his insecurities and need for validation, shaped by Mystra and his environment. By the end, Gale's journey is about rejecting the manipulative influences of Mystra and the gods, recognizing his intrinsic value, and finding a new path not dictated by his need for external approval.
Gale was recognized as a prodigy from a young age, with significant figures like Elminster influencing his early life and training at Blackstaff. Gale might have faced immense pressure and high expectations to excel and prove his talent, resulting in him doing things like stealing the Blackstaff to prove it. This pressure could have fostered an environment where only exceptional achievements were valued, pushing him toward overconfidence. Heightened when Mystra selected him as her chosen in his youth.
Gale’s ambition to become Mystra’s equal and access forbidden knowledge was driven by his curiosity and a desire to prove himself. His hubris here is not about raw power but about seeking validation and a sense of worthiness. His ambition was encouraged by her but she kept him dependent on her validation by letting him fall in love with her and isolating him from his peers.
Gale was doing exactly what Mystra asked of him when he went searching for the lost part of the weave, because it is the job of the chosen to search for and destroy all that could disrupt the weave. He only wanted to serve her better, and prove that he was ready to become a God along side her.
Gale's hubris was in thinking that he was truly special to Mystra and could ever be her equal. In failing to listen to others when they told him that it wasn't a good idea, and possibly in impatience. He thought he could be equal to a god, but it is not his fault because Mystra and his peers conditioned him to think that. So, of course, he thinks that he overstepped her boundaries when wanting more and is the villain in this story. He is only a human and there is nothing wrong with wanting to be equal to the one you love, and wanting to be the best at what you do.
Gale is not a power-hungry man with a god complex. He wants more because he never feels satisfied or worthy. The orb fed off his desire for more, which is rooted in his insecurities and need for guidance and support—things Mystra didn’t provide.
Gale's pride and ambition are not just traits of his character but are also deeply intertwined with his need for validation, control (of his own life, which he never had), and influence, shaped by his relationship with Mystra and his own inner insecurities.
Mystra prays on ambitious wizards, and encourages them to push the boundaries of magic and serve her.
His story is a complex one with a lot of naunce that requires people to read between the lines. I honestly think that it is also poor writing because Gale, Astarion, and Wyll were supposed to have darker back stories in EA. So I think some of it is left over from that, but they also didn't want to villinise Mystra too much, so they didn't delve into his abuse like they did the others. And then Gale never became a God when the game was first released, before the Epilogue. Also, they removed some of Gale's dialogues from the game. So what we get is a bit confusing and requires looking into Mystra's lore, which most people are not going to do.
I don't think it's mischaracterisation to say Gale's too ambitious for his own good. He straight up admits he wanted to cross Mystra's boundaries for more power, because he was standing on the edge of it and could see what he could be capable of. I think it does him a disservice to say he is only acting for the greater good when he admits he's 'the villain of the tale' - it's tongue in cheek and he's not a villain he's just made mistakes, but he's also not entirely selfless. Regarding the crown, the choice between giving it back to Mystra or keeping it for himself is huge.
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trashytracktales · 2 months ago
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Hiii, I’m not sure if your requests are open, but if they are, could you write something with Lando and Reader where they have been dating for just a few weeks, haven’t had sex yet. One day they’re working out together at Lando’s house in Monaco (the room with the mirror from the video I Ate and Trained Like Lando Norris for 24 hours). Reader is doing squats with her back towards the mirror and Lando can’t help but stare at her ass and he gets hard / flustered so he stops from doing his exercise and reader asks him what’s wrong and before he answers she realises he’s horny so she teases him - this time on purpose- and then they fuck in that room on the floor
In the heat of it | LN⁴
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💌 REQUESTED by anon ──── Thank you for trusting me enough to bring this to life, it was... something 🥵
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𐙚 summary ──── They've been dating for a few weeks now, but the time was never right for them to get intimate. During a playful workout together, Lando gets caught staring, sparking a moment that leaves them both realizing just how deep their connection actually goes.
𐙚 pairing ──── Lando Norris x she/her reader
𐙚 rating ──── explicit
𐙚 category ──── F/M
𐙚 warnings ──── +18, mature/sexual content, fluff & smut, explicit language, unprotected sex, swearing, established relationship, suggestive/flirty behavior. MDNI!
𐙚 word count ──── 3.6k
𐙚 date ──── Nov. 12, 2024
𐙚 a/n ──── Enjoy watching Lando learn that some cardio sessions have unexpected side effects 🤍🎀
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IT DOESN’T TAKE long before Lando starts to regret his decision. It would have been much easier to invite his girlfriend to have lunch together. That would have saved him from a constant dry mouth and irregular heartbeat every time he feels her eyes accidentally landing on him.
The smooth floor and sophisticated equipment in his personal gym are softly bathed in the morning sun that seeps through the floor-to-ceiling windows. Monaco's streets are still peaceful at this hour, considering it's the middle of the week, and the port is sparkling in the sunlight.
The room usually has a subtle scent of cedar and rubber, fresh and energized, but now it carries a sweet honey scent, borrowed from her presence.
They are already halfway through their warm-up. She’s pulling a resistance band around her thighs, stretching before they dive into the heavier part of their routine, her focus completely on the exercises he’s walked her through. But, of course, a huge part of her focuses on how Lando touches her, purposely, to guide her when her posture doesn't match the exercise.
Even in simple gym shorts and a T-shirt, Lando somehow manages to look so effortlessly attractive — curly hair a little messy, face flushed just enough from their recent sets, and his labored breathing after putting in the effort. He’s all energy, fluid in his movements, though he's clearly trying to keep his pace casual.
“Lookin’ strong,” he teases, flashing a grin as she adjusts her stance.
The girl shrugs, “I’m just that good at following instructions. Although, I think having one of the best trainers in the area helps, too.”
Lando lets a chuckle out, “I won't go easy on you just because you kiss-ass. But it’s cute to see you trying.”
Even though they have only been dating for a few weeks, there is an undeniable spark between them two, especially in a setting where every glance and skin-to-skin contact feels amplified by the intensity of their exercises. Her sports outfit leaves no room for interpretations, hugging her curves and defining her lines, and Lando's imagination is stimulated every time he turns his gaze towards her.
He’s now down on the floor, holding a plank, his core engaged and muscles taut as he fights to hold his body up and spine straight. She’s supposed to be timing him, but the second he shoots her a cheeky grin, she decides she can’t resist a bit of fun; in her defense, he started it. With a simple touch, the seconds freeze on the screen of his phone, then she places it on one of the boxes stored in the corner of the room.
“Hi there,” says the girl in a soft tone once she sits down in front of him just inches apart, propping herself up on her elbows so her face is level with his.
Lando raises his eyebrows, trying not to laugh as his shoulders shake slightly from the effort of holding his body weight. “Don’t,” he warns her, breath coming in controlled puffs.
“I’m not doing anything,” she smiles innocently, kicking her feet in the air while inching a little closer until her nose almost brushes his.
He laughs at her bad acting, his arms starting to shake a bit more. “Outrageous is what you are.”
She pouts just as Lando dips his head down, managing to steal a playful kiss. Their lips meet briefly, soft and warm, before he pulls back up to maintain his form. It makes her sigh in frustration, the ghost of a kiss not nearly enough for her. If anything, it only leaves her wanting more.
Luckily, he doesn’t pull back when she cups his cheek in her palm, pressing her mouth on his once more, his giggles mixing with hers as he tries to keep his balance. Savoring the feel of his lips and the way Lando grunts softly into the kiss, she can feel that this one is more deeper and slower — much real — making her shiver. It seems as though everything else disappears, the feel of each other reminding them both why they decided to give the relationship a shot in the first place.
“And you are so fun to corrupt,” she admits, finally getting up to give Lando time to recover.
After a few sets, she finally moves on to squats, and Lando follows her positioning herself in front of the mirror. It wasn't even supposed to be there, but he sometimes uses the gym as a storage room for random packages. This one, specifically, came in the mail a few weeks ago and he didn't have time to hang it in the hallway, where he initially planned. So, he simply let it rest against the wall in his gym room, and it's been there ever since. Forgotten.
Giving the circumstances, he is seriously thinking of leaving it there for good.
Conveniently, Lando decides that now is the perfect time to start his Russian twists, so he bends over to collect a dumbbell off the floor, then sits down on the yoga mat. Right in front of her.
Unaware of the effect she's having on him, he watches her go through each squat with his eyes trailing down on the reflection of her ass in the mirror, an intense warmth spreading over him as he tries to focus on his own exercise. It is quite innocent — he's just respectfully looking — until it isn't. Until he feels it in his boxers. Until he almost drops the dumbbell, which catches her attention.
Lando tries to ignore it, though, to nonchallantly brush it off, telling himself that it's natural and that he's just admiring her physical appearance. Anyone in his shoes would do it. However, his thoughts start to wander, images flashing uninvited as his heart rate quickens for reasons far beyond the exercise.
“Are you okay down there, hotshot? What are you fighting?” she asks curiously, raising her head just enough to catch the dazed look on Lando’s face.
Her voice pulls him back, his breath catching for a moment, “Yeah, never better.”
It's his husky voice that gives it away. Right after, she notices a lingering gaze, and the soft pink creeping across his features as his eyes are fixed ahead. She stops, fixing her posture and straightening her back as she turns to catch his gaze in the mirror. She realizes exactly what's going on in a matter of seconds, a little grin forming in the corner of her mouth.
“Am I too dictracting, Lando?” she purrs, her question — and the fact that he knows she caught him in act — not helping at all.
“No,” he lies, “But I think you’re killing it with those squats.”
“And if I turn around to finish my set, what then?” she whispers, a challenge glinting in her eyes as she brushes the tip of her tongue against her lower lip.
His breath is shallow the moment he decides to abandon his exercise. “Then you would be killing me,” he admits with no restraints. “So, by any means, proceed. Please.”
She glances over to see Lando lying flat on his back, one arm draped dramatically over his eyes, as if he's in serious pain. His other hand is splayed over his stomach, fingers tapping a nervous rhythm. It’s still funny to see him like that, but then she notices the way his chest rises and falls a bit too fast, and her eyes drift lower, catching a glimpse of the growing bulge in his shorts, an unmistakable proof of what she’s actually doing to him.
Suddenly, all the amusement disappears from her face, being replaced by a warmth that wraps around her neck, and rising to her cheeks. Her heart is slowly starting to race, small impulses between her thighs forcing her to close them together.
Swallowing hard, she crosses the small space to kneel beside him, gently pulling his arm away from his eyes. His lashes flicker open, meeting her gaze with a mix of embarrassment and desire. And so much lust.
“How can I help you?” asks Lando, his voice rougher than usual, trying to keep things light, though the hint of vulnerability shows in his eyes, and it's not that hard to read.
She chuckles nervously, “The question is how can I help you?”
In response, Lando uses the same hand to wrap his fingers around her neck, pulling her in for a kiss. She feels his hand squeezing a little, the other one moving to her waist, hesitating before pulling her completely on top of him, without breaking the kiss. His tongue slips firmly into her mouth, just as it has done so many times before, but now it feels somehow different. Somehow, they both know that the kiss is meant to lead to something much more intense, because there's nothing stopping them anymore.
In the intimacy of his apartment, without interruption, Lando lowers his hands to her waist, rubbing her against him. Slowly. Repeatedly. The pressure forces them to moan in unison — a brief taste of the pleasure they are about to share. His hands then drop lower, roaming over her thighs, then back down to her ass, cupping it in his large palms.
He breaks away just enough to murmur, his voice low and almost reverent, “That enough of an answer?”
“Positive,” she replies, feeling his breath hitch as she shifts on top of him, straddling his hips, her hands splaying over his chest, feeling the rapid beat of his heart beneath her fingertips.
Her lips find his again, sweet and intoxicating, each kiss sending sparks to her core. The new position makes her feel him much more firmly between her legs, taking Lando by surprise when her hand lowers to cover his length, massaging him through the thin material of his shorts.
“Fucking hell,” his lips stutter against hers, while rocking his hips into her touch.
“Yeah…” she agrees, breathing hotly above him, “Did I do this to you?”
Before Lando gets a chance to even think of an answer, she slips her hand under the elastic band of his boxers, taking him in her hand, feeling him in his entirety — deliciously soft skin, warm and ready, and so painfully hard.
It makes her ache for him.
She pumps his cock in her hand a few times, enough for her to feel how he shifts under her. It takes her a lot of self-control to stop herself from taking him in her mouth the second she hears his sweet little panting, her thumb rubbing softly over his swollen tip.
The workout itself had left Lando’s muscles burning, but her touch it’s something else entirely, igniting a heat in him that burns deeper than anything he’s felt before. Five more minutes enjoying the same high and he can give up cardio completely. Guaranteed.
Slowly coming back to his senses, Lando realizes that he has free will, so he slips his hands under her sports bra, palming her hungrily until he feels her nipples hardening under his touch. He breaths heavily as he rolls them between his fingers, managing to make her respond with a soft meowl, her grip on his cock losening.
That's his cue to take the lead, pulling her bra over her head in a quick move, and flipping their bodies over so that now he's hovering above her, eyes filled with need while looking down at her.
“Hi there,” Lando copies her tone from earlier, feeling a little fraction of the power she had over him.
She wants to talk back so badly — one of her sarcastic little comments that she knows he loves — but all she can do is let out a pathetic whimper between her lips when his mouth finds home on her bare breast. At that, Lando feels a shiver running down his spine, looking up at how she closes her eyes in pleasure, arching her back more against his mouth.
“Driving me insane with your pretty ass, baby,” he says, breathing heavily, managing to cover her body in a thin layer of goosebumps, “And your pretty fucking nipples.”
“Lando…” she lets another cry slip out, opening her eyes to look at him.
The image that greets her makes her breath catch in her throat. The way he sucks on her nipple while playing with the other one, and the way he looks up at her through his eyelashes — it’s all too much. She ends up wrapping her legs around his waist, pulling him down with her. Then she runs her hands down his back, tugging at the edge of his shirt, tossing the useless material carelessly to the floor before pulling him closer for another kiss.
Mouth to mouth, chest to chest, skin on skin — who says heaven isn't real?
But if that's heaven, then what can she name the feeling she gets the moment his hand slips into her gym shorts and his fingers brush against her soaked entrance? Because it feels way too fucking good — much better than she expected, and certainly much better than her own hand whenever she pictured his face while fingering herself.
Lando starts slowly at first, spreading her wetness around her pussy, then fucking his fingers in and out, while cautiously watching her facial expressions changing. It’s not taking him long before finding that sweet, sweet spot that makes her roll her hips into his hand, desperation painted all over her face.
“Lan… yes,” she starts panting, “That’s—yes, right there.”
He hums proudly, sealing his mouth to hers, while parting her thighs with his knee so he can spread her more in front of him. Feeling herself open to his touch, so easy and wet, he no longer feels self-conscious about the way she's so quickly tunring him boneless under her gaze. He realizes that the feeling is mutual, and it makes him want her even more.
If that's even possible.
The sound of his fingers repeatedly fucking into her is all that anchors her in the present moment, but the second Lando feels her squeezing around them, he stops so he can silently ask for her permission to take the last piece of her clothing off.
She nods in a rush, swallowing the lump in her throat in anticipation.
Every inch of her is now bathed in the soft, golden light streaming through the window. Warm shadows are cast along her curves, the light outlining each delicate contour of her body as though the sun itself is painting her in real time. The image is so powerful yet vulnerable as she stands there, her figure glimmering with an almost unearthly serene confidence. Lando is utterly captivated by how ethereal she looks, like a goddess come to life, the kind he never imagined he would be close enough to even touch, let alone enjoy. He feels like he’s witnessing something sacred, something so incredibly rare, and the awe he feels is mixed with gratitude that she’s here with him, letting him see her in a such perfect lighting.
“You’re so fucking beautiful,” Lando finally manages to say, hoping that he hasn't started drooling all over her in the meantime. “All of you.”
“Your turn,” she says in a muffled voice, slightly bashful at the way he stares at her like he wants to devour her. Which is not far from the truth.
He agrees that it's a fair request, realizing that the only thing separating them now are his own shorts. Without protesting — because that would be so fucking dumb considering how hard he is — Lando gets rid of them with the speed of a perfect qualifying lap.
Matching the same pace, Lando’s hands slide around her waist, his fingers pressing gently into her hips as he guides them both to the side so they can face the window — or that's what she thought. Confused at first, she's frowning at him, then follows his gaze, lost in the direction of their reflection, understanding immediately what he really wants — a show. A show just for them, in which they can lose themselves together, without limits.
She sighs at the sight of their hot, naked bodies, the way he aligns himself with her, and how he’s finally pushing inside, enough to hear her whimper. She watches as he stands above her, his hands gliding slowly over her sides, up her arms, grounding her in his touch. The image of them together, framed in the soft glow of the room, feels surreal — so intimate and vulnerable in a way that’s completely new for both of them.
Lando pauses, pulling out at her little whimper, then pressing back in, but just the tip.
“Fuck, baby,” he whispers, “You're so fucking wet it keeps slipping out,” adds Lando in a low tone, so turned on that it makes her clench around his head.
To her frustration, the speed at which Lando pushes back inside might as well be negative, causing her to explode with how needy she becomes in the meantime. But just as she’s about to encourage him to sink further, he buries himself to the hilt in one powerful thrust.
“Lan…” she says as she wraps her arms around his shoulders, “You… feel so good,” she takes a moment to breath into his skin, then she turns her head to catch their reflection once again.
Lando is already looking, and when they make eye contact through the mirror, he starts fucking her slowly and gently, as if he could break her.
“See how silly you look for thinking we won't match?” he sounds so amazed by how easily she opens up for him, over and over again, with each steady thrust of his hips, “See that? Taking all of me so well, baby.”
“Lando,” she cries out at the way his cock throbs against her walls, because she knows it's way too slow, even for him.
It's simply agonizing.
“So perfect around me,” he states, “Can't believe I lasted that long. Should've fucked you from the first night.”
At this point, he's just rambling, but the thought makes her stomach tie in a knot.
“You would've let me, wouldn't you?”
“Yes,” she speaks, already drunk on the way he feels inside her, “I would have let you fuck me in the plane bathroom, on the way to Imola. And back in your driver's room, when Oscar caught us kissing. And last week, outside the club… Fuck. I wanted you to fuck me there so bad.”
His mind goes blank with all the lost opportunities, causing him to gradually increase his pace, the sound of them connecting so obscene.
“Wh—” he almost chokes on words, “Why didn't you say anything?”
“You—stressed about work. I… I didn't want to be—distraction,” she tightens her legs around him, keeping him inside her, the words losing their meaning as Lando shifts his position, wrapping his arm around her thigh to open her up even more for him. "Like that, mhm, yes!"
“You're so tight, fuck,” he swallows hard as he squeezes roughly at her thighs. “I'm so close.”
She knows that will leave marks on her skin, but nothing beats the pleasure of having Lando fucking himself so deep inside her, that her vision starts clouding.
All common sense went out the window the moment she stepped through his door, anyway.
She can feel his breath warm against her neck, hear the soft hitch in his breathing as he leans in, his lips brushing her shoulder, never breaking eye contact with her in the mirror. Lando's hands are making their way to cup her ass, pulling out all the way, before fucking back in, all over again, until he finds the perfect rhythm between their bodies. He moans loudly, pressing his upper body on her, their scents blending together and sweat transferring from skin to skin. They move so in sync, completely attuned to each other, and the sight of their shared pleasure, reflected back at them, turns everything into fireworks, her mind completely empty. Except for how well she's being fucked.
“Lan—Lando,” she's so close to sobbing that she shuts her mouth at the sound of her voice, thinking it's too pathetic to whine as she cums around him, her release dripping all over between their bodies.
The wet sound her pussy makes gives Lando way to fuck in deeper, taken by surprise that she finished without any warnings. He grips her ass one more time before he stills inside her, his cock throbbing, and pulls out right before he starts leaking, resting his cock against her thigh, his entire length coated in her release. His cum drips from his tip to her inner thigh, making him groan while he fixes his gaze on the mirror at the image of them.
She buries her fingers in his curls after he finally collapses on top of her, their heavy breaths echoing throughout the room. With his head on her chest, he can feel her heart racing, gradually slowing down, and lets out a soft laugh as she shifts a little under him.
“We're so fucking matching, baby. Let's gooo!” exclaims Lando, exhaust evident in his voice.
She feels her cheeks warm, “I think you’re a little biased right now,” she jokes.
Lando shifts slightly so he can see her face, brushing a thumb tenderly along her side. He smiles softly, the usual spark in his eyes softened by something deeper, so gentle.
“I'm just happy.”
Her heart flutters, and she feels him sink even closer to her, threading his fingers through hers.
“And very sweaty,” she adds with a chuckle.
“I'm pretty sure that's you,” he teases, letting the moment pass slowly, then calling out her name in a serious voice.
“Mhm?” she hums while turning to look in the mirror, watching him getting comfortable on top of her.
“Where do we go from here?” asks Lando.
“Your bedroom, I hope. The floor is killing my back.”
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Thank you for reading!
None of my works are available for reposting on other platforms. Reblogs, likes, and comments are deeply appreciated ♥︎
© trashy track tales, 2024
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teaboot · 1 year ago
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It just now occurred to me that some of yall don't remember a time before touch screens
Like. The first popular touch screens I knew of were high end new-edition ipods and that was their defining trait. No buttons.
"But how do we use it without buttons?" Well. It has three buttons. Power and volume.
My whole class full of middle class kids had ipod nanos, ipod shuffles they got for Christmas. I had an MP3 player, and before that, a cassette player and a portable CD player.
The 'ipod touch' was goddamn crazy. Like, space-age shit.
I swear to god when I got one as a gift from a well-off relative it had no music, no games, I didn't know how to connect it to the internet, nothing, but the reality of a smooth screen that responded when you touched it like some kind of goddamn hologram, like a pocket mirror with color-changing cuttlefish skin that knew I was touching it, that I just spent a solid hour and a half in my room just swiping the screen back and forth.
And the idea that you could connect to the INTERNET on it?? And not the expensive shitty pixelated crap you paid $50 a minute for on your flip phone, but WHOLE WEBSITES? JUST LIKE ON A LAPTOP? Ooooooooooohmygod.
And it was small enough to hide under the covers with!! I could read after bedtime!!! Before that, I had a second-hand digital camera, and I'd take photos of my comic books during the day so I could read through them later on the tiny ass 2"x2" view screen. And before THAT, it was a bedside lamp I'd scramble to turn off if it sounded like someone was getting close to the stairs.
And after the ipod touch, card readers started getting touch screens. I didn't think I'd ever get used to being encouraged to smear my fingerprints on the glass.
And SMARTBOARDS? Hoooooooooooooooly shit.
Like. I'm not even old yet, and every so often I just suddenly remember that the world I knew at that age doesn't exist anymore.
And what's all this going to become?
Who knows
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mac-tirs · 5 months ago
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the not-insignificant differences between the omen twins
so, i saw this picture posted by @amanaci which inspired me to write this rather lengthy piece on the contrasts between morgott and mohg. i decided that, instead of dumping this whole think-piece on their post, i'd make my own separate post and ramble here.
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this difference in their height really tracks for how their fighting styles and personalities are like, i feel. i always found it peculiar how different they are despite being twins; i feel like there's a rather stark resemblance between miquella and malenia in their soft-faced features, pale skin, and long flowing hair, and a close resemblance between the carian siblings with their red hair, but morgott and mohg are rather different from each other, only bearing similarities due to their omen nature. i looked a little bit into that and found that there's pretty good reasons behind why.
firstly, morgott is severely malnourished and unhealthy in comparison to mohg. you can see it in his body and how his skin sags, how his ribs and bones show, and how dry it looks. below is a comparison between his hands and mohg's hands.
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morgott's hands are dry, almost rubbed red and raw around the knuckles and fingers. it reminds me a little of psoriasis, or some kind of skin discolouration caused by his poor health. it's likely he isn't eating well, or at the very least, he isn't eating as well as mohg. his twin, on the other hand (ha!), has shiny, veiny skin with a healthy colour and gleam to them. it's like he wants to call to attention how well moisturised he is (which, in this case, compared to morgott, he is).
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above is a comparison between the twins' horns. the difference is extremely evident to me; morgott's horns are dry, almost seeming brittle, like sun-dried bone that hasn't seen rain or moisture in years. it reminds me of the horns of a very neglected ram, almost, but despite that, the horn growths seem more controlled, less like the wild growths all over the royal omens of the shunning grounds and more controlled as a sort of jutting crown from mainly one side of his head. meanwhile, mohg's horns are shiny, curling wildly to the point of injury, taking his eye in its path of growth. they grew wildly enough to replace his hair altogether, if he ever had any, and give him an even more imposing silhouette with a literal crown of horns (and a beard to boot). beyond this, his horns look healthy, with clearly defined rings to each growth that shine under the light, much like the rest of him. he's oiled leather to morgott's dry hide.
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another somewhat interesting detail of morgott is his tail. i know a lot of people see it as soft, and it certainly looks the part, but what i find interesting are two things: the first being that his fur looks quite matted in some lightings and angles but overall looks soft to the touch, and the second being that his tail's horns look much healthier than his own horns on his head. this is in clear contrast to the rest of his body, which looks dry and unassuming with smatterings of coarse white hair up and down his body, and i believe its a matter of the limits to his own self-care. he utilises his tail as another weapon in his arsenal, so he cares for it that it might serve him well in battle, unlike his head of horns, which only serve as a detriment to him with how they must obscure some of his vision, if not most of it. additionally, he likely could bear to look at his tail and care for it, but for an omen that hates his nature more than the average, he probably doesn't enjoy looking at his own face in the mirror enough to properly care for himself.
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which brings me back to the sheer differences between these two. morgott, unhealthy and self-loathing, neglects many visual aspects of himself likely because he sees vanity as a luxury not afforded to someone like him. mohg, healthy and self-obsessed, cares and grooms himself to appear very much so like the lord he claims to be, loving himself to a heretical extreme (in the eyes of the golden order). their statures reflect this too; morgott hunches low to the ground, ready to pounce at any given moment but also due to his own shame and humility, while mohg stands tall and proud, though not as tall as he could possibly be due to his upbringing being one of likely having to hunch low to fit beneath the ceilings of the smaller parts of the shunning grounds.
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above is a picture of an omen from stormveil, which bears resemblance to all the omen you see in the game. in terms of clothing, one of the big ways people set the omen twins apart, morgott is completely naked save for the ragged cloak of animal hides he wears, signifying he is not fit to even dress himself in a shirt or trousers as befits a king, much like the omen pictured. he wears even less than that, actually, since he lacks even the slightest adornment save for the rope that clasps his cloak together. on the other hand, mohg is entirely adorned in finery, wearing a beautifully embroidered, fashionable priest's robe with matching vestments, and beneath that (as seen in the first image) some underclothes, a plain black button up and some pants. mohg's entire silhouette changes with the removal of his robe, while morgott's barely makes an impact once you realise he has only taken off the one article of clothing he had.
then, of course, there are their fighting styles. there's this fantastic video on youtube that i recommend watching of the twins fighting every major boss in the game, and you can clearly tell them apart from their fighting styles alone. morgott is fast, his size making him look deceptively slow only for him to dart out and do sick flips and somersaults and pirouettes that rival even the most flexible dancers, and he fights with speed and almost animalistic ferocity, save for when he conjures his weapon incantations. mohg is slow but strong, capable of swinging that large trident around like it weighs nothing while hitting with the force to knock down most enemies in a few hits, and most tarnished in just one, but he fights with a steady gracefulness in his every move, walking slowly and carefully while casting spells that hurt a lot.
even their phase 2 transitions are markedly different, with morgott's being one where he drops to his knees, vomits, and releases his cursed blood(?) all over the battlefield, causing his weapon to become alight with his curse and for him to fight with more in-your-face aggression, and with mohg's being one where he simply ignores your attacks and begins stabbing his spear into the formless mother for power at your expense, gaining a majestic set of wings that put distance between you and him so he can cast more of his spells at safer distances. where morgott is pushed to his limit and forced to confront his nature, mohg has long since embraced it and enjoys the fruits of his bloody labour with the mother of truth's blessing.
speaking of the mother of truth, even their patron orders are at odds with each other. the golden order was built upon the foundation of a very carefully-guarded lie: that marika is the one true god, which she can't be, with the existence of radagon (as per goldmask, perhaps the number 1 fundamentalist we meet in game). the formless mother is known also as the mother of truth, existing in direct opposition of the golden order's lies and craving the honesty of one of the purest expressions of life: blood. these two ideals would war against each other, with one being dedicated to the upholding of a beautiful, corrupt lie and the other being dedicated to the instillation of a dynasty of raw, pure truths. as such, even morgott and mohg's own great runes reflect these contrasts in faith, though, remarkably, these two great runes are ones that fit perfectly over each other, with mohg's slightly elevated (seen below, taken from the fextralife wiki).
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so, where does this leave us? i don't know, exactly. i wasn't really writing this with any sort of ultimate conclusion. i just found it really interesting how different they were, and i wanted to talk about all the noticeable, significant differences between them here. thanks for coming to my ted talk.
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writingwithcolor · 1 year ago
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A Careful Balance: Portraying a Black Character's Relationship with their Hair
@writingraccoon said:
My character is black in a dungeons and dragons-like fantasy world. His name is Kazuki Haile (pronounced hay-lee), and his mother is this world's equivalent of Japanese, which is where his first name is from, while his father is this world's equivalent of Ethiopian, which is where his last name is from. He looks much more like his father, and has hair type 4a. I plan to make his character very finnicky about his hair, both enjoying styling it, but also often being unsure how to style it (not in that he doesn't know how to, but has so many options for how to style it, he has trouble choosing). However, I know that there are some very harmful ways to write black hair, especially in regards to how the black character themselves feels about it. Kazuki does not hate his hair, in fact he takes joy in it, and I'm researching black hair and hair styles to be as accurate as possible. But I'm unsure if portraying a black character as occasionally overwhelmed by or vain about his hair is negative. How would you suggest either changing this or making it work? Does it need to be changed in the first place?
Black Character Overwhelmed by Curly Afro Hair
Your Black character wanting his hair to look its best and at times feeling overwhelmed seems reasonable and natural to me. It appears their challenge comes with how to style it. Not so much with struggling how it looks or how hard it is to manage. That is good, as this further helps avoid placing a strong negative focus on Black hair. 
Him caring a lot about how it is style should not be deemed vain or frivolous, either. In any case, hair care is self care. There’s nothing wrong with having pride with your hair, especially hair that mainstream society, historically and present, might say is not beautiful. This still matters, even in a fantasy world, since your readers still exist in this reality. It’s empowering and a welcome change to see someone who loves their afro hair, actually.
There are unique factors someone with coily afro hair would experience vs. straight, wavy, or looser curls, but people struggling with their hair (too frizzy, too flat, too limp, too thin, too thick!) is universal. 
There is a delicate balance to achieve.
Avoid Writing a Black Hair Journey Experience 
An overall negative Afro hair journey might be the reality for many, especially when society deems Afro hair as unacceptable and slaps so many uninvited opinions, laws and policies over its existence and on certain styles (again, historically and very much at present), but that’s the kind of story that is best handled by someone with the background. Someone willing to commit to the research might also be able to pull it off, although it’s truly not the kind of thing an escapism novel needs in my opinion. If the story is not meant to delve into “A Black /Black Hair Experience” then I'd avoid going that route. That is moving a bit towards a struggle narrative, depending on how much it defines your character’s story.
Add positive and neutral hair language and interactions
For your writing, I’d avoid using unchallenged negative language about his hair. Being overwhelmed at times and frustrated is one thing and expected. If his hair is constantly brought up, and is associated with uncontrollable, ugly, or too [insert struggle here], then rethink the direction you’re going. 
Add some positive or neutral terms, reactions, and interactions in the narrative towards afro hair, such as describing color and texture.
“His fine coils bounced in the wind.” 
“Hair black and shiny” 
“She wore her hair in two large, fluffy buns.”
“He admired his fresh, neat braids in the mirror, smiling at his reflection, before turning to leave.”
Another tip: It may have been for research purposes, but leave out any hair number categorizing in the story and rely on description. I’d say this goes for any story, as reading the number would feel off. 
“He had coily 4a hair.” Nahh! :P 
Also, I would suggest sending all passages that focus on his hair to a Black sensitivity reader for review.
More reading:
~Mod Colette
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mimipolo · 5 days ago
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Nam-gyu x GN!reader headcanons
I started writing just because I had so many scenarios of him in my head I needed to get out so tysm for liking my last post.
No this is not proof read, I MIGHT edit it later.
This man is horribly clingly to an extreme. Will hold onto anything in reach clothes, arm, shoulder. Honestly anywhere you'll allow him to. He won't touch the obvious places that would vouch for consent but he'd definitely be eager if you say he could.
And if you're someone's that's not into being constantly touched all the time he'd try his best to respect that but there'll definitely be moments when he reaches out for you and stops midway or his hand brushes you briefly. At some point he can't take it and takes a different route by standing so close your shoulders touch or instead urging you to initiate.
I feel like he takes care of his hands the best, his hair is choppy and his apartment is a state but he'll always make time to trim and take care of his nails. You asked him about it before and he just said he bites his nails a lot and didn't further explain why.
He seems like the type to be jittery a lot even when he's not high, in fact I think his hands would possibly shake less when he is. His hands shaking doesn't always necessarily means he's nervous but if you take them in yours to comfort him he'd definitely milk the hell out of it and hold out his hands to you expecting you to run your thumbs over them, that playful grin he always wears when he knows he's about to get what he wants on his face as he tilts his head at you.
Jealousy is in his top three emotions. He's far from perfect unfortunately and his possessiveness is definitely one of those defining traits. He would casually bring up bad things a person you're getting close to has done (like he's any better). Rubbing your back and preaching about how you should just stick with him.
Likes it if you run your hands down his back and sides, at first he found it annoying because of how ticklish it felt but shut up when you pointed out how hypocritical he was being. Being the fraud he is he quickly grew to like it, slumping his body over yours and as always expects to receive the embrace.
Lets you cut his hair, it's honestly the least of his concerns, is what he tells you at least. Sometimes you'll catch him picking at his hair in the reflection for too long. He's sat on the floor of your bathroom as you sit on the bathtub rim facing the mirror, his eyes are trained on your hands the whole time and he just couldn't help constantly making distracting pointers, a nudge to his side earns you a scoff before he eventually just let's you work.
Would constantly be twirling your hair if he's on call, he's persistent. If you have short hair or bald he'd scratch your scalp or nape of your neck, anything nearest to him.
He'd genuinely be happy if you initiated touch, even if it's not in public. He just liked the knowledge that you also like him enough to reciprocate.
This guy definitely has a staring problem, usually on your side or back profile but sometimes he zeroes in on random places that make you raise an eyebrow at him or push his head away flustered. And no you can't stare at him back he'll start blubbering about something that doesn't make sense and rubs his hands together to ease the nerves.
Defends you quietly, anyone that has talked behind your back gets confronted away from you. Obviously if they insult you in front of him he's swearing and throwing out threats he can't stand up to. If he wins (if) he'd try to act cool as he shrugs and wipes the blood from his nose and nudges you playfully, scolding you for "always getting him in trouble."
Absolutely insufferable during movies, won't shut up. Constantly pointing out bad acting or something he would've done in the characters position. Will only be quiet if you take charge of feeding him popcorn when you can tell he's about to yap, the instinct comes naturally after being around him for so long. Only times you'll mostly let him talk is during tense scenes in horror movies, it's alright then as he talks your ear off about random stuff in the movie that's somehow not relevant. Your eyes screwed with anxiety to the screen as he laughs and pulls you closer to his side (he starts talking to calm himself down because he's just as scared.)
Likes how warm your stomach is, always coming up behind you just to lay his cold hands on your stomach, causing you to jolt because he's like freezing?? He only chuckles and presses himself closer against you as he squeezes your sides. It's almost as if he knows how annoying he is.
Whenever you two lie in bed there's always a moment where he's lying on your chest, he honestly just looks thoughtless as he stares into the gap where your shirt meets your collarbone. Sighs heavily like a burdens been lifted when he smooth your palm over his hair and kiss his temple. You always fall asleep before him, I honestly believe he's an insomniac or at least has some problems sleeping, he's content just lying on you as you doze off though.
If you had a specific or unique style he'd admire it a lot. Honestly proud because he can't be asked to put the same effort into himself. If you do dress him up he'll feel good for a moment before feeling like an imposter and taking it off. The only accessories he has are his necklace and rings (you complimented them once and he hasn't thought of going back since.)
As much as he refuses to admit other people's views and opinions of him are a big part of his life. And after so many negative comments about himself he didn't see the point in trying to change it, instead he indulged in all the guilty pleasures they accused him of because what did he have to lose? But any kind words you give him he hangs onto like a life line, even just saying his name correctly has him hooked(Thanos...). He'll act all smug as you praise him, nodding and grinning while his ears flush red.
He also loves your hands. Kissing the tips, knuckles, pulse joint, everywhere. Makes you involuntary hold his face or put your hands on him. Likes seeing your hands intwined a lot, it feels solidifying.
Geekiest smile ever oh my days. He always looks so intimidating when he's outside but the moment another person (especially you) enters his bubble he's all smiles and chuckles, ducking his head softly as his hand covers his mouth. He could not handle being alone for too long.
The type of guy to randomly show up outside your apartment with takeaway with no warning and fully expects you to let him in, he knows you don't go out so it's the least you could do. Is already a foot inside your doorway when you finally open the door when you stop him, hand on your hip as you look him up and down.
"Since when did you have takeaway money?"
"Do you not wanna eat? Damn just let me in."
Chat can you tell I adore him 🤓
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missydior · 8 months ago
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prince of monaco ౨ৎ
notes: charles leclerc x reader, est. relationship, suggestive content, alcohol, insinuation of nudity (bathing) but no explicit details or sexual activity.
a/n: i wrote this at 11pm & it's a little ridiculous but this is also me projecting my manifestations for him to win his home grand prix this weekend.
The sweet aroma of your Miss Dior: Eau de Parfum in damask rose and incense against pink peonies, clean linen sheets mussed about the inviting embrace of the bed, café au lait from a drained mug on the nightstand beside sweet-smelling lilies, and white, lace stockings abandoned and draped over the velvet loveseat.
Charles' claim of 1st at the Monaco Grand Prix was most blessing, and the perfect excuse for a long night of a plentiful of Moët & Chandon champagne, honorary chants, and celebratory reverie: announcing him the 'prince' of his beloved home, a victory he has been yearning for, since forever.
You had remained with him through the week, watching and admiring through every practice session from your usual seat, enjoying luncheon together and laughing over the usual lovey-dovey or noncommittal subjects as a means to distract him from his nerves before qualifying – the kind of thing he doesn't admit to but you know is only human – and your never-leaving gaze throughout the Grand Prix itself.
Until you got to watch from below with love hearts in your eyes when he stood on that podium, in his true and most divine stature whilst the crowds called for him and the Monégasque anthem resonated like the music of the heavens.
Now, it is quiet in the apartment you both call home, all minimalist but comfortable interior in a palette of white, créme, beige and hints of colour against the décor that define it as yours: the polished trophies before the white-varnished piano, heavy and velvet curtains stirring lazily about closed balconies of their rocaille-esque motifs, the abandoned sweater forgotten on the sofa, your rose crocheting yarn on the coffee table beside a copy of last month's Vogue.
Peaceful and content, stood before the ornate mirror in the en-suite of polished marble and quiet luxury, humming some gentle and absent tune to yourself as you comb your hair – dressed down to the comfortable, white gossamer silk of your négligée – whilst the only tune that resounds being the hushed television down the hall.
It is only a minute later that you are interrupted from your daydreaming by the sound of the mahogany front door as it draws open and closed. The familiar clink of keys set down on the oak furniture in the foyer, shuffled footfalls a little less balanced than usual, quickly silenced against the sound of a familiar voice like melting caramel on the subtle, slurring song of inebriation.
"Chérie?"
Hair comb set down on the neat counter beside the porcelain embellished basin, you absently gnaw at your lower-lip whilst silent feet wander the parquestry of the flooring through the flat in your approach to the source of your boyfriend's return, tucking a hair behind your ear, "Charles, I'm–"
The words are lost on the edge of your tongue the second you emerge from the bedroom's suite, down past the plush sitting area to be met by the sight of him where the corridor joins the rest of the homely setting.
"Bonsoir, bébé."
Even when he is slightly hair-tousled with damp, brunet strays falling about his forehead and the linen of his shirt slightly wrinkled, Charles is a handsome man, devastatingly so; the kind of beautiful that renders the air from your lungs a little even when you hold back light laughter at him now.
From his posture, an effort of an elegant curve to his physique like he is trying to be some suave, pretty flirt from those old, romance comedies you watch, where one elbow is propped against the wood arch of the threshold – the only thing evidently holding him upright – whilst his flushed cheeks strain a little on a dimpled, lazy and contagious smile.
"Hello, Charles."
"Ma belle, I missed you, I'm home," With something close to a brief pout and an attempt at a wink, the man lets his lovely eyes dance down and along your own figure in a lingering admiration and a slow, drawn-out smirk that looks both laughable and far-too-endearing, lithe fingers absently adjusting his loosened shirt collar as you come closer.
"I can see that," In response, you try not to appear amused though it is perceptible on the curve by the corner of your sweet mouth when his eyes follow the subtle shift of your hips as you draw forward until your arms fold around his midriff, breathing him in: champagne and cologne, hints of warm amber and rosewood. "You're drunk."
His arm falls around your shoulder comfortably as he sways against you, kissing the crown of your head like a useless reassurance when he murmurs a lieu of words in the thickened curl of his accent, "Non, ça va, je–"
"Charles." Your face shifts with a look, the both of you stumbling a little backwards where his weight almost has you falling on the edge of a floral rug, a hushed, noncommittal sound close to a chuckle falling from the man as he buries his face into the side of your neck with the punctuation of an open-mouth kiss.
"D'accord, d'accord."
"Stupid," You mutter affectionately, rolling your eyes fondly despite knowing all too well what has him so distracted, the warmth of his mouth and the gentle rasp of his five o'clock shadow tickling the underside of your jaw and the sensitivity there, a purr reverberating from the back of his throat as a response.
"Are you hungry– would you like anything?"
"Just you, chérie, I want to..." The Monégasque trails off momentarily like he is disputing internally with his own dialogue, lightly calloused palms feeling the curve of your waist through pale silk before pausing at your derrière absently – tracing his tongue against the edge of pearlescent teeth – as the two of you move further through the sitting room, his voice a whisper, "Je veux te baiser, mon ange."
With a blush dusting the edges of your cheekbones at the obscène words, you offer a half-apologetic smile whilst stroking back his tousled hair, "How about we get dressed down and settled first, at least?"
Initially, he seems reluctant to offer any hint of acquiescence but he eventually nods a little with a vague sound of acknowledgement, fingertips still feeling over your figure as you walk the path together before reaching the bathroom, the door falling shut gently.
Even when the reality of the presence has you accepting tonight shall be long, the man is undoubtedly his most entertaining and equally sweet as romanticised prophecies when he is intoxicated.
"Mm," It is the only indication you are given when Charles' touch falls upon the lace edges of your négligée, drawing it down the curve of your shoulder slowly as he traces the shell of your ear with his mouth, "You're wearing my favourite."
A soft laugh leaves the depth of your chest – a hushed affirmative sound in reply – before his hands come to cradle either side of your jaw tenderly whilst his thumb caresses the apple of your cheek, the kiss that follows his gentle persuasion more loving, his lips parted softly.
Just as quickly as the almost peaceful, drawn-out intimacy begins, it ends when he gives some hushed, breathless sound of sheer enjoyment whilst his hips absently meets yours until you feel the edge of the basin behind, a palm splaying over his chest just enough to encourage him from pausing.
"We can have a nice bath first and then I might consider your suggestion, monsieur," You offer gently in hushed humour, undoing the remaining buttons of his shirt whilst sealing your sentence with a chaste kiss near his chin.
"I'd much rather have you."
"So romantic," Muttering the words quietly, your nose brushes the bridge of his own fractionally where you see the slight glaze of liquor in his eyes, like gentle moss and warm oak, his mouth shifting almost proudly with momentarily met gazes.
"Only for you, mon cœur, I could write you sonnets of love, la mélodie de tes yeux–"
"Okay, Romeo Montague, how about you wash first?"
The initial hope had only been to coax him into the warmth of the bath waters amongst a touch lavender oil that threatens to lull him further into quiet and peace, wash his hair from your seat and prevent the possibility of any difficulty, though clothes are mutually forgotten on the marble floors and small, white-cotton rug when he guilts you into joining him.
"Charles," A whisper of his name though the cadence of your voice lacks the intent of reproach, bodies close together as he guides you into a comfortable situation about his lap whilst you work nimble fingers through his dampened hair slowly, hoping to distract him from anything but washing and settling down from the dizziness of too much alcohol.
"You smell nice," He mumbles indulgently against your shoulder, tracing a kiss on the jut of your collarbone in the dreamy lull of his voice as though lost in the figments of his own thoughts, "Like les fleurs..."
"And you smell like a bottle of Moët."
The man offers a lowered tune of disagreement, a palm idly stroking the curve of your thigh and down the inside of your knee beneath the warm water as you lather the product through his tresses, holding back a smile when he responds drunkenly like some smitten, hopeless lover of the poets:
"Non, c'est seulement le parfum des nuages."
It is the kind of sweet words that would usually have your cheeks warming or laughing like some conjured image of him in your mind, rifling through books of poetry because you cannot fathom him thinking of such phrases alone, though the moment his lips find the curve of your throat and the sensitive area beneath your jaw, it is harder not to succumb to the gentle temptation and let him have his way, a sigh falling from you.
"What are you doing?"
"Loving you." He says the words so easily, like it is the simplest, most natural truth he could ever admit, the warmth and wetness of his mouth trailing the lines of your throat and across the arch of your shoulders.
"You're ridiculous."
"Ridiculously in love with you," He sounds proud of himself. Then, he is guiding the two of you, bodies pressed flush against one another as you are moved back, the weight of him familiar and the pressure of his mouth meeting yours slowly, "Let me love you, s'il vous plaît, ma chérie."
There are the smallest fragments of his soul and the secrets of his heart within the way his body moves, the gentle touch and the softness, the vulnerability and the passion even in the humour of his intoxicated mannerisms; how he makes love and the manner he holds you after, and there is an undeniable and irrefutable trust you hold for him alone.
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thethronezone · 16 days ago
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Primarchs and baby's first word
It had been an complete accident. Mortarion were overseeing some neophytes training and had been less than impressed with what he saw, growing more and more agitated by the moment. When one of the neophytes got knocked on his ass, Mortarion growled deep in his throat. "Idiot", he grumbled. "Idiot" repeated the infant in his arms that he had completely forgotten about. He looked down, expression morphing into one of mild surprise. Oh. "Was that your first-?" he started before shaking his head, trying to force down the smile that was threatening to appear. Instead, Mortarion patted his child's head softly. "Good to know you are listening."
Every time Fulgrim saw his child, he made sure to only use 'good' words and he urged his legion and the serfs to do so as well. Words that sounded good, were impressive or had value. He wanted their first words to be something special, something that would define their future. But when their first word turns out to be "purble", well, Fulgrim can't help but laugh, his head thrown backwards. It's so cute, so incredibly charming, that he can't possibly feel disappointed. Purble? Oh, how delightful! Fulgrim will never let them live this down, doesn't matter if they are 5 or 500, he will always remind them that their first word was "purble".
Since Angron worries so about accidentally hurting his child, he spends most of his time with them at a distance. They might be in the same room but he's on the opposite end. He's mostly quiet, maybe polishing his weapons or sharpening a sword, keeping silent vigilance over the child. But one day, the baby starts to fuss in their crib and while they normally quiet down on their own, this time they won't. The baby is fussing, whining pathetically and Angron stares at the crib for a few moments, body tense and fingers flexing. Then, he heaves out a heavy breath, and steps up to the cot, peering down at the child in it. "What?" he questions rather gruffly, unsure what to do, not expecting an answer. The child whines. "Up!" Angron freezes. "What?" he repeats, this time more bewildered than gruff. The child frowns, frustrated by his response. "Up!" Hesitant, he grabs them under the armpits and lifts them up, keeping them at arms length. The frown on their face melts away and turns into a smile, one that he can't help but awkwardly mirror. "Up" they say, sounding more satisfied than they have any right to be. Still, Angron can't bring himself to be too mad about it, even when the nails dig into his head, making his nerves scream with agony.
Magnus had been trying to get his child to speak for some time now. Was it still to early in their development? Yes, but they were also the child of a Primarch and that meant that they developed at a faster rate compared to baseline children. Probably. But no matter how hard he tried, his child would not say a single word, instead they just stared at him with wide eyes whenever he urged them to repeat after him. Sighing, Magnus decided to give up for the day. Standing up, he scoured the bookshelf for a good book to read to his child, when a small voice suddenly spoke up. "That." Whipping his head around, Magnus saw his child pointing at the book he had paused on. "That", they repeated. Magnus laughed and, sitting down with the book in his hands, he came to terms with the fact that his child might do things their own way.
Perturabo had developed the habit of ranting in front of his infant child. He doubted they could understand him but it somehow felt better having someone listening. He really should have been more careful. During an outing (Perturabo had wanted to show his child examples of good architecture), they had happened upon a government official, one that Perturabo had ranted at length about before. Perturabo grit his teeth and mentally prepared for some useless banter before he could excuse himself, when the child in his arms suddenly pointed and, rather loudly, exclaimed "Annoying!" The government official could only sputter in indignation and Perturabo took the chance to offer a very insincere apology before leaving. As he left, he quietly praised his child while making a mental note to maybe be more careful with what he said in front of them.
Alpharius and Omegon had wondered what their child's first word would be, small hypothesizes and guesses shared between them in private. "An object" Alpharius had guessed with fair certainly. "A person" Omegon had in turn contested. Turns out, they were both wrong, as just a couple of days later, their child spoke for the first time. They had gone to see the child that morning and when they arrived at the nursery, the child had already been up, awake and waiting. The child peeked over the edge of the crib and said "hello". Alpharius and Omegon looked at each other, amusement in their eyes. "Ah, a greeting."
Every day Lorgar wakes up and hopes that this is the day that his dear child will grace him with their first words. But when it actually happens, he's caught off guard, as he's in the middle of a sermon for his legion. He's up there, baby in his arms (because every day is take-your-kid-to-work day when you're him), talking about the divine, when suddenly the baby looks up, sees the aquila on the wall, points and says "bird". Lorgar stops mid sentence. Looks out at his legion to see if they heard what he did. The World Bearers are staring at the baby, wide eyed. Smiles widely and addresses the legion with an emotional voice. "It appears my dear child has decided to join the sermon!" The crowd cheers. Lorgar is so proud of his little one. Will probably get them a pet bird or something, seeing it as some kind of sign.
It happens when Horus is spending some time with the Mournival. The baby is in his arms, half dozing off, and he's having a nice chat with is inner circle. Eventually he decides it's time to leave, that he need to put the little one to bed. "Say bye to the captains" he says, chuckling softly, only to go completely quiet and stare like an idiot, when the baby actually says "bye". Then he starts grinning, ruffling their hair, and the Mournival are smiling too, congratulating him and praising the child for being so smart and good. Horus still ends up putting the child to bed but immediately afterwards he sends message to the Emperor and all his brothers, telling them all the story. He's so damn proud.
Konrad wasn't sure if he wanted his child to learn how to speak. It scared him, the idea that one day they might use their words to tell him that they hate him. And he's only recently gotten used to holding them (he never wants to put them down), speaking feels like such a huge leap. But, like most things, Konrad has no real control over this. So when one day, while cradling his baby in his arms, they turn in his arms, nuzzle against him and mutter a soft "dada", Konrad feels like both his hearts have stopped. But it's not dread that makes him freeze up, not fear that makes his eyes water with unshed tears. It's an overwhelming sense of love. He curls over them, his long hair tickling their face, and wishes he could make this moment last forever.
Sanguinius was delighted when his child was born and they had wings, just like him. He would have loved them all the same if they hadn't had the wings but he's always wanted to have someone to share the skies with and now he can do that with his baby. Once they've grown up of course, right now they are much too young. Until then, Sanguinius will share that joy with stories instead. That's why he shouldn't have been so surprised when, during one of these stories, his child started flapping their little wings (still covered with soft dow) and started saying "fly, fly, fly!" Oh, the way Sanguinius had embraced them then, smiling like a fool and laughing softly with tears in his eyes. "Yes, little one, one day you and I shall fly together" he murmured into the top of their head, heart soaring with happiness.
Corvus doesn't talk a lot with his baby. Not because he doesn't like them! Because he does! He just doesn't know what to say. So his kid ends up ends up really quiet. Doesn't even babble like most babies do. And at first he's calm about it, just thinks his child is like him. But then time passes and the baby still remains absolutely quiet, not a single sound and that's when he realizes that oh oh, maybe this is not such a good thing. Straight up sits down in front of the child one day, looks them in the eyes and, once he's sure they're focused on him, practically pleads with them to make some sort of noise. Baby looks at him. Baby thinks. Baby sighs. "Ok." Then goes back to quietly playing with their toys. Corvus is so relieved. Looks like he's not a total fuckup of a father after all! Then realizes that, wait, that was their first word. Silently freaking out now because since when did his kid know how to speak?
It was bound to happen sooner or later. Ferrus hadn't really put much thought into what his child's first word would be, just that it would eventually happen. Maybe that's why he's so caught off guard when, one day, he goes to pick up his child and they flinch when part of his hand accidentally graces their skin, a single "cold" escaping them. Like an idiot, Ferrus just stands there, hands hovering awkwardly, staring at them. Then at his hands that gleam in the light of the nursery. He has to bite his tongue to stop himself from cursing. Slowly, carefully, he gathers the blanket around his child so that he doesn't accidentally touch them again. He holds them close, closer than he normally would, one hand cradling the back of their cloth covered head, and stares off into the distance. This doesn't bother him. He's stronger than that. It's fine. He's fine.
Rogal speaks to his baby like they are a fully grown man. He doesn't see the point in 'baby-speak' or simpler, easier words. He will instill in his child the importance of speaking clearly and with purpose. So when his child does not start speaking around the time he expected them to, he's confused and just a bit concerned. Time passes and the concern grows as the child refuses to speak. At this point, Rogal starts worrying that there actually might be something wrong. Then, one day, when he's considering what he might be doing wrong, his child suddenly tugs on his clothes. He looks down, seeing them staring up at him expectantly. "What is it, child?" he questions, not really expecting and answer and almost falling out of his chair when they respond with "Can you tell me a story?" Rogal, bewildered but fighting to retain his cool, asks them why they only speak now. Their answer? "I didn't have anything of importance to say." Fair point, Rogal concedes, feeling like he's age a hundred years in the last minute alone.
Vulkan talks to his child every day and he talks a lot. He keeps a running monologue, talking about everything from what he's doing, what's happening around them, where they are, the weather, some fun memory, what they're going to eat. Vulkan talks in hope that soon enough, his child will respond. He's in the midst of talking about the Salamanders training in front of them when suddenly, one of the astartes brings out a heavy flamer to practice with. And suddenly his child is leaning forward, eyes wide open and waving with excitement. "FIAH!" they shout, causing every Salamander in the training yard, plus Vulkan, to pause and stare at them. The silence only lasts for a second and then Vulkan is trembling with laughter. "That's right, little one, fire!" The Salamanders abandon their training to circle around Vulkan and his child, praising the Primarch's child for speaking so loud and clear. Vulkan is beaming with pride.
Lion didn't feel ashamed or embarrassed over the fact that, most days, he held his child in one arm while seated at his desk, doing paperwork. If asked about it, he would simply explain it was for enrichment. This way, they could learn about duty, about diligence. And if it also just so happened that he could spend more time with his child this way, well, who was going to challenge his decision? It was during one of these moments, where Lion was reading some reports, that some loud aspirants passed by his office door. Even muffled, they made quite a ruckus and Lion's brow furrowed in distaste. However, before he got the chance to do anything about it, the child on his arm huffed and grumbled. "Noisy" they said and frowned. For a moment, Lion could do nothing but stare. But then the corners of his mouth started to tug. "Noisy indeed" he muttered before quietly praising his child for being so sensible.
Now, Leman hadn't been all that concerned about urging his kid to speak. He figured that they would pick up on the words used around them and, whenever they felt ready, they would speak up. That, coupled with the fact that neither him or his legion mellowed out their language when the baby was around, eventually led to the quite comical situation where, upon accidentally dropping their favorite toy, the child's first word ended up being a very loud "FRACK!" Howling with laughter, it had taken Leman minutes to calm down enough to praise his pup for saying their first word. He then picked them up, determined to show his legion the funniest thing he's ever seen.
Jaghatai wasn't surprised when his child's first word turned out to be "faster". It had, however, surprised him when it was quickly followed by "too slow!" Not one, but three words? Ha! His child really didn't to things halfway! Smiling widely, Jaghatai tossed them high in the air, his smile only growing wider when they laughed and squealed with glee. "That's my kid!" he exclaimed before placing them back on his shoulder, a hand on their back to hold them steady. "You want to go fast? Well, who am I to refuse the next great Khan!" His child continued squealing with glee as he ran though the compound, urging him to go faster and faster. The White Scars grinned at the sight and likewise, urged their Primarch to go as fast as he could.
Roboute is at his office, late in the evening, doing the last of his paperwork. He's holding his baby in one arm, preparing to finish work and getting them to bed. They are yawning, stretching, whining a little, clearly tired. Roboute bounces them a little, shushes them softly. "I know, little one, just a few more minutes, then straight to bed." His baby grumbles and turns over, covering their eyes with their hands. "Sleepy..." the mumble and Roboute almost snaps the pen in his hand. He stares, and stares and then stares some more at his child. Then he chuckles, his chest feeling all warm and fuzzy with pride. "Alright then, no more work." He stands up from his desk and, smoothing one hand over their head, takes them back to the nursery, a slight smile on his face the whole time.
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burrowlvrr · 7 months ago
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— HUDDLE OF LOVE, joe burrow.
PAIRING: Joe Burrow 𝔁 Black!Wife!Reader
GENRE: Husband & Dad Joe
SUMMARY: In which — Joe faces an injury that brings his season to an early end, and when he gets home his wife makes sure that he knows his injury doesn't define him.
NOTE: I honestly feel like I ate this one up. But I also didn't really proof-read it, so don't hold me to that lol! This has been sitting in the drafts since Joe was hurt so it's been a min. Please send in some suggestions because writing is so fun to me now. Enjoy!
UNIVERSE: Tenderhearts & Touchdowns!
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"Y'know, football is a tough sport, and injuries are unfortunately a part of it. We'll regroup, support each other, and continue to fight through the rest of the season; but, as of now, it's looking like Joe will be out for the rest of the season." Coach Zac Taylor spoke into the microphone, Y/N's head fell into her hands as she exhaled the breath she hadn't realized she was holding in. That was all Y/N needed to hear, picking up the remote before shutting the television off.
Y/N had to watch her husband suffer an injury during his game against the Ravens, and if it weren't for the huge mess her children were making — they probably would've seen it to. Thankfully, they were being too rowdy to hear anything that was said on the television. She directed Hudson to the playroom so he could distract himself, and she began running Elijah's bath water first.
She tried to distract herself with things to do, knowing the emotions she was feeling were just lesser versions of what her husband would be feeling once he got home. She was now nine months pregnant, and even though she walked with a very noticeable waddle, she got around pretty well. Not to mention, it's way easier to move around when there's only one baby inside you rather than two.
She finished washing Elijah's blonde curls and got him in his pajamas before sending him to the playroom with one job — "Tell your brother I said come on." She instructed, her son playfully giving her a soldier salute before running down their tiled hallway. Within one minute, Hudson stood right behind her as she finished running his warm water. "Can I get some bubbles, mama?"
Y/N smiled at her baby boy, "Yes, baby. You can get some bubbles." She replied, dumping a small cap full of vanilla scented bubbles in his warm water. She let her child play on his own while she sat on top of the toilet seat, watching him in adoration as he continuously pushed a small boat around in his water. "Okay, bub. It's time to get washed up now.
Hudson had no complaints, doing what he could on his own before asking his mother for help. She slowly got to her knees in front of the tub, being careful when she dumped cup fulls of water onto her son's head. Once she had his hair washed, she got him out and got him dressed in his matching pajamas with Elijah. Both of them being covered in orange and black tiger stripes, a large number nine on the back, along with the lettering "Baby Burrow".
"Can you tell bubba it's time to brush our teeth?" She asked Hudson, finishing up rubbing in the dollop of child's face lotion into his skin. Hudson nodded with a toothy, but pretty but toothless, smile before he took off running to grab his twin brother.
She grabbed their step stools from under the cabinet and got their tooth brushes ready, handing them each their own as they stepped up to the sink. "Hum your ABC's, remember? Mommy is in your room, yell if you need me!" She chirped, smiling at her boys in the mirror as they moved in an identical way.
She exited the bathroom, entering their shared bedroom and untucking their sheets for them. She clicked their LED light remote a few times, landing on the color blue for the evening. She always set an hour long timer; so that by the time the boys are knocked out, so were the lights.
She waddled back into the bathroom, seeing her twins already washing their hands as they knew they were supposed to. Her boys were already so smart and they were only three, she couldn't wait to see how intelligent they were in their classrooms. "All done!" Elijah turned around and exaggeratedly jumped from the step stool, of course Hudson mirrored his actions and did a hop of his own.
"It's time for bed, my loves." She smiled warmly, seeing their faces light up as they already knew what she was about to ask. "Who can get in their bed quicker?!" She asked, and both of her boys jumped off of their back leg and sprinted towards their shared bedroom. She giggled, turning off the bathroom lights before running a hand through her curly hair.
"Who won?" She asked, smirking at her boys as she entered their blue toned bedroom. Instant chatter filled the room, fingers pointed at themselves yelping about how they won, before turning their hand and accusing the other of being a cheater. Y/N couldn't help but laugh, no matter how many times they do this, it's always the exact same. "We can have a rematch tomorrow night, alright? We'll let daddy be the judge."
Both of them liked that idea, loving anything that had to do with their father. Y/N's stomach twisted at the reminder of Joe's injury, knowing he was no more than an hour and a half away now. With forehead, cheek and tummy kisses from both of the boys, Y/N sat on the floor between their beds and began reading their favorite bedtime stories.
As the stories unfolded, Y/N could feel the gentle kicks of her unborn baby, seemingly enjoying the bedtime tales. The connection between the growing family was palpable in these intimate moments.
The room, once echoing with lively laughter, now settled into a serene atmosphere as Y/N stood from her spot on the floor. "Sweet dreams, my little stars," she whispered, planting a kiss on each of their foreheads. The twins, eyelids growing heavy, whispered their sleepy goodnights. Y/N, with a content smile, left the room, closing the door gently behind her.
Y/N decided to take a quick shower, using the bathroom down the hall from her boys' bedroom just in case they woke up needing her comfort. She stepped out, washing her face and brushing her teeth, making her way to her and Joe's bedroom to put some clothes on. She always found herself freezing in her sleep, so she decided on a figure-hugging black long sleeve and a pair of customized sweatpants, the choice of lettering being "BURROW" right on her bottom.
She replaced her contacts with glasses and her tall socks with slippers, she tied her hair up into a messy ponytail before taking a seat at her marble island. She had tons of lesson plans to catch up on, doing them before the birth of her baby seemed like a good plan — because obviously, once the baby was out and a little bit older, she would have to return to work. She was an elementary school teacher, having a love for all children, no matter if they were her's biologically or just because it was her job. From a young age, she knew that she wanted to have an impact on people's lives, what better time to start than when their brain is still freshly developing?
Y/N had just closed her MacBook with a sigh when she heard the lock on the front door beep, indicating that someone with the code had just unlocked it. She chose to stay seated, not wanting to immediately bombard Joe once he got through the door. She continued to organize her stack of lesson plans, going on as if she didn't hear the shuffling at the front door.
It was unusually quiet to Joe, he furrowed his eyebrows as he turned his head. He listened for some sort of greeting, his eyes scanned the view of the house that he had. Nothing. No pattering of his children's feet, no scolding from his wife about their running, no 60's record spinning from the living room. He finally called out, "Hello?"
Y/N took that as her cue, sliding off of the barstool before waddling into the living room. She watched as Joe's expression visually relaxed, his shoulders now slouched as she smiled at him. "Hi, handsome. I missed you." She said happily, taking her hands and placing one on each of his rosy cheeks.
Joe wrapped his good arm around her waist. "I missed you more." He replied, looking into her eyes as she rubbed circles under his puffy eyes. Y/N helped him remove the duffle bag from his shoulder, carefully placing it on the bench near the door. Joe slid his shoes off, using his one good arm to lean on the wall as a way to steady himself. Y/N watched from a few feet away, waiting for Joe to break the silence himself.
That was when she noticed the anxious look on his face, he walked up to her and she looked up at him in concern. "Are they sleepin' already?" He asked, chewing on his bottom lip as he searched his wife's eyes. She nodded.
"Yeah, they've been out for a little over an hour now." She reassured him, knowing why he was feeling anxious and worrying about his children. He had always expressed his fears of parenthood and how his career could possibly affect that. Tonight would be one of those nights, luckily, Y/N knew that she could reassure him that the boys were not watching when he suffered his injury.
"You wanna go see 'em?" She asked, placing a hand on his arm lovingly. Joe nodded, blinking rapidly as he pulled his beanie from his head.
She reached out for his hand, he took it and tried to give her a soft smile. There was an understanding of what Joe was feeling, so they didn't need to say a thing as they ventured off upstairs. They stopped at the boys' bedroom door, and Y/N twisted the door knob as quietly as she could. She opened the door just enough that Joe could poke his head in and see his sleeping twins, Y/N followed his actions and a warm smile grew on her face. A regular occurrence in their room was Elijah getting out of his bed, and finding his way to Hudson's so they could sleep together. No matter how many times Y/N and Joe exited their room with them in separate beds, they would always come back to them sharing one.
Joe's chest heaved slower than before, letting Y/N know he had calmed down even if it wasn't much. "They're alright, honey," She spoke softly, using a warm tone that reassured Joe easily. It was no secret that toddlers are a lot to handle, but Y/N was a strong woman and knew how to work with her children. Sure, they were a handful today — but she would much rather chase them around the house, than try to wrangle them in the football stands.
Her round belly brushed against Joe's flat one as they stood close to each other, his good arm around her waist and her hand on his chest. "Absolutely pooped from all the hell they raised today." She continued, earning a soft chuckle from her husband, but another wave of silence quickly washed over them.
A million thoughts swirled around in Joe's head, his eyes darting from each of his son's faces. He inhaled deeply, then turned to face his wife with tired eyes. "Did they se—" He started, his voice cracking before he could even finish his question. But there was no need, Y/N knew him like the back of her hand, and she already knew what he was about to ask.
She shook her head, moving her hand from his chest to run through his blonde hair. "No, they were being noisy with all their toys when it happened. And I got them ready for bed right after." She explained, her eyes searching his for some sort of response. All he could do was nod, nibbling on his lip as she looked at the walls around them instead of his wife. "Why don't we go lay down, huh?"
They traveled down the hall to their bedroom hand in hand, the low chatter of their bedroom tv was the only noise they heard as they entered. The news reports dimly lit their bedroom, casting shadows on the walls as it bounced from frame to frame. Y/N didn't want to poke the bear just yet, so she decided to let Joe do his own thing while she freshened up before bed. Once she turned the faucet off, she heard a faint sniffle from their connected bedroom. She quickly wiped her hands on her sweats before exiting the bathroom.
She came out to find Joe standing in their tall mirror. He used his sleeve to wipe his nose, noticing that Y/N had came out of the bathroom. The television mentioned his name for what seemed like the millionth time that night, Joe's eyes snapped to the floor hearing it. Y/N gave a sympathetic frown, watching as he took a seat at the foot of their bed. She sat down next to him, placing a hand on his thigh.
"What did they say?" She asked, looking toward him but he was focused on the television in front of them. He brought his good arm up, rubbing his ear as he always did when he was upset. He could the frustration building up once more, he sucked in a deep breath and held it for a few seconds. "A torn ligament." He replied.
Y/N nodded her head, "I'm not gonna tell you you're gonna bounce back because I'm sure you've heard that plenty of times today." She began, "We both know you will. You'll just have another surgery to repair it."
"Another surgery." He repeated, shaking his head and rubbing his temples. He still hadn't faced her, feeling too defeated to look her in the eyes now.
"You'll play again." She assured him, her hand coming up to play with the hairs at the back of his neck. "I know you will." Joe sat with his shoulder's slumped, the loss of the game resting heavily on them.
"I know." He sighed, moving his gaze to stare at the floorboards now. Y/N felt as if nothing she would say could help him feel any better, so she chose to let the silence consume them once more. The low chatter of the television continued, it was beginning to annoy her with how many times they'd brought up Joe's injury. The game has been over for hours now, we get it. With that, she got up from her spot beside Joe and turned the television off completely. The sudden movement made Joe look up, from the ground, watching as his wife waddled back to her spot beside him.
The silence was broken by Joe this time, "I feel like I'm being dramatic." He spoke up, causing Y/N to turn to him with wide eyes. "Honey, you just faced a season ending injury — and you think you're being dramatic?" She asked him, he shrugged his shoulders in defeat.
"I think you've got a hell of a good reason to be "dramatic"." She used her two fingers to quote the word, earning a very dry chuckle from her husband. She dropped her hands to her lap, cocking her head to the side as she looked at him in concern.
He wiped his nose with his sleeve again, forcing a smile and another chuckle before he spoke. "I just hate how long it takes to recover from these things. It's takes a lot of work." He confessed, making Y/N feel like their communication was finally working.
"Yeah, I get that." She began, "But you're strong and you're dedicated to this sport. It'll come so easily to you after your surgery." A small smile grew on his face, but he began to shake his head once more.
"It just really sucks." He said bluntly, "The only thing I'm good at, I can't even do again for ten more months." He huffed, his words spinning a wheel in Y/N's mind. Her lips turned into a frown as he talked down on himself.
"Don't talk like that, Joe." She said, "Football is not the only thing you're good at." Her wedding ring shined as she reached for his right cheek, turning his head to face her. "You're an amazing daddy and an amazing husband. A torn ligament isn't stopping that at all. Nothing is ever going to stop that, you hear me?" She searched his face for an answer, he closed his eyes for a moment as he began to feel them burning with tears.
Joe had always struggled to be vulnerable, but Y/N always found a way to make him crawl out of that shell. He couldn't thank her enough for that. He doesn't think he'll ever be able to, either. "I hear you." He responded, his voice cracking as he spoke. He bit his bottom lip, and nodded his head as he dropped his gaze to his fingers. A silence fell over them once again, but this time it was comfortable.
"We should really get to bed." Joe said, wiping his face with his hoodie sleeve as he stood up from the bed. Y/N's gaze followed him as he held out his hands for her, her eyes grazing over his new cast and sling. He followed her gaze and, in an embarrassed manner, dropped his left arm. She held on tight as she struggled to lift two people's body weight off the edge of the bed, her arms absentmindedly wrapping around Joe's neck. He exhaled a deep breath at her touch, and she let out a breath of relief due to all the moving she'd just done.
"We love you either way." She whispered, grabbing Joe's left hand and placing it on her round stomach. "All of us. We love you, and thats with or without football." Joe let the tears fall from his eyes, and let his hand rest in his wife's stomach as she moved her hand to wipe his falling tears.
He rubbed her stomach in a loving manner, his shoulders bouncing with each quiet sob that he choked out. "Yeah, I know." He barely got out the three words, Y/N kept wiping the tears and rubbing his arms up and down.
"You're strong and you will overcome this. You always recover in a way that shows how truly remarkable you are, Joe. That's never gonna change. No matter how large the obstacle." She grabbed a hold of both of his forearms lightly, being mindful of his injury, making him look her in the eyes. "You're capable of recovering from this set back. And you have nothing to prove to anybody except those boys in there — but they already know their daddy is strong."
"I love you." He said, closing his eyes with a sigh as she placed a loving kiss on his cheek. "I love you more, baby." She then placed a kiss on his lips, pulling him in for one more tight embrace before bed. He walked her to her side of the bed, helping her get under the sheets, before making his way to his side and climbing in right beside her.
Although he let a few more tears fall while lying down, he couldn't help but feel as if he was stronger already. She fell asleep before him, but continued to whisper affirmations and play with his blonde locks in her sleep. She held him to her chest, and his arms wrapped around her very large bump. He looked up at her in admiration, she never failed to amaze him with how patient she was.
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monimccoythings · 9 days ago
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Dad Bod
I'm planning to write a few domestic short scenes of Old man Logan and his little family. Been craving for some domestic settings and head canons. I'm trying to make the reader as gender neutral and POC friendly as possible, so everyone can enjoy these little snippets.
Logan has put on a bit more weight in his later years. It's enough to be noticeable, domestic life fits him like a glove. A life without fighting and filled with homemade meals, has turned a lone wolf into a family man. And that kind of life always has some sort of side effects.
He would never admit it out loud, but he feels a bit of shame when he looks at himself in the mirror, his chiseled pecs and well defined abs have been replaced with a barrelled chest and a belly that strains against his belt. It was another reminder that he was way past his prime. And old useless man, too broken and too good for nothing.
If only he could get through his thick adamantium skull that you would love him in any form and shape. Doesn't matter what he looks like, he is still a Greek God to you, the hottest man you have ever met.
He drove you wild when he was buff, but now that he has a dad bod, he makes you straight up feral. Just feeling his weight and his body pressing against you when he pounds at you from behind, or just sitting on top to ride him were honestly a blessing from heaven.
You make sure to remind him every time, not with words, because you know he won't fully believe you, but with actions. The way you worship his body, kissing, sucking, caressing it with a reverence more fitting of a masterpiece. What could you say, he was a work of art.
You marvel in the softness of his body, how cushiony and warm he is; in the raw strength cursing through his big arms when he lifts you effortlessly like you weigh nothing.
He's gorgeous, he is beautiful, he is your Logan and you wouldn't have him any other way.
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aestherians · 3 months ago
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sorry to be a hater of sorts. but you are not an animal, or whatever else other than a human that you happen to identify as.
it is not about wanting. it is about BEING, and if you look in the mirror you’ll realise you’re just a human. it doesn’t make a difference if you struggle with it. get over it. a lot of people have to get over it. you cannot be indulged in a fantasyland 24/7. quite simply, grow up
Huh, I don't think I've gotten one of these asks since 2017...
First things first, starting off a rather hateful and concern-trolling message with "sorry" doesn't alleviate you of any potential harm done. You're trying to upset me. You're rude, you're mean, and you clearly realize it, since you're only willing to say these things anonymously. Don't try to soften your blows by apologizing preemptively. It's bitchy at best and belittling at worst.
I'm gonna take a guess and say this is a copy-pasted message, since you couldn't even be bothered to name my therio-/kintypes. How many other people have you tried to upset with these messages? And for what reason? What's your goal? Is the world not cruel enough already?
But I'll give you the benefit of the doubt, since these kinds of messages have become such a rarity, and since I haven't written anything for this blog in months. Consider it an invitation to reach out again some day, once you've mulled things over. I'll get vulnerable with you and lay myself bare, and in return I hope you'll consider seeing me as a person, instead of just a target for your anger.
You say reality, identity, and self-perception ('cause that's what this is; that's what otherkinity is) is about being, not wanting. I say that's an oversimplified worldview.
Who can we be if there's nothing we want? A person without desires is hardly a fully realized person. The identity of the person who wants something is as genuine as the identity of the person who has achieved something - even if they're perceived differently, and their material realities are different. The musician who dreams of going platinum, but who never gets out of dingy bars and self-published mixtapes, will still see a musician when she looks in the mirror - even if others just see a mediocre hobbyist. Even if others compare her to professionals, natural talents, and nepo-babies, whose achievements she can never hope to reach. Should the wanting musician let others define for her what it means to be a musician? Even if her music is bad and she'll never hit it big? She wants to be a musician. She plays because of her desires. She lives her life according to her wants. Does that not make her wants a part of who she is?
To some extent you are what you want. The line between wanting and being is blurry.
I do want to be nonhuman, on some level. I'd gladly give up this life to live as a gnoll. I suppose my desires are fantastical, but no less so than those of the poor musician who dreams of going platinum. Should she stop playing because she'll never achieve her dreams? Should I stop calling myself a gnoll just because I'll never have the body of one? I act out being a gnoll, through my digital persona, my fantasy scenarios, and my art. I do what I can to be a gnoll. I am as much an embodiment of my desires as the mediocre hobbyist musician is.
Have you ever gotten what you wished for?
I collect trading cards as a hobby. After years of searching, I got some of my dreamies and completed parts of my collection. I felt satisfied for a day, but the satisfaction quickly turned into boredom and listlessness. My instincts (be they human or gnoll) crave the hunt more than the kill. I get a greater thrill out of wanting than achieving. I wouldn't be happy without my unachievable desires.
I think, on some level, to want is to be.
And while my wants may be strange, at least they don't involve deliberately trying to hurt other people.
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runninriot · 5 months ago
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Wiggly 🧠🪱 Wednesday
thank you @just-my-latest-hyperfixation for the tag! 🖤
today's brain worms are brought to you by one of the steddie smutty september prompts 😏
i'm thinking about Eddie who lost a bet to his boyfriend and is now getting ready to pay up. Or at least he's trying to. Because he's still not sure he can really pull it off.
He keeps turning from left to right, sceptically looking at his reflection in the mirror.
God, he looks ridiculous, doesn't he. This stuff isn't made for him. It's for people with less boney asses. People with more meat on them and with defined muscles they can show off. Pretty people, whose perfect bodies would shine covered in black lace.
Eddie just looks... wrong. Like he's trying to be something he's not.
The dainty floral pattern is a harsh contrast to the crooked lines adorning his skin - too soft, too delicate, enhancing all his little flaws and blemishes rather than fulfilling the purpose of making him feel good. That's why people usually choose to wear these things, right? To feel hot and pretty and confident.
Well. He definitely doesn't.
At least Steve will get a good laugh out if it. That's probably why he thought of the punishment in the first place. Not necessarily to make fun of Eddie, he's not that mean. But- whatever.
A bet is a bet, and he lost, so he'll suck it up and get it over with.
He's got a one-man-crowd waiting for him in the bedroom and the sooner he gets what he wants, the sooner Eddie can get out of this fucking lingerie.
Meanwhile, Steve's buzzing with anticipation. He's been sitting on the bed for what feels like hours, waiting for Eddie to finally come out of the bathroom.
He's been dreaming about this forever, literally. It's a secret fantasy he's had ever since Eddie and him started dating, since they started exploring each other's bodies in the most intimate ways.
To see Eddie's perfect body covered in lacy lingerie, to let his fingers dance over the soft fabric, gently caressing what's underneath, mouthing at his cock through his panties just to tease, just rile him up - God, what a vision. What a thought. And soon, so soon, it'll become reality.
Steve's hard just from imagining it. Can barely keep his hands to himself at the dirty thoughts looping in his mind.
He needs to see it. Needs Eddie to come out right now or he'll combust.
And then, finally, Eddie does. Slowly opens the bedroom door before he hesitantly steps in. And he's even more beautiful than Steve could ever have imagined.
Standing there, all shy and pretty, with his cheeks tinted pink and his arms crossed before his chest, looking so... so perfect.
   "Fuck," is all Steve can get out. Too stunned, too lost in the vision his boyfriend is.
    "It's okay, Steve. You can laugh. I know I look stupid."
Suddenly, Steve notices that what he thought was Eddie just being a bit shy is actually him being uncomfortable. That the way he tries to hide his body behind his own arms is not him acting coy, it's him being ashamed.
    Oh, hell no.
That just won't do. That's not at all what Steve had intended.
Luckily, he knows just how to turn this around.
(i'll stop right here before it gets even more out of hand 😅 to be continued)
no pressure, all love @novemberthorne @morningberriesao3 @pennyplainknits @steddieas-shegoes @matchingbatbites
@ataliagold @wynnyfryd @queenie-ofthe-void @stevesbipanic @steddiecameraroll
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thefatedthoughtofyou · 1 year ago
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In Which Steve Gains a Little Weight and Eddie May or May Not Have a Staring Problem { hint: he absolutely does. but who wouldn't? }
Chubby!Steve lovers rise up! He is a blessing upon our houses. 😌
Eddie's been staring at him. For months. Steve had actually had to snap his fingers at Eddie once, right in front of his face. To get his attention. And Eddie had flinched and flailed back dramatically, making it seem like Steve was the offending party when Eddie had been the one staring. He was always staring.
Steve never used to mind people staring. He knew he looked good. Not in a self centered way. Just... people told him he looked good. And he didn't really have reason to argue. Girls definitely liked him. So it just seemed... like a fact. To him.
But lately Steve hadn't been feeling attractive. At least not as attractive. He'd gained a bit of weight. With the gates closed for good and Hawkins back to normal. He'd finally let himself relax. And he'd been eating more, his appetite from before all the anxiety and stress and fighting for his life, and the kids lives, finally coming back.
He still swam a bit. Went for runs every morning. But he was filling out. His thighs were thicker. His stomach softer. He'd heard his mother call one of his cousins "pudgy" when he was young and now everytime he looked in the mirror the word rang in his head like a bell.
He was pudgy. Less defined, soft around the edges. And Eddie kept. Fucking. Staring.
~°~
Steve was laying on one of the lounge chairs by the pool. Eddie was floating in the water, eyes closed, arms moving gently at his sides, keeping him afloat. Steve tugged his shirt down, again, and tried to get comfortable.
It was just him and Eddie today. Robin had to work. And the kids were in school. Steve was just glad Eddie had gotten in the water. So he would stop looking at him. Cuz he'd been doing it again. His eyes locked on Steve, roaming over him, looking at god knows what.
Steve knows what. Wraps his arms around his middle and feels what he knows Eddie has been staring at. Skinny as a rat Eddie Munson who can eat whole fucking pizzas and just... nothing. Steve ate whole pizzas too, that wasn't the issue. It was just, Steve's pizza seemed to settle on his hips now more than it used too.
He hears Eddie make a choking sound and watches him flail and sink beneath the water, popping up a moment later, coughing, and dragging Steve out of his thoughts.
"You good man?" Steve calls, letting his hands fall away from his body. Eddie keeps coughing but gives Steve a thumbs up, then wipes at his face, rubbing at his nose as he stands looking like a wet kitten in the middle of the pool. He clears his throat loudly, shakes his head, coughs once more, and then ducks back under water just to bounce back up, his face toward the sky, the water moving his hair out of his face.
Steve had walked to the edge of the pool, watching Eddie cough. He sits himself on the edge, feet dangling in the water to cool himself off. He could take his shirt off. It would be cooler. But he can't. Doesn't want to. Not in front of Eddie.
He watches Eddie lower himself shoulders deep in the water and then look up at Steve, he smiles, soflty.
"I fell asleep." He says, to belatedly explain his nearly chocking to death. Steve rolls his eyes, snorts, and shakes his head.
"Of course you did." Steve sighs.
"Hey it's not my fault. If you had some nice floaties around here like the goblins have been asking for I wouldn't have almost died." Eddie retorts.
And Steve is about to argue, he wants too, opens his mouth to do it and everything. But he catches the way Eddie is looking at him again and the words die in his mouth. His arms wrapping around his soft middle as he tries to hide, he sits up a bit straighter. Eddie swims toward him, eyes lingering.
"You gonna swim?" Eddie asks, soflty.
"Naw. Don't think so. I'm not that warm." Steve shrugs, kicks his feet in the water a bit as Eddie moves closer.
"You're sweating." Eddie says, pointing out the obvious. Steve glares at him a bit, nothing too harsh, and wipes at his forhead with the back of his arm.
"I'm good. Just my feet in is nice." He kicks water at Eddie, he doesn't even dodge it, just lets it hit him as he keeps swimming forward.
He nods at Steve, swims up next to him, rests his arms on the side of the pool and his chin on his arms, looking up at Steve until Steve turns and looks directly at him. Eddie quickly looks away then. Steve looks away too.
Looks away from the pale skin of Eddie's shoulders. Away from the way Eddie's arms flex as he shifts a bit to get more comfortable. Away from that look in his eyes.
"Do I make you uncomfortable?" Eddie asks out of nowhere.
"What?" Steve asks, leaning away from Eddie a little faster than he'd meant too. Eddie tracks the movement, Steve sees him do it.
"Do I make you uncomfortable?" Eddie repeats.
"No I heard you. It's just-" he pauses, shakes his head. His heart beating a little faster.
"Why would you ask that? You don't make me uncomfortable. I like having you here. If that's... is that what you mean?" Steve asks, stammering a bit. Not really sure what Eddie wants from him. Eddie shakes his head though, slowly. Once.
"No I mean... you've just seemed... different. Lately. Like... you're trying to sink into yourself. Make yourself smaller. Or something." Eddie shrugs, shakes his head like he doesn't think he made sense. But Steve's heart pounds with just how much sense he made. Hit the nail right on the head, actually, in the scary way he has.
"I-" he considers lying. Saying everything's fine. But it's not. And if he says it is, Eddie will think he's done something wrong. And he hasn't. Not really. Eddie's eyes widen, he lifts his head, then stands, leans his hip agaisnt the wall of the pool instead.
"Yes?" Eddie teases, bumping Steve's knee with the back of his hand. Steve huffs a laugh and takes a deep breath.
"I am. Trying to make myself smaller. Like, in the figurative sense. Cuz I'm like, I've gained weight. And I don't... I don't know. I guess I'm just... uncomfortable with that? Not because of you." Steve says, watches Eddie smile at him. For some fucking reason.
"Literal sense. And why does that make you uncomfortable? Not getting as many chicks? Are the ladies of Hawkins really so shallow?" Eddie asks, brushing past his correction and partly mocking Steve, like he knows that's not the issue. And Steve is so thankful, just that small amount of mocking makes him feel a little better. Like he's being silly maybe, about the whole thing.
"Well. Yes. They are. Some of them. But I don't know. It was just a thing. At first. A thing I noticed in the mirror getting out of the shower. Or after swimming. Or trying to fit into some of my old jeans. Just a thing. Just a difference I noticed is all." He shrugs, eyes on the water.
"You're not the only one." Eddie mutters, teeth pulling at his bottom lip.
"What?" Steve asks, he hadn't been paying attention, the words a muddy sound on the peripherals of his hearing. Eddie shakes his head, waves him off.
"Nothin. Don't worry about it." He pushes his hand through the water at his side before looking back to Steve.
"Bodies change man. It happens. Nothin' wrong with it." He shrugs again, lowers himself back to his shoulders and looks up at Steve, his hair a dark cloud in the water around him. Steve sighs, feels silly and stupid for what he's about to say.
"Yeah. Sure. But I used to be hot." He says, matter of factly. Eddie snorts.
"You are hot. Way hotter now than when we were in school." Eddie says, like he can't believe what he's hearing, but also.... Eddie thinks he's hot? Steve watches him for a moment, he's got his face tilted to the sky, leaning back to dunk his hair in the cool water, his pale neck on display as he sighs at the cooless on his head.
"You think I'm hot?" Steve asks, has to, can't not. He'd said it so easily, like it should be obvious.
Eddie's eyes go wide as his head snaps back in Steve's direction.
"What?" His voice cracks. He hasn't blinked.
"You said you think I'm hot." Steve says, he can feel his own cheeks flush. But he can see Eddie's doing it. They had already been tinted pink from the early morning sun, but they were rushing quickly toward red.
"No. I didn't- that's not-"
"You said you thought I was hot when we were in school." Steve repeats, feeling a tad bit giddy as he watches the flush rush down Eddie's neck as well.
"That's- that's not... what I meant." Eddie huffs, petulant, but he crosses his arms over his chest, guarding himself.
"But it's what you said." Steve teases, keeping his face as straight as possible. Eddie huffs again.
"Well I clearly didn't mean to say that outloud okay?" He shakes his head, sinks a little in the water before bobbing back up. Steve just looks at him. Tries to give him the look that Eddie had been giving him, for the last few months.
He doesn't know if it works. But Eddie groans loudly and ducks under the water. Steve laughs as a stream of bubbles reach the surfface, he can hear Eddie screaming under the water. When he surfaces again, his face is still a very nice shade of pink, Steve wants to touch it, to feel the heat of it beneath his fingers.
"I'm sorry okay. I have been making you uncomfortable. I've been staring. I know I have, okay? It's just hard not too. When you walk around looking like that!" Eddie waves his hand frantically in Steve's direction, even as he takes a few steps away from him.
"Like what?" Steve's brow furrows, he looks down at himself, his shirt is a little tight around his stomach, his swim trunks a bit snug around the hips, and his thighs are practically squeezed into them. What was Eddie seeing that he wasn't. He looks back to see Eddie staring again, but his eyes are on Steve's face this time.
Steve watches several emotions pass over Eddie's face as he watches him. He seems to settle on determined and takes a step back in Steve's direction. Then another. He stops just out of reach. Sets his shoulders.
"You're fucking beautiful Steve. I don't- I don't know how you can't see that." He shrugs, like he's helpless, his eyes wide and honest. Steve swallows hard, glances down at himself again and then back to Eddie.
"I'm-?"
"Gorgeous. Like.... fucking ethereal. I could fucking look you all day. Fuck, I mean I basically do. You're like a goddamn peice of art." Eddie's voice is so raw, it catches in his throat. His arms wrapped around himself tight, like he's afraid Steve will be mad at him for some reason. Steve shakes his head, once, trying not to cry. He smiles at Eddie, all watery eyed and goofy, and tugs his shirt over his head before throwing himself into the water. And then throwing himself at Eddie, who catches him easily.
His hands are warm on Steve's sides, warm and so so gentle, like he's not sure he's allowed to touch. He just stares at Steve, throat bobbing as Steve moves his fingers over Eddie faces, tracing his features.
"You're pretty easy on the eyes yourself." Steve says, smiles wide when a laugh bursts out of Eddie. Steve presses closer, chest to chest, arms snaking around Eddie's neck, fingers tangling in his hair.
"Can I kiss you?" Eddie whispers, his lashes fluttering as his eyes dart around Steve's face. Steve's chest burns, and pounds, as Eddie's fingers press harder into his hips.
"Yes. Yeah." Steve breathes, nodding, almost frantic. Eddie smiles, leans in a bit, and then sways away with a grimace.
"What? What's wrong?" Steve asks, suddenly feeling a bit sick to his stomach. Eddie squints at him, shakes his head, closes his eyes with another grimace.
"Full disclosure. I've never actually...like... fully kissed someone... before. So I might not- I mean I don't know what I'm doing." Eddie opens one eye, peaking at Steve to see his reaction around his wincing, scrunched up features. Steve's heart flutters, he smiles and scratches his nails gently against Eddie's scalp, Eddie leans into it like a cat.
"That's okay. I know what I'm doing." Steve assures him, Eddie's eyes go wide for a split second and then Steve is kissing him. A small noise startles out of Eddie when their lips meet and Steve could listen to that all day, it's like music. He pulls back after a genlte press, he can feel Eddie's hands trembling against his hips.
"That okay?" Steve asks, Eddie nods enthusiastically and presses back in, another gentle press of lips before Steve pulls back again, eyes moving over Eddie's face and the soft way he's looking at him.
"You really think I'm beautiful? Hot. Like this?" Steve asks, rolling his eyes at himself, his hand moving to his stomach and then away again. Eddie's eyes follow the movement, the way Steve nearly flinches away from his own touch.
"Fuck yes." Eddie says, he sounds breathless. And then Steve is gasping as Eddie leans down, licks a hot stipe across Steve's stomach, and then sinks his teeth into the soft, fleshy, skin of his hip, right above his swim shorts.
"Eddie! Jesus!" Steve squaks, trying to push Eddie away and pull him closer all at once.
Eddie perks back up, pulls Steve close, and presses his laughter into Steve's neck. And then his teeth are on Steve's skin, and he's gasping again, hands grabbing at Eddie's shoulders. Eddie's tongue soothes over the bite and then he's looking at Steve again.
"You're beautiful. Like this, or any other way. Okay? Always." Eddie says, moving his hands over Steve's sides, giving his love handles a hard, possessive, squeeze. Steve laughs, Eddie's antics tickling, he squirms, toward Eddie, into his waiting arms.
"Okay. If you say so." Steve sighs into Eddie's shoulder. Eddie's hand moves up, over Steve's back and into his hair.
"I do say. You're beautiful. Thin, or chubby, or scarred, or fat, or whatever else you might be in the future. You're beautiful." He pauses, pulls back so he can see Steve's face.
"And I'll tell you that whenever you need to hear it okay? For as long you're mine." Eddie's whispering, speaking so softly into the space between them.
"That sounds nice." Steve says, his throat tight, and burning, tears clouding his vision. Eddie chuckles, his chest vibrating against Steve's.
"Which part?" He asks, moving one finger across Steve's forhead, tucking a loose strand of hair away. Steve sniffles, shakes his head and tries not to cry.
"Being yours." He says, his lips trembling as he returns the bright smile across from him. Eddie nods, Steve nods back. They meet in the middle, another sweet press of lips, Eddie's fingers dig into Steve's soft skin and pull him close, like he's trying to climb inside him.
"Mine." Eddie sighs, Steve breathes the word in like he needs it to live. His own fingers dig into Eddie's back, tugging him closer, smiling against Eddie's lips as he sighs,
"Yours." back into Eddie's mouth.
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makingqueerhistory · 1 year ago
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Queer instincts are sacred. While there is obviously worth in proving and finding definites, there is also value in connecting history with intuition. It might not bring certainty, but it can bring connection, and that connection is worth something. History isn't a mirror, but you can find resonance there, and that resonance is important even if it is just for you and has no rippling implications.
Your connection and reflection in history do not need to be provable to be felt. Just because someone might not have the same set of identities as you do, that doesn't mean you cannot relate to their understanding of themself. Queerness is not about easily defined boundaries, and queer history reflects that. You may never find your exact set of identities in someone else from the past, but you also may find yourself relating to someone unexpectedly if you let go of the academic need to validate and find proof for these emotions. Sometimes, feelings are just feelings, and they need no more basis than that. You may not be able to claim a person as queer, but your queer heart can still connect to them.
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ask-whitepearl-and-steven · 7 months ago
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If it's not a spoiler, what would you say is WD!Rose's biggest weakness/flaw?
I would hope that her biggest flaws haven't really changed from the original show. It's not like she acquired some new ones just because Steven's there. At her core, her motivations and fears are still the same.
Largely, it's her self-hatred and self-doubt.
Rose Quartz has always been defined by her dislike of herself. It's in the lyrics of the end song. It's practically telegraphed at every episode she shows up in.
Rose Quartz popped out of the ground, was immediately defined by who she was (supposed to be) and then was pretty much immediately reprimanded by the other diamonds for acting out in any way that didn't fit their 'standards'.
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Then she went to Earth, realized their standards were shite, and tried desperately to become someone else - while never believing that she could ACTUALLY change and grow to be someone new. To the very end, she thought that she was fooling the others, even as she tried to protect them.
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Her entire arc is about desperately trying to be herself, and failing at every step of the way because she fundamentally doesn't believe she's capable of change. She looks in the mirror and she sees in past tense.
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Rose, here, is faced with something she has been running after her whole life:
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Living proof of how a Diamond could be Not A Diamond in a way that isn't deceiving anyone. In a way that is purely, entirely, fundamentally, changing who they are.
Rose adores Steven at this point in the story, as much as she is terrified of him and all he represents.
His ability to forget who he is supposed to be.
His potential for change, and growth beyond his programming.
And the looming threat of that all being just another lie, or a temporary fix that will shatter her hopes of ever becoming like him.
Of course... she doesn't know about his dreams, nor his internal struggles. But that's gonna be its own story. :)
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