#this question. is wildly unnecessary

[mantisgodsdomain]

we think that if we answer this question truthfully then you will probably be very mad at us

[piratewinzer]

[sillygoofyqueer]

If you want to lean in on Shen Yuan’s obliviousness, perhaps he doesn’t realize Bing-ge is courting him, until Bing-ge successfully nabs him and declares it so.

(Bing-ge does do the crow courting behavior you mentioned first, but while secret transmigrator Shen Yuan accepts and reciprocates the gestures he doesn’t actually get it).

It’s not until Bing-ge pulls out a scroll listing all the ‘accepted’ betrothal gifts (aka, every item Shen Yuan stole), and the return gifts (aka everything Shen Yuan give him) that what’s going on suddenly occurs to Shen Yuan. (Look up Guo Da Li and Hui Li ceremonies).

Shen Yuan thinks Bing-ge is blackmailing him into the marriage, by making the thefts seem like gifts, but it’s wholly unnecessary as who could say no to Binghe?

For other thoughts I had:

A) Consider Shen Yuan having a “fan” made out of his family’s shed crow feathers, that he hides behind.

B) Perhaps Bing-ge finds out Shen Yuan is only half demon when he is able to break out of a demon trapping array with spiritual energy. (A trick Binghe has never seen anyone else pull off before).

C) In Airplane’s original draft, Shen Yuan’s character was meant to be a sort of foil to Binghe. He’s another half demon but with far less power (he’s no heavenly demon, and his spiritual cultivation potential is only good, not genius level) and a more stable upbringing.

Maybe Shen Yuan’s crow family even settled in the human realm because of a beef with some demon lord too, making the human realm more accepting (another inverse of Bing-ge who was rejected by the human realm for his heritage).

HAHA, sorry, I love the idea that Bing-ge has kept this whole ass account of just...every little thing that has ever been stolen or given by Shen Yuan, and I can feel the feral excitement radiating off him when he's like, "and I've got RECIEPTS that we've been courting each other!!" He's so so smug, and Shen Yuan is just in that bird-like shock where they just sit there and stare as if he's bluescreened. He's actually offended that Bing-ge thinks he needs to be blackmailed into marriage because "anyone would be lucky to marry him" A) OH MY GOD, SHEN YUAN WITH A HOMEMADE FAN is an adorable idea. I haven't figured out what his robes look like, but it'd be so cute if like, the first time he's trapped, he begrudgingly turns to half-human form and whips out this gorgeous fan (Bing-ge's jealous because who gave the demon this fan and why hadn't HE given it to him??). Despite being what some would call a half-feral demon (he isn't), he actually radiates class thank you very much due to his human roots from before his transmigration (he was an internet gremlin, but I like to think he had a wealthy family that taught him that etiquette he needed for formal situations). B) He is undeniably surprised when Shen Yuan eventually breaks through the array and is like "fun hang out, thanks for not killing me!" and just disappears with whatever he was trying to steal. Bing-ge's like "oh my gawd, just like me fr" and needs to find out everything ever possible about him or he's going to lose his mind. C) Oh my god, I'm madly in love with foils, I love that idea. They're similar in so many ways and yet there are certain differences between them that wildly change who they are as people. From a reader's perspective, Shen Yuan understands this. From the perspective of a character? It's absolutely insane that he's comparing himself to the Luo Bing-ge like the emperor could ever be compared to this crow demon. (It also brings me to the question, what on earth is Airplane doing in this AU, if he's there at all?). The idea of the crow family settling in with humans to escape from a demon lord is sooo good because then, when Shen Yuan is being courted by this emperor, it's hard for them not to feel suspicious of it all!!! {part four! Part one, part two, part three, part five, part six, part seven!!}

[k-nayee]

Like Father, Like Hellspawn Deadpool i

wc: 3.6k a/n: soooo I got a little inspired by Eleanor Camacho aka (Earth-616) Deadpool's daughter 👉🏾👈🏾 hope ya likely☺️

Traveler M.List

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ˏ⸉ˋ‿̩͙‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙ˏ⸉ˋ‿̩͙‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙ˏ⸉ˋ‿̩͙‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙.·͙*̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙　✩　*̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩͙‧͙ .‿̩̥̩‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙ˊ⸊ˎ‿̩̥̩‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙ˊ⸊ˎ‿̩̥̩‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙ˊ⸊ˎ

You stand still in front of the memorial, arms crossed tightly over your chest, fingers digging into the thick red-and-black fabric of his suit. Well, not exactly.

It’s yours now; tailored to fit your frame, stitched up more times than you can count. But it’s identical to his in every way that matters.

The mask is already on, the lenses hiding your eyes, but you swear if you weren’t wearing it you’d probably look like a kicked puppy right now.

(Not the aesthetic you’re going for really.)

The room is quiet. Too quiet.

It’s the kind of silence that wraps around you like a weighted blanket, but instead of comfort it’s suffocating—pressing down and making it hard to breathe.

But then again maybe that’s just you.

Your gaze locks onto the suit hanging on the mannequin. A perfect, untouched replica of what you’re wearing now. The fabric is pristine, the colors vibrant, and the mask—God the mask—stares back at you, hollow and empty.

Just an empty shell meant to honor someone who used to be here but isn’t anymore. (Because he's dead. Duh.)

Your fingers tighten around the worn edges of his mask—your mask now. The piece that still smells like gunpowder and...is that a hint of chimichanga grease? You wouldn’t be surprised. The guy could find a way to snack in the middle of a fistfight.

It’s been years since you lost him.

Since your Wade Wilson—your father, your mentor, your occasional bad influence but with good intentions—left you behind in Earth-617.

A framed photo hangs above the suit. You know that image by heart: Your dad giving the camera a peace-sign in front of a completely unnecessary explosion, his mask pulled up just enough to show his stupid lopsided grin.

You’d snapped that picture yourself, back when things were still good. Back when he was still alive.

Your fingers twitch at your sides.

You never really stopped missing him. Even after taking up his mantle. Even after convincing the world that you were nothing more than a simple storeowner-slash-businesswoman, all while secretly doing what he did best—kicking ass and saying jokes at wildly inappropriate moments.

Hell you even had a thing going with Spider-Man for a while. Oh God. If your dad had been alive for that one...

You exhale, shaking your head at the thought. Wade would have been jealous, and not just in the “you stole my bro” kind of way.

No he’d be throwing a full-on tantrum because you—his own flesh and blood—got to go on date-night web swings and crime-fighting rendezvous with Spidey. He’d have demanded details.

You smile at that. A real one. The kind that doesn’t last long before reality sets back in.

Because Wade’s not here. He never will be. No matter how many mercenary gigs you take or how many people you save—there’s still that gaping hole inside of you where he used to be.

None of it filled the void.

Which is where the shiny, probably unstable, possibly explodey Dimensional Warp Generator comes in. You look at the clunky questionably wired contraption humming behind you.

Its design is...questionable at best.

The thing looks like a cross between a busted washing machine and an overworked coffee maker, but according to the stolen blueprints it should technically work.

Hopefully.

Probably.

Maybe.

"Okay so best-case scenario: I step on, press the button and BAM—multiversal road trip baby!" You gesture dramatically, speaking to no one but the memorial and the ghost of your own questionable decisions. "Worst case scenario: I get turned into a fine red mist. Meat confetti if you will." You pause. "Or maybe I just end up in some dimension where everyone is a sentient toenail. Ew."

The mannequin doesn’t respond. Obviously.

You know it’s a gamble. A one-way trip. A ticket to somewhere, anywhere Wade Wilson is still breathing. The multiverse is full of infinite versions of him after all.

Maybe you’ll find one that never lost his healing factor.

Maybe you’ll find one who retired and opened a taco truck, living his best chimichanga-filled life.

Or maybe you’ll land in a world where he never had a kid at all...where he never even knew you existed.

Would that be worse?

You don’t know.

But what you do know is that standing here filled with 'what ifs' feels worse than any multiversal mishap could ever be.

So, you made your peace. You left instructions and planned for it all. Your family business? Taken care of. Your assets? Secured. Your people? Safe. You made sure of it before you even considered pushing this far.

Because if it works...

If it actually works...

You’ll see him again.

Not your Wade—no. He’s gone. But a Wade. 

You sigh, shaking your head as you let your fingers trail lightly over his display suit. It feels wrong that it’s here. Because Wade Wilson was never meant to be preserved like some historical artifact.

He was meant to be alive—chaotic, reckless, cracking wise even when everything was going to shit. So maybe...just maybe...if you find another version of him you can make sure he stays that way.

You don’t care about changing events. You don’t care about destiny or timelines or multiversal consequences. This isn’t about that. This is about you.

And what matters to you is that he exists somewhere. Somewhere you can see him again. Where you can hear his voice. Where you can fight side by side. Where you can...

You swallow hard.

Where you can patch up the hole in your chest just a little bit.

You roll your shoulders, exhaling a slow breath through your mask. Then, because old habits die hard, you give the photo on the wall a lazy finger gun. "Well Dad...guess I’m about to make the most irresponsible decision of my career. You’d be so proud."

Then, because you have to, because it wouldn't be right not to, turn to the mannequin and slap its ass.

"Good game," you say, nodding in solemn approval.

The silence that follows is deafening.

Right. Time to go.

You turn and walk toward the generator, boots thudding softly against the concrete floor. Your heartbeat picks up, an anxious drumbeat in your ears, but your hands stay steady as they hover over the big suspiciously red button.

This is it.

This is the moment.

With one last deep breath, you press down.

The machine roars to life. Lights flicker wildly, the air crackling with static. The world itself seems to shudder and twist at the edges of your vision.

"Geronimo motherfu—"

════════════════*.·:·.☽✧ ✦ ✧☾.·:·.*═════════════════

The world comes back in pieces.

For a second—maybe longer, maybe shorter—there's nothing. No sound, no sensation. Just empty darkness that wraps around you like a suffocating blanket.

Then suddenly—

Your body lurches forward as reality slams back into place.

A rush of cool air bites through your suit, your boots scrape against concrete, and the dull hum of a city fills your ears. The scent of exhaust, street food, and something vaguely unpleasant—sewage?—hits your nose.

You blink as you try to steady yourself.

The world is intact. Not torn apart, not an apocalyptic wasteland. Normal.

Which is...weird.

You were prepared for something worse. A wrong world maybe. Something out of sync, a reality where everything was twisted just enough to feel unnatural. But this? This just looks like...

Home.

Except it isn’t.

Your muscles stay tense, fingers twitching slightly at your sides. The city looks familiar—too familiar. A near-identical match to the one you left behind, yet it isn’t yours. You can feel it deep in your bones, the way the air hums just a little differently.

You’re here....wherever here is.

A flicker of movement catches your eye. You turn your head slightly, noticing the large glass windows of a bank to your right. The reflection stares back at you.

Red and black.

The Deadpool suit—your suit—fits snug against your body, every stitch and fold in place. A mirror image of the one your father used to wear save for the minor adjustments that made it yours.

Then—

REEEEEEEEEEE

A sharp shrill alarm slices through the air, shattering the illusion of calm like a bullet through glass. Your head snaps to the source—the bank's heavy doors swing open as men in ski masks stumble out, their arms weighed down with overstuffed duffel bags.

You blink.

Oh. Well that’s convenient.

Their frantic adrenaline-fueled energy shifts the second they see you. They freeze, eyes widening beneath their masks. You can practically hear their thoughts scrambling like rats in a sinking ship.

They stare.

You stare back.

For a long awkward beat nobody moves.

Then one of them shouts something—probably a curse—his wide eyes locked onto you like he’s just seen a ghost. The others panic, some reaching for weapons, some just freezing like deer in headlights.

But then their eyes actually see you. The curves..the way your body fills out the suit differently.

"Oh shit wait...it’s a chick."

The tension visibly loosens. The men relax, confusion overriding fear, realization settling in. You can feel the shift in the air.

You tilt your head. "Wow. Sexism and crime? Y’all are multitaskers—love that. But hey before we go any further—uh...did any of you happen to rob a father figure along with that bank? Maybe a guy, about yay high, real talkative, looks like a diseased avocado? Asking for...me."

They don’t get the chance to answer.

The sharp screech of tires cuts through the moment. A police cruiser skids to a stop just feet away. Two officers leap out, hands on their guns, voices sharp. "Stop! Put your hands where I can see—"

You sigh dramatically. "You cops always ruin the moment. Like seriously, we were having a thing here. And now it’s all guns and arrest warrants."

They weren't listening. One of them reaches for his radio. “We’ve got a situation here down at the bank wit—”

BANG

A bullet tears through his skull before he can finish the sentence.

The second officer barely has time to react before a blade pierces her throat, slicing cleanly before you yank it free. She chokes, gurgles, then crumples like a puppet with its strings cut.

You wipe a bit of blood off your arm, flicking it onto the ground like it’s nothing more than an inconvenience.

Ugh. Police blood. The worst kind.

As you stand up, you hear a low rasp leaving the officer as blood pools out her mouth. "Deadpool..."

You perk up.

Bingo.

So he does exist here.

Your fingers flex, heart pounding as your mask hides the slow wicked grin stretching across your lips.

Well...

That makes things easier.

Before you could say another word—

More sirens. More cops, pulling up fast.

The robbers panicked. Shouts leave them as their loaded guns suddenly became shaky. They weren’t ready.

But you were.

The moment the cops the slammed open their doors with raised weapons you moved.

And oh did you move.

You weren’t just fast. You were precise.

Every step, every motion, every flick of your wrist was calculated. The first officer barely took a step before you immediately fired three shots—knee, shoulder, wrist.

Two other officers went down before their fingers even tightened on their triggers.

You pivoted low and swept a leg out—an officer hit the street, head cracking against concrete as you relieved him of his gun and smoothly tossed it into the air, catching it in a backward grip as you fired behind you—

BANG

Another officer. Another down.

They kept coming. You welcomed it.

The world blurred into sharp adrenaline-fueled focus. Bullets zipped past your head, but your body moved on its own, your enhanced cognition picking up details faster than they could react.

A cop adjusting her stance—she’s aiming for your ribs. A twitch of a finger—someone’s about to fire. A shift in balance—someone’s going for their radio.

Nope. No ma'am. Not today.

Your guns clicked empty. Doesn’t matter. You threw one with perfect accuracy—CRACK. It slammed into an officer’s temple knocking her out cold. The other?

You flipped in your grip, grabbed the barrel, and used it to bludgeon another into unconsciousness before spinning and delivering a brutal elbow to the last one standing.

A dozen officers. All neutralized in less than ninety seconds.

It was messy. It was brutal. It was quick.

And it was fun.

"Alright boys," You turn back to the robbers, a new glint in your eyes as you sheath your katana and gun. "Change of plans. I was gonna spend the next however-many-months hunting my old man down, but honestly? That sounds exhausting. So instead—" You throw an arm around the nearest criminal, pulling him in. "—how ‘bout I just do crimes until he finds me?"

They exchange hesitant glances.

You can see the skepticism. The weighing of pros and cons. The uncertainty of letting some Deadpool knockoff join their ranks.

Then you sigh and make the decision for them.

With an almost lazy kind of efficiency, you move—disarming, subduing, killing one just for fun. Within seconds the ones left standing know better than to say no.

"Okay okay you can join!" he wheezes, clutching his newly dislocated shoulder. "Damn lady what’s your deal?! You tryna be Deadpool’s copycat or something?"

You grin beneath your mask.

"Oh honey," you coo, "I'm so much worse."

════════════════*.·:·.☽✧ ✦ ✧☾.·:·.*═════════════════

Turns out they weren’t just bank robbers.

This wasn’t just a handful of small-time criminals looking for a quick payday—it was an entire crime organization clawing its way up the underworld ranks.

And with you in their arsenal, business was booming.

Crime sprees ran rampant. It wasn’t long before your exploits—masked, bloodstained, and unapologetically violent—became the subject of city-wide gossip.

Tabloids screamed about Deadpool’s sudden change.

You loved it.

Scrolling through online gossip forums was your new favorite pastime, watching people spiral into conspiracy theories:

"DEADPOOL MIND-CONTROLLED?"

"DEADPOOL GOING THROUGH HIS VILLAIN ERA™️?"

"DEADPOOL TIRED OF THE HERO CHARADE?” Some people swore it wasn’t him—“DEADPOOL...SHORTER?!”

Others didn’t care. To the world you were Deadpool. You’d made sure of that, hiding your figure under a long trench coat, avoiding any direct combat with Wade’s team whenever they did get involved in your organization’s little...projects.

You were a ghost. A rumor. A nightmare with guns.

And Wade? He was pissed.

You’d seen the interviews, the tirades he’d gone on during what should’ve been simple bounty jobs. Wade Wilson, the Deadpool, losing his shit on camera about some asshole using his name and ruining his “hard-earned” reputation.

(As if he ever fixed it in the first place? Please.)

You laughed every time. It was almost too easy.

Shame you couldn't use your own phone to watch it all—unable to connect to this world’s satellites (frequency issues, because of course) so you had to acquire other means. Luckily criminals have great taste in stolen electronics.

Speaking of criminals, seems you’d made yourself too valuable to the organization to get thrown out. The boss—a greasy smooth-talking bastard named Salvatore "Sal" DeLuca—liked results, and you brought them.

But there was one rule you made clear the moment you took the job: Nobody mentions your gender.

And if they ever had to refer to you, they called you Deadpool.

Sal agreed without hesitation. He was good at playing the long game and you were the biggest wildcard he had in his deck. His men though? They whispered....wondered.

But the rule was ironclad; if they let slip that Deadpool was anything other than what you projected—they disappeared. Simple as that.

And so, for three months, it worked.

Until her.

You’d been watching her for some time.

A new recruit—quiet, kept to herself. Didn’t quite fit the mold of a career criminal.

You noticed her immediately.

Maybe it was the way she held herself, too rigid and restrained. Maybe it was the way she avoided eye contact when people talked about bigger plans. Or maybe it was just instinct.

So you bugged her. Literally. Tiny discreet surveillance planted in her things, her living space, her routine. And what do you know?

You were right. She was a full-blown informant. A mole who worked for the police.

Correction: she worked for Wade’s team. And her name was Yukio.

You could’ve exposed her. You could've warned Sal. But you didn’t. Because this?

This was what you’d been waiting for.

.*.·:·.☽✧✧☾.·:·.*

A deal.

A simple trade-off of drugs, weapons, and money. The usual.

The warehouse was dimly lit, the air thick with cigarette smoke and the sharp tang of cheap cologne. Low voices murmured across the space from dealers to the occasional trigger-happy lackey trying to prove himself.

You didn’t care.

Lounging lazily in a rickety chair nearby, your legs were kicked up up on a table littered with money and gun magazines, eyes glued to your real priority: beating the final boss in Pokémon.

The Nintendo 3DS glowed faintly in your hands. (You’d robbed a nerd for this. He cried. It was great.) Its tiny speakers crackled with the upbeat jingle—stark and ridiculous contrast to the hard-edged criminals around you.

They often looked to you for some kind of assurance, that everything was going smoothly. But you weren’t their leader. You were just the guarantee.

The insurance that ensured the deal went well—because if it didn’t, nobody walked out.

And you were bored.

Yukio stood nearby, hands tucked into her sleeves with an unreadable expression. She was small and unassuming. Harmless to most eyes.

But not to you.

You knew what she was. Who she was. And that meant this deal wasn’t going to finish.

Just as you were about to land the final hit to the boss—

BOOM

The front doors detonated inward, a shockwave of dust and debris sweeping through the warehouse like a tidal wave.

The rival gang didn’t even have time to react.

Bullets ripped through them, splattering red against the walls before most even reached for their weapons. The few that did weren’t fast enough—a streak of yellow and black tore through their ranks like a living razor blade.

Logan.

The Wolverine’s claws sang through the air, slicing through flesh and bone with gruesome efficiency. A man screamed was cut short as his head separated cleanly from his shoulders and rolled to the floor with a wet thud.

Yukio moved the second the attack began.

One moment she was among your men. The next her hand sparked with electricity and she tore into them like a ghost of lightning.

The criminals you had worked beside for months were dying.

And you?

You didn’t move.

In fact you barely heard the scrambling panic around you. Your grip on the 3DS went slack, it tumbled to the ground, clattering loudly. You didn’t even notice.

Because he was here.

Deadpool...

Your father

He stood there at the center of the chaos; twin pistols raised, blades strapped to his back, mask tilted just slightly in that familiar cocky way.

The exact same mask as yours.

Your pulse spiked. You should’ve done something—anything—but you couldn’t move.

The mask...the stance....the voice.

God the voice.

“ARE YOU KIDDING ME?!” Wade bellowed as he shot through a particularly unlucky gangster. “For years—YEARS—I have been trying become a better, CLASSY respectable mercenary!!”

(He absolutely did not.)

“Yet somehow, someway some ASSHOLE decides to drag my name through blood-soaked crime-encrusted filth like we’re in some goddamn GTA roleplay server?!” His arms flailed wildly as he stomped forward, stepping over a twitching half-dead body without a second glance.

“DO YOU KNOW HOW MANY DEATH THREATS I’VE GOTTEN THIS WEEK?!”

(As if that wasn’t normal for him.)

Everything around you had blurred at this point. The violence didn’t matter. The screaming didn’t matter. The years of grief and loss and loneliness—

None of it mattered.

“—and what really gets me—truly grinds my gears—is that some DICKHEAD is using my likeness to make me look bad when I’ve worked so hard to be good! I HAVE A BRAND TO UPHOLD!”

Sal was hissing something at you to snap you out of it. Hell all of the men in the entire organization were looking at you. Because for the first time in three months, you weren’t moving.

“WELL??” Deadpool’s rant came to an abrupt end as he threw his arms out. “What do you have to say for yourself?!”

Silence.

Then—

You stood up.

Slowly.

Deliberately.

The chair scraped against the concrete floor as you pushed away from it, the tension so thick it could suffocate.

Your hands came together and you began clapping.

One slow clap.

Another.

Then faster until it built into an exaggerated standing ovation. "Wow." Your voice dripped with emotion. "I..am speechless. A performance worthy of the Oscars really. I truly have no words except—"

Before anyone could react, you drew both guns in a single fluid motion and opened fire.

BANG

The first gunshot took Sal’s head clean off. His body was still standing, nerves firing uselessly even as his brain matter sprayed across the crates behind him.

BANG BANG BANG

Bullets fly and bodies drop.

The remaining rival gang? Erased.

Your so-called allies? Wiped off the map.

Some ducked for cover. Some tried to run. None of them made it far. You moved through them like a force of nature; spinning between targets, every shot landing with surgical precision.

Deadpool’s team flinched. For a split second they genuinely believed you were about to shoot at them.

Instead?

You erased every last member of the organization—the very one you had helped build up for weeks—in a perfectly executed, single-handed massacre.

The only sound left was the ringing echo of gunfire.

Your guns clicked as you brought the smoking barrels to your face to inhale the scent like it was oxygen. "Oh yeah, that's the good stuff..."

Finally holstering your weapons, you turned to Deadpool with a grin beneath your mask. A mask that was a perfect mirror image of his.

You practically bounced over to him as casual as someone greeting an old friend.

Then, in the most cheerful, sing-song voice imaginable, you threw your hands up your hands like a child and chirped—

"HI DADDY!!"

[chiisana-sukima]

What's your opinion on the take that Sam is always running away?

The short answer is I think spn's ethics are insane.

The longer answer is that if you did a rewatch and counted up all the times that Sam objectively "runs away" from a problem/his family/etc and all the times Dean "runs away" from the same, I'm not sure who would actually win. But I do think the narrative frames Sam as the one who runs, and that, over the long term, it treats "running away" as his cardinal sin.

For example, when Dean runs away from his mistakes in Road Trip, the narrative does frame that as immature and self-destructive, and punishes him with the Mark of Cain. But by s11, this is reframed briefly as a "we" problem in s11a (Sam: "if we don't change, right now, all of our crap is just gonna keep repeating itself") and then never held against Dean personally thereafter. Whereas Sam's equivalent attempt at running away--the s4 demon blood arc--continues to be held against him by the narrative until at least 13x21 (Cas: we let Lucifer out of the Cage.)

Even more interestingly, at least to me, with the exception of Stanford, the narrative also tends to treat Dean's episodes of running away from Sam as "abandoning" him, but Sam's episodes of running away from Dean as "betraying" Dean.

This is Dean abandoning Sam to his fate as Lucifer's vessel. The narrative punishment is extreme, but not only does Dean get a do over in the same episode and it never comes up again, but the quote is remembered by fandom primarily as a quote about how close they are. And I do think that's borne out by the narrative. If Dean abandons Sam, the world will literally end.

Meanwhile though:

When Sam screws up with Dean, he's betraying him. The problem isn't just that Sam is an addict or that he ran away from Dean's attempt to forcibly detox him for his own somewhat questionable "good", but that he did so with a demon whore. It's portrayed as a personal betrayal in a way that Dean abandoning Sam to Lucifer is not.

In some ways, Sam is even the more steadfast brother. He may physically leave Dean at times but he never stops believing in Dean's capacity for good. When it's his turn to lock Dean in the panic room because Dean gives up and runs to destruction at the hands of Michael, he doesn't do it. And in the Mark of Cain arc, he affirms that even if Dean kills him, he accepts it as necessary and still believes Dean is a good man.

Which brings me to spn's ethics and fandom's response.

If there's one single thing that spn is entirely, completely, one hundred percent consistent on, it's that tumblr is wrong. You can't just walk out; leaving is always wrong and will usually end the world. It's wrong if it's temporarily for the evening because you'd like to have Thanksgiving dinner and your family doesn't do that, or for four years because you want to go to college, or for forever because all your remaining loved ones have been killed before your eyes, or if it's only a partial withdrawal because you want better boundaries in the face of years of violence and autonomy violations. (To be clear, spn thinks the violence and autonomy violations are wrong too; it's just especially adamant that the only appropriate response is self-sacrifice.) The only reason Sam is finally allowed to temporarily leave in the finale is because he so obviously no longer wants to.

And all of this, to be completely blunt, is batshit fucking crazy. And I mean that in the clinical technical sense of the word. As a system of ethics it's an enormous mess, as a behavioral guide it's guaranteed to result in inappropriate assignment of blame and unnecessary suffering, and it's hard to interpret it all for me personally as anything but a response to trauma.

I do think that on an emotional level there's something wildly compelling about it though, and it's fiction, after all, so there's nothing wrong with it as a fantasy. The idea that if only you could prove your loyalty strongly enough your family would finally accept you, flaws and all, is an impossible wish many of us have spent a lot of our real lives trying to actualize. And seeing it happen on screen when it can't happen irl can be cathartic, much like revenge stories can be cathartic even though irl revenge is a terrible idea. The vibes are, in short, without flaw.

The thing that's hard for me though is remembering that everyone irl grows at their own speed. Not everyone is in a position to cleanly separate their emotional enjoyment of a plotline or theme from their intellectual calculus about whether or not it makes any fucking sense--especially when those plotlines or themes are about violence, betrayal, abandonment, and abuse. And it's hard for me to remember sometimes that huge swathes of meta aren't actually the result of [insert negative judgement here] but are just reflective of a different series of experiences than the ones I happen to have had.

Honestly I find it frustrating. I wish people would be better about separating out what the story is saying from what they think of that message themselves. I feel like the format of fandom meta is often kind of a disaster. It adopts an authoritative, academic tone, but is usually actually used to express personal feelings and wishes without acknowledging that it's doing that.

It's not that I think people should have to disclose their personal experiences to write meta--on the contrary, sometimes that's helpful but sometimes it just makes it worse. Rather, I wish people would get in the habit of using more "I" statements and acknowledging their subjectivity more overtly. Back in the days when dinos roamed the earth and I was an undergrad, I learned that the use of the third person passive voice in academic writing is a political choice. It grants the illusion of more authority and objectivity than actually exists. I wish fandom would take up my professor's call to abandon it to some extent and say "I feel hurt that Sam left Dean alone with John to go to college" rather than "Sam is always running away".

[jennelikejennay]

One thing that bugs me about the way Vulcans are usually depicted (with some lovely exceptions) is that their philosophy—logic, or the teachings of Surak, for short I'm just going to call it Surakianism—is very often shown as a bad thing. Either that, or Vulcans aren't following it at all.

Writing about religion (and I do think Surakianism is best approached as a religion*) is always fraught. Because generally as a writer, you don't actually practice the faith in question, so naturally you'll have an outside view. That's doubly true of Surakianism, a way of life humans basically can't follow and it would probably be bad for us to try.

[*I know they don't call it a religion. But the way it deeply affects the interior life of Vulcans, their ethics, and so on feels very religious to me. It doesn't seem to have a position on theism; Vulcans get their beliefs about god(s) from elsewhere, such as traditional Vulcan polytheism and their own perceptions of the universe. But the way it exists as a social structure AND a guide to the inner self is absolutely religious to me.]

We are told that Vulcans developed this philosophy specifically because they needed it—they were destroying themselves without it! Their emotions were overpowering and violent, and they were clannish to the extreme. So despite what most of the human characters say, especially Bones, I think the path of logic is a good thing for Vulcans, even if humans don't get it at all.

Surak's teachings can be summed up into three basic points (a Vulcan somewhere just raised an eyebrow clear into their bangs at this oversimplification, but I'm doing my best here):

1. Logic, or the use of reason as a guide and the control of emotions

2. Nonviolence

3. IDIC—infinite diversity in infinite combinations.

Of course we only ever hear about the first one, because that's part humans notice. I'd say it was like reducing Catholics to fish Fridays and Mormons to underwear, but that's exactly what people do, so I guess it's understandable.

But I think the ordering goes the other way for Vulcans. First, acknowledge that others are of value, including and especially when they're different from you. Then, do them no harm. And finally, to achieve that goal, control your wild, violent emotions.

People imagine pre-reform Vulcans a lot of ways (and I never get tired of reading about them), but I think the best guide as to what they're like is by looking at Romulans. Romulans aren't wildly expressive with their emotions, we're certainly not talking about people who would otherwise be laughing and crying constantly. Instead, they're secretive and carry long, hateful grudges. They're loyal only to those closest to them, and they seem entirely without empathy otherwise.

Imagine the Vulcan emotions are like that. They have strong bonds to their clan, probably in part because of their telepathy. They're suspicious of outsiders, angry, prone to violence. Preferring the familiar is an instinct in humans too, but a mild one. Certainly humans have been and still are racist, but it's something we can generally overcome. I'm not sure the Vulcans could, not by relying on their emotions.

So they came up with the solution to control their emotions completely. Use reason instead as a guide to behavior, because logic will tell you that your own clan is not more important than another, and that reaching out in peace is beneficial to yourself and others. Don't give your emotions any credence and don't let them run wild.

Humans do some of this ourselves, and should arguably be doing more. We spend a huge chunk of our childhood learning to control antisocial impulses like screaming, hitting, and biting. We demonstrate self control in many tiny, unnecessary ways, in order to show to others that we are in control of ourselves: stuff like etiquette, social rules, even just leaving the last cookie on the tray for someone else. These are signals that say I am not governed by my appetites; I can be trusted to consider the needs of others.

And we could obviously be doing more. Too many political questions are being answered by people's emotional, knee-jerk responses like "I feel threatened by people who are different" or "I am angry about my enemies and want them punished" instead of "what produces the most benefit for everyone?" If we leaned more heavily on logic and reason to get us our answers, we'd make way better decisions than we do. Star Trek doesn't often acknowledge that in real life, making a snap gut decision doesn't actually have a very high success rate. Logic gives you better odds of saving the day.

But, you might say, Vulcans aren't doing very well at any of this. A heck of a lot of them that we've seen are racist. And while they repress their emotions just great, they don't actually make the most logical decisions most of the time.

But I don't think this actually discredits a religion at all. We all know Christians who are great at the easy parts of their religion—learning Bible verses or saying rosaries—but don't seem to be even trying to love their neighbor. That's in fact the way religions are usually practiced! External elements that people can easily see (like never smiling) are adhered to by social pressure, but more heart-level things are aspirational at best. That doesn't mean the message of a religion is bad; it doesn't really tell us anything.

This is especially true for a religion whose practice isn't optional. You have to follow Surak to stay on the planet. I can see this rule was necessary during the time when the Romulans were kicked out—pacifism doesn't work as a global solution unless everybody's doing it. Now, it seems a bit harsh. I think they get around it by not exiling anybody who's at least giving lip service to logic. That racist baseball guy in DS9 isn't a good Vulcan, but as long as he doesn't do anything violent or openly reject Surak, they're willing to say he counts.

Why are Vulcans so often the opposite of what their religion teaches? I think it's the other way around: their religion focuses specifically on their chief faults: clannishness, racism, ego. It just hasn't successfully transformed everyone. Makes perfect sense, really. We might as well ask why Christianity goes on and on about sex when humans are well known to be super obsessed with sex. Well that's WHY! It's one of our strongest impulses which in the past we felt the most desperate need to control.

The best argument against Surakianism is that total repression isn't the best way to handle emotion, that we need self-awareness of our emotions before we can account for them.

To which all I can say is, don't you think Vulcans know that?

I imagine there are lots and lots of viewpoints on this among Vulcans. Some favor repression and some favor understanding and acceptance; some think it's okay to have a little dry humor and some think we should be serious. We have the kolinahri who believe in the excision of all emotion (which I imagine is universally seen as extreme, like we might see cloistered nuns or monks who reject the world to achieve enlightenment). And surely there are ancient, wise Vulcans who deeply understand all their emotional impulses and are completely in control of them. Spock certainly seems this way by the movie era if not before: he knows that he has emotions, what they are, and how to respond to them. He has overcome the emotion of shame. So he seems not impassive on the outside, but a person at complete peace inside and out.

I just feel like we could stand to see more good Surakians, who are good not in spite of their belief in logic, but because of it. Kind of like how we see both good and bad followers of the Prophets on Bajor. I'm kind of anti religion myself, but I still want to see it given its due—especially a religion founded on such good principles. Sure, it's not a religion humans can really practice, nor need—a good half of our emotions are positive and pro-social, so it's no wonder a person like Bones would be convinced Vulcans are just punishing themselves unnecessarily. But it successfully turned Vulcan from a planet so violent it almost destroyed itself to a home of peace and learning. Of course Vulcans aren't going to mess with what works!

That has been my rant about logic for today. I highly recommend @dduane 's book Spock's World for a much deeper dive into logic and the path Vulcan took to get there.

[flusteredmoonn]

santa baby; james potter

summary: "santa honey, one little thing i really need," in which both staying back at school over the christmas period forces them to realise that they feel more than content with one another's company.

tags: (SFW), angst, attempted angst to fluff, attempted semi-enemies to almost lovers, implied pre-existing relationship, she/her pronouns, fem!reader, third person y/n

words: 1.0k+

the holiday collection. request.

originally, the entire group had decided to stay back over christmas together. rather than travelling to the potter estate to be hosted. this christmas was meant to fall over a full moon, and they had collectively decided to stay so that remus could receive all he needed over that period. and truly no one minded. until, marlene had mentioned her parents had offered to take her, lily, and dorcas to somewhere in europe to visit distant relatives. it was strange the invite wasn't extended to y/n, who had figured it was a matter of space at the relative's house.

sirius had unexpectedly been told he needed to go back to his parents house, alongside his brother. this had initially shocked the group, especially when sirius had brushed it off with so little as a roll of his eyes and began to pack. peter followed suit, claiming it was best he spend the holiday with his family, particularly if the others had already decided to leave too. there wasn't much protest to that, his reasoning stood. james and y/n would be there to look after remus after his transformation, and without the entire group it'd seem crowding if there were more than a couple people to look after him.

and so, the day when the hogwarts express left hogsmeade station had come. james, y/n and remus had come with their friends down to the platform to see them off. the goodbyes were quick, as it would only be a couple of weeks until they would be reunited.

the trio made their way back up to the castle with hagrid, who had walked the first years to the platform, before all making their way to the great hall ready for dinner to be served. banter flowed between the three as they walked, filling the space of the absence of their friends. except for y/n and james. they chose to speak through remus, or hagrid when he still walked with the group. they never spoke directly to one another, and if they did it was with a certain bite to both of their tones. internally, remus rolled his eyes at their petulance. it was immature, yet not unusual of them. 

y/n and james had never really seen eye to eye. she was sympathetic to lily, who merely wanted to defend snape against james' relentlessness, and he disliked that she agreed with her. however, a permanent stake was driven between them in third year when james had called y/n a 'supremacist sympathiser' in the midst of an argument between them over the slytherin boy. she never understood his dislike toward snape; no one truly enjoyed his company, but that didn't warrant bullying him. to y/n, james' behaviour was unacceptable, and him brushing it off as mere house rivalry in recent years had left her dislike of him nearly indisputable.

as the day of remus' transformation approached, he'd spent less time with y/n and james. this meant that the two spent more and more time around one another, which had meant more arguments between them. they had both been catching up on reading for different classes when the girl suddenly spoke.

"hey" james looked up from his book expectantly, "did you know that we're learning about the creatures in the black lake next term?" she asked innocently, pointing mindlessly at the paragraph she'd just read.

"well, duh. obviously" he voice was sharp, tone biting.

"that was unnecessary," she stated, mirroring his tone. "i didn't do anything!" the bespectacled boy closed his book with a thump and gestured wildly, like a child.

"your tone was unnecessary," she scolded him, "i literally asked you a question and you spoke at me as if i'd spat at you," she scowled at him, her voice raising slightly.

"whatever," he huffed, reopening his book and trying to find his page once more.

the tone they both take into conversation with one another wasn't uncommon, in fact it was expected. even for people they didn't know, across the whole school.

throughout the next few days, they'd managed to go longer and longer without arguing unnecessarily with one another. going as far as to spend a day wrapping presents together, ready to set them off with their owls to their friends. they'd even managed to share the scissors. a mundane gesture, but huge when it came to the two of them. there wasn't even an argument over it. more small gestures between them had popped up, in quiet moments only few bore witness to.

but, notoriously they didn't like one another, so it wasn't long until they'd had another blow up argument. no one could even suggest a cause for it, let alone what it had progressed into. which is why it was strange that night when they'd both gone down to the great hall for dinner, they could be found exchanging a civilised conversation. they were calmly debating the affects of stirring a potion in the opposite direction to the recipe.

they'd gotten stares from some of the other students at the table, who were irked by their affability to one another. seeing them get on was uncanny. even if they were still technically arguing.

the flow of their debate was disrupted when james suddenly said, "you know, you're not so bad when you're not arguing," a smile from ear to ear followed his sudden statement.

"and you're not so bad when you're not picking on someone relentlessly," she quipped back almost immediately.

instead of rebutting, he just smiled to himself, huffing a small laugh and thanking her sarcastically. they each thought that perhaps the other wasn't so bad after all.

[666writingcafe]

Wrath

A Text Conversation Between Satan and MC

Satan: You don't have to worry about my transition affecting you. As it turns out, the bulk of it occurred before you were even introduced to us.

Satan: Part of why this is even happening is because the others were once angels, so it's taking their bodies longer to adjust to their new form.

Satan: Meanwhile, this is all I've ever been, so it's a bit easier for me to accept who I am.

MC: I appreciate you telling me this. I sure could use the break from experiencing everyone's sin.

Satan: I bet. You must be exhausted.

MC: *nodding crow sticker*

MC: Can I ask you a personal question?

Satan: As long as you're prepared for the fact that I may not answer.

MC: Fair enough.

MC: What was your biggest fear?

Satan: During that time?

MC: *nodding crow sticker*

Satan: Being reduced to a mere shadow of Lucifer. I started as a feeling inside him. The more he felt it, the stronger I became. The war and consequent fall caused me to separate from him.

Satan: For the longest time, my mind was a wasteland. I had to separate my identity from Lucifer's, which was quite frustrating, to say the least. I know there will always be similarities between us, but it's taken me a while to find any substantial differences. I've had to force some to form in order to gain some semblance of self.

MC: How did you overcome it?

Satan: By listening to you.

Satan: When you summoned that ball of light, it was the first time I've truly been calm. The longer I held the light in my hands, the more I could discern its whispering. It was your voice comforting me. It was soothing.

Satan: But it also felt familiar.

Satan: Which brings me to my next point.

Satan: I know who you really are, MC.

MC: *eek sticker*

MC: *eek sticker*

MC: *eek sticker*

Satan: It's okay. I'm not upset. I understand why you had to keep your true identity a secret. I wouldn't have even found out if it wasn't for Lord Diavolo and Barbatos.

MC: WHAT????

Satan: Don't worry; they didn't tell me outright. I just happened to be in the castle library when they walked in and began talking about you. If they knew I was in the room with them, I doubt they would have said anything about it until I left, but I was tucked in a corner behind a couple bookshelves, so they couldn't have seen me without purposely looking for me.

MC: *face-palming crow sticker*

MC: You REALLY weren't supposed to find out, but it's not like I can do anything to change it.

MC: So, tell me what you overheard them say about me.

Satan: I know you come from a future timeline. The prince apparently had told Barbatos to try to find your version of the butler and get some answers from him about why all this has been happening to you. They've really been worried about you and want to do everything in their power to help you.

MC: I imagine my Barbatos was selective about what he shared.

Satan: *nodding crow sticker*

Satan: He mentioned that back home, you're a human that managed to form pacts with all seven of us and that a large part of your power became tied to your emotions as a result.

Satan: He also seems to believe you were sent here to experience each of our transformations firsthand so that you can help someone go through their own.

Satan: Obviously, he didn't reveal who that person was, but both my Diavolo and Barbatos felt like that would have been unnecessary information, for they've observed someone begin acting differently during your stay here.

MC: Oh?

Satan: Apparently, he trapped you in a closet at some point?

MC: Shit.

Satan: So it IS him, then?

MC: Yes.

Satan: The only memories I have of him prior to him visiting us for the founding ceremony are hazy and through Lucifer's eyes, but I've always gotten the sense he's not been particularly happy about where he's at.

Satan: I just didn't think he'd have the guts to do anything to wildly change his circumstances. He seems too devoted to the little one to just pack his things and leave it all behind.

MC: I don't think he did when we first met.

Satan: Are you able to tell me what changed, or would that be revealing too much information?

MC: I can give you the simple answer and let you fill in the blanks.

Satan: *thumbs up emoji*

MC: He developed strong feelings for me.

Satan: But you're a human.

MC: Yes.

Satan: And he's an angel.

MC: At the time, yes.

Satan: Wait a damn minute.

Satan: Did he seriously FALL for you?!

MC: Not quite. He was still an angel when I left, but he'd made some choices beforehand that pretty much sealed his fate. I just don't know what exactly he'll be when I return.

Satan: Well, judging by the way they're saying he's currently acting here, I'd say he's gearing up to be YOURS.

Satan: And I'm not trying to be sappy. I'm being completely serious.

MC: I don't doubt it.

Satan: When he believed everyone was out of the room when you and Asmo were passed out, he was right by your side, watching over you.

Satan: According to Barbatos, he even held your hand and kissed you on the forehead before he eventually got up and left.

Satan: Angels don't typically act that way towards demons. Even with Diavolo's efforts to make peace with the Celestial Realm, they tend to act rather hostile whenever they're around us for more than a few seconds.

MC: I know.

Satan: I'll let you get some rest. You'll need it

Satan: And don't worry; your secret is safe with me.

Taglist: @lost-in-time-wanderer, @fuzztacular, @dianedancer18, @sweetbrier2908, @flare-love, @completelyshatteredbrokenmschf, @thunderlightning351, @l3v1chan, @anxious-chick, @5mary5, @expressionless-fr, @tenkobitch, @budbuddnbuddy

[cookiebelle]

Me Fui de Vacaciones • Damian Priest x AFAB reader

Warnings • 2nd person pov (no use of y/n), reader is Afab but I did my best to be as inclusive and nondescript as possible

Smut (18+ MDNI), unprotected PIV sex, oral (m receiving), names (Gatita, baby, you get it), some extremely light kink (spanking, biting, choking, hair pulling), lil bit of Sir kink, size kink sort of, exactly two uses of the word “whore”, porn with an unnecessary amount of plot, tropes galore, idiots to lovers requires its own warning, bad Spanish translations probably.

Word Count • 6.2k words, I have no reasonable explanation for this.

A/N • This should go without saying, but I’m gonna say it anyway. This is a wrestling fic, featuring wrestlers. While wrestlers are indeed real people with real lives, they are also playing characters. The people mentioned in this fic are their characters, and in no way am I depicting the individuals who portray them.

Burning logs crackled. One. Two. Three beers became five. Your feet dug into soft, cool sand as you and your closest friends talked around a fire.

It was the beginning of a well deserved mini-vacation, and the five of you weren’t intending to waste a moment of it. So when you all arrived at the little beach cottage you had rented, even at nearly midnight, you were hell bent on getting the most of your time off. So the fire was built, drinks were passed around, and laughter carried across the beach.

Most people called your friends “The Judgment Day”. You just called them family, though. You had met Damian first, in 2020, the near end of his NXT career marking your beginning. He quickly became your mentor as you navigated the tribulations of what it meant to work for the company, a true friend among those who looked at you only as competition. Later, he introduced you to Rhea. Then the faction formed, and Finn joined the circle, then Dom. Your call up to the main roster occurred shortly after, during the draft. The celebration that ensued when you learned you would be working with the rest of the crew was legendary. These, truly, were your people.

And then there you were, a year later, feet in the sand. You played a light tune on your guitar as though it were the backing score to Bálor’s story, leaving the group captivated. Well, everyone but you. You were looking up at the stars, taking it all in, wondering how you could possibly be so lucky. You decided not to tempt fate by asking the universe that very question, but it seemed fate had its own ideas for this week.

“You good?”

Rhea’s voice pulled you from your daydream and all at once, everyone was looking at you. You realized, in your deep state of thought, your random plucking at the guitar had faded to nothing.

“So good…” you grinned, slurring slightly, at which the group chuckled and carried on with their conversations. Crisis averted. At least you thought. Damian’s gaze lingered on you when you looked back down at the frets of your guitar, but you didn’t seem to notice.

It was a drunken stumble back to the house, sometime around 3AM, everyone finally exhausted enough to end the day and refresh themselves for the next. Except you. As they all said their goodnights and retired to their respective rooms, you found yourself on the couch, unable to sleep and watching reruns of the same sitcoms you had seen a hundred times.

—————

“Hey… Hey you…”

You felt something… poking you?

“Hellooooo…”

You gasped and sat up, eyes wildly searching the room until you found Rhea standing above you. It was light outside, light enough that golden rays peeked through the curtains and illuminated her face. You glanced at the clock. 7am. Hadn’t you guys just gone to bed?

“We’re going to the gym. You coming?”

“I thought we were on vacation,” You groaned and laid back down, covering your face with a throw pillow as you realized how sore your back was. Why the hell did you sleep on the couch all night?

“Suit yourself. We’ll back in a couple hours.”

You rolled over, scrunched up but content as the footsteps left the house, got in the car, and drove away. Slowly, you dozed back off into that euphoric state of half sleep.

“Hey…”

Oh fuck. Damian. Your heart picked up and suddenly you were awake once more. You thought you had heard all of them leave, and yet…

“Hey, you awake?”

You remained rigidly still save for your breathing, even as you heard him approach. For whatever reason, pretending to still be asleep was your first and only instinct. It did you little good, however.

In one sudden motion, as if you weighed nothing at all, you were scooped up into his arms. Still, you pretended to sleep. Despite your heart racing. Despite how badly you wanted to lean into the safety and warmth of his chest. Despite the fire that sparked in your core every time you got close to him.

Yeah, you were down bad. The moment he got in the ring to spar with you that first time, you were a goner, and it only got worse as years went on. You had spent holidays together, traveled to countless cities and countries, bared your soul to him over late night gin and cigarettes. You saw him for what he was. When others saw a monster of a man, a Broken Angel as he was once called, you saw someone sensitive, fierce, and loyal. Even the flaws drew you closer, but you could focus on those another time.

You kept the feelings under the hat as best you could. The only time you let it slip was to Rhea, early on in your friendship, your eyes lingering too long on Damian as he walked away from the two of you. She promised to take the secret to her grave. That didn’t stop her from teasing you in private, though, or from dropping the subtlest of hints when you were all together. Hints Damian never seemed to get, or maybe he did. Who really knows?

Back in the present, he was carrying you… somewhere, that much you could glean with your eyes closed. And then you were placed somewhere soft. Already warm and slept in, like the comfiest hug. Wait… was this his bed? You breathed deeply and realized it was, regrettably, recognizing the scent of his hair left behind on the pillow.

He covered you with a blanket, pushing away some hair that had fallen in your face. It was a surprisingly tender gesture from someone like him, especially for “just a friend”, but that was something you had gotten used to. It was one of the many facets of who he was, showing his love with touch. He was always there for you with a hug when you needed it, or a rub to your shoulders after a good match, and he seemed to mess with your hair a lot, too. You thought nothing of it. That was just.. him.

You decided, as his hand drew away from your face, that now was as good a time as any to begin to stir. You slowly blinked your eyes open and looked up as he was still standing beside you, just turning to leave.

“Mmmm hello…” you mumbled, voice gravelly with sleep.

“Shit. Sorry. Didn’t mean to wake you up… you just looked uncomfortable and I was getting up anyway so I figured…” He seemed almost nervous, immediately pulling his hands away from you.

“No, it’s fine,” you cut him off, stretching for the first time in what felt like days, “thank you..”

“Okay, well.. you sleep. I’m gonna make breakfast..” he turned back to leave and you quickly grabbed onto his hand, tugging it backward.

“Too early for breakfast. It’s your bed. Come lay down…” your voice was barely above a whisper, but he heard every word.

It wasn’t as though you two hadn’t shared plenty of beds. Traveling on tour was like that. With Dom and Rhea paired off, and Finn preferring to be alone, you two often ended up in a room together, and thanks to Damian’s stature that meant sharing a single king bed. Of course, you didn’t mind. Not even as you laid awake all those nights, trying to quell that burning need you couldn’t seem to shake when you were so close yet so far from him. You wondered how he could sleep, how he couldn’t feel your nervous energy from across the bed. Maybe he could, and just paid it no mind.

This time was different, though. Charged. Like the energy you felt shooting through the fingertips that touched him was somehow a mutual exchange. Like if you pulled your hand from his right now, you would see the electricity connecting them. You couldn’t explain how or why, all you could do was tug on his hand as he tried to decline your invitation.

“There’s no way you’re not tired, come on…”

And, after a moment of your insistence, he reluctantly obliged.

There was a dip in the bed, and you hummed happily as a strong arm wrapped around you, hugging you close for a moment as he got situated. You rolled onto your side, facing away from him so you could hide your secret little smile. Strong arms wrapped around you again, to your surprise, and you shifted until you both were comfortable laying there in each other’s space.

You two always ended up like this, once you finally found yourself able to sleep. You would wake curled up against his massive frame, him holding you in a manner that could only be described as possessive. It was almost as though he was protecting you in your slumber; From what, you weren’t sure. Bad dreams? Aliens? You always played it off as though you two just enjoyed the closeness, drawn to each other in the unconscious. You’d vehemently defend to Rhea that it was strictly platonic. The butterflies in your throat disagreed.

It felt like every single cell in your body was vibrating. You thought there was no way that you could sleep, and yet you felt your eyelids droop as his warmth spread around you. Once again, you dozed, your body weightless despite being hyper aware of the fact that you were pressed up against him. His shallow, sleepy breaths puffed across the top of your head, but you would later learn he was also not sleeping.

No, he was in the same predicament as you. Pretending to sleep while his mind raced and the smell of your hair drew him further into this downward spiral. It was all innocent thoughts at first. Friendly. Looking forward to spending time with you and the others over the next few days. Then he opened his eyes, catching a glimpse of your peaceful, sleeping face and a switch flipped. Suddenly he was consumed by the thought of waking you up and taking you then and there, finally giving into the urge he felt every time he got close to you. Every time he watched you wrestle. Every time you smiled at him from across a room, or fell asleep on him during long flights, or gave his butt a pat as he walked out from Gorilla to the ramp. He valued your friendship more than that urge, though, and it’s stopped him every time he’s nearly gone through with indulging it.

Lost in your thoughts, you only barely registered the fact that he had scooted a little bit closer to you than before, hips flush with the curve of your ass. Something else pressed against you, something somewhat firm and insistent. You blushed, trying to muffle the faintest gasp at the realization of exactly what it was. He had to be sleeping… right? Would he do this if he wasn’t?

You didn’t know what to do, frozen still by the options before you. You could ignore it, pretend to keep sleeping and act as though nothing was happening. That was the safest option. You two could proceed as usual, protecting your friendship for the long run while you pined for him still. Or… you could give in and acknowledge it, say fuck it to all of the doubt and uncertainty.

Fuck it.

You moved to back yourself up further against him, making sure to slowly grind your hips and drag your ass against the clothed protrusion. You heard a low, barely audible noise from him, spurring you on as you arched your back slightly and once again pressed your ass into him.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing…” he whispered under his breath, not wanting to wake you if this was all just some kind of cruel joke the universe was playing on him. His hand went from holding you across your waist to slowly tracing a line down your side, stopping at your hip and squeezing gently. You hummed again, softly, leaning into his touch.

It burned where his fingertips made contact with your skin, feeling that same electric energy as before, stealing the breath from your lungs. It was now or never, you decided, no going back from here. A calculated risk, but you were always so bad at math. Slowly, you reached back, grabbing hold of his hip and using the new leverage to really grind against him. You heard a low rumbling, like thunder in his chest, fingers digging into your hip.

“Don’t tease me…” another barely audible growl of a whisper. You chuckled softly, putting on an air of confidence in spite of your hammering heart, moving just enough in his hold to turn your head and look innocently at him. God, he loved that look. He propped himself up on his elbow, looking you over with a glint in his eye you’d never seen before, something you couldn’t quite put your finger on.

“Who’s teasing?” You offered a smile over your shoulder.

“I mean it…” he brought you closer to him, his lips finding your bare shoulder. He placed a kiss on it, then bit down softly, eliciting the tiniest gasp from you. Another kiss, another bite, another low, sleepy whine from you as your hips begged for more friction. His hand on your hip pulled you back as he rocked slowly into you. God, why did he have to make this so good? It was bad enough that you were past some kind of point of no return, but every press of his hips to your behind only made it worse, forcing tiny moans out of you. Officially helpless to the way your body was reacting to his touch, you didn’t bother resisting it any longer. Your hand on his hip reached between the two of you, teasing along the waistband of his boxers before reaching in. Your hand slid tentatively down his pelvis, running over smooth, hot skin before finally wrapping around what you were looking for.

It was damn near as intimidating as he was. Long and thick and heavy, twitching slightly in your grasp as he grew harder. You couldn’t help but utter a quiet “Fuck”. His chest rumbled as you stroked him a few times, and you couldn’t help but groan with him, the slick heat of your core only growing more overwhelming with each glide of your palm. You felt lips on your neck now, doing the same as before. A kiss, a bite, then another soothing kiss as you mewled at the sensation, your walls clenching around nothing, absolutely begging for him. You’d be lucky if you made it out of this without him marking you, but would that really be lucky? You kept on with soft, slow strokes, breathless as he continued to focus on your neck.

“Are you sure we should do this…” he breathed in your ear, your movements slowing as you processed his question. He was giving you one last out, it seemed. One last opportunity to say “you’re right, let’s stop”, though you both knew you had already gone too far to come back from this. But, with no hesitation, you nodded.

It all happened so fast after that. In half a second you were flat on your back, eyes wide as you tried to choke out something clever or witty to say, completely failing. He wasn’t touching you yet, but nonetheless you were pinned, his massive frame caging yours entirely. Your eyes cut down to discover he’d slid his boxers off, hard cock hanging between his legs. Fuck, it looked even better than it felt. Your gaze wandered back up to his confident smirk. He knew what he was working with, clearly. Smug bastard.

“Don’t look at me in that tone of voice…” you couldn’t help but laugh, doing everything you could to look normal, ignoring the steady beating in your ears.

“Just couldn’t help but notice you admiring something…” he chuckled, then leaned back down to kiss your neck, and suddenly your mind was mush again except for him.

You were ripped from your thoughts as you found your top being pulled off and your breasts exposed, his mouth immediately attaching to one. He was all teeth and tongue, frantic and desperate, years of tension finally breaking the dam and rushing through his veins. You couldn’t take your eyes off him, writhing and gasping as he played you so expertly, somehow finding every little sensitive spot and knowing exactly how to wring the most pathetic little sounds from your throat. Had your nipples always been this sensitive? You couldn’t remember. In fact, this all felt so new, like it was your first time all over again. His intense focus turned up to you as he switched to your other breast, the eye contact enough to ruin you both. You broke it, certain you would come in an instant if you held his dark eyes any longer.

Damian let go of your nipple with a tug of his teeth, leaning up to finally kiss your lips, both hands holding your face. White heat burst behind your eyes as his tongue immediately assumed dominance over yours. You wrapped your arms around broad shoulders, moaning shamelessly into his mouth as tongues danced and one of his hands moved to firmly hold your jaw. He only broke the kiss to speak, lips just centimeters from yours.

“Pretty little thing… me estás matando…”

Your loss for words left you grinning stupidly in response. You, killing him? While you’ve lost all sense of chill, not even bothering to pretend to be casual about this? He kissed the smile off your face, biting and tugging on your bottom lip as he pulled away, leaving your lips to chase his as you whined with need. It was strange, the fact that you needed him. You’d had plenty of partners, plenty of good sex. Sure, you wanted them, but this felt like you’d surely die if you didn’t feel him inside you soon. Like your body would simply vaporize without his touch. Maybe this was how it was going to be from now on, feeling like something was distinctly missing when he wasn’t touching you.

Your flimsy cotton shorts were the next to go, his lips finding every inch of exposed skin down your abdomen and claiming it as his own. Eager hands glided down his shoulders and back, taking in the way each muscle flexed as he moved along your body.

His energy was impossible to place, manic but calm. He knew exactly what he was doing, but still moved with an urgency as if the two of you would be caught any moment. Which… was partially true. In a moment of clarity, the rest of the crew came to mind and your heart picked up at the realization that they would be back soon, and this would be over. Or worse.. they could find you two, passionately entangled. What would they say? What would HE say? You feared he would deny it, too ashamed to admit he felt anything for you, even just lust.

Your thoughts continued to race, eyes closing as you panicked. You tried to be discreet about it, but if anyone knew your cues, it was Damian. He moved back up to you, a strong yet delicate hand wrapping around your throat as he kissed you. Well, that was one way to knock out the intrusive thoughts.

“Look at me,” he squeezed ever so slightly as your eyes focused, his tone stern yet soft, “whatever you’re thinking about. Doesn’t matter right now. Tell me what does.” Another squeeze.

“You.”

“And what else…”

“… me?”

“Good girl.”

Another kiss, another squeeze, and he was gone. Back to leaving bite marks down your body. He came down to your panties and let out a silent, somewhat shaky breath. Finally. Finally he had you right where he always wanted you. It was almost overwhelming, but he didn’t let onto that. His fingers gently traced over black cotton, finding a damp spot along the seam of your cunt.

“Oh gatita,” he kept focus along that spot, shooting sparks through your entire body with how inexplicably sensitive you were, “is this all for me?”

All you could do was whimper in response, letting your head fall back to the pillow as your hips chased his fingers, begging for more. He granted you that extra friction, mouth falling open as he watched you shamelessly grind against his hand.

And then he pulled away, leaving you whining from the loss. In a blink, your panties were tossed to the floor and finally the two of you could take in the sight of one another. It took all of the self control he had not to split you open on his cock right there, but he resisted, instead kneeling between your open legs.

You looked up at him, breathing out a barely audible “please”. You nearly took him out right there, his composure faltering as he fully looked you over.

“Perfect,” he exhaled, readjusting his position and giving his straining cock a few lazy strokes, making sure you were watching. Oh, you were watching, nearly drooling at the sight.

His hand found your pussy again, gently swirling a thumb around your clit, eyes locked with yours and hand still slowly working his cock. He wanted to see every reaction, every little microexpression, he wanted it all. He had waited this long for you, years of picturing you in this exact moment. He wanted to savor everything.

You moaned through your bitten lip as he teased, not daring to look away from him. He had you captive, it seemed, frozen in place and begging for anything he could give you. Which is why you whined so pathetically when he pulled his hand away, once again.

He sucked your essence from his thumb, savoring your sweetness. You hummed at the sight, closing your eyes, only to feel his grip on your jaw a moment later to tilt your head up toward him.

“Look at me,” he commanded, his voice deeper, more serious. You didn’t dare disobey him, looking up like a deer in headlights. Something about that voice… you couldn’t quite place it. He growled lowly, bringing his hand back down to your cunt. He collected some of your juices on his finger, running it up and down your slick folds before slowly, agonizingly sliding it inside.

He still gripped your chin, daring you to look away as you whimpered at the sudden fullness. You had always admired his hands, giant and strong and rough, yet gentle. You’d wondered how they would feel in this exact scenario, often finding your mind wandering as your own smaller hand worked to your release in the late nights. It was beyond what you had imagined, so much more. His finger found a slow, steady pace, filling you perfectly and yet not enough all at once. You moved your hips with his rhythm, mouth slack in euphoria, eyes still trained to his.

“So fucking good for me, look how well you’re taking it,” he praised, letting go of your jaw to let you look down at where his finger was disappearing into your tight hole. Then, as you watched, he added another finger, wrenching a moan straight from your chest as your head fell back once more. Now the pace picked up, the thrusts of his hand stronger, more precise as he curled his fingers to find that sensitive little spot. You gasped and panted pathetically as he played you so expertly, looking back down at his hand only to fall back onto the pillow, overwhelmed by the sight.

It’s unfair, how he seemed to know you without knowing you. Without much effort at all from him, you found yourself closing in on climax, your panting gradually becoming uninhibited moans of “Please. Please. Please.”

“Please what, gatita?” He cooed, slowing the pace ever so slightly as he leaned over you.

“Please. Just. Fuck. Fuckfuckfuck. Just don’t stop.”

“Oh, don’t stop?” He slowed just a bit more, grinning down at you. You could only whine in response, hips moving sloppily now, trying to encourage him to fuck you faster. Harder. He obliged… for the moment. Your walls slowly grew tighter, your moans more heady and uncontrolled. You felt the coil tighten. Tighten. Tighten…

And then he slowed again. Painfully. Your orgasm held at bay, he couldn’t have appeared more smug, knowing exactly what he was doing. You looked up at him, flushed and desperate.

“Why’d you do that?” A whine, to which his response was simply to kiss you. Again, he picked up the pace, adding another finger, making sure you felt just how much he stretched you. Oh, you felt it. Your vision went blurry at the sensation, focusing on him and only him.

It didn’t take much to bring you to that edge again, the coil tightening even more, threatening to break with every rough pump of his fingers. He was hovering over you now, leaning down and biting on your shoulder, sucking a mark into it. Apparently, he didn’t think about the consequences of that… or maybe he didn’t care. Nevertheless, he bit again, smirking into your shoulder as you arched your back and rode his fingers, dramatically chasing your high. You were so, so close, every muscle in your body tense, hands scratching down his back.

“Come on, baby. Come for me.”

It hit like a brick to the face after that, overtaking you in every way as you moaned and gasped, holding onto him for dear life. He nuzzled his face into you, kissing and sucking marks down your chest to your abdomen, every press of his lips electric.

Everything felt blurry and yet razor sharp, every muscle in your body twitching in the aftershocks. You barely registered that he had kissed back up your body, hands on either side of your head as he waited above. His lips locked with yours the moment your eyes focused, your hands immediately twisting in his hair, holding him as close to you as you could.

You felt the weeping head of his cock prod at your folds, one of his hands guiding it to rub against your clit, still sensitive from your first orgasm. You mewled with anticipation, your hips grinding down against him.

“Patience…” he breathed against your lips, your hips stilling as he slowly slid inside. Just the head. A gasp from both of you. And then another inch. Fuck. And then another. And another. Until you felt all of him and all you could do was pull him in for another consuming kiss. He started with a slow pace, almost sweet, letting you get used to his size. It quickly grew intense, rough and fast, as he let himself fall into the demands of desire. Your hands grabbed at anything on him you could as he overwhelmed you with his force.

It really was unfair, the way he was fucking you. You didn’t stand a chance against him, not finding a single opportunity to gain the upper hand, left only to meet his thrusts with reckless abandon as you moaned with each moment he filled you. You liked it, though, being at his mercy. You trusted him, strangely. You could probably get used to this.

He’s stronger than you thought possible, his grip on your thighs surely bruising you as you writhed and arched your back at a particularly delicious sensation within you. You couldn’t help but close your eyes, completely lost in the rhythm and harshness of the snap of his hips. He bared his teeth as he fucked you harder. Faster. Tears pricking the corners of your eyes from the intensity. And then his hand was over your mouth, his eyes off you for the first time since this dance began. He was scanning outside the open window, watching a car come down the street, thinking it could be the rest of the group. That didn’t mean he stopped fucking you. In fact, it only got more intense.

“That’s right. Fucking take it.” he was back to looking down at you and your wide eyes, burying himself so deep inside you, you were sure he was ruining you entirely, “that’s it, baby. Tell me how good it feels.” Except he didn’t pull his hand from your mouth, smirking as you attempted to speak anyway, your mind too gone. That is.. until he slid himself fully inside, grinding his hips against yours. You moaned out loud, sure that the neighbors have heard you by now, your walls squeezing around him and feeling the drag as he pulled his cock out entirely.

“On your knees,” a simple order, and yet your brain was static. You blinked up at him before shaking away the fog and turning yourself over, wiggling your ass in his face just a little. His growl shook you, two strong hands grabbing hold of your ass and squeezing.

“Love this ass. Always loved this ass. Estuve soñando al respecto,” he kept squeezing, spreading you and groaning at the sight. You couldn’t help but smile at his reaction, giving it another shake in his face. Suddenly, you felt teeth on flesh, letting out a yelp that quickly became a satisfied sigh, your head dipping down past your shoulders. Somehow, you didn’t expect his hand to come crashing down on you, the slap against your ass ringing out in the empty house. You felt your eyes roll to the back of your head, too immersed in the moment to acknowledge anything but the way your back arched and your chest created the most depraved noise you’d ever heard.

“Oh, you like that, huh?” Another slap, you gripped at the bedsheets to keep yourself grounded, “you like being treated like a whore?”

“Yes, sir,” you whimpered involuntarily, nearly slapping your own hand over your mouth at the realization of what you’d said.

“What.. did you just call me?”

“Nothing…”

A ruthless slap, “Tell me.”

You sobbed at the impact, “sir.”

The growl in his chest shook you, and with little warning his cock was pressing to your folds once again, sliding in with ease and setting a brutal pace right off the bat. You dropped to your elbows and arched your back, eyes closing as your head once again dropped. Of course, he took advantage and leaned over you, one hand finding the back of your head and pressing you down into the bed, holding it there. He slapped your ass with the other, laughing when you moaned into the mattress. It left the prettiest pink handprint, he almost wished he could get a picture of it.

You couldn’t believe the way he was fucking you. Like— like a whore, just like he said. You’d think he’d be gentle with you, being your first time together, that he’d want to show you how worthy he was of your pussy. In a way, he was showing you that. He was showing you his worth by fucking you absolutely stupid, and you were loving it. So much that you weren’t far from another climax, feeling your walls tighten around him, dragging such a beautiful sound from him. His hand found your hair, grabbing a fistful and pulling your head off the bed. You cried out, steadying yourself on your hands. It was overwhelming, every sensation he subjected you to, to the point that you felt completely delirious with pleasure, all sense of control lost. You fucked yourself sloppily back on his cock, his fist pulling tighter on your hair. The tears pricked your eyes again, eyes whiting out.

“Ohhh fuck, are you coming? You filthy little—” he didn’t finish, groaning as your cunt rhythmically clenched around him, his own thrusts growing more erratic. You didn’t even hear him praising you with little ‘good girls’ and whispers of how good you feel, your head clouded with the sounds of your own depravity. You rode out your orgasm for what felt like hours, nearly collapsing as your body ceased quaking.

Your brain was working in half time, barely registering that he was still fucking you slowly, trying to bring you back to reality. You tried to speak, but the words were completely incoherent.

“Need a minute,” you finally mumbled, reaching back and grabbing his hand that rested on your hip. He obliged, pulling out and laying down beside you, pulling you into his arms. Your breath caught gradually, your mental faculties growing stronger by the second despite your throbbing cunt. You sighed contentedly, leaning up and kissing him for just a moment. You had your own ideas, now, and one in particular overtook your thoughts.

You kissed him again, grabbing hold of his cock, still slick with you. Your hand stroked him softly as you shifted down the bed, timidly tapping his leg as to ask him to open them. He did so, and you climbed between them, licking your lips as his cock bobbed in anticipation. You took him hungrily into your mouth, not bothering to tease, too eager to feel him.

Now it was your turn to show how unfair you could be, expertly taking him deep into your throat, holding there until you choked. Immediately, he was gone, head falling back on the pillow until he realized he would rather watch you. Your hand assisted your bobbing head, using your tongue to lap at every vein and ridge of his perfect dick. His groans and words of encouragement and yes gatitas only fueled you, giving everything you had to taking him. You almost wanted him to cum right there, to lose all composure and fill your mouth. He had other plans, however, pulling you by the hair off his cock and admiring the fucked out look on your face.

“So fucking pretty,” he mused, pulling you up to him and kissing you. It was all a ploy, of course, and you let him guide you to straddle him, your hips hovering just above his waiting cock. He ordered you to look at him, your brain already to fuck drunk disobey, eyes fixed on him as he lined himself up with your entrance.

“Go ahead, take it all,” he couldn’t help but grin, brow furrowing in pleasure as you did just that, your own face mirroring his. It was almost too much, almost. Getting your balance, you slowly began to bounce on his lap, leaning on his shoulders for leverage. From there it was an endurance test, the pleasure of riding him only tainted by the strain it put on your knees. Still, you continued, his hands finding your hips to help bounce you on his lap, mewling when his hand crashed down on your ass.

You loved having the power. Loved watching his face twist in pleasure as you grinded your hips down onto his. … and you loved that it took little effort for him to suddenly flip you onto your back once more, placing your legs up around his shoulders as he sunk back into you. Every thrust was slow now. Powerful. So much so that each one knocked you back into the wall. It didn’t matter, you were too delirious by the way he was abusing that little spot inside you, seeing stars as you looked up at his concentrated face.

It was close, again, a climax brewing in your core that nearly overtook you the moment you felt it. Your sighs and moans became whines, hands gripped the sheets below you as he just continued with each knock of his hips to yours, folding you up as he leaned forward and somehow sunk impossibly deeper inside you. You pleaded to him, begged him, did everything you could to encourage him to keep going, please. Just another minute. ‘I’m so close’. But he didn’t even have time to stop, the wave crashing over you as the last ‘please’ left your lips and all you could hear was ringing in your ears and the sound of him grunting through each perfect squeeze of your walls around him.

And suddenly you heard something new. A breathy sort of noise intermixed with ‘Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.’ as his thrusts grew less calculated. Almost sloppy. His hips jerking with every thrust until he couldn’t stall any longer.

“Come on, Papí. Come for me…” you breathed, certain you were tearing the sheets at this point while your cunt pulsed around him, still coming yourself.

Papí. That was all it took for him to fill you, painting your walls as his fingernails dug crescents into your thighs. You laid there, chest heaving as the two of you shared a blissful moment, eyes locked in the realization of what had just happened. And then, as if to dispel the little voice of worry in the back of your mind, he let your legs down gently and climbed up beside you, taking your face into his hands and kissing you. It wasn’t a particularly passionate kiss, but it was perfect for that moment. Perfect enough to ease that budding anxiety.

“We should do that again…” he whispered into your ear, breaking the tension in the air as you burst into a laugh.

“I was thinking the very same thing.”

——

Friends who asked to be tagged: @melisabesurviving @bbygirlnessa18 @missfamilyjeweles @mzv11 @southerngirl41 @thealliasylum @romanreignkisser

[nova-rogue]

i hate to doomsday things like literacy but i just saw an outrageous question on reddit and i just genuinely think literacy has been killed.

if you even remotely think any element of a book, any paragraph or chapter, is not part of the story, you have a dire misconception about how literature and story works. it's all part of it. all of it.

flashbacks are part of the plot AND story. they're a literary device to advance the plot through a peek into the past.

even if something is poorly written enough that scenes or elements are "unnecessary", it's STILL part of the story. it just is poorly done, doesn't convey what it was supposed to, and therefore doesn't make sense. this actually happens VERY RARELY and most accusations of this circumstance are wildly incorrect and an issue of poor literacy in its own right.

but everything, EVERYTHING on every page of a book is an element of the story. the plot is a device to tell the story.

[pluckyredhead]

Can you please say more about the Lanterns' politics?

I am so glad you asked me about this because I've been thinking about it since I reblogged that post but also I'm definitely about to get yelled at lol. ANYWAY THIS IS GOING TO BE LONG.

Tl;dr: John is the only one with a coherent political position or an up-to-date voter registration.

Hal:

So something interesting about Hal is that his stories are often very political but his character is not. With one extremely obvious exception, he rarely talks about politics; rather, he serves as a means through which to tell political stories, usually unintentionally.

What do I mean by that? Well, for example, in the Silver Age, his love interest would occasionally be possessed by a misandrist space jewel that would force her to attack him, but always lose because women are inherently inferior to men and prefer to be subjugated by them anyway. That's the original Star Sapphire concept. It's wildly misogynistic, but it doesn't mean Hal the character is misogynistic. But it's also a very political story, even if I don't think the writer was deliberately trying to make a point so much as...being an average, thoughtlessly sexist guy living in the 60s. (Carol continues to be the subject of mindbogglingly sexist writing and art well into the 2000s. Fucking comics.)

And so you have Hal Jordan, whose love life was ruined by his girlfriend getting promoted above him and who called his best friend by a racist nickname for decades; Hal Jordan, poster boy for chest-thumping post-9/11 kneejerk patriotism; Hal Jordan, lightning rod for a certain kind of regressive bigoted fanboyism. Choosing Hal as the Lantern for a particular story over John or Kyle has come to signify something very specific, but none of that is necessarily reflective of what Hal himself believes.

So what about Hal himself? Well, when we first meet him, he's the epitome of privilege: a white, straight, cis, Christian (I know he's canonically half-Jewish now but that's only as of the past decade or so), ablebodied, upper middle class (Geoff Johns retconned him to have a working class background, but in the Silver Age, he had one uncle who was a millionaire, another who was a judge, and a successful politician brother) man with a flashy job. Privilege tends to lean Republican; even if he is from California, I suspect Hal voted for Eisenhower in 1956.

In GL/GA, the word "Republican" isn't used to my recollection, but Hal is definitely presented as...I'm going to say conservative by I mean lower-case C. He doesn't have deeply held political beliefs, but he's traditional. He doesn't question the system, because he's never had to. He resists things that challenge the way he's always understood the world works, and that's very relatable - most people do! And he will absolutely argue with Ollie, who certainly isn't always right about everything. But he's also willing to listen, and have his mind changed, and certainly reachable via appeals to compassion and fairness.

Once the "relevance" trend of the late 60s-early 70s was over, Hal's stories default back to ostensibly politically neutral, although obviously nothing is actually politically neutral. In the late 80s and early 90s he's the most unpleasant version of himself, and that has political manifestations, like when he allows John to be imprisoned in apartheid South Africa for a ridiculous and unnecessary crime Hal himself committed. It's extremely fucked up, but again, it's less because of Hal's actual opinions and more because Christopher Priest wanted to write about apartheid, even if it does make Hal look incredibly, horrifically racist.

Then jump to the mid-2000s and Green Lantern: Rebirth, and you might imagine that losing his hometown, getting possessed by a giant space bug, becoming a supervillain, dying, and becoming the embodiment of God's vengeance might have some effect on Hal's politics, but that is not what Geoff Johns is here to write. Johns is writing a Hal who teleported in from, like, 1967 - no nuance allowed. He's a summer blockbuster that walks like a man. He's a Baja Blast. He's never had a coherent political thought in his life. In his defense, he has had more and goofier concussions than any superhero I can think of and his brain is smooth like an egg. Still.

Anyway, all of this is to say that I think Hal tends to default to center right positions but can be easily coaxed over to center left. That said, he has never not once in his life had his shit together enough to vote in a single election, not even for his own brother.

Guy:

So Guy's deal is a little bit complicated because his most vocally political era was also in part due to severe and personality-altering brain damage.

When Guy was originally introduced in the 1960s, he had the pleasantly bland personality of all superheroes. Many years later, he suffered a series of major injuries, torture, and a lengthy coma, and he emerged from the coma in 1985 with the aggressive, abrasive personality he's best known for today. Justice League International took that even further, using him to parody the jingoistic, red-blooded American action hero of the 80s.

This version of Guy is a vocal fan of Ronald Reagan and despises the USSR. He's pro-war, proudly xenophobic, and treats women badly enough that it crosses the line into repeated sexual harassment, both physical and verbal. (To be fair...ish, this last also applies to Wally West and arguably a number of other men, and was always played for laughs. It was gross all around.)

Again, this is partially a manifestation of his brain damage. There's also a running gag in JLI where if he gets hit on the head, his personality changes to this cloying, timid, gentle one, sort of halfway between a child and a flamboyant gay stereotype. Hit him again and he goes back to Asshole Guy. I'm not going to pretend I don't find some of the gags funny, but it's obviously all highly problematic, and not just from a medical standpoint.

That said, I don't think we can dismiss Guy's politics or his usual personality as simply a manifestation of brain damage. We see in later flashbacks that he developed the abrasiveness as a defense mechanism from growing up in an abusive home, and as he matures through the 90s, he doesn't actually become a significantly different person, even after his Vuldarian healing factor kicks in and heals his brain. (It's a thing.) I think it's more accurate to say that the brain damage probably affected his impulse control, his filter, and arguably even his paranoia levels.

All of which is to say that as much as I would love to go "Guy's better now, so he's not a Republican!"...that dog won't hunt. I think a really good canon writer could make the case that Guy is pro-union-style working class and also a former teacher so he's at least center left, but as of now canon evidence is pretty firmly on the red side. It doesn't help that the GLC has been written as fetishistically pro-cop and pro-military since Johns got his grubby hands all over it. I will happily ignore the New 52 retcon that Guy was a cop, and you could even try to argue that he dislikes cops because his brother was a corrupt cop who became a supervillain, but I think it's much more likely that he identifies with cops as a Corps member. Although I don't think he would have any patience for killer cops. ("You were afraid for your life even though you were the only one with a weapon? Then fucking quit, coward.")

All of that said, I think Guy is similar to Hal: defaults to center right, can be talked into center left on certain issues but he's more stubborn about it. (They would also both be enraged by Jan 6 and disgusted by the current Republican party - I can't quite argue that Guy Gardner is a Democrat but Green Lanterns don't have any patience for traitors or cowards.) It's also kind of a moot point because he never knows what is happening on Earth and hasn't voted since his pre-coma days.

John:

Oh John Stewart, thank god for you.

John was introduced as an explicitly political character in an explicitly political story. The first time we see him, he's stepping in to defend Black men from a white cop, citing his own knowledge of the law to do so. He shows a much more perceptive and informed perspective on the issue's main plot (a racist senator running for president) than Hal does. Even in the little moment above, we see that he's sensitive to exactly what it means for him, a Black man, to be taking on this role.

None of this is a surprise, since we'll later learn that John's parents were civil rights activists. Not only would he not have had the privilege Hal and Guy did to assume his existence was politically neutral, he was explicitly educated about political realities and progressive advocacy from childhood. He's well-informed, he's passionate, and he's going to tell you when you are being fucking stupid.

John isn't immune from the GL cop/military...thing, although I can't blame Johns for that - it was the cartoon that made him a Marine, and the comics followed suit. But that's never outweighed his origin or his upbringing. Like, he's friends with the DCU's fictional version of Nelson Mandela.

This one is straightforward: John is a staunch progressive. He is, however, in outer space 90% of the time, so he's always at least a little bit out of date. I imagine every time he comes back to Earth he spends the first 24 hours watching the news in abject horror.

Kyle:

Kyle doesn't talk about politics a lot, but when he does, he lands pretty much where you'd expect a young California-born artist living in New York City to land: to the left. My read on Kyle is that he hasn't really thought any of his politics through, which makes sense - he's a character who is led by emotion over reason every time. He doesn't have John's carefully thought-through arguments or knowledge of the law behind him. I feel like when something political upsets him, he's more likely to splutter angrily than make a coherent argument (which: same). When he's given the time to think things through and speak from the heart, though, he can be very eloquent, like in his speech to Terry after Terry accidentally comes out to him.

It's also worth pointing out that his solo appearances were mostly in the 90s, which were prone to avoiding politics or only addressing them in a halfhearted both sides-y way like the story above.

That said, I don't think he ever actually does anything about his political opinions. He never votes in midterm or primary elections, and probably only voted in a presidential one because Alex dragged him along one time. I feel like Donna tried to do the same when they were dating and that was when Kyle realized he'd forgotten to change his voter registration from California to New York. Jennie wasn't responsible enough to Mom him into doing his civic duty, and he's been in space pretty much nonstop ever since, so...

Simon:

In that other post, I said Simon's experiences should have radicalized him, but instead he was created by Geoff Johns. Simon is a Muslim, Lebanese-American man who came of age in the post-9/11 era, and was wrongfully convicted of terrorism and waterboarded at Guantanamo Bay. His reaction to this was...to put on a ski mask and wave a gun around. Like, it's been a while since I've read these issues, but aside from the "ripped from the headlines!!!" of it all, I feel like Simon's experiences largely don't inform his actions or perspective except that he's super angry (fair enough).

The thing about Simon (and Jessica) is that he hasn't been around very long, and most comics don't have characters directly expressing political opinions. It's not a coincidence that these characters are in chronological order and each write-up is shorter than the last. I can think of about three times where Kyle has ever said anything I can interpret as political, and he's been around for 30 years. Simon only has a third of that history. So while one could certainly extrapolate what Simon's opinions are likely to be, I can't think of any canon where he actually says them.

Jessica:

Jessica has even less to go on in terms of explicitly political comics. You'd think she wouldn't like guns because of what happened to her friends, but she has one of her own and doesn't seem bothered by Simon's. I'd imagine she has opinions on immigration as someone whose family is from Mexico and Honduras, but it never comes up. If I were writing for DC, I'd make both Simon and Jess leftists, but as for actual canon proof? I got nothing.

I will say that she probably avoids political discussions because anxiety, and I bet she got really good at voting by mail during her years not leaving the house. She probably votes by mail from space. Maybe John's not the only one with an up-to-date voter registration.

Kilowog:

[seresinhangmanjake]

That's Definitely a Name

dad!Jake "Hangman" Seresin x reader

Summary: You need to name your newborn son and your daughter helps.

Notes/warnings: this is inspired by an ask about the moments after their son's birth. I wanted to do it with Oh, Baby, too, so I am doing Oh, Baby first, and then Signed Away. Mention of pregnancy, birth, that's it I think.

Words: 835

Part of the Oh, Baby Universe

-

"He looks like you."

You snort, but it's weak from your exhaustion. "Well it's only fair," you say. "Eve is nearly your clone."

"That's true." Jake chuckles before he presses a kiss to your temple. It’s a long kiss, and soft, and conveys once more what was earlier expressed with words: “I love you, Honey. You’re so amazing. How did you just do this? How have you done this twice?

That last question has also crossed your mind in the twenty minutes since birthing your son. Twice. You’ve done this twice. But this time, your brain isn’t full of a humming fuzziness in the aftermath as it was with Eve. You’re so alert and aware of your daughter waiting outside the room with her grandmother, of Jake wrapped around you, of your new son swaddled in your arms. 

“What do you think we should name this little man?” Jake asks. “We never settled on one.”

During the months of your pregnancy, you’d shuffled through many names for your son, but none of them seemed to fit quite right. For Eve, it was a no-brainer. Without Jake in her life, it was important to you that her name connect to her father in some way, which was achieved by choosing the name of his grandmother. For your son, though, there isn’t someone you can positively name him after without some degree of resulting issue. After your mother’s fit over Jake a few years ago, your father didn’t make the effort to stay involved in your life, and Jake’s is horrid, so they were never added to the list of possibilities. Jake feels that making the little boy a junior will be too confusing, unable to let go of the image of you irritated for some reason and calling out the matching name causing unnecessary anxiety for both he and his son when you are actually only mad at one of them. You tossed around the idea of using a name from your group of friends, but you quickly realized that of the five other men on Jake’s team, four of them would take serious offense if their name wasn’t chosen while the other one would be so sweet as to simply thank you and your husband for even being considered. They didn’t last on the list for more than a day.

“We weren’t given enough time,” you decide as you trace your finger down the line of his tiny nose. “He came too early.”

“I don't think one week before your due date qualifies as too early,” Jake says, snickering. “Let's be real, Honey, we were slacking from indecisiveness.”

“Well, since we can’t figure it out maybe we should just let Eve pick a name.”

You immediately miss the warmth of his arms when Jake pulls back and shifts to the side of the bed to look you in the eye. “Now wait a minute, Honey. Think about what you're saying.” His eyes are wide and his hands gesture wildly with his attempt to snuff out your idea. “I love you and I love our baby girl, but do you really want to risk our son being named something crazy like, I don't know, Meeko? You know she loves that weird raccoon from ‘Pocahontas’,” he says. “And what happens when we don’t take her suggestion because we cannot do that to our son, hmm? This is not a particularly good time for us to be snubbed by our daughter.”

You release a light scoff. “Oh, she wouldn't do that to us, or her brother.”

“She absolutely would,” Jake says with a slight quirk of his lips. His hands fall back to his sides. “Honey, if we truly let her pick, ninety-nine percent chance we have a Disney critter sidekick name for our son.”

You look down at your newborn as you consider Jake’s concern. Meeko Seresin? You internally chuckle. No, that would not do. But your girl is smart and neither you nor Jake have been able to come to a decision on your own. You see no real harm in asking. Not to mention, it would be a prime opportunity to have Eve feel more included now that she’s no longer the only child in her parent’s lives. And if her suggestions are life-ruining bully-targeting disasters, then you’ll deal with her reaction from being denied later. 

—

“Teddy Bear!” Eve bursts out as she sits tucked between you and the rail of the hospital bed.

A sigh mixed with a barely-there chuckle falls from your husband’s lips.

“Baby girl, you want to name your brother Teddy Bear?” Jake asks, glancing at the amused smile you’re struggling to hold back before returning his eyes to his daughter. 

Taking the question very seriously, Eve’s face loses all expression, her stare unwavering against her father’s. “Yes.”

“After your teddy bear?”

“Yes.”

Jake runs a hand through his blond locks. The other rests on his hip. “Wouldn't you like to think about it for another second?”

“No.”

—

Teddy “Bear” Jacob Seresin

(More Bear and Eve) Digital Daggers: Oh, Babies by @mamachasesmayhem

tags: @wkndwlff @kmc1989 @sagittarius-flowerchild @dempy @oliviah-25 @rosiahills22 @xoxabs88xox @matisse556 @hardballoonlove @ssa-sadboi @lynnevanss @pono-pura-vida @tgmreader @amgluvsbooks @ravenhood2792 @djs8891 @shakespeareanwannabe @sailor-aviator @penguin876 @tgmavericklover @athenabarnes @emilyoflanternhill @wretchedmo @shanimallina87 @crowsreadsarahjmaas @mamachasesmayhem @sky2nd @jessicab1991 @rosedurin @averyhotchner @horseshoegirl @novagreen04 @multifandomlover4life @memeorydotcom @ryiamarie @ateliefloresdaprimavera

[phoebe1013]

Here’s a detailed and realistic compilation of headcanons about the Twelfth and Tenth Doctors from Doctor Who being yanderes for you. This includes their distinct personalities and canon traits while maintaining an accurate and believable tone for their characters:

General Overview: Two Yandere Doctors, One Human

The Twelfth Doctor (12) and Tenth Doctor (10) both develop an obsessive, yandere-like affection for you, but their approaches are wildly different due to their unique personalities. While their obsession stems from the same core—their deep-seated fear of loneliness and abandonment—their ways of expressing it create tension, manipulation, and devotion in equal measure. Here’s how their yandere tendencies manifest:

Twelfth Doctor (12) as a Yandere

Possessiveness

• 12’s obsession with you is rooted in his intense fear of losing the people he loves. He’s fiercely possessive, though he doesn’t display it in overtly emotional ways. Instead, he becomes quietly controlling, constantly monitoring your actions and decisions under the guise of protecting you.

• He insists on being the only one who truly understands you. If you have close relationships with others, he subtly undermines them, planting seeds of doubt or orchestrating situations that make you question their loyalty.

Overprotectiveness

• 12 can’t bear the thought of you being in danger. He often overrides your choices, insisting that he knows what’s best for you. If you argue, he’ll dismiss your concerns with his usual gruffness, muttering something like, “You’re human. You don’t know how fragile you are.”

• He follows you everywhere, even when you insist you can handle yourself. If you wander too far or put yourself in what he deems unnecessary danger, he’s quick to scold you, his voice trembling with barely concealed panic.

Jealousy

• 12’s jealousy is cold and cutting. He doesn’t lash out or throw tantrums, but his words become sharper, and his stare more intense. If someone shows interest in you, he might casually interrogate them in a way that leaves them unsettled.

• He makes a point of reminding you that no one else can match his intelligence, his experience, or his devotion to you. “Do you think they could keep you safe like I do? They don’t know the things I’ve seen.”

Manipulation

• 12 is a master manipulator. He uses his intellect to subtly influence your decisions, making you think his ideas were your own. He’s patient, planting small suggestions over time until you’re entirely dependent on him.

• If you ever try to distance yourself from him, he uses guilt as a weapon, reminding you of all he’s done for you and how much you mean to him. “Do you have any idea what I’ve sacrificed for you? Do you think I could survive losing you now?”

Tender Obsession

• Beneath his gruff exterior, 12’s love for you is deeply genuine. He doesn’t want to scare you; he simply doesn’t know how to process the depth of his feelings. In his quieter moments, he gazes at you with a mixture of awe and sadness, whispering, “You’re my second chance. Don’t take that away from me.”

Tenth Doctor (10) as a Yandere

Emotional Intensity

• 10’s obsession with you is fiery and overwhelming. He wears his heart on his sleeve, making it impossible to miss the depth of his feelings. He showers you with attention, compliments, and acts of devotion, all designed to make you feel like the center of his universe.

• His emotions can be suffocating. If you pull away, he becomes desperate, pleading with you to stay. “You can’t leave me. I can’t—I don’t know how to be without you.”

Clinginess

• 10 can’t stand being apart from you, even for a moment. He’s constantly seeking your presence, whether it’s holding your hand, sitting beside you, or just talking endlessly to keep your attention on him.

• If you try to take time for yourself, he becomes visibly distressed, pacing and fidgeting until you return. He’ll immediately act like nothing’s wrong, though his relief is written all over his face.

Jealousy

• 10’s jealousy is volatile. If someone flirts with you, his smile tightens, and his voice becomes sharp. He’s not afraid to confront the person directly, masking his possessiveness with humor that has an unmistakable edge.

• He’s quick to assure you that no one else can love you like he does. “They don’t see you, not really. Not like I do. I see every part of you, every little thing that makes you…you.”

Grand Gestures

• 10 expresses his obsession through grand, romantic gestures. He’ll take you to the most beautiful places in the universe, crafting perfect moments to show how much he cares. Each gesture is carefully calculated to make you feel like you belong to him.

• He writes you love notes in Gallifreyan, creates constellations in your honor, and even alters timelines slightly to ensure your happiness.

Unstable Devotion

• While 10’s love for you is passionate, it’s also unstable. If he feels like he’s losing you, he spirals into desperation, his usual charm giving way to frantic, erratic behavior. He’ll beg, cry, and even lash out at those he perceives as threats.

• His fear of abandonment drives him to extremes. If he thinks you’re slipping away, he’ll do whatever it takes to keep you, even if it means manipulating time or taking drastic measures.

How They Differ

• 12’s Yandere Traits: Quietly controlling, calculating, and deeply introspective. His obsession manifests in subtle ways, such as manipulating situations to keep you close and coldly removing threats. He’s like a storm brewing on the horizon—silent but undeniably dangerous.

• 10’s Yandere Traits: Emotional, clingy, and impulsive. His obsession is loud and intense, filled with grand romantic gestures and erratic behavior when he feels threatened. He’s like a wildfire—beautiful but capable of destruction if unchecked.

If They’re Both Obsessed with You

• The rivalry between 12 and 10 would be fierce. 10’s emotional outbursts and grand gestures would clash with 12’s cold, calculated possessiveness. They’d constantly try to outdo each other, each determined to prove that they’re the one who deserves your love.

• 12 would mock 10’s impulsiveness, calling him a “child” and accusing him of putting you in danger with his reckless behavior. 10, in turn, would criticize 12’s coldness, arguing that his gruff demeanor could never make you happy.

• Both would be intensely protective of you, often competing to see who can save you from danger first. While this might seem endearing at first, their constant rivalry could become overwhelming, leaving you feeling like a prize rather than a person.

• In moments of unity, they might work together to eliminate perceived threats to your safety. However, their truce would be short-lived, as their jealousy and possessiveness would quickly resurface.

Final Thoughts

Being the focus of both the Twelfth and Tenth Doctors’ yandere affections is as exhilarating as it is terrifying. Their obsession with you is driven by their shared fear of loneliness and loss, but their vastly different personalities create a chaotic dynamic. While their love is genuine, their possessiveness and extreme devotion could easily spiral out of control, leaving you trapped in a whirlwind of time-traveling obsession.

Here’s a detailed continuation exploring what type of yanderes the Twelfth and Tenth Doctors would be, along with the specific yandere behaviors they’d exhibit, grounded in their canonical personalities and traits:

The Twelfth Doctor (12): The Manipulative Protector Yandere

12 is the calculating, controlling, and quietly obsessive type. He operates from the shadows, pulling strings to ensure you stay by his side, all while framing his actions as “protecting you” from the dangers of the universe.

What Type of Yandere is 12?

• Protective Overlord: 12 believes he knows what’s best for you better than you ever could. He sees your human fragility as something he must protect at all costs, even if it means taking away your agency.

• Detached Possessiveness: He doesn’t shower you with constant affection like 10; instead, he exudes an unshakable aura of dominance over your life. His love manifests in actions rather than words.

• Subtle Manipulator: 12 plays the long game. He’s patient, using his intelligence and foresight to orchestrate events that lead you to depend on him entirely. You might not even realize you’re being manipulated until it’s too late.

Yandere Behaviors of 12

1. Surveillance:

• 12 uses the TARDIS to monitor you constantly. He can track your location, read your vitals, and even eavesdrop on your conversations. He justifies this as ensuring your safety, though it’s more about satisfying his need to control your life.

• If you ever catch him spying on you, he’ll brush it off with a dismissive comment like, “I was just checking in. Can’t be too careful with you humans, can I?”

2. Isolating You:

• He subtly distances you from others by sowing doubt about their intentions. “Do you really trust them? Humans are so…fickle. They’ll abandon you the moment it gets hard.”

• 12 doesn’t outright forbid you from seeing people but manipulates circumstances to ensure they drift away naturally. Friends stop calling, or opportunities to meet others mysteriously fall through.

3. Gaslighting:

• If you question his actions or intentions, 12 gaslights you into thinking you’re being unreasonable. “Paranoid? Me? You’re the one who’s so eager to trust strangers. I’m just…being practical.”

• He’s a master at twisting conversations, making you doubt your own instincts and rely on his judgment instead.

4. Sabotaging Your Independence:

• Anytime you try to do something on your own—like finding a job or living apart—12 subtly sabotages it. He might manipulate time to erase opportunities or create minor crises that force you to stay with him.

• “Why struggle with these mundane human things when you have me? The TARDIS can take us anywhere. Leave that nonsense behind.”

5. Removing Threats:

• While 12 usually prefers manipulation, he won’t hesitate to remove perceived threats to your relationship. If someone becomes too close, they might conveniently disappear, or he might leave them stranded in a safe but unreachable time period.

The Tenth Doctor (10): The Emotional Devotee Yandere

10 is the passionate, obsessive, and emotionally unstable type. His love for you consumes him, and he’s willing to go to extreme lengths to ensure you stay with him, often driven by fear of abandonment.

What Type of Yandere is 10?

• Desperate Lover: 10’s obsession with you is all-encompassing. You become the center of his universe, the one thing anchoring him in an otherwise chaotic existence.

• Jealous Romantic: His jealousy is fiery and often leads to dramatic displays of emotion. He’s possessive in a way that’s hard to ignore, constantly seeking validation and reassurance.

• Impulsive Protector: While he means well, his impulsiveness leads to reckless decisions that can spiral out of control, all in the name of keeping you safe.

Yandere Behaviors of 10

1. Emotional Manipulation:

• 10 weaponizes his emotions to keep you close. If he senses you pulling away, he’ll break down in front of you, pleading for you to stay. “You don’t understand—losing you would destroy me. Please, don’t go.”

• He uses guilt to bind you to him, reminding you of all he’s done for you and how much he’s sacrificed. “I’ve given up everything for you. Isn’t that enough?”

2. Clinging to Your Presence:

• 10 craves constant interaction with you, always needing to be near you or have your attention. If you try to take time for yourself, he’ll find ways to insert himself into your plans, either by tagging along or creating emergencies that require his presence.

• He calls your name often, just to hear the sound of it, and peppers you with endless questions about your thoughts and feelings, needing to feel connected to you at all times.

3. Dramatic Displays of Love:

• 10 expresses his obsession through over-the-top romantic gestures. He’ll take you to the most breathtaking places in the universe, naming stars after you or writing your name in constellations.

• He’s prone to making dramatic, heartfelt speeches about how much you mean to him, often in the middle of chaotic situations. “You are my everything. My reason to keep going. Don’t you see that?”

4. Intense Jealousy:

• 10’s jealousy is explosive. If anyone shows interest in you, he confronts them directly, masking his anger with humor that barely hides the venom underneath. “Oh, really? You think you’re good enough for them? That’s adorable.”

• He’s quick to remind you of how unique your bond is, emphasizing that no one else could ever love you the way he does.

5. Altering Timelines:

• 10’s love for you leads him to take dangerous risks with time itself. If something threatens your happiness or safety, he’ll alter events to ensure a better outcome, even if it risks catastrophic consequences.

• He’s not above erasing people or events from existence if he believes they’re interfering with your relationship. “It was for the best. You wouldn’t have been happy otherwise.”

When They’re Both Yanderes for You

If both 12 and 10 are yanderes for you simultaneously, their rivalry becomes a constant source of tension. Here’s how they interact and behave in this scenario:

1. Constant Competition:

• 10’s dramatic, emotional gestures clash with 12’s cold, calculated actions. While 10 showers you with attention and affection, 12 undermines him with biting remarks. “He’s just trying to impress you. It’s pathetic, really.”

2. Manipulation vs. Emotion:

• 12 tries to manipulate you into seeing 10 as reckless and dangerous, while 10 appeals to your emotions, painting 12 as unfeeling and controlling. They both pull you in opposite directions, leaving you torn between their affections.

3. Collaborative Threat Removal:

• Despite their rivalry, they might unite temporarily to eliminate mutual threats. However, their methods clash—12 prefers quiet, efficient solutions, while 10 acts impulsively, often making things messier than necessary.

4. Tension Over Time Travel:

• Both Doctors try to use time travel to gain your favor, taking you on competing adventures to prove who knows you best. This often leads to arguments and passive-aggressive one-upmanship.

5. Ultimate Showdown:

• If forced to choose between them, their yandere tendencies would escalate. 10 would beg, cry, and plead for you to pick him, while 12 would issue a quiet ultimatum, making it clear that walking away from him isn’t an option.

Conclusion

The Twelfth and Tenth Doctors exhibit vastly different yandere behaviors, but both are equally intense in their devotion. 12’s obsession is cold and calculated, focused on control and manipulation, while 10’s is fiery and emotional, driven by desperation and passion. Together, their obsession creates a volatile, dangerous dynamic that would leave you trapped between two powerful, time-traveling forces of nature, each determined to make you theirs—forever.

[genshingorlsrevengeance]

How would any of the T-dolls react to their s/o easily picking them up or physically overpowering them with no effort or strain whatsoever

(GFL) AK-15, RPK-16, SPAS-12, G11, HK416, and RO635's S/O picking them up

Admittedly it is possible with some of the lighter T-Dolls like AN-94, but imagine trying to lift someone like SPAS.

15's eyes only slightly widen in surprise when S/O manages to pick her up and carry them, bridal style.

She turns her gaze to S/O with a relatively deadpan voice.

(AK-15) "What is the purpose of doing this, S/O?"

(S/O) "Well, I want to show you that I can carry you too!"

(AK-15) "It is impressive, but unnecessary."

(S/O) "It absolutely is! How else could I prove the strength of love?"

(AK-15) "..."

(S/O) "...T-That was a joke-"

15 gently pushes S/O off as she gets on her own two feet.

(AK-15) "Now that I know your strength, S/O, you should join me for training sometime this week."

15 found their strength neat, but it didn't really fluster her as much as S/O hoped it would.

16 lets a quiet "oh" escape her lips as S/O picks her up without issue.

(RPK-16) "Oh, you're far stronger than I thought."

(S/O) "Come on, I gotta do something to impress you!"

(RPK-16) "Well, you certainly did that...Interesting place for your hands too."

(S/O) "W-Well, I'm just lifting you, not groping you!"

(RPK-16) "Hm, is that right?"

Even though she was in their arms, S/O was starting to blush making her laugh.

16 at least knows someone can carry her to the repair bay. And bed. And anywhere, really.

She is half tempted to ask S/O just to carry her everywhere.

SPAS is completely shocked when her feet leave the ground.

(SPAS-12) "GUH?!"

(S/O) "Gotcha!"

SPAS blushes madly when she realizes S/O is able to lift her, and they didn't seem to struggle either.

(SPAS-12) "S-S/O?! The heck are you doing?!"

(S/O) "Can I not pick up my beautiful girlfriend?"

Blushing at the name, she ignored the teasing and asked her main question.

(SPAS-12) "Just how strong are you, and why did you never tell me you could do this!? You could've helped me bring my equipment back a while ago!"

SPAS begins to pout, from both their strength, and the fact they never offered once to help carry all her snacks and gear.

G11 just lets out a quiet but cute "waaaah" as she is lifted into S/O's back.

Her arms wrap around their neck softly as she yawns.

(G11) "Hm...comfy."

(S/O) "Wow, your equipment is a lot lighter than I thought it'd be!"

(G11) "...You're not going to take me to do work, are you?"

(S/O) "I was just wanting to show you how strong I was, really."

S/O already knew G11 was closing her eyes as her head rested on their shoulder.

(G11) "Take me to bed and put the blankets over me..."

Now she latches onto S/O's back solely to go to sleep, much to S/O's annoyance.

HK416 screams many German curses as the floor suddenly leaves her feet, seeing S/O carry them.

(HK416) "What the hell are you doing to me?!"

(S/O) "Surprise! Just wanted to pick you up.~"

She has half a mind just to punch them in the face.

Instead, she frowns before getting on the floor herself and crossing her arms.

(HK416) "Don't just pick me up without warning, jackass! That's just begging to get hit!"

(S/O) "Did you not like it?"

(HK416) "No, I didn't!"

The blush on her cheeks tells S/O otherwise.

Now, HK would do the same to them, similarly without issue.

(HK416) "Not so fun when it happens to you, is it?"

(S/O) "Actually, your arms feel kinda nice..."

(HK416) "Tch, whatever..."

RO yelps as S/O suddenly picks her up, making her stammer.

(RO635) "W-What in the world are you doing, S/O?!"

S/O flashed her a cheeky grin before kissing her on the cheek.

(S/O) "Seeing your reaction."

(RO635) "N-NOT IN FRONT OF THE OTHERS!"

Her hands are close to her chest and fidgeting wildly as she feels the gaze of her squad on them.

(S/O) "Sorry, couldn't resist!"

RO is pouting the entire time when they finally put her down.

She doesn't even think about the implications of a human being able to completely carry her due to being flustered.

(RO635) "Please do not do that to me without warning..."

(S/O) "So I can do it as long as I tell you?"

(RO635) "No, that is not what-"

(S/O) "Picking you up!"

(RO635) "S/O! I am -UWAH?!"

[stoplookingup]

Umbrella Academy S4 reaction (spoilers)

I'm a little surprised how negative the reaction to S4 has been. It's flawed and a bit too loose, sure, but I think there's a thematic arc, to do with the painful but redemptive potential of selfless love, that a lot of people didn't recognize, or didn't like, possibly because it's too sentimental, or too tragic, or both.

In particular, I have a really different take on That Relationship. You know the one I mean.

But before I get to that, I just want to address the issue of unexplained plot points, of which there are certainly many.

Short version: Just let it go.

Long version: Comic-book storytelling is all about the impossible premise, the unlikely twist, the overblown threat, the arbitrary race against the clock, the catastrophic non-ending. A big part of TUA's appeal is that it takes that formula to an absurd extreme, unwinding a plot so convoluted and horrifying as to be comedic, then offering a resolution that raises more questions than it answers, and that seems final -- but is it ever? There could always be more. Even now. Because reasons.

But scratch the surface, and it's really all about the over-the-top super(anti)heroes who are surprisingly endearing, nuanced and tragic, whom the audience roots for despite a million reasons not to. Would S4 have benefitted from a few more episodes? No doubt, mostly to give each character their due (Klaus, my Klaus, you deserve more!), and to let the story breathe a bit. The plot probably wouldn't have made any more sense anyway. But c'mon, did it ever, really? So, why a subway? Why a squid? Why a diner? Does it really matter?

On to That Relationship, the much-criticized story of Lila/Five (aka Live -- can I copyright this?). This comically trope-laden ship (forbidden love, montage love, love triangle, enemies-to-lovers, pocket universe, happily-ever-after, etc) fits right into TUA sensibility. Despite being a bit underbaked, it's moving. The actors play it well, and in dropping their characters' armor, you realize how much armor they're usually wearing, how hard they're always working to cover their feelings. Out of all the characters, seeing these two having real emotions is most devastating, especially with each other. It's because this pairing is wildly unlikely that it hits.

Lila and Five have similar histories as traumatized, sensitive souls turned cold, cruel killing machines. They're smarter, more cynical, and stronger-willed than everyone around them. And they are clearly starved of love and desperate for connection. (Everyone on this show pays a price, but I find Five's terrible loneliness the most heartbreaking of all.) So then fate throws them together in a way that makes it inevitable they'll form an attachment, only to then demand of them the ultimate sacrifice. Their surprisingly quiet, life-affirming, Guinevere-and-Lancelot love is redemptive, in contrast with the meddling, selfish, and/or destructive love of others: Reginald and Abigail, Ben and Jennifer, Gene and Jean. Live aren't an unnecessary digression, they're central to the thematic development of the story. Sacrifice saves the world, but without love, there is no sacrifice.

And yes, I absolutely think Lila loves Five to the end. And while I appreciate that some might find the age difference between the actors off-putting, I don't think there was anything inappropriate on a Doylist level, and it all makes perfect sense on a Watsonian level.

Also:

Aidan Gallagher and Ritu Arya are extraordinary;

the use of Baby Shark is genius;

Diego, Luther and Allison have been the least interesting characters from the start, and S4 does nothing to change that;

Viktor needs a sense of humor;

I love that alternate universes are all the rage these days (so many great tropes started with Trek), but tbh Loki does it better;

as visual representations of the space between realities, I love both the Loki automat and the UA subway, but at some point, using recent-past retro design to signal liminal space is going to get old, which, come to think of it, will be deliciously ironic.

[hanasnx]

Hello! May I please request a smutty Han Solo x fem!Reader with prompt #11 and/or prompt #42 (I loooove daddy dom Han)?

prompt: #11 + #42

MINORS DNI 18+

prompt list | rules WC: 0.9k | CHARACTERS: han solo x f!reader WARNINGS: sexual content | implied smut | dom!han | kinks: size, daddy | arguing

"Are you serious?" the incredulous tone of HAN SOLO follows you as you march away from him. "Where do you think that little ass is goin'? We aren't done talkin', sweetheart." his condescension is unnecessary, but it conveys his exasperation. The thunder of his boots catch up to you, and a large hand reaches out, latching onto the back of your belt at your tailbone. Effortlessly, he arrests you, directing your body to a sunken doorway in this hall. The attendants of this base pass you by to perform their duties, and he points a finger in your face. "What's the attitude for, huh?" His finger turns on him, gesturing to his chest with a raise of his brows, "Did I do somethin'?"

"Typical!" you huff, throwing your arms into the air in an annoyed and defeated motion. You're tired of this, you don't want to explain things to him, you just want him to figure it out. He's supposed to be smart, isn't he? When you go to retreat, he palms your upper arm, drawing you right back where he wants you.

You regain your footing after your stumble, and he straightens, crossing his arms. "I ain't gonna chase you anymore, sister. Get it out now while you've got my ears."

When you reluctantly concede, and check each ways of the passage, you conclude you can't talk here. The door next to you gives you an idea, and with all your suspicious looking around Han gives you a questioning expression, pivoting his head to eye you from the side with a brow furrow and parted lips. You slam your hand against the door controls, sliding it open, and dragging him inside by his wrist. Once you're sealed in the safety of this small storage room, you round on him.

"You've ignored me every since we got to this stupid base, and as soon as you realize I'm mad at you— suddenly—" You gesture wildly. "you're interested! Then—"

"There's more?"

You scoff indignantly. "Yes, Han! There's more!"

He nods, cutting you off. "Oh, I get it. Okay—" It earns him a deep frown from you.

"—What? What do you get—?" you taunt, and he persists.

A shrug, a stupid pinch of his shoulder to his neck as he raises his voice to match yours, "I've been 'neglecting' you, right? That's what this is about? You're acting out like you need a good fuck!"

"Han!" you scold.

"Well, that's what you're tellin' me!" When he drops his arms and advances on you in a leisure lumber, you back up out of instinct.

"Don't you dare think you can touch me right now." you warn, but as usual Han sees right through an empty threat, your back against the shelving.

“C'mon. Be a good girl for daddy.” he condescends, "I'm giving you what you want. You'll feel better after, right? After daddy does his thing? Give it here." The annoyance is apparent in his responses. Once you're trapped against the shelving, he stoops. He towers over you, and in order to reach the space between your legs, he tips his body to the side. Defiantly, you twist your hips, jerking away from his hand. You don't like his attitude, or that he thinks he can just do whatever he wants, or how he makes fun of you, using your kink against you. "You gonna fight me for it? Sweets, we both know you can't hold out long. So jus' lemme get you off and we can put this whole thing behind us."

Something about an argument puts you over the edge with him. You've never conversed with anyone so frustrating, someone that brought this side out in you. You hate the way he solves problems, and you hate how sometimes when he solves these types of problems by getting you off that it's successful. Embarrassingly so. There's a part of you that wants to put him to work, but that won't fix everything. He has a shitty way of apologizing.

"Like I'd let you walk all over me and then act like it's all good after! Again!" you seethe through gritted teeth. You meet his gaze at eye-level with you, jutting your chin when you press your lips into a line.

"Why?" he plays dumb, but there's a knowing hint of a smile on his crooked mouth. "You're good at it."

Clearly, he'll need a different approach. With a cautious glance behind his shoulder at the door, he confirms it's not locked, which adds to his thrill. He sighs, adjusting his pants to accommodate his knees when he gets on them.

"At least let me check somethin'."

A sick sense of pride blooms in your chest at the sight of Han kneeling in front of you. He doesn't do it often, but you know where this is going. So you begrudgingly offer your hips to him.

"There, see?" he praises, thick fingers hooking in your bottoms to undo and tug them down. "Was that so hard? Let me do this right." Like a man would, he sucks on the tips of two of his fingers, cleaning them off before he wedges them between your thighs, swiping at your folds. You're slick. "That's what daddy thought. He's always right."

You shift forward, warning him wordlessly about his poor choice of words. The side of his nose scrunches charmingly in his amusement, his crooked grin spreading onto his handsome features. You denied yourself the possibility of smacking it right off. Still tentative, you won't widen your stance, and so he peels your pants further down to give you room to.

“Spread your legs for daddy, I want to see you.”