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#desire
neocrush8 minutes ago
I really looooveee your stories 馃槶馃槶 if its even possible i would love to be in all of your enhypen taglist. you write so well that I wanted to read more from you. anyways umm can i be added to desire taglist 馃ズ
hi thank you so much 馃ズ馃ズ and sure i鈥檒l add u to those !! and thank you so so much again AHHHH
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fox-carousel22 minutes ago
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My brain is yelling at me to become Catra
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pantymime27 minutes ago
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Evan Slack by Richard Kranzin for Desire Homme
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azurewildfire50 minutes ago
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@heterochromatica said: 鈥楳om鈥 + "Do you think we can stop him?" sorry, please take the angst XD
What is she supposed to say?
That even though he walks among them again, Touya is still dead? That when she looks at the face of that villain, she doesn't see her son but his corpse, grinning wildly or stone-faced, and part of her screams against her better self that tells her he's there, so deep and locked down in there and crying out for his family?
For the parents who turned their back to him?
Stopping and bringing him back diverge in her mind, now, torn apart by her youngest's question. Would stopping him be killing him and atoning for their sins by taking care of the monster they cause? Or would their redemption be through reaching out to him and finding the hurting boy they cast their eyes from, fixing themselves through fixing him? Her lips quirk into a small smile. Stopping Dabi wouldn't be horribly hard. But saving him- saving whatever fragmented self there was of Touya left in there- that would be much, much harder.
For the first time in a long time, Rei lies.
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"Of course we can. Maybe you can even bring Touya back to us, Shouto. You're a fine hero- you're capable of so much. I'll do my best to support you- whether you stop Dabi, or save Touya."
Moms Answering Questions- Currently accepting
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alexmidnightsan hour ago
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Elevator @ Midnightdreams
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fashion-bootsan hour ago
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Larissa Bruin wearing an Asos dress and Public Desire boots
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languagebraindumpan hour ago
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锝炪仺銇勩亜
Wishing, hoping for something good to happen
To wish good will onto someone else you use
the verb in its short form plus 銇ㄣ亜銇勩仹銇欍
So for example銆銇勩亜銇椼仈銇ㄣ亴銇裤仱銇嬨倠銇ㄣ亜銇勩仹銇欍伃 = I hope you find a good job.
銇ㄣ亜銇勩仹銇 (formal) 锛嶏紴銇ㄣ亜銇 (casual) usually with 銇锛嶏紴 銇ㄣ亜銇勩伃
When hoping for something good to happen to you,
you use 銇ㄣ亜銇勩倱銇с仚銇屻 銇勩亜銇椼仈銇ㄣ亴銇裤仱銇嬨倠銇ㄣ亜銇勩伄銇с仚銇屻- I hope I find a good job.
锝炪亜銇勩伄銇с仚銇屻is standard/polite form. 锝炪亜銇勩倱銇с仚銇屻is standard/informal form. Both are neutral and can be used by both men and women.
锝炪伨銇欍倛銇嗐伀
It is usually placed at the end of a sentence. It also expresses desire/hope/wish.
銇俱仚= polite verb form
The main difference is whether you want it to sound like a wish/prayer/humble request 锝炪伨銇欍倛銇嗐伀 (May all my dreams come true!_
or like a simple hope/desire for an outcome 锝炪仺銇勩亜 (I hope/it鈥檇 be nice if鈥)
閫€亪銈 also 浼氥亪銈 (to meet, to see)
I hope/ It鈥檇 be nice if you can see/ meet him soon!
It鈥檚 said by someone else; not the speaker. An old lady is hoping for this to happen.
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languagestudymaterialsan hour ago
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锝炪仺銇勩亜
Wishing, hoping for something good to happen
To wish good will onto someone else you use
the verb in its short form plus 銇ㄣ亜銇勩仹銇欍
So for example銆銇勩亜銇椼仈銇ㄣ亴銇裤仱銇嬨倠銇ㄣ亜銇勩仹銇欍伃 = I hope you find a good job.
銇ㄣ亜銇勩仹銇 (formal) 锛嶏紴銇ㄣ亜銇 (casual) usually with 銇锛嶏紴 銇ㄣ亜銇勩伃
When hoping for something good to happen to you,
you use 銇ㄣ亜銇勩倱銇с仚銇屻 銇勩亜銇椼仈銇ㄣ亴銇裤仱銇嬨倠銇ㄣ亜銇勩伄銇с仚銇屻- I hope I find a good job.
锝炪亜銇勩伄銇с仚銇屻is standard/polite form. 锝炪亜銇勩倱銇с仚銇屻is standard/informal form. Both are neutral and can be used by both men and women.
锝炪伨銇欍倛銇嗐伀
It is usually placed at the end of a sentence. It also expresses desire/hope/wish.
銇俱仚= polite verb form
The main difference is whether you want it to sound like a wish/prayer/humble request 锝炪伨銇欍倛銇嗐伀 (May all my dreams come true!_
or like a simple hope/desire for an outcome 锝炪仺銇勩亜 (I hope/it鈥檇 be nice if鈥)
閫€亪銈 also 浼氥亪銈 (to meet, to see)
I hope/ It鈥檇 be nice if you can see/ meet him soon!
It鈥檚 said by someone else; not the speaker. An old lady is hoping for this to happen.
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crystxlclearan hour ago
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sudden desire
chapter eleven: it鈥檚 just a spark, but it鈥檚 enough
part twelve of sudden desire
masterlist
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word count: 1.5k
warnings: mentions of pregnancy, mentions of illness, vague references to sex, not really much else honestly?
pairing: marcus pike x original female character (coraline meyer)
author鈥檚 note: 馃槑
Robert Meyer's diagnosis isn't as bad as they'd first thought. There's still nothing that they can do - save for some new medication and a hundred different doctor's appointments - but, at the very least, he'd be out of hospital soon and back to his usual self in a few days.
Coraline has been on edge the entire week; she can feel the worry tugging at her heart at every waking hour, even when she thinks she's distracted herself just long enough to think about something else for a little while. She knows full-well that distractions aren't the healthiest way to cope - Marcus has tried to speak to her about it, but she usually tries her best to avoid the subject, asking about his day, instead, and what film he wants to watch that night - but she's sure that, if she thinks about it for too long, she won't be able to stop. And the darkness will creep in, again.
They'd visited her father every single day since he'd been admitted. Sitting by his bedside, talking about nothing and everything, but avoiding the heaviest of subjects that lingers in the air between them. He'd told her, once, that he approved. Didn't entirely agree, but at least approved. She's sure she almost cried, and she looked utterly ridiculous in the way her mouth twisted and pursed as she bit back the tears.
The relief she'd felt when he'd told her that was wonderful.
Since then, her and Marcus have been trying again.
It all seems lighter, now. There's no unspoken tension or hesitation between them, tension and hesitation they hadn't even noticed between them before her parent's visit. Now, his hands on her hips, the gentle brush of his thumbs over her skin, and his lips against hers, they feel familiar and intentional. And, somehow, normal, now. In ways it hadn't felt before.
Each brush of his lips against her neck feels like that of a lover, not a friend.
But they're just that. Just friends.
Waking in each other's arms brings so much comfort that they seem to forget every single sadness that plagues them when they move.
They keep each other - and their feelings - at arms length. No one has to know.
If, Marcus supposes, Coraline even feels anything at all.
They sink into a routine, again. Something more comfortable.
Coraline goes to work early, sits in a makeup chair, and films her scenes each day. Marcus goes to work at the same time, sits at his desk and follows each and every lead with meticulous precision. They both do what they do best. Then, they visit Coraline's father - Marcus' hands there to comfort her, if she needs him - and then they eat their takeout, watch a movie, laugh and joke and grin. They spend the night together. As friends. Some might say it's a rut, a boring and mindless routine that never differs. But, if it means they get to see each other, they just don't care. Their pattern has barely deviated for weeks but she wouldn't have it any other way.
Marcus knows there's danger in it all, in doing what they're doing when he's already admitted to himself how he feels about her. But there's nothing there for him, not like that; he'd do this for her, if that's what she wants. No ulterior motives, just her happiness. He'd do it for her if it meant giving her everything.
That morning, the sun seems bright and dazzling. It cuts through the gap in her drawn curtains, the gentle light golden behind the soft, gauzy material. It bathes her in a pool of sunlight. If he didn't know any better, he'd swear that she is the sun.
Marcus pulls himself from Coraline's sheets that morning with so much reluctance weighing down his limbs that it feels as if he's underwater. She's tucked up between the bed sheets, looking so content and as comfortable as ever. He does nothing but kiss her temple before he finally pulls himself from the tangle of wonder and sunshine. She sighs and stretches her arm out a little, fingers splaying over the absent space where he'd once laid, and buries her head into the soft pillow but doesn't wake. She's been exhausted lately, and who is he to deprive her of rest?
...
She only wakes ten minutes before he has to leave. There's coffee still warm in the pot and she accepts it gratefully when he offers, in her favourite mug, of course. She's taken to drinking less just in case, worried of the horror stories of caffeine and pregnancy. Her smile is bright, as always, but there's something about the way her eyes sparkle that seems different. She watches him with soft green eyes after she fills her coffee with creamer and that ridiculous syrup she insists on buying every time she goes grocery shopping.
She's a vision in his t-shirt, too big for her and hanging from her shoulders, and he doesn't ever want a morning without her there, watching him like he's her favourite movie.
(It's Melancholia. She has at least three different copies, and one sits beside her television set at all times.)
The notion of ever leaving her makes his heart ache. He's no good at goodbyes.
"What time will you be home tonight?"
By home, she means her apartment. Not his.
She avoids his gaze while she asks. He thinks he sees her blush, cheeks flushing a gentle pink, but she ducks her head away too quickly for him to see.
"Usual time, why?" There's a granola bar half hanging out of his mouth as he ties his tie.
She shakes her head and waves a hand of dismissal, especially at the slightly concerned and confused furrow of his brow. "No reason, don't worry about it," she insists and sends him on his way with a kiss on his cheek and a brilliant smile.
...
The weight of anticipation always weighs too heavy on her chest. Good or bad, it lingers, and it's as if it's choking the life out of her. She's glad she doesn't have to work today, glad that no one gets to see the extent of her restlessness, and surely her inability to concentrate on anything but the face her mind is racing at a mile a minute, with no signs of slowing down. Or, at least, no one but the delivery guy who'd told her to enjoy her food, when she'd fired a 'you too' right back at him.
She's practically gripping the edge of the countertop when Marcus returns from work. It probably looks like she hasn't moved, still sat there upon the same barstool as she sat upon that morning. She only lacks his shirt, switching it for her own jeans and a sweater, and the mug of coffee she was still drinking when he left. She taps her nails against the wood as she hears the familiar sound of the lock turning and his key dropping into the bowl by the front door. Coraline hears Marcus groan low in his throat as he rolls his shoulders and sigh when he hangs up his jacket.
He calls out her name when he can't see her sitting on the couch and she pops her head up to etch the most convincing smile she can muster upon her face. "Hi."
Marcus is still rubbing his thumb over the back of his neck, lolling his head from side to side to lessen the pressure and tension that has built up in his muscles. "You won't believe the day I've had." The tension is even palpable in his voice. "That big lead we had? False tip," he grumbles as he tugs on the knot of his tie to loosen it. She rarely sees him even slightly upset or angry, not at anything. And he loves his job more than he lets on; it's there in his face when he talks about each case he's working on. "So, we're back to nothing." Marcus sighs and moves to stand next to Coraline.
He smiles at her, but it drops almost immediately. "What's wrong?" She blinks up at him with wide eyes. "Cora-" His voice is low and he takes her face in his hands. She can't look away when he does that, not that she would ever want to.
"I'm pregnant." When she speaks, it feels like she's in space. The words that leave her lips don't seem like her own. They seem false, almost, but in the most perfect of ways. Like it can't possibly be her reality.
"You- you- what?" His eyes are as wide as saucers. His mouth falls open and then closes again, falls open, then closes again. "Seriously?" His words come out in a breath. "You're-"
"Seriously." She thinks she's grinning, but the world seems nothing but a clouded haze that seems like a dream. She feels like she's in a dream, a world that isn't real.
"We're gonna have a baby?" Marcus' voice is quiet. It's as if he's telling her a secret, something for just their ears to hear. Perhaps it is, for now.
"Yes- yes-" Coraline is breathless. we're going to have a baby."
"Oh my God- oh my god- Cora!"
He kisses her. It's brief and gentle. He kisses her again. A little more insistent, this time.
"A little bit of good in this darkness, huh?"
"Finally."
taglist: @wheresthewater @its--fandom--darling @alberta-sunrise @sara-alonso @madslorian @freeshavocadoooo @giselatropicana
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ajokeformur-ray3 hours ago
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I experience a full-bodied shiver of revulsion聽whenever I get told I have an innate mother in me or a maternal instinct etc. just because I鈥檓 a woman. It makes me feel so sick and I completely聽rejected any kind of idea of motherhood when I was so young. I was eight years old when I decided this and never once聽have I ever even needed聽to reconsider it.聽
I鈥檝e known who I am for a very long time and over the years people have (thankfully) given up telling me that I鈥檒l change my mind - at this stage, that鈥檚 incredibly聽unlikely and I鈥檓 so proud of myself for sticking to my guns. I have no聽desire at all to聽resemble聽a mother in even the vaguest of senses and I have future plans to get sterilised, too.
I鈥檓 going to be the aunt which any kids my mother鈥檚 other children have see maybe twice a year and they will barely know me. If ever they come to me for advice it is not聽going to be motherly, it is going to be simply that... advice. I鈥檒l just be that estranged family member who they only see when it鈥檚 an important event and that will be by design. I won鈥檛 have any interest in getting involved and my mother鈥檚 other children are already aware of this.
I know who I am and it isn鈥檛 my fault if others don鈥檛, particularly because in real life I have always聽been very聽vocal when this topic has come up in family conversations.聽
(Edit: I feel the need to clarify that I am not聽anti-motherhood overall. I truly appreciate and admire anyone who can be a mother or any kind of parent/al figure. I just know that I could never do it and I would never want聽to do it, either, so in this way I am anti-motherhood for myself.)
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The term unconscious refers to the subject鈥檚 origin in the Other, to the fact that the subject is born in relation to language and cultural norms. Psychoanalysis is founded on the idea of the unconscious.
The term unconscious refers to the subject鈥檚 origin in the Other, to the fact that the subject is born in relation to language and cultural norms. Psychoanalysis is founded on the idea of the unconscious. According to Lacan鈥檚 groundbreaking idea, Freud鈥檚 term unconscious was something entirely else than the notion used by thinkers that preceded Freud. Instead of understanding Freud鈥檚 unconscious as a psychological category, Lacan de-psychologises the unconscious. It does not merely relate to childhood memories and individual histories, but works between people. The unconscious refers to the discourse of the Other in oneself, to desires and fantasies that the ego is not conscious of and that are inherited from the parents, the social environment and cultural values. In Lacan鈥檚 thought the unconscious is understood as linguistic and historical. The unconscious is an organised system of letters, a formal system that enables certain relations and obstructs others. The subject is split into conscious ego and unconscious order that breaks the coherent meanings of the ego.
Jaana Pirskanen. The Other and the Real. Journal of Society of Queer Studies. 2008.
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changelingirl4 hours ago
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so my friend finished his ambition.
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champagnecall4 hours ago
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鈥淢other鈥檚 Day, huh...?鈥
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One look at the calendar was enough to confirm that, though he didn鈥檛 even need to check the date for that unsettled feeling in his stomach to return.聽
When was the last time he had seen this mother...? Eighteen?
When was the last time he had spoken to his mother...? Sixteen? Seventeen?
Some son he turned out to be.
Memories of waking up early to stand on a stool in the kitchen beside his sister, the smell of eggs, pancakes - whatever they decided to make that year - was all to present in his mind. Old photographs, tearing and browning at the edges. He didn鈥檛 have the full thing anymore - but he had pieces.
Pieces, that she was never able to take away from him, while the rest of his memories went up in smoke from what she had done to him. It was Honobono鈥檚 fault, that he couldn鈥檛 remember.聽
It was his fault, that he let her too close.
He wanted to remember though, so he tried. The crayon-drawn card he had made for his mother in elementary school. The breakfasts he helped his sister make, every year since he had been allowed to help in the kitchen. The last Mother鈥檚 day he was able to spend with his mom, before everything fell apart, a bouquet of flowers - tulips, carnations, orchids - purchased from a nearby shop with his own money after school.
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鈥...well, I hope it鈥檚 another good one for her.鈥
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