#as in you need to be able to have the same compassion you have for man for these supernatural folk and creatures

[monstrosibee]

The way ppl online use the phrase compassion fatigue drives me nuts. You are not in a direct caregiving role for people experiencing disaster, illness, injury, and death of loved ones. You are not having to experience the emotional whiplash of having to give one person terrible news that you wish desperately you can change but are helpless to, then going on to the next person who may be excited and happy and expecting you to also be excited for them when you just had to be a fellow mourner for someone else. 6ou are not terrified of not being strong enough to in part carry the emotional burden of every person you couldnt help in your chest like a lead weight without letting your shoulders slump because there ARE people who still need your help and you can maybe do something for. You are a social media user online whose stream of memes got interrupted by requests for help whether it be Gaza, the Appalachian community affected by storms, or even day to day individual life disasters and that made u mad.

[sskk-manifesto]

!!!!!!!!! !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

[genderkoolaid]

as someone with ARFID i really couldn't care less about the distinction between "picky eaters" and "genuine eating issues." if you are an asshole to someone you see as "just picky" i will never, ever trust you. i've lived through the trauma of being shamed and humiliated for my eating needs.

frankly i think a LOT of "picky eaters" have some kind of sensory problems– autistic or allistic– and shame is never useful. i don't fucking care how annoying you think we are. if you've never lived through the humiliation of being the only one not eating at a dinner table, or having to choke down something disgusting you already know you hate because other people insist you don't know your own body, or getting a hunger migraine in a house full of food because none of its edible to you? you don't understand how awful it is to have food issues.

whenever i see people draw this distinction between being "just a picky eater" and "having a real problem" all i think is, who does this serve? most people don't even know ARFID exists. there are so many undiagnosed autistics, or just people with a variety of issues that aren't officially diagnosed. why do we need a medical label in order to be treated with respect and compassion? why did i need to be diagnosed as autistic for my family to realize the abuse they put me through for years because of my eating habits?

it's such an easy habit for neglected groups to fall into– the idea that a medical diagnosis can save us. that by appealing to the medical/psychiatric industry, we can be protected from abuse and given basic respect and resources. but the truth is that it should never have come to this in the first place. dignity doesn't come from an abled doctor telling you that there's a medical reason for your symptoms. it comes from being a person. once you accept that you need a Good Reason to have your needs respected, you doom yourself to neglecting and abusing those who have your same struggles because they aren't lucky enough to access medical recognition.

tl;dr solidarity with all "picky eaters" stop guilting people for having varying food needs, if we make you irrationally angry that's YOUR problem not ours, and abolish "children's menus" & replace them with simple-food menus for people of all ages

[chronicbitchsyndrome]

so: masking: good, unequivocally. please mask and please educate others on why they should mask to make the world safer for immune compromised people to participate in.

however: masking is not my policy focus and it shouldn't be yours, either. masking is a very good mitigation against droplet-born illnesses and a slightly less effective (but still very good) mitigation against airborne illnesses, but its place in the pyramid of mitigation demands is pretty low, for several reasons:

it's an individual mitigation, not a systemic one. the best mitigations to make public life more accessible affect everyone without distributing the majority of the effort among individuals (who may not be able to comply, may not have access to education on how to comply, or may be actively malicious).

it's a post-hoc mitigation, or to put it another way, it's a band-aid over the underlying problem. even if it was possible to enforce, universal masking still wouldn't address the underlying problem that it is dangerous for sick people and immune compromised people to be in the same public locations to begin with. this is a solvable problem! we have created the societal conditions for this problem!

here are my policy focuses:

upgraded air filtration and ventilation systems for all public buildings. appropriate ventilation should be just as bog-standard as appropriately clean running water. an indoor venue without a ventilation system capable of performing 5 complete air changes per hour should be like encountering a public restroom without any sinks or hand sanitizer stations whatsoever.

enforced paid sick leave for all employees until 3-5 days without symptoms. the vast majority of respiratory and food-borne illnesses circulate through industry sectors where employees come into work while experiencing symptoms. a taco bell worker should never be making food while experiencing strep throat symptoms, even without a strep diagnosis.

enforced virtual schooling options for sick students. the other vast majority of respiratory and food-borne illnesses circulate through schools. the proximity of so many kids and teenagers together indoors (with little to no proper ventilation and high levels of physical activity) means that if even one person comes to school sick, hundreds will be infected in the following few days. those students will most likely infect their parents as well. allowing students to complete all readings and coursework through sites like blackboard or compass while sick will cut down massively on disease transmission.

accessible testing for everyone. not just for COVID; if there's a test for any contagious illness capable of being performed outside of lab conditions, there should be a regulated option for performing that test at home (similar to COVID rapid tests). if a test can only be performed under lab conditions, there should be a government-subsidized program to provide free of charge testing to anyone who needs it, through urgent cares and pharmacies.

the last thing to note is that these things stack; upgraded ventilation systems in all public buildings mean that students and employees get sick less often to begin with, making it less burdensome for students and employees to be absent due to sickness, and making it more likely that sick individuals will choose to stay home themselves (since it's not so costly for them).

masking is great! keep masking! please use masking as a rhetorical "this is what we can do as individuals to make public life safer while we're pushing for drastic policy changes," and don't get complacent in either direction--don't assume that masking is all you need to do or an acceptable forever-solution, and equally, don't fall prey to thinking that pushing for policy change "makes up" for not masking in public. it's not a game with scores and sides; masking is a material thing you can do to help the individual people you interact with one by one, and policy changes are what's going to make the entirety of public life safer for all immune compromised people.

[esote-rika]

𝐦𝐨𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐟𝐮𝐥 𝐨𝐟 𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐞 | 𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐫 𝐫𝐞𝐢𝐝

Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!Reader Category: Smut 18+ MDNI Summary: Bringing your boyfriend to a lingerie sale causes some big problems to arise. Luckily, you’re always down to take care of him, regardless of when and where. Content: 3.3k words, established relationship, Spencer is so so so down bad, reader is a menace, lots of banter, semi-public sex, hand job, improvised gags, unprotected p in v, needy sub!Spencer, kinda switch? Idk they’re both horny for each other, size kink, reader wears lingerie and is shorter than Spencer. a/n: not proofread + am sick, pls forgive mistakes. I just needed something light and stupid after reading THG prequels and rewatching all the movies back to back so here we are. Same girlfriend reader as the last fic. Based on my darling lover’s request.

He’s not sure how he got here.

That’s a lie. He knows exactly how he got here, why he’s here, and it’s because every single atom in his body seems to become irrationally unable to say no to you. It’s pathetic, really. You don’t even have to plead anymore—though you still do, of course, pretty eyes widening just so, lower lip pushing out into a slight pout, and it makes his heart clench and his heart swell in ways that distress him. (You’re dangerous for his health, he’s sure of it, but it doesn’t even matter. If his life is cut short, he can’t think of a better way to go than being loved by you.)

Today, you hadn’t even done that. Just words spoken in a soft little whine, “My favorite store has an ongoing sale.”

How is he to deny you? The boutique isn’t too far away, and while he’d had plans to read for his day off, he can put those off for you. He can read anywhere, at any time. In pockets of vacancy at work, idle minutes during his commute. Time with you is precious, and if you want him to accompany you to a store, then that’s precisely what he’ll do.

There’s just one problem: you hadn’t really specified what kind of store.

Would he have been able to say no if you told him from the beginning that he’d be accompanying you into a lingerie store? Survey says no, probably not, but still, the heads up would have been nice. Kind, actually, because now he’s trailing behind you like a lost puppy, surrounded on all sides by flouncy, see through fabric in suggestive cuts. Lingerie. You brought him along as you went lingerie shopping.

Here’s the thing: Spencer Reid is no prude. He has studied the human body and anatomy extensively as a young boy, and has such a vivid, graphic memory of them from his time working at the BAU. But those had always been under the guise of science, where he could step back and assess things objectively. Often, the human parts are injured, devastatingly mangled. Viewing them requires compassion and intelligence, not lust. 

He has no idea what to do with the thought of bodies in this way—scantily covered by pretty patterns and thin fabric. Your body specifically. The very idea causes a shudder through him, the familiar heat. Focus, he tells himself, hands shoved deep in his pockets, balled into tight fists. His nails bite into his palm, and he welcomes the sting, focusing on that instead of the image of you in that navy silk slip… or in the pretty purple lace set… or—

“Spence?” 

“Yes?” 

“I’m gonna try these on, okay?”

A panicked look must cross his face, because you laugh, a hand reaching out to caress his cheek.

“I won’t be long, baby. None of these clothes can hurt you, and the sales people don’t bite.”

He’d feign offense if he were in a better state of mind, but he’s a little too panicked to come up with a response. You don’t understand. The very idea of you trying on lingerie is sending some very dangerous images to his brain. Images that, in turn, are causing very physical problems. Specifically in his crotch area. Still, he’s in public. He’s a grown man with working functions and impulse control. So he nods, forces a smile on his lips. 

Satisfied, you press a quick kiss to his jaw, and hurry off to the corridor on the far corner of the boutique, where a line of fitting rooms await. He watches the bundle of lingerie in your hands. He hadn’t even noticed what you were choosing, but Spencer decides that’s for the best. It’s easier to fight his imagination if he doesn’t know the details of your choices. Easier to sit on one of the lounge chairs and fiddle with his hands, gnawing on his lip anxiously, patiently, waiting for you to reemerge with a smile that tells him you’ve made your choice. 

Still, being alone while other women mill about is making him restless. He stands, wandering over to the fitting rooms, “Angel?”

“Yeah?”

He doesn’t like being impatient, he doesn’t even mind waiting for you but god he can’t get his mind to focus. “You almost done?”

“Not yet!” 

He nods, before realizing you can’t see him. “All right, I’ll be right here then.” he answers, leaning on the wall and staring at his feet so he doesn’t seem like a random creep. But then you’re calling out to him again.

“I want to show you.”

Oh, you really are bad for his health. 

“Don’t come out!” he says quickly, looking around. The store isn’t busy, but still, the idea of other people catching sight of you makes something in his chest tighten.

A giggle, and then your head pokes through the heavy curtains, “Okay, then you come in.”

Once again, he is powerless to say no. His feet move, one in front of the other, even though his mind is telling him no, this is a bad idea, turn back. Still, he finds himself in the enclosed space with you. A full length mirror greets him, and that’s where he sees you first. Swathes of artfully arranged black lace and soft mesh fabric that barely cover your body, fastened only by thin straps over your shoulders. 

So very dangerous.

“What do you think?” your eyes meet his in the mirror, deceptively, infuriatingly innocent.

“It’s-uh-pretty.”

“Just pretty?” your head cocks to the side, lips pulled into that pout and Spencer swears the room has no more oxygen. He’s about to pass out.

“Gorgeous,” he manages to say, “Stunning, radiant, angel it fits you perfectly.” his eyes drop to your chest and the words stop abruptly, though his mouth remains slack.

You twist to the side, examining your reflection. The fabric floats around your body, giving him a view of your perfect ass underneath. The panties you have on are a baby blue, not matching the sultry, inky ivory of the slip you’re wearing, and he wants to ask why don’t they match, but no words come from his open mouth.

“Spence, baby, you’re gonna catch flies.” your teasing remark wrenches him from his reverie. You whirl around to face him, half naked and mused, the loveliest creature he’s ever seen. He manages to tear his gaze away from the mirror and focus on the real thing, and how did he ever get so lucky with you?

“No flies anywhere.” he replies, hands finding your waist. His grip is shaky, but firm. Your eyes flash with mischief and he knows he’s a goner. 

“It’s just a saying.”

“I know.” he dips his head, unable to help himself. Soft lips latch onto your jaw, open and warm, “God, you’re so beautiful.”

“In this slip?” Your giggle goes straight to his groin. 

“In anything,” he pulls back, trying to reign in his desire, “In nothing.”

Your brow raises, and he lets out a soft sheepish laugh. 

“Sorry, it’s just…” he trails off, his hands rubbing your hips through the flimsy dress. Mind absolutely devoid of any thought except for how beautiful you look in this tiny piece, how it clings to your breasts and shows teasing hints of your nipples through the thin lace.

“What was that, Spence?” you murmur teasingly, stepping into his personal space. Bodies flush. The lack of distance between you, the familiar softness of your body melting into him brings his attention to the growing tightness at his crotch.

“Mhm? N-nothing.”

“Doesn’t feel like nothing.” There’s that sparkle in your eyes again, devious as you sway your hips against his carefully. The action makes his steadily swelling cock twitch with even more want. 

He has to swallow a moan, but the warning still comes out strangled, “Angel.”  Really, you’re closer to the devil right now, tempting him like this. He tightens his hold on your hips to steady you, brows furrowed as he tries to calm down. 

It’s too late though. You’re both well aware of the growing tent in his pants.

“All right,” you step back, wearing a mask of mock surrender, “Fine, no more teasing. You can go back out now, I’m gonna change again.”

“What?” 

One corner of your mouth lifts into a smirk, “I was being naughty, I’m sorry. You can go back out, I just wanted to show you this slip.”

Evil. You’re evil and dangerous and Spencer Reid is so utterly in love with you. And a little turned on by it.

“Angel, I can’t go back out there!” he whispers, tugging his tight pants. It’s no use. He’s so worked up his cock is beginning to ache in its confines. 

(Okay, so more than a little turned on.) 

Your eyes fall to his crotch, widening comically as though you’re seeing it for the first time, “Oh, would you look at that!” You step back into his space, hands coming up to cradle his jaw. He leans into your touch, welcoming your sweet mockery with his usual, eager docility. “Got worked up for me, hmm? All from seeing me in this slip?”

He nods, hands finding your hips again, holding you to him. “You knew what you were doing.” There’s absolutely no hint of accusation in his voice. You both know it’s true anyway.

“Mhm. And I can’t let you walk back out there like this, can I?” you lift yourself to your tiptoes to press a soft kiss to his cheek, “Not after you’ve been so patient with me.”

A sharp inhale as he feels your hands on his belt. What he would give to just be completely buried in you right now, to lose his mind in your tight heat, but— “We’re in public.”

“We’re in a room.”

“A fitting room.”

“Still a room.” you’ve pushed his pants just enough to free his cock. Even being out of his pants eases some of the tension, the length springing out and jutting from his body. Long and embarrassingly red. Your hands close around it, one hand at the base and stroking up and down, the other at the tip, squeezing gently, thumb running over his slit and spreading his leaking pre cum. 

He fights back a moan and promptly loses.

“Spence.” Your voice is low, but stern, “Keep quiet.”

He nods, teeth sinking into his lower lip to contain his moans. He squeezes his eyes shut, too overwhelmed by the vision of you in nothing but a flimsy slip and panties, in this well lit, public room, giving him a hand job. No, he can’t watch, he’ll bust then and there, but he knows you’re only getting started.

Your hands work up and down his length, twisting just the way he likes, all while continuing to thumb at the tip. Unable to help it, his hips buck into your hands, shamelessly fucking your palms while his cock twitches in them. 

“Look at me,” you croon, breath hot against his neck. Once again, as though his body is wired to obey your every command, his eyes fly open. He moans immediately at the sight of you, which makes you tut disapprovingly. With a shake of your head, you stop, and he can’t help but let out a whine in protest.

“Why’d you—” “You’re too loud, baby, they’ll catch us.” 

He watches with a dazed, glassy eyed confusion as you hook your fingers through the waistband of your panties and tug the lacy blue material down your legs. Crumpled between your lovely hands, it turns into a small ball of fabric which you hold up to his mouth, “Bite down on this.”

His brain seems to snap at attention. “I-I can’t, isn’t that store property?” Leave it to his mind to worry about logistics and practicality.

You chuckle, pulling his collar down for a kiss. When his lips meet yours, he wonders why he ever questioned you.

“It’s mine,” you mumble against his mouth. A nibble at his lower lip sends tremors whispering down his spine, “We’re not allowed to try on panties in this store. Something about sanitation.”

Sanitation. The very thought makes him chuckle. It seems so insignificant now, with what they’re about to do.

Still, he accepts the explanation, and allows you to slip the crumpled panties into his mouth. He bites down, tasting hints of your arousal as the fabric meets his tongue. It becomes very clear that he needs this gag, because he immediately moans at the taste.

You giggle soundlessly, the effort to keep silent making your shoulders quiver from your laughter. “You just can’t help yourself huh?” You give his cock a few more strokes, lazy and playful, before walking over to the mirror and bracing yourself against it by your elbows. The panties nearly fall from his mouth as he watches you push your hips back, the slip riding up to expose your ass and the wet, swollen folds beneath. 

Is this heaven? It must be. Just him and his angel, who’s offering herself up and watching him intently through the reflection in the mirror.

“Come on, baby, before the sales people get suspicious.” you murmur. Your eyes flash dangerously in the mirror, but he knows it’s not a mere trick of the light. You’re getting a kick out of this too, the same way he is. 

With a choked sound, muffled by the lace, Spencer steps up behind you. Cock in hand, he lets the blunt tip glide across your soaked folds, letting your arousal mingle with his precum and coat his length. Normally, he’d use his fingers first, coax your walls into a more relaxed state, but you’re right. There’s no time for that. Someone could check up on the two of you any time. The thought makes his cock twitch, and he finally eases into your entrance, slowly pushing into the familiar warmth of your pussy.

He sees your mouth fall open from the stretch. It never gets old, this initial penetration, the way your body always seems to yield to the sheer size of him, no matter how long it has been. He knows he’s moving on borrowed time, only moments to bring you ecstasy, but still he allows himself to savor this first entrance, the tight grip of your pussy around his cock. 

And then he moves, rocking his hips back and forth, watching the mirror for your reactions, trying to make sure he’s not hurting you. But the mirror only reflects pleasure on both your faces. Your face lax, a vision of bleary eyed bliss. His own brows are furrowed with concentration as he shifts his hips, trying to hit the spot from this new angle, one where you’re upright, but bent slightly and anchored by your arms against a wall. 

One of his hands grip your thigh, lifting it up so that your knee is braced on the mirror as well, opening you up to him a little more. His cock sinks another inch deeper, teeth biting down on the panties as he feels you clench.

“Fuck!” you groan, and he knows he’s found the spot. He moves both hands on your waist, holding you steady, marveling at the way he towers over you in this position. A sense of power fills him, warm and glowing from the trust you’ve put upon him. His thrusts grow firmer, steadier, as he feels your tight pussy fluttering and clenching around him. Spencer has to fight the urge to bury his entire length in you; you’ve never done that before and he doesn’t want it to happen on some random quickie.

Still, even though he’s not all the way in, he knows he’s doing a good job, judging by the increasing gasps that leave your perfect mouth. The looming threat of being found, the promise of people beyond the heavy curtains excites him, alarmingly so. And it seems like you’re on the same boat, as you keep glancing over your shoulder, half keeping watch, half daring people to yank those curtains back and expose the debauchery happening within the tiny space of this dressing room. 

He shudders at the thought, thrusting into you more roughly than before. It sends him deep inside your walls, and a cry escapes your lips. Your gazes meet in the mirror, equally mortified, nervous, and excited. 

Spencer continues to move, fucking you in this position. If someone heard, they must have opted to ignore the sound instead, and he’s going to take advantage of that fact, bending his body over yours so that his chest is flush against your back. You clench around him in response, your body greedily eating up every inch he’s allowing himself to give you. 

“God, you’re in so deep.” you gasp, “So, so deep, feels so good.”

He recognizes this state, mindless and vocal from pleasure and he knows you're close. 

“Spence, oh my god baby, so big, you’re - oh fuck, yes!”

It makes him proud, his chest filling with a warmth only you can seem to produce, the very act of reducing you to this babbling, nearly incoherent mess but it also poses a problem. You’re becoming too loud. Too risky. In the heat of the moment, and without stopping the rhythm of his thrusts, Spencer yanks your panties out of his mouth and transfers the fabric into your own. Crumpled up, damp with his saliva, they stop the silly, pleasure drunk stream of words that have been spilling from your lips.

Your eyes meet in the mirror again, his own amused and slightly apologetic, yours barely comprehending.

“Gotta keep quiet, angel.” he murmurs, voice gravelly from disuse, “We wouldn’t want an audience.”

A whimper, smothered by your own panties, perks up his ears and goes straight to his cock. “God baby, you’re so good, letting me have you like this.” he gasps, dropping his head to the crook of your neck. 

His cock feels sensitive, ready to burst at any given moment. His thrusts become sloppy, erratic, one arm wrapping around your waist to keep you tethered to him because he can feel your legs and thighs quivering under his weight. Spencer uses his other hand to brace against the mirror, staining the once clear glass with sweat and condensation.

“Angel, ah!” he’s aware his volume is increasing as the pleasure intensifies, so he bites down on the closest possible thing—your shoulder. As teeth sink into flesh, your pussy tightens around his cock in response, and he’s done for, unraveled, spilling his cum deep into your being. He continues to thrust, recognizing the way you’re squirming against him, the nearly vice like grip of your walls on his thick length.

“That’s it,” he gasps soothing the bite with his lips and tongue, talking and fucking you through your own orgasm, “That’s it angel, come for me, please, need to feel you, that’s it, there you go.”

Normally, he’d bask in the afterglow, hold you to him until neither of you can breath and the lack of space becomes claustrophobic. But not right now. He has to remind himself you’re still in a public store, separated from people by mere fabric—heavy, curtains, sure, but still fabric. So he holds out his hand in front of your mouth, allowing you to spit out the wad of lace into his palm, and pulls out of your fluttering cunt carefully. His cock still throbs but is slowly softening. He helps you stand up.

“God, that was—I can’t believe we did that.” Spencer whispers. Unable to withhold his affection, he peppers your temple and forehead with kisses, relishing in the sweet sighs of contentment that leave your lips, now no longer cushioned by the panties.

“‘Twas so good,” you bury your face in his chest, and he holds you, supports your weight by wrapping his arms around your waist, “‘M so sweaty.”

He laughs, “Yeah, this fitting room got a little heated.”

“Ruined the slip.” you peek up at him, eyes no longer flashing with mischief but cloudy with pleasure.

“Good thing I’m buying it for you then,” he presses his lips to your sweat stained forehead, “There’s no way you’re leaving without it.”

Thank you for reading! Part of the big useless dick chronicles collection.

[2003-playground]

It really really frustrates me when some people, disabled or not, say "well I can do [x thing] because I was forced to" in response to someone saying they can't do something.

"Well I had to eat whatever was for dinner or else I would have starved."

Me too! And I became severely malnourished because I could not eat what was put in front of me.

"My parents hit me if I didn't get good grades so I had to."

Mine too! Except I could not get good grades in a mainstream class no matter how hard I tried or what was at stake.

"I have to mask because I need to keep my job."

Me too! Except I can't even pass an interview because of my limited ability to mask.

"I can't have meltdowns around other people or else I'll be bullied/abused/mocked."

Same here! But I can't hold in my meltdowns.

You need to understand that some people will never be able to do the things you can, no matter how hard they're pushed or what the consequences are for not doing it. I'm really sorry that you were forced to talk, but someone else being unable to speak does not mean that they could if there was enough pressure. Stop assuming that everyone who doesn't mask/speak/etc. grew up in a safe and supportive environment. There are people who would (and do!) die because they're neglected and can't learn to just do things themselves.

I really don't want to be the "other people have it worse" guy or come across like I don't think people are allowed to complain about something just because it's less extreme than someone else's situation, but some of you need to have more compassion for people who are not like you. Just be kind. And if someone says they can't do something, don't assume that it's because they were coddled or whatever.

[mide404]

Greetings,

A life lost and dreams destroyed, a smile gone forever, and a joy shattered and torn apart by war. My family has become immobilized, helpless, with no options or means. Here, where war has imposed its burdens on what's left of my family, we are forced to live what we cannot bear to live and endure what we cannot possibly endure. We are living torments harsher than the harshest prison tortures, crying over the thresholds of our far, destroyed home, our paradise that slipped through our fingers, the dearest thing stolen from us by this war.

Here, my little sister describes her suffering living in displacement camps, and this is what Alaa told me during a phone call:

"We have become nothing, without a home, without shelter. I live in a cramped space surrounded by nylon that doesn’t protect you from the summer heat or the winter cold, doesn’t provide privacy. Here, where there’s no privacy at all, you don’t have the basics of life even for an animal, so how can humans live here? Imagine, the details are painful, crushing. There is no space to sit or sleep, no room for rest or deep breath. Life here is impossible by all measures. We are now living the impossible, forced, with no one to look at us with compassion or mercy, no one to support us, as if everyone united to torment and oppress us.

Streets you've never seen, know nothing about, in a place you only knew by name. It's as if the earth isn’t the same earth, nor the sea the same sea, nor even the air the same air. It feels like you can't breathe here, like a fish taken out of water, not dead but the water is far away, struggling with its soul, unable to escape. You walk like a lost person who doesn’t know their destiny in a maze, not knowing its beginning or end, thrown in the middle without a word, no hand extended, no cries heard.

I can't describe what we are living through, even the pictures didn't move anything, as if everyone is in a coma, no one sees, hears, or speaks. Death has become our greatest wish, and daily we pray for God to take us to His side and spare us from the cruelty of His servants. Is there a way out for us? 😔💔 I don’t know."

Please donate if you can and share our story widely as you're able to����🙏

[harmoonix]

MOONLESS

astrology observations

Lilith (h12) aspecting the Sun or Moon both can represent issues with their relatives/family members, can be a generational trauma involving the family life as well

Aries Venus/Mars is very true that natives with these placements tend to be loyal to their partners/family/friends and can risk everything for them

Venus in the 1st house can be critical about their beauty, Venus in the 1st house is a good house but not the best for Venus to feel like home, you should always appreciate yourself

Pluto - Moon aspects in a chart can make the person to seem "emotionless" and cold even invisible to others, yet they feel the most and are not able to tell anyone about it

Lilith - Pluto aspects can indicate being abused for power/being seen as a threat. Natives with these aspects can be manipulated by others but aslo to manipulate at their own

Neptune in the 4th house can feel so confused when it comes to their desires about family, they may not be as interested about creating their own

Mercury in the 10th house can use communication a lot at their jobs/these can also be used to talking more than 1 language and can have jobs which can require that

Mercury at 6,18 or in virgo can be so critical if they are not developed, talking bad about other people, judging, etc. They are good at expressing themselves tho

Saturn at 4,16,28 degrees can often lack that "comfort" feeling, can also lack the feeling of love, compassion, not because they want to but mostly happens because of their family

Jupiter in the 2nd or 8th house natives know how to make money fast, they can also manifest money if they truly want that, but they are also good at spending them

Leo Moons would be good to play in any emotional - drama show tbh, they have that dramatic energy we all need, plus they also like to make dramatic stories

Pluto or Lilith in the 5th house (Mars too) can show bad experiences in childhood, bullying, agression, fights/arguments, is a placement that has a lot of power and also a lot of damage

Aquarius Uranus generstion can be more on the humanitarian side of the society while Pisces Uranus on the emotional state of the society

Scorpio Saturn is indeed a heavy place for Saturn just like the 8th house because it indicates lots of challenges and rebirths in the natives life. Also points out that the native evolves overtime ending in their best version of themselves

Capricorn/Saturn in the 12th house, deep asf placement because they put pressure on the subconscious, can be more pessimistic and feels drained by others

Mars aspecting Saturn can show anger issues in a person's chart. The native eventually grew up with parents or family with the same issues

Saturn aspecting the North Node is so heavy. Makes you so confused on which path life to go, getting a karmic life influenced by the environment/the place they grew up

Pisces North Node has the life lesson to embrace their spirtual side, can be used as a form of healing as well. Keep your intuition high

Chiron aspecting the NN (north node) can indicate you need a balance in life. Because there can be something in your life that you are aware of yet you choose to ignore it.

Venus in Libra or at 7° 19° degrees shows that you need to be inspired in life in order to create something, can be based on anything

Idk if you guys observed this but natives with Sag Placements always set up hopes for something. They will hope for a thing until it happens

Reminder for Moon - Venus aspects to not fall for every nice person they see because not all people have good intentions

If you have Lilith in Gemini or 3rd house you can often experience ppl talking about you,in good or bad ways but it will still happen. We cannot shut the world's mouth

Sagittarius Mars cannot stay in one place. They need either to move or travel because otherwise their inner core feels overwhelmed (also Mars in the 9th house or at 9° 21° too)

Something funny about Libra or Capricorn Mercuries is that they will always bring some logical subject even in the most weirdest conversations and expecting you to know about it

Having Pluto or Neptune in the 12th house can make you tired about life ( in all topics or general). Can happen to most of us. World is a draining place

Always check your TRANSITS!! If you have a bad day, check them and see how it will manifest! Because they are tied together with us

🖤 Hope you all have a good monday!!

🖤Harmoonix🖤

[untitlzd]

world class sin : prologue

sim jaeyun, park sunghoon, park jongseong x male reader.

next chapter : chain reaction.

After the contract is signed, Y/n stops asking why. He just shows up—quiet, pretty, dressed in whatever they hand him. The boys don’t want him there, not really. But the cameras love him. The mirrors follow him. Every rehearsal hurts. Every silence drips with resentment. And still, they keep him. Jay writes like he’s angry. Sunghoon dances like he’s alone. Jake watches him too long. None of them speak it aloud, but the feeling is the same: Y/n wasn’t earned. He was chosen. By the wrong people. For the wrong reasons. And now he’s theirs. Just twenty-three days until debut. Twenty-three days to become a fantasy.

warnings: idol!reader, objectification, industry power dynamics, emotional manipulation, possessiveness, voyeurism, obsessive behavior, gaslighting, celebrity exploitation, toxic relationships, industry elitism, ambiguous morality, dark themes of grief and identity loss, aestheticization of suffering, subtle yandere dynamics, inspired by The Idol and Anora.

please read before continuing:

CONTENT WARNING + Author’s Note World Class Sin is a fictional story. It is not real. The characters portrayed here are fictionalized versions inspired by public figures, but they do not reflect the real personalities, actions, or values of anyone in real life. This story is created purely for fictional storytelling and emotional exploration — nothing in it should be read as truth, reality, or a commentary on real people. This fic is made of dramatized emotions, and heightened dynamics set within a stylized, pressurized version of the global idol industry. Though it explores intensity, control, and desire, it is not intended to reflect what is healthy, safe, or good in real life. This story includes themes that may be emotionally heavy or difficult for some readers — such as emotional manipulation, objectification, isolation, possessiveness, psychological pressure, voyeuristic or obsessive dynamics, and moments where characters are treated as products instead of people. It also includes mature or NSFW scenes that reflect those imbalances — shaped by tension, not tenderness. The characters are morally gray. They are flawed, reckless, and often driven by desire more than compassion. They do things that are not admirable. And while those choices may be compelling in fiction, they are not excuses for real behavior — and they are not meant to romanticize harm. If you’re someone who’s sensitive to themes of control, emotional coercion, unwanted attention, or being dehumanized — please read with care. If at any point something in this story feels too close to home, too sharp, too familiar — you are allowed to stop. You never need to push through discomfort to prove anything. There is no story more important than your peace. You are not someone’s fantasy. You do not have to be ruined to be seen, or hurt to be held. If this story ever makes you feel small, unsafe, or alone — please, please take space. Close the tab. Drink water. Text someone who sees you clearly. Come back only if and when it feels right. And if it never feels right again — that’s okay too. Please don’t force yourself to return. This story does not deserve more of you than you’re able to give. From writer to reader — I care about you. I care about your well-being more than this plot or any fictional moment. You matter more than anything written here. Your softness, your boundaries, and your safety are always worth protecting. Please take care of yourself. You’re never alone in choosing yourself. With care, Luke.

Before the company. Before the cameras. Before the lights wrapped around his skin like a second set of hands and people began calling his silence presence — there was just Y/n.

Y/n, who used to sing under his breath in the backseat of his mother’s car while she drove barefoot, humming along to songs too old for the radio. Who used to dance in the kitchen at night while spaghetti boiled on the stove, barefoot on cheap tile, arms wide like the world couldn’t touch him. He didn’t want fame. He just liked how music felt in his chest — like proof that he existed. Like warmth. And she saw it. His mother. She used to say he was a light. A soft one. The kind that flickered gently in dark places, not to shine, but to keep people from feeling alone. She called him magic. Said if the world saw him the way she did, it would fall in love and never recover.

But the world never got the chance to meet her. She got sick, fast and cruel, like some invisible hand reached down and stole the only thing keeping his life from collapsing in on itself. One day she was folding his laundry and singing about the weather; the next, she was a name on a hospital file he couldn’t afford to print. The grief didn’t break Y/n all at once. It hollowed him. Slowly. Gently. Like a song that fades without ending. He didn’t scream or cry or destroy things. He just… stopped. Stopped talking. Stopped singing. Started disappearing one silent moment at a time.

There were nights he didn’t come home. Mornings he couldn’t remember where he’d been. Rooms he walked into that felt too hot, too cold, too loud. People touched him and he let them, but it didn’t mean anything. He didn’t feel ruined — just distant from his own body. He let strangers speak to him like they knew who he was. Let the world pull at the corners of his clothes, his mouth, his name. He wore her perfume for weeks after she died, just to remember what love smelled like. And eventually, even that faded.

So when a woman with too many rings and too white of a smile called and said she’d known his mother once, said she had a place for him, a stage, a future — Y/n didn’t question it. He didn’t even want it, not really. But he went. Because it was forward. Because it was something. Because standing still was starting to feel like dying.

They flew him to Los Angeles. No audition. No promise. Just a room, a contract, and a group that had already been chosen. A self-producing global project: stylists from Seoul, choreographers from London, a debut stage booked in MCOUNTDOWN before the ink had even dried. Jay, Jake, Sunghoon — three names carved into the industry like sharp things. Boys with scars. Boys with hunger. Boys who had given everything to be here.

And now, they had to stand next to Y/n — the boy who had given nothing but still looked like he’d been born in spotlight.

The executives were obsessed. He was everything they wanted without even trying. A beautiful, damaged blank slate. His trainee period was short — barely weeks. But that didn’t matter. They said he had that thing. The unnamable thing. They called his eyes marketable sadness. Big, glistening, expressive things that looked like he was always about to cry. Like he knew something you didn’t. Like he needed saving. And people wanted to save him. Or ruin him. Or both.

He was pliable. Innocent in all the wrong ways. And when stylists dressed him in sheer shirts and told him not to smile, he didn’t ask why. When vocal trainers told him to whisper his lyrics like they were secrets, he did. When photographers posed his hands limp and his lips parted, he obeyed. There was something in him that had been emptied out. And in its place, the industry poured something else — glossy and broken and dripping with want.

They didn’t see the boy in the kitchen spinning barefoot for no one. They saw the after. The glow of something burned too long. A boy with soft wrists and pretty bones and eyes like bruises. Something not quite alive but still moving.

And Y/n let them have it.

Because it was easier than remembering. Because grief had made him quiet, and now quiet made him desirable. Because being watched felt better than being alone.

Because when you’ve been loved by someone who saw your soul, you’ll spend the rest of your life letting people take your body just to feel something close.

They didn’t meet him on a stage. Or in a practice room. They met him in silence—late afternoon, overhead lights too white, the hallway outside the recording studio carrying the sterile smell of burnt coffee and industrial air freshener. The building always felt like that. Cold, new, over-designed. Like ambition lived in the vents.

Y/n stood alone in the corridor, tucked into a corner like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to take up space. His clothes were plain—company-issued hoodie, soft drawstring pants, shoes too clean. He looked like he’d been dropped there, like someone forgot to tell him what to do next. His hands were tucked in his sleeves, his gaze heavy and uncertain, big glassy eyes scanning the passing staff like he was waiting for someone to explain what his life had become. But no one did. People walked past him like he wasn’t real.

And inside the studio, the boys were waiting.

Jay had been mid-edit, headphones pulled halfway off one ear, track looping back on itself as he adjusted vocal layering. Jake had been at the whiteboard with a pen in his mouth, scribbling fragments of a chorus they hadn’t agreed on. Sunghoon was sitting on the floor, stretching in slow, practiced lines, watching his reflection in the glass.

When the door opened and one of the assistant managers stepped in, clearing their throat with a smile too tight, everything slowed.

“Your new member’s here,” they said. Simple. Blunt. As if it were a schedule change, not a shift in the entire balance of the room.

Jay’s eyes didn’t move from his screen. “What do you mean, new member?” His voice was flat. Controlled. But his fingers paused mid-click.

“CEO’s orders. He’s joining the lineup.”

Jake turned. Sunghoon didn’t blink. None of them said anything, but the silence that followed was louder than any protest.

And then he stepped in.

Y/n, soft-faced, quiet, impossibly still. His presence wasn’t loud, but it was there. It crept into corners. His eyes—those too-bright, too-sad things—flicked from face to face, not with confidence, but with the strange, hollow politeness of someone used to being tolerated, not welcomed. He bowed. Soft. Awkward. Like he wasn’t sure he was doing it right.

Jay’s stare was unreadable. He leaned back in his chair, one eyebrow lifting slightly. He didn’t speak. He didn’t have to. The tension in his shoulders said enough. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. They had trained for years together—fought, failed, rewritten songs through tears and caffeine and injury. And now this? A stranger in their studio? One they hadn’t trained with, hadn’t chosen?

Sunghoon stood. Slow. Measured. His body moved with dancer’s precision even now, coiled tight beneath the silence. His gaze swept over Y/n once, impersonal. Not curious. Just… calculating. Like he was adjusting choreography in his head to factor in a flaw.

Jake’s lips pressed into a line. He said nothing, but his grip on the whiteboard marker tightened, ink bleeding into the surface behind him like it had nowhere else to go.

And Y/n? Y/n just stood there. Looking at them. Looking past them. Not trying to explain. Not trying to smile. Just standing there with those trembling, ruined eyes like he already knew what they thought. Like he’d heard it before.

The manager gave a quick clap, like the moment needed wrapping. “Alright. I’ll leave you to it. He’s already got housing in your dorm. Training schedule starts tomorrow. Be good to each other.”

The door clicked shut.

And the silence collapsed into something heavier.

Y/n didn’t speak. He didn’t introduce himself again. He just stepped further into the room, slow, hesitant, like the floor might reject him. He moved toward the couch in the corner, sat down too carefully, as if afraid he’d take someone’s spot.

Jay turned back to his laptop. Pressed play. The track looped again.

Jake went back to the board, but didn’t write.

Sunghoon lowered himself to the floor again, more rigid this time.

No one told Y/n where to stand. Where to sit. What to do. No one asked his story. They didn’t need to. They had already decided what kind of person he was.

He was the fourth member now. A piece of a group he hadn’t earned. A replacement for someone they actually cared about.

He didn’t belong.

And in some twisted, brutal way—

That was exactly why they chose him.

The training studio was too bright in the next morning. Too clean. The kind of sterile, high-ceilinged space that didn’t allow mistakes to hide. Floor-to-ceiling mirrors on every wall, polished until they could catch even the faintest flicker of shame. The sound system buzzed faintly overhead. The air reeked of lemon disinfectant and effort.

Y/n was already there when the others arrived.

He’d shown up twenty minutes early, clutching a company-issued water bottle with both hands, like it might anchor him to the floor. He stood near the back wall, away from the mirror, staring at his own reflection like it didn’t quite match up. His hoodie sleeves were bunched at the wrists. His hair was still damp from the rushed shower. His eyes—their usual wounded-glass glaze—were unreadable, a little too wide, like he hadn’t slept.

He didn’t look like a trainee. He looked like someone pretending to be one.

Jay walked in first, earbuds still in, the collar of his jacket loose and unzipped like he’d sprinted from the studio just to be forced into this. He didn’t look at Y/n. Just dropped his bag at the wall and started stretching.

Jake came next, nodding curtly to the trainer stationed near the door, then immediately scanned the room. When his eyes landed on Y/n, something behind them tightened. It wasn’t surprise anymore. It was adjustment. A silent recalibration—how do you move around something you never asked for?

Sunghoon entered last. His expression didn’t change. It never did. He placed his water down carefully, tied his shoelaces like they were performance art, then stood in the center of the room and rolled his shoulders with the mechanical focus of a blade being polished.

“From the top,” the trainer called.

The music started.

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t kind. It was the track they’d been preparing for weeks, long before Y/n had been added in. Heavy bass layered over precise percussion, punctuated with vocal stabs and hard cuts in the tempo. It's a song of the French House mixed with drum & bass and dubstep. The choreography was difficult—sharp hits, tight formations, no room to fall behind. It was designed to showcase unity.

Y/n was half a beat behind from the first step.

His movements were rehearsed, yes. Memorized. But not lived in. He danced like a soldier following orders, not like someone who believed in what he was doing. His limbs moved with calculated correctness, but there was no rhythm beneath it. No breath. Just mimicry. Just survival.

Jay didn’t hide his reaction. His eyes flicked up to the mirror mid-verse, caught the staggered rhythm in Y/n’s step, and narrowed. His jaw clenched. He didn’t say anything—but the tension in his arms as he hit his mark spoke volumes.

Sunghoon’s movements were a masterclass in control. Every pop of his shoulder, every step, every lift—clean, exact, devastating. But when they transitioned to group formation and Y/n brushed his side during a cross, Sunghoon’s body tensed. Only for a second. But it was there. A recoil.

Jake kept his eyes forward, lips pressed into a line. He hit every beat—fluid, magnetic—but you could feel it in the way his hands curled too tight on the downbeats, in the way his gaze skipped over Y/n whenever the formation pulled them too close. Not quite anger. Not yet. Just a loaded silence.

Y/n didn’t react.

Even when the trainer paused the track and called out, “Y/n—again. Your timing’s off on the first chorus.”

He only nodded. Stepped back into place. Counted under his breath. Reset his feet. Tried again.

And again.

And again.

By the third hour, the mirrors were fogged at the edges and the floor was streaked with sweat. The room reeked of it now—effort, frustration, resentment stewing under fluorescent light. Y/n’s hoodie was gone, revealing the too-thin tank top underneath, damp at the collar. His cheeks were red from exertion. His arms shook faintly when he raised them. But his expression hadn’t changed. He still looked like someone doing penance.

When they finally broke for water, Jay didn’t sit. He paced, wiping his neck with a towel, the lines between his brows deepening every time he glanced back toward Y/n, who was crouched by the wall, sipping water like it hurt to swallow.

Sunghoon didn’t speak. But his silence wasn’t neutral—it was sharp-edged, purposeful, a presence in the room like a wire stretched too tight. He pulled out his phone, thumb tapping idly, but his reflection in the mirror stayed fixed on the corner Y/n sat in.

Jake stood by the stereo, arms crossed, gaze down.

No one spoke.

Because nothing needed to be said. They were rehearsing for a debut that was supposed to be theirs—just theirs. Built on history. On blood. And now the fourth was here, soft-eyed and silent, fucking up the counts and soaking up the attention.

They weren’t teammates.

Not yet.

Just strangers in matching shoes, breathing the same stale air, waiting to see who would break first.

When the trainer finally called it, the silence that followed was louder than the music had ever been. No celebration. No breath of relief. Just the hollow, collective sound of sweat hitting polished floors and lungs still burning from the last chorus. Y/n stayed where he was, crouched low with his elbows braced on his knees, palms digging into the fabric of his pants. His chest rose and fell slowly. Measured. Controlled. The others didn’t look at him—not directly. They moved around him like he was a piece of faulty equipment no one had figured out how to replace yet.

Jay was the first one out the door.

He didn’t even bother pretending. His towel hit the floor beside his bag, and he stalked out of the studio with his jaw clenched and one hand already scrolling through his contacts like he was ready to start a war. Jake followed. Not as fast, but just as intentional. His water bottle was still full, untouched, swinging loosely at his side like a weapon. And then Sunghoon, calm as ever, but his gaze didn’t lift once—not to the trainer, not to Y/n. Just forward, like if he looked back, the thin thread holding his composure together would snap.

Y/n didn’t ask where they were going.

Didn’t ask if he should follow.

He sat there in the corner of the practice room, arms resting on his knees, hair stuck to his temples in wet strands. His eyes—those wide, silent, glassy things—looked straight ahead but didn’t see anything. They weren’t just tired. They were frayed at the edges, rimmed red, not from tears but from the ache of trying not to cry. It wasn’t the rehearsal that did it. It was everything underneath. The way grief builds like heat beneath the skin. The way loneliness makes your body too heavy. The way every second here felt like punishment for something he didn’t understand.

They hadn’t told him how much this would hurt.

Two floors up, the air felt different. Cooler. Quieter. The executive level of the building was all soundproof glass, imported marble, and lighting that made your skin look better than it actually was. Jay hated it. He hated the way the hallway echoed with silence, the way every piece of furniture was too expensive to sit on. He hated the waiting room outside the CEO’s office with its spotless magazines and staged smiles. But mostly, he hated that they had to come here at all.

He didn’t knock.

The receptionist barely looked up. “He’s finishing a call.”

“We’ll wait,” Jay said, already pacing. His voice was sharp, sure, dangerous. Jake didn’t say anything. He stood beside the window, arms crossed, watching the skyline like it had answers. Sunghoon sat, legs crossed, but his body was pulled taut. Even his stillness was strategic—like his breath could ruin the balance.

When the door finally opened, the CEO didn’t bother with greetings. “I assume this is about the new lineup.”

Jay stepped in first. “You assume right.”

The office was warm. Too warm. Designed to feel comfortable, inviting. But the weight of it pressed against their skin like humidity. Fake comfort. Manufactured trust. The CEO didn’t sit at his desk—he sat across from them, on a lounge chair like they were about to have a casual brainstorm session. That just made Jay angrier.

“We’ve been rehearsing this set for months,” he said. “We built this. The three of us. From scratch. And now there’s someone we’ve never trained with suddenly center in the marketing decks? You didn’t even ask.”

“He’s not center,” the CEO replied smoothly. “He’s presence.”

Jake’s knuckles flexed where his hands were folded. Sunghoon didn’t move.

“Presence doesn’t fix formation,” Jay snapped. “Presence doesn’t cover missed steps. He’s not ready.”

“He doesn’t need to be ready,” the CEO said, calm, like he was explaining something to a child. “He needs to be watched. And he is.”

Jay opened his mouth, then shut it again. There was something terrifying in how confident the man was. Like this had never even been a debate.

“He’s not the strongest dancer,” the CEO continued. “He’s not the best vocalist. But people don’t look away from him. We’ve tested it. Media, marketing, even styling. When he’s in the frame, he is the frame.”

“That’s not what we’re building,” Sunghoon said finally. His voice was low. Even. But the edge in it was impossible to miss. “This isn’t just a group. It’s a system. And he’s not part of it.”

The CEO nodded. Slowly. Like he’d heard that line before.

“And systems evolve. Especially the ones that want to last. You three are the spine. The sound. The foundation. But he’s the face.”

Jake looked away. His jaw twitched.

Jay was already standing. “You should’ve told us. Before it became official.”

“It’s been official since the day he arrived,” the CEO said. “The press release is already drafted. MCountdown is booked. You’re debuting in twenty-three days.”

Silence.

The kind that wasn’t hollow—but final.

Jay stormed out. Jake followed.

Sunghoon lingered for just a second longer.

Then he nodded once, almost imperceptibly. Not agreement. Just acknowledgment.

He understood now.

They were no longer building this group.

They were part of what had been built around someone else.

The door to the CEO’s office shut behind them with a soft click, but the silence it left in its wake was anything but gentle. The hallway stretched before them like a tunnel with no end, polished tile reflecting the muted overhead light, the buzz of fluorescent fixtures matching the hum in Jake’s ears. No one said anything at first. Jay stalked ahead, his shoulders rigid, hands clenched into fists at his sides. Sunghoon followed, his steps slow and even like he was regulating every inch of his body just to keep it from trembling. Jake walked last, still reeling from what had just been said, from the clarity of it — the certainty with which they’d been dismissed, replaced, rearranged around a single, silent newcomer with no past and no proof.

It wasn’t about talent. It never had been.

And that was the part that left a taste in their mouths like rust.

None of them had cried when their old friends were cut. When the lineups changed. When the fifth, sixth, seventh iteration of this group was dissolved and rebuilt again. They knew the rules. Knew how it worked. Survival meant adaptation. But this — this wasn’t survival. This was sabotage dressed up as strategy. They weren’t just making room for Y/n. They were being told that everything they had bled for was secondary now. That their work, their history, their nights spent collapsed in rehearsal rooms and vocal booths didn’t matter as much as the way he looked under soft lighting. The way his eyes stayed wide and sad, like he’d never learned to protect himself. Like the industry could devour him slowly and still leave room for dessert.

Jay stopped in the middle of the corridor, running a hand through his hair like he could scratch the thought from his skull. “He’s not even trying,” he muttered under his breath. “He just stands there. And they act like it’s art.”

Sunghoon didn’t respond. He didn’t have to. The line of his jaw, the quiet rage in the set of his mouth, said more than words. Jake leaned against the wall beside them, arms crossed, staring at the floor like it had betrayed him.

None of them had asked for this. And yet—there it was. That image of Y/n in the studio, barely moving, barely breathing, and still somehow commanding every eye in the room. It was offensive. It was infuriating. And it was undeniable.

The executives had seen it instantly. They hadn’t looked at Y/n and seen potential. They had seen a product already in its final form. A face that could sell out stadiums and perfume ads. A presence that didn’t need to say anything because the silence did all the work. That was the trick — the way his grief softened his features, made his mouth look vulnerable even when closed. The way his eyes stayed glassy, as if carrying a sadness that hadn’t been explained yet, but begged to be understood. They didn’t need him to be perfect. They needed him to be breakable. Beautiful in a way that made people want to ruin him, gently. Slowly. With reverence.

“He’s not even acting,” Jake said suddenly, voice tight. “That’s just how he is.”

Jay glanced at him. Jake wasn’t defending him. That wasn’t what this was. But the words hung in the air like something dangerous.

Because it was true. Y/n wasn’t calculating. He wasn’t pretending to be tragic. He simply was.

And that made it worse.

Because it made people want to keep him. To protect what looked so fragile, even if it wasn’t. Because despite the resentment curling in Jay’s chest, despite the quiet loathing in Sunghoon’s gaze, and the cold irritation in Jake’s bones—none of them wanted anyone else to have him. Not the executives. Not the stylists. Not the audience. He was theirs. He was in their group. Their story. Their songs. He hadn’t earned it, but now that he was here, the idea of someone else taking ownership of him felt like a deeper betrayal.

That wasn’t love. It wasn’t even care. It was possessiveness in its most twisted, quiet form. The kind that festers when something soft is placed in a room full of people who’ve only ever survived by being hard.

“He’s gonna ruin this for us,” Jay said flatly, starting to walk again.

But Jake didn’t move. And Sunghoon lingered.

Because ruin wasn’t always fire and blood. Sometimes, it looked like a boy with eyes full of grief and hands that didn’t know what to hold onto. Sometimes it looked like innocence laced with something sensual — not on purpose, but in the way people wanted to project their filth onto something clean. Y/n had become that. Not even a person anymore. A screen.

And maybe that was the real reason they couldn’t stand him.

Because he made everyone want things they weren’t allowed to want.

They walked without speaking.

The street was mostly empty, the kind of late where everything felt quiet in the wrong way—like the city was holding its breath. The sidewalk stretched ahead in long strips of shadow and light, blinking from the neon buzz of 24-hour storefronts and the muted glow of passing cars. Jay’s steps were fast, agitated. Sunghoon moved more slowly, deliberate, his body carrying itself with the kind of practiced calm that only barely masked unrest. Jake followed behind, not dragging his feet, but not really pushing forward either. Just… moving. Like the floor might vanish if he stood still too long.

They were still full of what had happened upstairs.

The way the CEO hadn’t blinked when he said it. He’s not the center. He’s the frame. Like they were props now, scaffolding around something else. Like the years they had poured into this — the ruined knees, the vocal strain, the callouses, the panic, the loneliness — were just context for a face with the right kind of silence behind it.

It was insulting.

And worse — it was working.

Jay had known a thousand boys more talented than Y/n. He could name five off the top of his head who were better dancers, better singers, better alive in front of a camera. And yet none of them made the room shift like Y/n did. That haunted stillness. The eyes that looked too open to be safe. A softness that wasn’t weakness — just absence. Like someone had carved out the center of him and left the shell behind, and somehow that was beautiful. The stylists whispered about it. The executives didn’t even try to hide their obsession. They were already shaping him into the kind of icon people whispered about, idolized, wanted to break just to see what kind of sound he’d make when he fell.

Sunghoon hated it.

Not Y/n, exactly. Not yet. But the imbalance. The way the system bent around him. He wasn’t supposed to be part of their equation. The three of them had been trained together like a machine — interlocking, precise. They’d shared blood, floors, years of fighting. They knew each other’s timing better than their own. And now this… soft thing had been dropped in the middle of it all like a piece of furniture no one remembered ordering.

And yet — even Sunghoon had caught himself watching him. Noticing the strange angles of his silence. The way he held tension in his throat but not his shoulders. The way his lips stayed slightly parted, always, like he was trying to breathe in something he’d never been taught how to take.

It made you want to reach for him.

Or shake him.

Or both.

Jake didn’t even want to admit what it made him feel. There was something about the way Y/n existed that made people confused about what they were looking at. He wasn’t performing, but it still felt like he was always on display. Like the air folded around him differently. Jake had been around stars before — people who knew how to command a room. But Y/n was the opposite. He did nothing. He shrank. And somehow, that was worse. Because people filled the space around him with their own desire.

And it wasn’t just them. It was everyone. The marketing team. The vocal coach. Even the interns whispered when he walked past.

They didn’t look at Y/n like a person.

They looked at him like a suggestion.

And maybe that was the worst part. Jake couldn’t stop seeing it either.

It wasn’t sympathy. They didn’t feel sorry for him. They were too angry for that. But they also didn’t want anyone else to get too close. Didn’t want to see him styled in a way they hadn’t approved. Didn’t want to hear a stranger talk about his eyes like they meant something. He was theirs now, whether they liked it or not. Their problem. Their weak link. Their… whatever he was. No one else got to decide how far he’d fall. If anyone was going to cut him down, it would be one of them.

The dorm loomed ahead — bland building, dim lights, the shape of routine glowing behind the curtains. It looked the same as always. But nothing inside felt stable anymore.

Jay didn’t stop walking until the front door clicked open.

Jake’s fingers hovered near the code box, even though he already knew the numbers. Sunghoon stood beside him, eyes flicking up toward the dark window above the kitchen. No movement. No sound.

Inside, Y/n was probably on the couch again. Or in the corner of the bedroom with his knees tucked up, headphones in, expression blank. Or maybe asleep with the light on, not dreaming. Just suspended.

They stood outside for a moment longer than they needed to.

No one said it.

But something had changed.

And none of them knew what it meant that the boy they hated most — the boy they had every reason to resent — was already starting to feel like something they owned.

There was no word for it — what he made them feel. Not jealousy, not fascination, not pity. It was something heavier, messier. Something they couldn’t talk about without sounding sick. And maybe that was why none of them spoke as they entered the building, shoes thudding softly against the tile, the hallway narrowing toward their unit like the tension between their ribs. Jay was the first one to disappear into the kitchen, pretending to check the fridge, like he wasn’t picturing the way one of the stylists had leaned too close to Y/n during fittings, adjusting the hem of his shirt like she was dressing a doll she wanted to bite. It had made Jay want to throw something. And he didn’t know why.

He’d seen idols before. Had stood in the wings while others were stylized into stardom — molded, exploited, made desirable. But Y/n wasn’t molded. He just existed. And it enraged Jay, how easily the staff folded around him. How everyone treated him like something breakable but beautiful enough to be worth it. Jay didn’t want to touch him. Not really. But sometimes, in the silence after rehearsal, he imagined what it would feel like to shake him. To crack the quiet out of his body just to see what was underneath. Was it real? That dazed innocence? That polished fragility? Or was he just acting like everyone else?

In the living room, Jake paused by the door to the shared bathroom, eyes flicking toward the dim light under Y/n’s room. Still no sound. Still no presence. Jake had spent years building himself into someone who could perform what people wanted — a good trainee, a good idol, a lyricist who knew how to turn emotion into sellable lines. But Y/n didn’t write anything. Didn’t offer opinions. Didn’t even flinch when people spoke about him like he wasn’t in the room. It made Jake feel insane. And worse — it made him curious. Because every time the PR team mentioned Y/n’s face — those eyes, that mouth, the melancholy soft enough to brand — Jake caught himself imagining it too. The way his lashes curved wetly when he was tired. The way his lips looked when he was breathing too hard after a failed take. It wasn’t even attraction. It was obsession with the idea of him. The way you want to figure out a locked door just because you’re not allowed behind it.

Sunghoon didn’t follow them in right away. He stood in the stairwell a moment longer, hand braced against the wall, replaying the moment in the CEO’s office when one of the assistants had said, “He’s the kind of face people fight over.” Sunghoon had laughed — just once — too bitterly, too sharp. He hated how right it was. How every staff member treated Y/n like a prize and a burden in one. How they cooed over his bone structure, his posture, his silence, as if it were something trained. As if it hadn’t come from being emptied out. But even Sunghoon, in the stillness of his own mind, had started to imagine it too — the way Y/n’s body moved when he wasn’t performing, the twitch in his shoulder when someone startled him, the way his voice broke on certain syllables like he didn’t know how to ask for comfort. It wasn’t sexual, not exactly. It was something worse. Wanting to own the shape of his ruin before someone else made a mess of it.

They didn’t like him. They didn’t trust him. But they couldn’t stop watching him. And that was the problem — not just the threat he posed, but the way he unsettled something deep in each of them.

Not as a person.

But as a question.

A symbol.

A story waiting to be owned by someone.

And God forbid that someone wasn’t them.

note: hi, it’s luke. if you made it this far — welcome, and thank you for reading. this prologue is just the beginning of what world class sin is going to be. a small taste of something heavier. i’ve had this concept sitting with me for a while now, and writing it has felt like peeling back something slow, sharp, and a little too intimate. the themes are layered — obsession, grief, beauty, control — and that’s exactly where this story lives. in the spaces between what’s seen and what’s endured. there’s more coming soon, and things will only get deeper. the emotions, the tension, the unraveling — it’s all just starting. and if you’ve been peeking around the blog, you might’ve already caught a little spoiler floating around. hehe. thank you for being here with me. and while you’re here, make sure you’re also being kind to yourself. drink some water, rest your eyes, and go easy on your heart when you need to. more soon, luke :)

[otkuhotgirl]

─── 𝐅𝐈𝐅𝐓𝐇 𝐒𝐄𝐍𝐒𝐄𝐒 .

# with black-leg sanji and roronoa zoro.

you are unable to choose between the two men who had fallen in love with you. their solution presents itself in the form of sexual competition.

⎰ & KINKTOBER, day eight. smut (mdni!). threesome. sensory deprivation. double penetration. anal. fingering (reader!receiving). blindfold. bdsm. afab!reader. no y/n used.

WC: 2.5k

zoro and sanji were as similar to one another as the moon was to the sun; the tides were to the flames. one did not suppose there yet existed a single topic with which the pair could agree with. their fighting styles were nothing if not divergent. their taste in alcohol might as well have inspired the water-and-oil analogy. personalities; most favored tastes and colors; fashion sense — or the lack thereof, in zoro’s case; the conception of what was deemed attractive. the two were incapable of meeting a common ground, and those around them had all but quit to witness the instance in which they would share a similar opinion. when one was, too, to consider the amount of women sanji flirted with — the same ones zoro did not felt the urge to spare a miserable second-glance at — not a soul expected their lines to overlap in the romantic field.

which all but made their harbored feelings for you far more surprising. not to misplace the root to such astonishment, for you were neither unattractive nor dull. rather despairing to learn that the only subject of agreeableness between the two also happened to be the one they were willing to compete twice as much for.

whenever sanji strived to serve you heart-shaped pastries, zoro would attempt to counter-attack by lifting weights without a shirt on, in front of you. if you were to comment on a favorite color, sanji was soon to match his ties to it — whereas zoro was soon to throw them out when given the chance. the ensued chaos sure was the worst during re-stocking hours, for if you decided to stroll around the town, the two would bicker and follow. sanji would, naturally, have the upper hand throughout the initial hours — the swordsman had a broken compass for a center, and it was not hard to have him lost within the minute — however, for some obnoxious motive, zoro somewhat had never once failed to reencounter the pair of you, which meant that he would then glue to your side until the late hour of night, striving to make up for the lost time. those specific situations were so stressful on itself that you resorted to chopper to serve as company; the reindeer’s presence and excitement serving as brief reprieve from their constant bickering.

the two-year interval between the crew had been one of hope. distance sure would see fit to resolve the matters of your heart and ensue in a decision. zoro and sanji were prone to be at eternal odds, yet they were not disrespectful whatsoever. the non-chosen one would not hesitate to retreat if your love was to be poured into another. it would be a devastating vision, a never-ending pain and non-healing wound, yet one both were willing to withstand for the sake of your happiness.

the problem was that, as wonderful and selfless as that behavior sounded, you, in fact, had not been able to choose during the time apart. the longing proved itself to be equal, you did not miss one more than the other, so much as you did not prioritize your breathing over your heartbeat. both were important pieces that built themselves a solage in the fissure of your once maimed heart. sanji was warmth and professed love, external affection and sweet-coated sentences; the soothing embrace of spring with a trail of divergent petals. zoro was the mountain whose surface no force could maim. he was the much needed instance of shared silence in the aftermath of a tiring day, the reassurance of a lingering hand. love explicit through protection and care, the guarantee of a fierce guardian even in slumber.

zoro was the steel that sliced those who had dared to maim you, while sanji was the hand that patched your wounds. whereas sanji was the breeze to sway on your kite, zoro was the rock underneath to stop you from soaring far away. but you would never dare voice said thoughts, fearing the negative repercussions. regardless, the postponement in your decision all but started to cause unrecoverable commotion.

the separation led them both to overcompensate — and clash — in order to be given a fraction of your time. yet, surprisingly enough, the discussions weren’t the most obnoxious aspect, for the crew had grown accustomed to them. no. the unbearable lied on the sexual tension, almost palpable enough to be sliced and with its aftermath painful to those with ears. lustful glances shared and caught; zoro’s tendencies on leaving the crow’s nest door unlocked whenever he decided to masturbate; sanji’s barely contained moans when he bathed; your own restlessness and mood-shifts born from the unattended desire. characters such as franky and luffy, chopper and robin, had not a care in the world — the latter going as far as finding it amusing. usopp and nami, however, had enough, and were successful in their plan of setting the three of you in the sunny while the rest of the crew ventured through the newest found island. the ship was large enough for temporary avoidance, yet an eventual clash was inevitable, and the coward duo all but hoped that would serve as an enough motivator to resolve things.

unbeknownst to them, sanji and zoro had agreed on certain terms beforehand, sharing a thorough — oftentimes heated — discussion over relationship schedules and dynamics were you to agree with their solution. sharing altogether was not the sweetest fruit to the palate; yet, was the initial plan to fail, it’d have to be enough.

it started with sanji’s usual pampering. a dessert with a purposefully exacerbated amount of cream; a cold beverage served with a holed-straw, forcing the liquid to drip down your chin and covered breasts. when you retrieved from the deck in search of a change of clothes, zoro had been the one to cage you halfway, sweat-covered chest bumping into your sticky one — with sanji following thereafter, your back pressed against his front. their proposition was quite simple: a shared fuck with a blindfold, for without the aid of sight, you would be unable to assign faces to touches. that who pleased you more would be the chosen one; loser forced to retreat. it was a fair trade — and on god, you’d not be the one to complain.

they had argued; from which room to guide you, to which position would be the most suitable. zoro wanted to use his bandana, whereas sanji wanted to use one of his ties, meaning you ended up blindfolded and with your hands tied behind your back, bare and vulnerable; blind to the external world. although all was to be expected, considering the amount of repressed desire, you were surprised to learn that they planned on being agonizingly slow.

a gloved hand wrapped itself around your throat, for without the absence or presence of calluses, caught-on through touch, you would be unable to guess whose fingers were those. you were sat on a muscular lap — yet another no indicator, for neither lacked in that department. the pair seemed to agree on not speaking at all as well, but you were quite sure their identities would eventually be denounced by their grunts and moans.

the deprivation of sight had enhanced the rest of your senses. your hearing grew more attuned; your skin, twice as sensitive. the rough pattern of the glove left a trail of goosebumps in its wake, fingers guiding themselves down to your glistening core, dripping on the thigh underneath. the sudden contact with an ice cube had you gasping, your head resting on the shoulder of the unknown man. melting-cold water surrounded your pert nipples as that who lingered in front of you teased your breasts; the gloved finger drew languid circles on your clit, eliciting a sudden moan in response. you felt the stiffening of both figures, struggling to contain their reaction.

the man underneath had clenched the muscles of his thigh, gripping the flesh of your waist as the testing roll of your hips ignited your arousal, your cunt all but leaking at the stimulation. ice traveled from your chest to your belly button; above your ribs. your back arched at those mixed sensations, the coldness from above and the heat from below. your nipples were flicked, wet and freezing, before the buds were teased with the brief, tickling touch of a feather. the other shifted ever-so-slightly, the sudden movement causing his thigh to brush harder against your swollen clit; a lascivious moan clawing its way through your throat.

a hiss — zoro. a whimper — sanji. mingled and sudden sounds, hastily muted, with directions unknown. a sudden object, leather-made, was roughly wrapped around your thigh, tight enough to interrupt the blood influx altogether. somewhere, sanji choked, as if disapprovingly, yet the teasing hand lingered; the gloved finger toying with the straps. the fingers to your intimacy made their return, index and middle rubbing against your inner lips; tongue swirling around your earlobe, threatening to penetrate it, wet and loud sucking in pair with the sudden insertion of a finger in your throbbing cunt. you gasped, figure moving yet halting, for the belt constricting your thigh made it all far more painful. the sudden release of pressure had you mewling, all but for the bind to return, constricting the current of your own blood.

yet another ice cube drew patterns on one of your breasts, your nostrils catching on the aroma of a scented candle. the sound of a lighter; the sudden approach of heat. while a set of fingers busied themselves with press of melting ice on your flesh, teasing a hardened nipple with the freezing texture, the other part of your chest fell prey to a gentle rain of candle wax, heated and immediate, the sensation divergence enough to ensue a cascate of broken moans.

earmuffs had been placed, depriving you, too, of sound. the sudden jolt of a thigh had you bouncing; reacting due to mere instinct. when you whimpered, chasing the touch of the finger within your core; leg trembling due to the absence of blood influx, a choir of muffled and unrecognizable grunting and whimpering followed-in-suit. sharp canines dug on the juncture between neck and shoulder at the same time that a nipple was twisted by a foreign finger, coated in hot wax. goosebumps surged without second-thought; heavy breathing fanning above your ear.

the two men were mingling, a converging set in which you were to become the one caught in the middle. ice teased your parted lips, prying them open, the freezing water replaced with the warmth of another’s mouth; a sweet, brief, kiss, all but altered once you attempted to chase it. your lips were then stolen, steel-made grip maintained in your chin. the one underneath did not seem to like that in the slightest, for the pace of a swirling thumb around your clit made itself fast and demanding, your mewls swallowed by the other’s famished mouth — him, too, a moaning mess.

the gloved hand wrapped itself around a nipple, tugging at it before groping your breast. the kiss was broken then, a choir of unheard complaints falling from said man while your back was forced against the chest of the other; your cunt dripping and close to one’s erection. you tried grinding against it, yet the belt at your other thigh made each movement far more painful than it should have been. besides, it seemed as though zoro and sanji had agreed on which holes belonged to who beforehand, and the one underneath did not seem to have his cock meant to your pussy. instead, his mouth latched itself onto your neck, biting and sucking as he had your hips raised ever-so-slightly, allowing his tip to tease the folds of your ass. it traveled in between, coating the flesh with his pre-cum; briefly pressing itself against your entrance before immediate retreat.

you caught on a sudden shuffle, the pressure of the man standing vanishing all of the sudden. instead, he knelt in order to correct the angle of your figure on the other’s lap, his fingers trailing down your butthole. he collected your essence upon the fingering of your then neglected cunt, and the ice made its return; cold water mingled with heated pre-cum. he applied pressure on the tight entrance, his index sliding inside until the knuckle, pumping itself in-and-out, stretching your hole properly before the addition of his middle-finger. the man blew a gust of air against your clit, seeming to drown in your scent, yet not daring to dart his tongue and have a taste — as it seemed, the right to oral had not been a consensus. your butthole was scissored while the flesh of your shoulder was assaulted by bruising kisses, the gloved hand groping your right breast with maiming strength.

at last, yet another sudden shift had a tip pressed against the entrance where the other’s fingers were previously buried inside. the correction, too, had granted one the desired access to your dripping, throbbing cunt, his own tip teasing your folds. you trembled in anticipation, fingers struggling against the fabric of the tie that deprived you from reciprocating said touches.

a heartbeat of silence, all but too brief, before you were filled at once. the cock shoved inside your butthole was larger; the veins were more prominent. that, who stretched your cunt, was larger, the curved tip reaching a further length, finding your g-spot on its first attempt. you howlered, your throat burning at the expense of your sounds of pleasure. their paces were erratic; much too different for a common ground to be found. the one to fuck your ass was harsher; steadier. his balls were a constant against your flesh as he all but forced himself inside, his tongue and teeth licking and biting at whichever inch of bare skin he could find. that man had you stretched and vulnerable; aching and begging.

the one at your cunt was sloppier, far more desperate. he had parted your legs open, tore the belt off your thigh and threw it somewhere you could not see — the sudden absence of pressure all but enhancing the pleasure. the grip on your raised calves were what kept him tethered to that realm, his chest threatening to press itself against your own whenever his shaft was buried inside until the base. he was faster, too, and more eager. whereas the man at your butthole removed all but half of his member to shove yet again with devastating force, the pussy-drunk one retrieved himself entirely, until the tip threatened to spill off your entrance, before lunging his tip back into your g-spot.

it was overwhelming; maddening. it was the most pleasurable experience you had ever experienced. your words became babbles; saliva dripped down your chin at the failed attempts of letting them know you were close. it was unimportant whatsoever, for your high came as though a flood: abundant, never-stopping. you creamed the cock that remained deep inside your walls while the sound of your pleasure mingled with those from the men around you.

your cunt was vacant seconds thereafter, the tip of one’s shaft pressed against your abdomen as a stream of cum smeared your skin clear-white. the other kept plunging into you, the brief overstimulation causing you to squirm and whine before he, too, released himself — only that he had done so inside —, riding his own high and emptying the contents of his balls, the cum enough to slip past the folds of your ass and drip down his own thighs.

you fell limply on said man’s back, breathing heavily, your skin coated in sweat and cum; water and wax. the earmuffs slipped, and you had half-the-mind to decode the ongoing discussion at hand.

“YOU CAME INSIDE!”

“WELL, SHITTY-COOK, IF YOU WANTED IT AS WELL SO BADLY, YOU SHOULD’VE TAKEN DIBS ON THE ASS!”

“RELEASE HER, YOU BRUTE—”

well, at least that served you as a tool to assign faces to sensations.

— 🐈‍⬛ : late but never forgotten! if you’re here from the kinktober masterlist, wondering “where the fuck are the other days?!”, i feel the need to apologize yet again! i’m still a bit sick and hadn’t had the strength to re-read the previous stories, correct minor errors and post them in time. that being said, ace, kid and robin will be posted on the vacant, third week! super SUUUUUUPER sorry!

[gaywineauntsstuff]

See one of my favorite things about fanon is that Dick is like a normal dude outside of nightwing like genuinely he’s normal person who isn’t that extreme canonically. He loves his family but he needs space with them and doesn’t want to be a carbon copy of his father.

He follows Bruce is moral compass while also being more lenient on some crimes. He canonically values life and protecting the sanctity over it than actually stopping crime and has a very strong moral compass that exceeds “well it’s the law”. Dick canonically thinks that Corrupt police officials are worse than criminals and became a cop to weed them out the same way he did the mob. And has bad blood with the BPD despite working for them.

He has genuine reservations about trusting Jason for obvious reasons even if you don’t like Dicks run as Batman where Jason was flat out the worst or like stealing the Nightwing suit in New York in brothers and blood. While still being able to work with and like him.

He is supportive of Tim while still being frustrated at taking on more work bc he knows Tim does too much and will need help.

He loves Damian but steps away from that relationship because unlike Bruce at his age he’s emotionally mature enough to realize he cannot be a parent for the kid. A role model sure! A big sibling, yeah. But not a parent.

He didn’t want Steph as spoiler, Robin or batgirl bc she wasn’t well trained but neither did literally anyone else. Once she and him started working together they had a decent relationship.

Dick and Cass have a strong relationship and he helped Babs with her when Bruce was being an asshole while still not stepping into a parent role bc he’s in his mid 20s and not going to do that actually.

And Dick believes Duke is going to become a big leader in the hero world and sees his potential despite not agreeing with the we are Robin thing.

And the fanon goes 1 of 3 ways

he’s fully uninvolved, doesn’t like the bats, has cut them off after trying to send Tim to Arkham, and abusing/ mistreating or co-signing the mistreatment of Jason. All his relationships with everyone except Damian have been erased. He ruined Tim’s trust, hated young!jason, has never spoken to Steph or duke and Cass doesn’t like him because she’s on babs side or in Hong Kong.

Or

Literally Bruce Wayne’s lapdog, says yes to everything with the worst case of battered women’s syndrome you’ve ever seen. Jason must stand up for him and protect him from the big bad bat/ the bats cut him off aswell after abandoning the bat movement (more rare but I’ve seen it). He doesn’t have critical thinking and his morals are identical to Batman’s and he refuses to question them. Will call the police on a homeless man stealing food bc it’s illegal. And has never tried to rehabilitate anyone including his friends, abandoned Roy and Kory bc of moral differences. He’s still a cop and doesn’t understand the nuance that Jason, Tim, Steph and Duke do.

Or

Dumb himbo, doesn’t know nothing except smile and nod. Pretty face, no brain. Has had one thought and it’s the fact he misses his siblings and needs his cereal oh wait was that two thoughts? He forgot how to count lmao. Babs or Tim will roll their eyes and do stuff for him bc he’s so dumb and sweet like a puppy who has had a lobotomy. :( doesn’t even have a college degree dumb silly teehee. Worst liar you’ve ever met everyone can see right through him hehe. He’s loves Bruce and calls him Dad 24/7 and uses nicknames for everyone.

And like it’s total flanderization

He has some of these traits sure, (more rigid moral compass, more willing to work with other heroes and delegate though this one literally only became a thing during Tom kings run and maybe a little bit after Donna died, in the current canon he went to Uni for business and dropped out, he’s not as good on the tech side as oracle)

But they’re just so exaggerated and I firmly believe it’s bc the rest of the bats are so extra. Like Tim trying to clone his dead bestie 99 times.

Jason goodness gracious I’ve been bamboozled let me try and kill the penguin on live tv

Damian my mother literally tore my spine out

. Duke let’s start a cult that’s something that isn’t dumb and won’t get us murdered.

And Dick is just there like… yeah fuck okay.

Like he’s still unhinged even for a superhero but he’s just objectively more hinged than all of his siblings like you’re telling me if TIM got the talon ancestry storyline shit wouldn’t have hit the fan??? The mother fucker who at age like 13 broke in Nightwing and starfire’s house, memorized all their schedules bc he’s the most insane stalker you’ve ever met. You’re lying and we both know it.

And everyone thinks their fave is the sane won and you are all just wrong I fear. I have already slandered Tim so I’ll do the rest for funsies

“Oh babs is the only sane one”

Bby Barbara is such a stalker with a need for control someone stole her tech and turned Gotham into a police state. If she decided that she wanted to go dictator she has a WHOLE setup for it. She’s also unhinged

“Jason just needs to get away from the bats then he’s the only sane one who the others go to for protection”

Yall Jason’s 2 biggest teams were

An Amazon, and a kryptonian

An arrow and an alien (also some times an Amazon)

So the league big three knock off and a titans knock off

He has also slept with his dad’s ex and 2 of his brother’s exes. Let’s not pretend that he’s being dragged back into the bat family, bro never left.

He wears a bat on his chest

He has a helmet with explosives in it… when he died in an explosion and fought with a crowbar when it was one of the major reasons he died. Let’s not talk about his whole thing with scarlet but the Morrison run had some weird characterization.

“Damian-“ no actually you can’t even start with Mr let’s go to Lazarus island. Let me adopt a giant bat monster bc my abusive childhood means I slaughtered his entire race. No actually I will not allow it. The fucker is unhinged and I love him.

“Steph” - you know what she is also my fave so everything she has ever done is justified and she has the best batgirl run and also her and Damian are hilarious. (She’s also the best female bat hands down I prefer her to both Cass and Babs for so many reasons I will not get into)

In summary this isn’t actually a criticism I find it hilarious plz keep going my darling fanon fanfic writers

[dr-spencer-reids-queen]

plane to paris

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Female!Reader

Word Count: ~2k (including lyrics)

Warnings: angst, plane crash

Summary: Something tells you not to get on the plane, but all you want to do is go home and be with your boyfriend. The need to be in his arms is enough to ignore the glaring feeling in your chest. One that tells you not to get on the plane.

Square Filled: flooding for @badthingshappenbingo

Author’s Note: this is based on the song plane to paris by Nessa Barrett

x

Shouldn't think it or say it out loud What would happen if this plane to Paris went down? You'd be the first call I made to the ground What would happen if they told us today? Armageddon was minutes away I'd cry for you, would you do the same?

All you want to do is go home and sleep for the next few days. You must have caught a bug in Paris because you’re not feeling too well. Due to that, you’ve already extended your trip a few days than you planned to. Your mom and sister have been living in Paris for nearly a decade, and you visited them for two weeks.

You’re not closer to feeling better. Your mom wanted you to stay with them until you got better, but you miss your sweet boyfriend. He makes you feel better just by being in the same room as you, so you’re a bit eager to get home.

You’re sitting at your scheduled gate, waiting for the doors to open. You’re in first class, so you’ll be one of the first ones called. You down a small shot of cough syrup and chase it down with water. The gate agent steps up to the desk and starts to call forth the disabled, families with very small children, and military people.

“We’re now boarding first class,” she announces.

You stuff the cough syrup into your bag and get up. You take one step but stop because there is a heavy weight on your chest. A weight that has a clear message. Don’t get on the plane. You take another step closer to the doors, but your legs feel like cement pillars. Don’t get on the plane. You hand the gate agent your ticket, and she scans it with a smile.

“Have a nice flight,” she says.

Don’t get on the plane. You smile tightly and push yourself to walk across the bridge to the plane. You’re just being paranoid. It’s your sickness. Everything is fine. You put your bag in the overhead bin before taking your seat. Get off the plane. People pass by you to get to their seats, but nothing seems out of the ordinary. You just need sleep. You’ll be fine.

“Can I get you anything to drink before we take off?”

The aisles in first class are a bit bigger than the rest of the plane, so the flight attendant is able to stand next to your row while others pass by her.

Get off the plane. “Water is fine. Thank you.”

She leaves to take down more orders while you sit there in wonder. Get off the plane. Why? Why? What’s going to happen? Before you know it, everyone has boarded the full flight, and you try to relax in your seat. The flight attendant closes the door to the plane, sealing off any chance you have to get off the plane.

You should have gotten off the plane. You take out your phone and send a quick text to Spencer. Taking off now. Should be home soon. I’ll see you soon, my love. You put your phone on airplane mode as soon as the message goes through and lean back in your seat.

Everything is going to be fine. You’re just being paranoid. The plane is ready for takeoff, and everything is going as scheduled. Still, the unbearable weight on your chest continues to tell you that you should have gotten off the plane when you had a chance.

Now I know that nothing's promised Ridin' on a doomsday comet And all I can think of is you

Something doesn’t feel right. You don’t know what it is, but your internal moral compass is going off. 

The person next to you is calmly watching one of the movies on the screen in front of him. The person next to him at the window is reading a book. The girl across the aisle is busy playing a game on her phone. The other two next to her are deep in conversation. You look behind you to see everyone wrapped up in their own little world.

Everything looks fine, but something is wrong. You turn back around and down the rest of your water. Maybe it’s the sickness. You feel a bit light-headed. The cough syrup must have been the drowsy kind. It’s okay. Spencer is going to pick you up at the airport when you land, so you don’t have to worry about driving.

You’re about to try and catch some sleep when you notice someone passing you by. Aman walks down the aisle to where the cock pit, the bathrooms, and the flight attendant’s areas are. Something about that man has the hair on the back of your neck standing up. Maybe he’s going to the bathroom.

He mumbles something to the flight attendant, who immediately opens the door to the cockpit. Weird. This man didn’t look like the pilot. He steps inside and takes something out from his pocket. Right before the door closes, you see the glint of a gun in his hand. He aims it at the pilot's head and orders him to do something. The door closes, so you’re not sure what happens next.

Your first thought is of Spencer and what he might have done to talk the gunman down. You’re not a profiler. You’re not even in law enforcement. You’re a high school teacher. What makes you qualified to talk a gunman down? You’re thirty-thousand feet in the air. No one knows what’s happening up here.

Man, you really shouldn’t have gotten on the plane.

If you were with me in the exit row Wouldn't be quite so scared to go While the pilot prays and the engine blows Down we go

By now, the entire plane knows it’s being hijacked. Along with the gunman, there are three others that have bought seats. They roam the aisles to make sure everyone is behaving. Some children cry while their parents try to keep them calm. Mothers are protecting their children. Men are protecting their women. Even the ones who are traveling alone have found comfort in their neighbor.

You? Well, all you can think about is Spencer. What was the last thing you said to him in person? You can’t remember. Maybe if he were here with you, you wouldn’t be so scared. Maybe if he were here with you, you might make it out of this alive.

One of the gunmen walks past you, and you immediately take out your phone. You turn it off airplane mode so you can get a message to Spencer. Who knows if it will even go through? You’re probably over the oceanwhich doesn’t have cell towers. Still, you send the message with shaking hands.

Plane is being hijacked. Four gunmen. I’m scared. Please know that I love you and always will. It’s not fair to tell Spencer how scared you are because he is going to obsess over your last words. It’ll haunt him. He will know you’re scared. Still, you typed it because it’s the truth. The text doesn’t go through, but you know it’ll reach him eventually.

You slip your phone back into your pocket when the gunman walks by you. Suddenly, the plane is jerked to the side so hard that the overhead bins open. You look out one of the windows and see fire. One of the engines has blown.

Panic ensues. The plane is quite literally falling out of the sky, and there is nothing no one can do about it. Oxygen masks fall from the ceilings, and the gunmen scour the plane for parachutes they most likely stashed there themselves.

You’re not sure if you believe in a God, but you do what any other person does in a moment of true crisis: you pray. Pray that Spencer will be able to move on and live his life without you in it.

Mon amour, je suis tellement désolée Merci de me faire sentir aimée Je sais que j'ai besoin de toi Je t'aime pour toujours Je promets que ce n'est pas un au revoir Ladies and gentlemen This is your captain speaking You may want to make some phone calls at this time And get your affairs in order

Spencer has been feeling anxious all day today. It’s the day you come home after being gone for over two weeks. Not even that, but he might not be able to pick you up from the airport after all. Reports of a hijacked plane come through the channels, and Hotch needs everyone on this immediately.

Apparently, four men hijacked a commercial flight from Paris to New York. Why? He’s not sure. Is it about power? Do they want to maximize fear? Is there someone on the plane who is targeted? Is this just one attack, or are there more coming?

“Any news?”

“None. They haven’t even called in to Air Traffic Control for any kind of ransom or demands,” Penelope says.

Hotch turns on the news, which is covering the attack live. The plane is in the middle of the ocean, so there isn’t any live footage of it going down. However, that doesn’t mean there aren’t updates.

“I’ve just got word that Flight 2443 from Paris, France to New York, New York has suffered a blown engine. The plane is coming down hard with no chance of stopping. Police officials are working with the Coast  Guard to send out as many ships as they can before the plane can hit the water.”

Wait. Spencer’s eyes bug out of his head when he hears the flight number.

“Wait, Flight 2443?”

“Yeah. It left Paris this morning at eight,” Penelope says.

Spencer takes out his phone and checks on the messages you’ve been sending him. One of which is your flight information. There it is. Flight 2443, leaving Paris at eight in the morning.

“That’s the flight Y/N’s supposed to be on. She said she was sick. I hope she didn’t get on.”

He dials you first, but you don’t answer. He doesn’t wait a single second and calls your mother instead.

“Spencer, how nice to hear from you,” she answers.

“Is Y/N with you?”

“No, I dropped her off at the airport this morning. What’s going on?”

“I think…”

Spencer can’t say it. He fears if he does, it’ll be true. His phone pings, and he sees it’s a message from you. His entire chest caves with relief; however, it’s short-lived. Plane is being hijacked. Four gunmen. I’m scared. Please know that I love you and always will. You’re on the plane.

“Y/N’s on the plane.”

You're all I need At the end of everything You're all I see With the seconds left to live It's true that I loved you to death As I call your name with my last breath While the sky caves in You're all I need At the end of everything

The impact when the plane hit the ocean was jarring. The entire plane was broken into two, so the back of the plane is now missing along with its occupants. When the pressure was gone from the doors, all four gunmen had fled with parachutes on their backs, leaving everyone else to fend for themselves.

Screams ring in your ears as people fight to save themselves or their loved ones. Salt water fills whatever is left of the plane quickly. If you don’t get out of here, you’re going to drown. You sent your message to Spencer. He knows how much you love him. Half of what crashes into the ocean is never found. Will you be found? Will anyone?

You tug at your seatbelt, but it’s stuck. The water has either clogged the mechanics or frozen them. The girl who was next to you playing on her phone is now dead. Her neck was snapped upon impact. Who will get justice for these people?

You look to your left and are shocked when you see Spencer sitting there. The water is now up to your chin. You’re gonna die, but at least you have him sitting next to you. Even if it is all in your head. You take your final breath as you sink further into the ocean. It doesn’t take long for black spots to cover your vision.

Spencer looks as handsome as ever, unaffected by the water. You reach out and grab his hand just as your entire world goes dark.

x

Want to be tagged? Follow my library blog @aqueenslibrary​​​​​​ where I reblog all my stories, so you can put notifications on there without the extra stuff :)

[wiisagi-maiingan]

Man you have all got to stop making fun of people for shit like not being able to order food or make phone calls or whatever, like anxiety is NOT a joke, it's a serious mental illness that can completely ruin your ability to form relationships and navigate society. I don't care if you think it's "immature" or that someone needs to just "get over it", I think it's a lot more immature to be out here saying the same shit I was hearing from my high school bullies. Grow up and learn some damn compassion.

[maryymaruu]

I present to you, the Iterator oc number two, the child that refused to be named, now having many, hah! _(:3 」∠)_

While I adore the true name I finally scrambled for him, and couldn't resist disclosing it, for lore reasons it'd be best to address him with his title;

Sentinel Of The Unforgiven, [SOTU] or just The Sentinel.

This one's novel is even longer, so for those who don't have the patience, the trivia board on the ref is a pretty good TLDR! ^^);

This guy needs to have quite a few more clarifications made first, as I'm stepping quite further away from the canon here, and even more into fanfiction/AU territory.

Some background;

[We're talking about one and the same group Three Signals (TS) is included in. They are neighbours of Sliver Of Straw, far away from in-game locations.]

- This group exists in a very mountainous area, and from the very beginning, the Benefactors decided it's more efficient to use their already existing underground tunnels (from drilling for Void Fluid) as a transportation modus; turned into an underground train system for Iterator construction process. That system runs quite far into the group, connecting Iterators like roots, with SOTU at the near center (first one built in the area).

- Due to some harsh weather conditions and poor decisions the city was equipped with "wind-breaking" walls, giving a quite claustrophobic effect. Citizens began feeling discomfort there even before resource problems.

- Once the resource demand problem became eminent, the citizens expressed lack of care or attachment to the city and/or the Iterator. It was agreed upon to simply use the underground trains to relocate to now already standing, various newer cities.

- The justice system is... blurry at best. This post is getting too long already so I'll fully explain it another time; for now it's only important to know SOTU is not the one judging the criminals, he merely holds them up to the verdict.

- The notion of "a stay in SOTU's city feels like a punishment in itself" became wide spread amongst the Benefactors. In face of necessity it evolved into an effort to make it a reality; SOTU was repurposed into a prison facility. Instead of upgrading him to be able to be more habitable, they completed the claustrophobic city with taller sealed walls and gates, and a new set of laws/taboos for the Iterator to obey. Making for a secure, depressing, fully automated trap box.

Now more about the Sentinel himself...

SOTU has always been a rather reserved personality that struggled to express emotion or weakness. There was a specific idea he had to live up to, (be it conditioned into him or self-imposed) of someone competent, serious and strong. Giving off a strict, cold and unapproachable first impression. The Group Senior that believes he has to carry the woes of the world on his shoulders alone and never break, in order to be a good example.

However, despite poorly expressing it, SOTU does deeply care about his people and about his peers. And always tried his best to be someone they can relay on, without directly admitting it though. Like a grumpy old man, would chew one out for making a mistake first, and then help them out of trouble, without sparing any effort.

Would never admit it, but feels quite hurt by how easily his citizens decided to abandon him, and resents them for what he's been turned into. He really tried to take care of everyone. He doesn't enjoy what his city has become, he doesn't enjoy being feared. Secretly wished it was a lot more like something that of TS's city... full of life, bonded and happy, but is unable to let go of the false idea what a Senior should be like, denying himself vulnerability to even express that.

The reformatting into a prison only worsened this problem. The new, additional programming discouraged acts of compassion or affection. (So that he doesn't pity the prisoners)

Despite best efforts, his group did not integrate very well. His ways of handling things left much to be desired, some labeling him a tyrant no one can ever reason with. Some just simply disliked him too much to ever relay on his advice. Communicating within the group was difficult, hence why eventually many stopped bothering and kept to themselves, or to smaller private cliques.

The repressed emotional impulses did catch up to him eventually, allowing for small acts of disobedience against the law.

Didn't stop SOTU from feeling it though. And feeling he sure did....

Those efforts were too little too late, inadequate to prevent the conflicts escalating into hostility. Once an arrest warrant was cast from the Benefactors above, there was nothing he could do. And once the poorly integrated group got a taste of connection against a "common enemy" it was over.

Delays, stalling, omitted reports, "errors", "lost" data, "unreceived" broadcasts... All in efforts to keep the prisoner numbers low, and make the stay of those present shorter and more bearable. Ignoring all reports about what was going on in TS's city in particular- hoping to at least protect something SOTU could never be.

(More to come)

TS got hurt, and the lively community on top was broken up. It is unclear who is responsible for the malware attack idea, nor who exactly deployed it, but SOTU feels fully responsible regardless. He wallows in ever growing guilt and regret since.

[chloyappa]

moon melon

—kenma x reader ! oneshot

for some reason, you had your happy crush—kozume kenma—added on roblox. you can search every nook and cranny of your brain and you wouldn't be able to recall a single moment you'd interact with him.

you tried swiping past appl_p1 with grow a garden under, trying to find actual friends you can play grow a garden with.

none. other than some random people you added two years ago.

you decided to play on a public server—fighting against your moral compass saying NO—and risk your ginormous golden eggplant getting stolen. and also fighting against all thoughts that hope the roblox gods bless you and send you to the same server as kozume.

the screen loaded, slightly lagging because of your shit internet, and started walking around.

what a beautiful—oh my fucking GOD? what a sprinkler method abuser! you thought to yourself when just a little less than half of your garden was totally eaten by a shit ton of oversized moon melons.

but what was more interesting is the collect button tempting you to steal that one moon melon.

the colors danced around your screen, luring you in like a toddler watching dancing fruits; rainbow aura surrounding the big, disco mutated moon melon.

your finger hovered over the fruit. not only was it disco, it was also gold, wet, moonlit, AND bloodlit.

it's only 37 robux. imagine how much that would sell for?

what can i lose? other than the robux, that is.

you clicked the collect button, paid the 37 robux, and happily steal the fruit that would make you a billionaire. for a second, you felt like the most successful thief in the world—HELL, maybe you could even challenge bonnie & clyde—but good things come to an end.

a bacon head approached you, obviously furious.

appl_p1: my moon melon appl_p1: GIVE BACK MY appl_p1: #### ### ############# appl_p1: i have ten nukes directed to ur house

oh? and all you can do is smile at the sight of kozume berating you over some stupid game. for all he knows it's actually you behind the screen. so it's fine. you calmly type back in chat,

[user]: lolol [user]: what a nerd [user]: getting pissy boiiii

you scoffed at myself, fighting with my crush.

you noticed his character now still, unlike earlier which was jumping around you. you pursed your lips, anticipating everything but what he was going to say.

appl_p1: [name]. appl_p1: give me my MOON MELON appl_p1: IM ACTUALLY GOING TO POUNCE ON YOU appl_p1: DONT GO TO SCHOOL TOMORROW

oh, so he remembered. HE KNOWS WHO I AM! he remembers that he added ME. MY roblox account.

it's like a switch turned on in you—that 37 robux turned into nothing as you gifted back his moon melon and jumped around his avatar, hoping that he'd forgive you even without an apology.

but you guess gifting his fruit back was an apology?

[user]: sorry kozume [user]: i didnt knoe it wad u [user]: promise i wouldnt even even graze my finger tip against ur fence

his character then jumped around yours, holding out an abnormally large, shocked mushroom. then the gift thingy popped up on the side of your screen.

...

WHAAAAATT!!!

[user]: WHAT appl_p1: take this one instead appl_p1: figured u needed more appl_p1: and call me kenma appl_p1: kozume is so... idk i dont like it

you felt heat rush to my face when you accepted the gift, holding yourself back from squealing like a rat at 12 in the morning.

appl_p1: tho i gotta admit ur weird as hell

but that didn't matter to you. you jumped around his avatar, typing different varieties of typos in thank yous.

you favorited the fruit in your inventory and teleported to your garden to see what was up. it was actually just an excuse to prove to kozume that you don't have a crush on him and that you actually am just a normal person playing with him that joined his server out of the millions of public servers and hahahahahahshaahahahahhdhhdhdndndnd

ok. your brain short-circuited. you were mindlessly jumping around in your garden and climbing the trees, finding something to do in the game.

appl_p1: wanna play vb legends?

you swore you envisioned steam coming from your scalp from how broken your brain was at the moment. giddiness actually made you physically ill.

[user]: Ondl [user]: o [user]: ok [user]: tomrorow. bai kemna

and with that, you swiftly left the game and proceeded to stay up until 4 AM daydreaming about kenma.

holy shit post. sorry for ass grammar brah... writing is NOT my strong suit

[elumish]

In the wake of what's going on in the world, I see a lot of rhetoric that basically boils down to the idea that everyone has a responsibility to watch every bad thing that's going on in the world all the time. That awareness itself is a responsibility that everyone has always.

I'm not going to say that people do or don't have a responsibility to be aware of things, but I want to talk about how to take care of yourself and others while doing so.

For some context, I spent close to a year and a half reading about every terrorist attack in the world as part of my work on the Global Terrorism Database. It was 2015/2016, so this was the height of ISIS/Daesh, it was a major time for Boko Haram, and it was when there was a lot of political violence that we weren't sure how to classify in places like Yemen, Crimea, and Libya (stuff the GTD didn't know how to classify had all of is information recorded, and then it went into purgatory until someone above my paygrade decided what to do with it). What this means is that I was spending 10-20 hours a week reading about hundreds or thousands of attacks a month and, in my case, recording infomation about the type of attack and the type of weapon. Much of my life was reading terrible things.

Limit what you do in isolation. One of the worst changes for me during that time, mental health-wise (even though it was great for my commute) was when I went from working in-person to working remotely. With other people, there are ways to diffuse the pain. A burden shared is a burden halved and all that. That may mean talking about it, or joking about it, or finding some other way to engage with it that isn't just reading about the most horrible things in the world and then stewing in your own thoughts about them.

Find something to do that's totally unrelated. I highly recommend finding something to do with your hands, if you can (knitting, Lego, cooking, whatever), but regardless of what it is, you should have some time when you entirely switch away to something different. During a fair amount of my time with the GTD, I was also doing my undergrad thesis about terrorism on TV, so a huge amount of my life was about terrorism in some way. The only other thing I watched was Great British Bake Off, and I would just rewatch the episodes, over and over.

Be compassionate about how you share information and with whom. Use trigger warnings, and consider using consistent tagging on places like Tumblr so people can blacklist it if they need to. Also consider whether it's appropriate or necessary to share photos of bodies or other results of horrible violence. What is it accomplishing, to show that? Can that goal be accomplished other ways that don't require the equivalent of jumpscares of unexpected photos of dead or brutalized people? Are you just showing it because you think that everyone should have to see it? If you are showing it, are there ways to mitigate against harm it may do?

Do what you can to avoid an echo chamber. Sometimes, when everyone around you is upset or angry about the same thing, it just amplifies itself, and you all get angrier and more upset in perpetuity without accomplishing anything.

Work towards action. Watching terrible things happen for the sake of saying that you haven't looked away isn't as meaningful as taking action in some way. Write to your Congressperson. Donate. Do whatever is appropriate for the thing you want to stop. But penance via watching terrible things happen doesn't accomplish anything.

Recognize compassion fatigue and do what you can to mitigate it. If you spend long enough doing this, you start to lose context, and you start to become less able to have compassion about things. If you're reading about attacks with dozens or hundreds of deaths regularly, five can start to not seem like that many. If you're reading only about the worst suffering in the world, "lesser" suffering of those around you can start to seem unimportant and petty. Do what you can to mitigate that.

Be kind to yourself. You do nobody any good if you burn out. Look away, if you need to. Take a break. Do things so you can enjoy life, because otherwise you are just another person suffering in the world. Other people's pain isn't a hair shirt for you to wear.