#but these are important questions you know

[nezuscribe]

nepo baby gojo who grew up with not only a silver spoon but an entire china cabinet of them.

he’s rich, there’s no questioning it. rich rich. his dad was the ceo of a company, his mother a successful neurosurgeon. it was all in the cards for him to turn out successful, and it was no surprise when he did.

gojo graduated top of his class from japan’s best university. he’s in line to take over his fathers role at the company in a few years and his name is across forbes.

the only problem? the tabloids seem to be loving him for a different reason.

gojo is a shameless flirt. he has a plethora of exes, each having their own story about dating him. he’s an unapologetic playboy and sees no harm in fooling around, doesn’t care if it makes it into a stupid article because who reads those anyways?

everyone, evidently, and his father refuses to have his eccentric son ruining the family name.

the solution? make him date someone that they know he can’t break up with. set him up with a girl who’s so perfect on paper that she might not even be real.

he knows that his actions have had eventual consequences, but he never thought that he’d be forced to pick out a potential girlfriend from a line of pictures his assistants had splayed out for him. each of them coming from virtually no background with no importance to society. no families or families that are cut off, girls that nobody has heard of and would never remember if they saw her next to him. it much easier to create the perfect girl from scratch than finding her in the wild. especially ones as desperate as this? a fat check often shuts them up.

his uninterested gaze roams around the headshots, wondering how they must’ve convinced them in the first place. gojo knows what’s on the line, and as petulant and spoiled he is, he’s fortunately not stupid.

he rolls his eyes after another few minutes had passed, pouting to some random girl because he truly couldn’t care less.

the assistants around him quickly got to work, collecting the rest of the pictures as they began getting ready for what was to come.

little did you know that the strange offer you had from a strange woman a few weeks ago would be calling you back, telling you that you got the job.

[plethorawrites]

Hey, so imagine Jason with a reader whose parents are simply the most loving beings in the universe, like R's father taught him basic things that neither Bruce nor his biological father could (like how to fix a broken sink, how to assemble a cabinet and even love advice) and R's mother was practically like a mother to him (visiting them regularly even when her daughter is not home, bringing soup when they know he is sick and helping him choose Valentine's Day gifts for the reader).

This may be the cutest prompt I've ever received. I love soft Jason soooo much!! (I fear I am not out of my obsession stage yet.)

---___---___---___---___---___---___---___---___---_

Jason Todd obviously grew up with few to no parental guidance and when he got it, it was more often than not negative like manipulation and abuse or neglect.

So, when he meets his girlfriend's parents he's understandably extremely nervous. From what you've told him, they're sweet. But he knows perception can change quickly and let's be real, he's not the good, kind-hearted person anyone would want for their daughter, in his opinion.

That said, when he does meet them for the first time and your mom envelopes him in the biggest hug he's received aside from you (a chronic cuddler, which he's come to appreciate.) he's a little stunned for the moment. It takes him a minute to even remember how to speak to introduce himself.

This man, all 6'2 and 240 pounds of him, actually seems shy for a moment, trying to make a good impression. You find it adorable when his cheeks blush after your mom compliments him on all the nice things you've told them about him. He didn't even know you bragged about him to people, let alone the extent of it. Like yeah, sure, you showered him in affection all the time, but that was at his apartment or yours.

The fact that you had actually mentioned him often enough that they knew about some of his quirks— his disdain for fish because Bruce made him eat it all the time as a kid at fancy events until he couldn't stand it anymore and his desire to meet for dinner not lunch since he had an obscure sleep schedule because of his "job" was astounding to him.

Even though they couldn't know what it was, you still boasted about how he was very passionate about it and you were proud of him for how hard he worked. That, admittedly, made him blush a little harder.

"She says you've got late hours, I hope dinner won't interfere," your mom would tell him considerately.

He shook his head. "No ma'am. I don't work until later."

She beamed. "Well good, then, because we've been dying to meet you."

Even the things about him that he assumed most parents wouldn't be thrilled to hear about, yours didn't seem to mind.

"You grew up in crime Alley, right?" Your father was questioned, in between the salad and entree.

Jason swallowed. There it was, he assumed. The disapproval he was anticipating. "Yes, I did," he replied, nodding.

"It's a difficult area to grow up in," your father noted. "A very close friend of mine was born over there. He's as tough as they come. Very resilient and reliable."

Jason was taken by surprise. "Uh- yeah, yes. I suppose you learn to be loyal when you don't have many people to trust." He internally cursed himself for saying that. It was too dark and pessimistic.

"An admirable quality," your mother said sincerely as you squeezed his hand under the table. "It must have also exposed you to a lot of different types of people and given you a very broad outlook on life."

He just nodded, swallowing some of his water.

Your father had similarly commented that he seemed to have a great work ethic, which Jason clearly appreciated and considered important. Your dad also, at the end of dinner, when you were out of ear range, made a quiet remark to Jason about how he seemed to make you very happy and that's all he ever wanted for his daughter. Jason had been expecting shovel talk or threats. At the very least, judgemental stares, the way he was used to, but instead your parents were absolutely lovely.

And it very clearly wasn't some temporary ruse, either, like he thought it might have been. They really were good people, just like you. When you moved in with him, your parents helped the two of you pack your old apartment and unpack in his. Your mom even insisted on cooking dinner since the two of you were exhausted from all the moving. He would never say no to her cooking, since aside from Alfred's, it was the best he'd ever had.

It was only a few weeks later, in the middle of summer, when your air conditioner broke down. It was Gotham, so obviously it was hot as hell. And of course no one was reliable when it came to actually coming to fix it. Your father, however, was used to fixing things and came over when you casually mentioned it to him after it was broken for a week or two.

He was about halfway through with it when Jason came home and he immediately felt bad just letting him, so your dad pointed towards some tool and asked him for some help.

"I don't really know how to fix an AC. Vehicles are more my thing," he confessed, lifting a wrench to his hand.

Your dad shrugged. "Not that hard. I'll show you."

Jason glanced at where you were sitting at the table with a glass of lemonade, giving him a light shrug. "Okay, sure," he muttered, rolling up his sleeves.

Jason liked to think the two of you had a pretty solid relationship, as far as honesty and commitment went. He loved you, he was almost positive by the time you'd been dating 15 months that he wanted to marry you.

But you still, occasionally, fought the way all couples did. And when you did, it was usually because he struggled to keep plans or left you waiting up for him, only to come home desperately needing stitches.

The worst it ever got was when he deliberately lied to you, swearing he'd stay out of something dangerous and going straight into danger the second he could. Even though nothing that bad actually happened, you were more than a little angry. In fact, during the screaming match you had, he could swear he saw the exact moment your heart broke when you told him you thought he cared more about being Red Hood than he did about you.

You left for hours. Four of them.

And when he heard a knock at the door, he was hopeful it was you, having forgot your keys. Instead, it was your mom. His heart dropped, wondering what she was doing there—planning to yell at him for how he treated you, grabbing some things for you so you could stay away for several days, breaking up with him on your behalf.

All she did was invite herself in, making some coffee (just the way she knew he liked it) and sitting on the couch with him. He was confused and silent, until she spoke up.

"She's not saying what the fight was about," she told him. "I assume it's your work. The uh-... nightly aspect of it?"

He blinked a little. Something about her tone was more suggestive than he liked. "It- partially, yeah," he admitted. "I didn't mean to break my promise."

She nodded. "I know," she muttered. "And I don't think she's mad, just...scared. She doesn't want to lose you."

"She won't," Jason replied instantly.

Your mom's lips quirked into a small smile. "Then tell her that," she suggested, adding that: "Trust is fragile. It takes a long time to build it and a single action can shatter it." She patted his knee, standing up and he stood too, walking her to the door.

"Why do I have a feeling you know what the fight was about, even without her telling you?" He asked quietly if not with some suspicion.

"You're a very good man, Jason," she told him. "But it doesn't take a genius to know why those hours you work are so obscure." Before he could question or deny what he felt she already knew, she was giving him a small kiss on the cheek, the way she often did to greet and say goodbye. "Call her," she said. "I'll make sure she picks up."

So he did. And you did answer, like she promised.

You made up, like always and it wasn't even six months later that he was calling your parents, asking for blessing to propose to you. Of course they said yes and we're thrilled to do so. Your mom even helped him pick out the ring. Which took hours, half because he couldn't decide and half because she kept starting to cry.

When he finally did find the right one, she naturally helped him plan the proposal, too. He wasn't always the greatest at romantic gestures. At least not grand ones. He was always better at the subtle shows of affection—remembering dates and details or taking care of you when you're sick. He doesn't want to do anything overwhelming, but filling the apartment with twinkling lights and telling you—with several tears in his eyes—how much he wants to spend the rest of his life with you, is plenty for you.

"Yes?" He repeats, almost in disbelief that you'd agreed so quickly to marry him.

"Yes, yes, obviously," you repeated, sniffling to keep from crying as you gave him your hand, letting him slip the ring on your finger.

His arms immediately enveloped you, lifting you off the ground and spinning you around like you weighed nothing. Setting you down, his lips found yours for a deep, long kiss, before pressing his forehead against yours and nuzzling your nose.

"I love you so much," he repeated, even though he'd said it three times already.

He already saw plenty of your parents, at least four or five times a month, but it seems like he sees them nearly everyday when the wedding planning starts. Your mom is more concerned with invitations and linens or vows while your dad really just shows up for cake tasting, or trying the catering companies. Not to mention to judge and criticize the venue options.

Still, they're there more than his own father figure is, sort of like they have been since he met them. They're there on your wedding day, crying in the front row when he uses his love of literature to craft was perhaps the most beautiful wedding vows ever recorded. They're there to take care of your apartment when you're on your honeymoon, coming to water the plants and collect the mail, not to mention stock the fridge before you get back.

They're there for your birthday and his, as well as Thanksgiving and Christmas. They're there to help prepare for the baby when you eventually have kids, your mom by soothing Jason's nerves and your dad by helping him paint the nursery or assemble furniture. They're there after the baby is born and visit whenever you need a babysitter for a few hours or even days to spend time together.

They're there, he realizes. They're there and he loves that, not just for you or for the baby, but for himself too. For the little kid inside him that never fully felt like any adults around him truly had his best interests at heart.

[fear-is-truth]

CHO SANG-WOO (조상우)

₊‧꒰ warnings ꒱ ‧₊˚ soft dom!sang-woo ۶ৎ age gap ۶ৎ s1 spoilers ۶ৎ nsfw 18+ . . . headcanons ˚₊˙⋆ ˖ . ݁𝜗𝜚. ݁₊. ˚₊‧꒰ note ꒱ ‧ i was trying to be realistic so…

PRE-GAME

۫ ꣑ৎ he takes you to meet his mother early on—this is huge, considering sang-woo is a private person, and his mother is the only family he has. so if you meet her, it means he sees a future with you. she adores you, treating you like the daughter she never had.

۫ ꣑ৎ your parents simply love him. they can’t believe their child is dating a graduate from seoul national university. it doesn’t even matter that he’s a few years older than you—they brag about him constantly. “he’s a genius,” they tell their friends. “successful, hardworking. polite, too.”

۫ ꣑ৎ if you don’t like him smoking, he promises to cut back. never smokes in your presence, doesn’t lets the scent cling to his clothes when he comes home to you. he’s careful about it, rinsing his mouth before kissing you. if you catch him sneaking a cigarette on a particularly bad day, he sighs and stubs it out before you even have to say anything.

۫ ꣑ৎ sang-woo thrives on intellectual conversations, especially enjoys debating with you, because he finds your mind fascinating.

۫ ꣑ৎ he’s a perfectionist in every aspect of his life, including your relationship. sang-woo holds himself to an impossibly high standard, and sometimes, that extends to you—he doesn’t mean to be critical, but he has expectations, and when they aren’t met, he gets frustrated. he learns, over time, to be gentler with you, to let go of the idea that everything needs to be perfect.

۫ ꣑ৎ chronic insomniac. but if you’re beside him, if your hand is resting on his chest or your leg is tangled with his, he sleeps a little easier. on nights when sleep won’t come, he watches you instead.

۫ ꣑ৎ occasionally gifts you with expensive jewellery, but nothing gaudy. real gold and diamonds—elegant in their simplicity. he prefers to see you in things with longevity that won’t lose their value. doubles as an investment piece, not just accessories.

۫ ꣑ৎ no matter how busy he is, sang-woo never forgets important dates. your birthday, your anniversary, even the day you first met. he never brings it up in advance, but he always has something special planned.

۫ ꣑ৎ he’s disciplined, wakes up at the same time every day, drinks his coffee black, works for hours without rest. but for you, he bends—just a little. if you want to sleep in, he lets you, only sighing fondly when you roll over and wrap your arms around him, pressing your face into his back. “five more minutes,” you moan, and against his better judgment, he stays.

۫ ꣑ৎ not outwardly possessive, but he is a bit controlling. he won’t tell straight up dictact who you can and can’t see, but he will casually criticise them if he thinks they’re a bad influence. he won’t demand your location either, but will insist that you check in with him, just so he “knows you’re safe.”

۫ ꣑ৎ he’s very reliable (until he isn’t) at first, he’s the perfect lover. calls when he says he will, never forgets your birthday or anniversary, handles things efficiently. but as his debts mounts and pressure builds, there’s a certain tightness in his jaw when money is mentioned. he won’t talk about it. he won’t let you in.

POST-DEBT

۫ ꣑ৎ not emotionally available, prefers to keep things bottled up. when sang-woo is stressed, he withdraws into himself.

۫ ꣑ৎ he’s haunted; the investment failure eats him alive. gradually becomes distant, distracted, and hates when you ask questions about his finances. sang-woo lies—first to you, then to himself—because the truth is unbearable.

۫ ꣑ৎ he’s frustrated at himself, but it manifests in other ways—he snaps over small things, withdraws from conversations, goes through more cigarettes per day.

۫ ꣑ৎ still tries to take care of you. he won’t let you pay for things, even if he can’t afford them. he’ll miss meals before letting you notice that money is tight. his pride is too big to let you see how bad things have gotten.

۫ ꣑ৎ he hates that you don’t leave; he wants to tell you to go. you should be with someone who isn’t drowning in debt and in constant fear of the police. but he can’t bring himself to say it. instead, he avoids you, keeps you at arm’s length.

۫ ꣑ৎ if you ever found out about his debt, the man would break down—nobody is supposed to know. not his mother, especially not you. if you find out and don’t leave? he’ll be both relieved and devastated, because you should leave. and yet you don’t.

۫ ꣑ৎ he debates leaving you “for your own good.” he genuinely thinks you’d be better off without him. if you catch onto his self-destructive tendencies and reassure him that you want to be here, he just stares at you like he doesn’t understand why.

NSFW

۫ ꣑ৎ not the type to outright deny you, but when he’s teasing, it’s in an excruciatingly nonchalant manner. he’s busy, he says, without even looking up from his laptop. too much work, too little time—yadda yadda. he makes you wait, makes you impatient, until he finally shuts his laptop and pins you to the mattress as if he hadn’t been ignoring you for the past hour.

۫ ꣑ৎ doesn’t experiment much, because he knows what works and doesn’t see a reason to change it. but if you want to try something, he won’t shut it down, either. he’ll simply raise an eyebrow, consider it for a second, and say, “if that’s what you want.”

۫ ꣑ৎ doesn’t talk much in bed, but because he doesn’t see the point. he’s focused, too busy paying attention to you to bother with unnecessary words. at most, you’ll get quiet groans, maybe a low, approving hum if you’re particularly responsive.

۫ ꣑ৎ mostly vanilla sex. no elaborate kinks, except for the occasional bondage using ties (but it’s more for effect). he likes routine, and that applies to the bedroom too. sang-woo knows exactly what he’s doing and exactly how to get the reaction he wants out of you.

۫ ꣑ৎ when he’s stressed though, he gets rough; burying his face in your neck as he fucks you like he’s trying to forget everything else.. not intentional, just a byproduct of the pressure he’s under. afterward, when he realises how rough he was, he’s gentle again—hands smoothing over your skin, lips pressing on your temple as an apology.

۫ ꣑ৎ he’s a soft dom!!!! and you’re his pillow princess, whether you intended to be or not. he prefers to the one doing the work.

SQUID GAME

۫ ꣑ৎ he’s shocked to see you there. horrified, even. sang-woo was ready to do what it takes to win, but you weren’t supposed to be here.

۫ ꣑ৎ will not let you slow him down. sounds cruel, but sang-woo is in survival mode. he will help you, but only as long as it doesn’t jeopardise him.

۫ ꣑ৎ if it comes down to a split-second decision—you or him—sang-woo doesn’t want to think about what he’ll choose.

۫ ꣑ৎ tells himself he doesn’t afford to love you under the deadly circumstances. but when he closes his eyes, all he sees is you.

pic creds to AESTHCORE_276 on pinterest

 fear-is-truth 2025 — all rights reserved. do not modify, repost, translate, or plagiarise my content.

[no-blastbeat-no-applause]

A little while ago I wrote a little something about that. I just finished translating it into english. Here are my thoughts:

Wimp

Thoughts on the patriarchy and why this crap sucks for men too

Queen Energy

I mindlessly let Instagram videos wash over my mind. A sketch wakes me from my pleasant torpor:

A woman dressed in a negligee talks to her husband. She orders him to have sex with her immediately. He says he is tired, he has just come home from work. He doesn't feel like it either. She is not interested. She becomes more direct and aggressive in her statements and demands. All of this culminates in her forcibly shoving a cookie into his mouth, repeating her order and expectantly marching off towards the bedroom.

The comment column is rolling with laughter, congratulates the woman and agrees with her demands. The comments reads something like:

"Her story, her rules, her empire." "Queen energy! This is the vibe we all need!" "Taking what's hers like it was always meant to be"

She should take what she needs; her husband should be a real guy and get it for his wife if and when she wants it.

So the point is: he's a wimp if he doesn't put himself and his needs first. He's not a real man because he doesn't jump when his wife is in the mood.

Let's imagine the gender roles reversed. A man comes home and tells his wife to wait for him naked in the bedroom because he wants to have sex. Regardless of her wishes and desires. Most people would find this behavior unacceptable. And rightly so.

Here though, sexual harassment is portrayed as a joke. Neither the producers nor the recipients seem to be fazed by this.

Such scenes suggest that men always have to be ready and willing. This stereotypical expectation completely ignores the fact that men are also people with boundaries who want to say "yes" or "no". However, in our society - as the comments column impressively shows - they are often denied this choice. Men are not even given the opportunity to prioritize their own wishes because their "yes" is taken for granted. If they do try to set boundaries, they are met with a lack of understanding, rejection, ridicule or even violence. This creates a burden that is subtle but always present.

The video and its comments make fun of a man whose freedom of choice over his own body has been taken away, making him yet another victim of patriarchy and toxic masculinity.

First naked and then alone in the corridor

I was 12 when my mother drove me and my ten-year-old sister to our pediatrician. Everything started as business as usual. The doctor asked us general questions, she took our blood pressure and did what doctors do.

Then something happened that I still remember vividly today. As a burgeoning teenager, I had to get naked from the wais down and lie down on a couch to be examined. My mother and sister both stayed in the room. I was embarrassed. I found it downright agonizing.

The doctor plucked at my penis for several minutes. I didn't know where to look. My face turned bright red and my hands got wet. I was suddenly terribly aware of how my kneecaps felt under my skin.

Then it was finally over.

But now it became particularly irritating: it was my sister's turn. She was facing something similar - with one important difference. I was asked to leave.

Don't get me wrong, I had no interest in participating in my sister's gynecological exam. I just wished that the same consideration had been given to me, a little boy.

My feelings were not ignored, no. No one here had even bothered to take an interest in whether I had any. I was treated with the same respect as the couch in the treatment room. The question of my dignity was about as important as that of the desk.

But that was nothing new for a 12-year-old. After all, I learned to swallow my feelings before I even started elementary school.

"Are you a man or a mouse"?

Of course I'm a man, I'm already four! I suppress every feeling that my environment deems too much or inappropriate.

I've learned that „Indians don't cry.“* Neither do boys. I'm not supposed to make such a fuss and pull myself together.

It eats into your brain. It stays. For almost 40 years and it's still there.

How my tongue got bitten

My aunt was celebrating her sixtieth birthday. The whole thing ended in her favorite pub. We danced, sang, drank and enjoyed ourselves. I chatted with old acquaintances on the edge of the dance floor.

Suddenly, a woman snuck up on me. She started to dance at me aggressively. I found it quite flattering at first. The stranger danced very closely with me, focusing only on me. She made me feel wanted.

But after a while I became uncomfortable. She took it for granted that I would return her advances. She waited for me in front of the toilet. She gave me no opportunity to move without her. She put her arms around me and kissed me on the dance floor.

I didn't want to be seen like this by my family. It was impossible to talk to my friends, my aunt was at the other end of the pub. I told the stranger that I wanted to talk to my family, but she wouldn't let go of me. I spoke to friends, but she pushed her way in.

I could have said "No!" at any time, walked away and enjoyed my evening, sure. But I have internalized the lessons of my youth: my feelings are not important and I have to make my body available, regardless of my own wishes.

I only plucked up the courage to tear myself away when the stranger bit my tongue painfully, because: I didn't kiss her the way she wanted me to.

But even then, at the end of the night, my "No, I don't want that anymore" was met with a complete lack of understanding. She was offended that I was not responding to her wishes. She had never cared about my consensus or my needs.

I was now in a similar role to the man in the sketch: my feelings were put on the back burner in order to offer a woman what she wanted at that moment.

Neither the lady in the sketch nor the stranger at the pub inquired about the wishes of the men in question. None of them asked for consensus. None of them took what they were explicitly told seriously, because they, like all of us, have internalized these toxic patterns of thought and behaviour.

As a farewell, I got a contemptuous "wimp" shouted after me.

And why all this?

I am well aware that the people who suffer most from patriarchy are, of course, those who do not appear traditionally male to society. Women, intersex and trans people, all non-cis-hetero men, should by no means be ignored here. My perspective, however, is that of a cis-het man.

We men are taught that our feelings are not important. We have to be tough and endure instead of being vulnerable and talking openly about our needs. Our bodies are common property. We learn to accept assault and laugh it off.

• The woman in the negligee wants sex? Then go ahead! No matter what the man wants.

• The boy is ashamed to be looked at naked by three women? He shouldn't behave like that!

• A stranger decides you're her plaything this night? Fuck your wishes and your family!

If we don't conform to the norms, we are wimps. We are considered unmanly. We're not real guys.

We need to recognize the harmful influence of sexism on men.

While patriarchy generally privileges men, it also subjects us to restrictive gender roles that harm us.

Even those who are considered the most powerful in the patriarchal hierarchy suffer from it.

The supposed masters turn themselves into the oppressed.

Toxic masculinity harms us and everyone around us.

Sometimes I do wonder if men actually get sexually assaulted and abused at a similar rate that women do but a lot of them just don’t know that’s what’s happening to them

[purinfelix]

── .✦ such a mess together - p. sunghoon

summary: the cute little girl you tutor is always going on about how you should date her smart, good-looking older brother, so why is your annoying, cocky classmate opening the door instead of her? ────── academic rival Sunghoon x reader || sfw, tension, can you tell i love the enemies to lovers trope LOL. || w/c: 3.5k (everyone clap jet is finally writing full length fics !!!)

a/n: ok whos shocked yet another enemies to lovers fic from yours truly - but i cant help that this trope is the most fun to write !!!!!!!

Shocked doesn’t even come close to describing how you feel right now. 

You feel as though if you widen your eyes anymore they’ll pop right out of your head, but the thought of him seeing you make such an embarrassing expression forces you to calm yourself. Slowly, he narrows his eyes, clearly not any less confused about this than you are. 

“The hell are you doing at my house?” he spits, thick brows furrowed as he looks you up and down. 

You’re about to reply with something equally as snarky, but you’re interrupted by a small head popping out from underneath his arm - which is outstretched to hold open the front door. 

“You’re here!” Yeji squeals in excitement, ducking past him to throw herself around your waist. You stumble backwards a bit, putting on her head to steady yourself as you laugh softly. 

“Hey,” you breathe out, though your eyes don’t leave those of the man in front of you, whose confusion only grows. “I’m here to tutor her,” you say curtly,  almost in disbelief that you’d have to spell it out for him this much. 

Though it’s not like you’re in much of a position to say much else because, really, you should’ve put the pieces together a long time ago. Being young and uninterested in her studies, Yeji had managed to spend most of your lessons together chatting about her life instead of doing her homework and so you had been told a lot about her - and her mysterious older brother who was rarely around because he was always busy working part-time or studying at university. At the time, you didn’t think twice about the fact that he went to the same university as you or that the times she mentioned him having exams always coincidentally lined up with yours - though now you’re beginning to think maybe you should’ve. 

Details like that were easy to forget though, especially when Yeji paid far more attention to the other details about her brother which she deemed far more important. You had spent many afternoons passively listening to her talk about how smart, sweet and tall he was, how he was “practically a prince” - all the while trying to get her to finish her algebra questions. You had even brushed it off when she mentioned that the two of you would make a good couple, and how it was a shame you had never met before. 

But Yeji couldn’t have been more wrong, because you actually had met her brother, and far more than you would’ve liked to for that matter. In fact, prior to today, Park Sunghoon had been nothing more than a nuisance in your university life. The one to constantly challenge your points in discussions, to steal your perfect front-row seat or to beat you by a singular mark in final exams. In your eyes, he was nothing but a cocky, good-for-nothing know-it-all who had been unfairly blessed with unnatural good looks which he used to trick your poor female classmates into liking him. 

All the details matched up though, times, places, hell they even had the same last name - but it had never occurred to you to put two and two together. Despite this, the shock of the initial realisation pales in comparison to the fact that you now how to continue with your lesson - whilst he sat in the next room over, glaring at you the entire time. 

You shifted in your seat nervously, eyes darting between Yeji’s exercise book and the strict gaze of her brother. Seriously, just what was his problem? - you’d never done anything to seriously wrong him, and if you did, you figured the fact that you were helping out his younger sister would be enough of a reason for him to let down his guard for once. But still, he sat there, completely uninterested in the video game he had loaded up as an obvious excuse, eyes locked on you. 

The weight of his gaze only made you more anxious and when you brought a hand up to hold your pencil you noticed the slight tremble in it. You couldn’t help but feel irritated, not just at him for being so distracting, but also at yourself for letting him get to you so easily. 

“I think he’s looking at you because you’re so pretty,” you heard a small voice mutter beside you catching you off guard. You let out a small laugh, about to calmly tell her to focus on her work but when you raise your eyes to look at her brother in the next room you notice that, for once, he’s avoiding your gaze, clearing his throat out of what almost seems to be nervousness. 

“Nice try Yeji, but I think your brother just doesn’t trust my tutoring skills.” 

She tilts her head, considering this for a moment - then with the same innocent bluntness as before, she shrugs. "Or maybe he's just grumpy because he got dumped."

A deafening silence falls over the room, and your pencil freezes mid-scratch as you glance up just in time to see Sunghoon's entire expression shift. His eyes widen for the briefest moment before his features twist into something between horror and annoyance. "Yeji," he hisses in warning, eyes shooting daggers at his sister, "shut up."

But it's too late, your interest is piqued and despite the harshness in his tone you can't help the smirk tugging at your lips at the thought of finally having some leverage against him.

"Wait," you say, tilting your head as you look at him, "Park Sunghoon ... got dumped?" 

He exhales sharply, dragging a hand across his face. "It wasn't- I didn't-" he stops himself, visibly irritated at the two of you. "That's none of your business."

Yeji, completely unaffected by her brother's obvious distress, hums to herself as she flips a page in her book. "She was really pretty too, she muses, "but she said he was too emotionally unavailable and always busy with school."

You blink in disbelief, then, unable to stop yourself, you laugh. "Shocking," your tone is dripping with sarcasm.

Sunghoon snaps his head towards you, eyes narrowing as if daring you to continue. "What did you say?"

You press your lips together, feigning innocence, but Sunghoon knows you too well for that and his glare only deepens. And for the first time, instead of just irritating you, the sight of him so obviously affected by your words is a little entertaining.

Interesting you think to yourself as you continue with the lesson, now far too aware of how the tension in the air has shifted ever so slightly. He doesn't move from his spot in the other room, or stop staring at you two, but now whenever you look up at him, instead of being able to meet your gaze he quickly looks away, pretending to be occupied with his game. You can't help but find it just a little amusing. 

Soon your lesson draws to an end and you begin to pack your materials away into your bag, thanking Yeji for working hard and listening to you - though you're interrupted by a deep rumble in the distance, followed by the sound of light rain. By the time you make it to the front door though, it's gotten much heavier and the plans you had to catch the bus home seem bleak. It isn't like you have much choice though, and you pull your hoodie over your head with a defeated sigh.

"You can't walk home in that," Yeji announces dramatically, clinging to your arm as she looks out at the heavy rain. Suddenly she perks up as if met with a great idea, and turns to her brother - who has been pretending not to listen from the living room. "Hoonie, can you drive her?" 

He barely looks up from his phone, though there's a slight delay in his response. "No."

"Why not?" she pouts.

"Not my problem," he mutters.

You roll your eyes, typical you think to yourself as you step towards the door. "It's fine, Yeji, I'll just-"

"You're seriously going to make her walk in this rain?" Yeji cries out as she walks over to her brother on the couch, "What if she gets sick? Then I'll be sad, and when I'm sad I don't do my homework. And if I don't do my homework, I'll fail and when I fail-" 

"Fine," Sunghoon groans, rubbing his temple as he pushes himself off the couch in a swift movement. He walks past you, grabbing his keys and twirling them around his finger coolly. "Get in the car before I change my mind," he says sternly.

You narrow your eyes at him and are about to deny his offer but the rain doesn't seem to be stopping anytime soon, and you're not stupid enough to reject a free ride out of pride alone. 

"Alright," you sigh, shooting Yeji one last thankful look before following her brother out to his car. 

"You live in the dorms on campus, right?" he asks casually. The rain hits the windshields of his car with a harsh rhythm, filling the silence between you two as you get in. The hum of the engine is the only other sound as he pulls out of the driveway, one slender hand lazily resting on the wheel. 

"Yeah," you say curtly, not even stopping to wonder how he could've known that. You're too busy holding a grudge against his ability to make every move seem so gracefully effortless, even turning a steering wheel. 

You sit stiffly in the passenger seat beside him, eyes fixed straight on the road ahead. You'll admit the car is nicer than you expected - spotless, the faint scent of something clean, a little floral, in the air - but you refuse to acknowledge it, just like you refuse to acknowledge that being here, alone with him, feels weirdly intimate. 

It doesn't help that he hasn't said another word since you both got in, not that you were expecting him to, but still - the awkward silence feels heavier than it should. You steal a quick glance at him out of the corner of your eye once the car reaches a red light - only to find that he's already looking at you. 

Your breath hitches for just a second, but you recover quickly in hopes that he won’t notice your reaction. “What?” you huff, raising an unimpressed brow. 

His eyes turn back to the road just as quickly, expression unreadable as the light turns green. “Nothing.” 

You sink back in your seat and the silence resumes, but with its temporary break, you feel compelled to keep up the conversation, even if it means more childish bickering. 

“I hope you don’t expect anything in return for this,” you say, turning to face forward again - but your attention piques once you hear a faint noise from him. It’s something you’ve never heard before, something just quiet enough that you almost didn’t hear it over the drumming rain, but you’re glad you did because you swear you just heard Park Sunghoon laugh. 

"When have I ever expected anything from you," he spits, but the usual malice in his tone is tinged with amusement.

"I'm just saying, don't think that just because you're doing this for me that anything's going to change," you huff, "if it weren't for Yeji you probably couldn't care less about me anyways." 

Sunghoon hums, the corners of his lips twitching as if he's holding back another laugh - he doesn't deny it, which somehow annoys you more than if he had outright agreed. Instead, he just shifts gears smoothly, eyes fixed on the road and you hate the way you find your gaze lingering on his profile for just a little too long.

"You sound disappointed," he muses after a beat.

You scoff defensively, crossing your arms. "Yeah, right." You've always hated how easily he could read you.

He just nods ever so slightly and doesn't press for more but the silence that follows feels a little different now, less tense. You shift in your seat and try to ignore the way your heart is starting to beat just a little too fast or the fact that you're waiting for him to say something. 

After a moment, he exhales, fingers tapping the steering wheel. "For the record," he sighs, his tone almost confessional, "I don't not care about you."

You crane your neck, searching his face for any sign that he's messing with you right now, a glint in his eye, his signature cocky smirk - but his expression is again unreadable. Instead, you watch the outline of his jaw shift slightly, almost as if he regrets his words, but he doesn't take it back.

You swallow nervously, unsure entirely of what to do with this new information. "Good to know," you say slowly, looking away before he can see how much that single sentence has affected you. 

As you do, you're suddenly desperate for an opportunity to change the topic. "How come this whole time I never knew you had a younger sister?"

"Well it's not exactly like you know much about my personal life," he scoffs - and you have to admit he's right.

"I mean, it's not like you're an open book or anything," you reply, "takes me ages just to figure out what you're thinking half the time with that blank expression. It's hard to believe you and Yeji are even related."

"Right because a guy my age should totally be acting like a middle school girl," he nods mockingly.

"You get what I'm saying," you sigh, going quiet for a minute as you think about what to say next. "She looks up to you a lot, you know," is what you land on, trying to balance your tone between sounding casual and earnest. 

You watch as he scoffs, and shakes off your comment with a slight shake of his head. "I'm serious," you say, "she talks about you like you're a superhero or something, even when she complains about you, it's obvious you mean a lot to her."

Even though his expression barely changes, you watch his fingers tighten slightly on the wheel - and the beat of silence before his response is enough to tell you that he's not used to hearing things like this. You find it interesting how even though you're practically complimenting him, he responds as if he's unsettled.

"Whatever, she's young and annoying," he finally mutters - though for the first time, there's no real malice to his tone, only something defensive.

"You're deflecting," you point out. This side of him, the one that's quiet and easily affected by your words, is one you've rarely gotten to see and if you're being completely honest, you're enjoying this far too much to let it go. "I think you like knowing she looks up to you." 

He huffs, clearly growing tired of your prying. "And I think you like hearing yourself talk."

You roll your eyes, but before you can shoot back with another remark, he beats you to it. "And whilst we're prying into my personal life, Yeji mentioned something interesting earlier."

You pause, suddenly wary. "Oh?"

He flicks his turn signal on, voice infuriatingly casual. "Apparently, you remind her of my ex." 

You feel your stomach lurch, followed quickly by a heat creeping up your face. "Excuse me?" is all you can manage to say.

His lips curl slightly, and it becomes clear that he only mentioned this to see your reaction. "Not in looks or anything," he clarifies, glancing briefly at you before focusing back on the road. "Personality-wise, she said you both have a way of getting under my skin."

You scoff, feeling an odd mix of feeling, irritation and something you don't really want to name. "Wow, should I be flattered or insulted?"

"That depends," he muses, "my ex was kinda terrible."

"Seriously?" you gape, shocked at how bold he's being in sharing this with you, "sounds like you're just butthurt from being dumped." 

He actually laughs - fully this time, not just the ghost of a chuckle he let out before. It's still short, and a little quiet, but for some reason it makes your chest tighten.

"Relax," he says, tone laced with amusement, "she wasn't all bad, but she did have this habit of always arguing with me, nitpicking things I did just for the sake of it."

You avoid his gaze, picking up on his signals just a little too quickly. "Sounds familiar," you mutter as you look out the car window at the rain.

You don't need to turn back to know his smirk depends, "Exactly."

The air has shifted completely now. The tension is still there, humming under the surface, but it's now covered by something else - something lighter, more playful, and charged in a way that makes you hyper-aware of how close the two of you are.

Then, just as you think the conversation is over, he speaks again - this time softer, almost absentmindedly.

"But I guess the difference is, I never really cared what she thought of me." 

It's such an offhand comment, something he's thrown out just to fill the silence. But something about it sticks to you, lingering in your mind as you nod, unsure of how to respond, and so you don't.

You spot the familiar sight of the dorms approach in the distance and even though you're compelled to feel relieved that this torturous car ride is drawing to an end - a tiny part of you can't help but feel a little disappointed that this seemingly rare opportunity is ending. Swiftly, he pulls up to the front entrance, parking smoothly and effortlessly.

As you move to undo your seatbelt, he stops you once again with his words. "Hey, I hope you're not going to stop tutoring Yeji, by the way," he's turned to face you now, but his eyes are avoiding yours. 

You furrow your brows, both at his words and his unusual expression. "Why would I?" you say slowly.

"Well, I mean, I just figured because of me and everything-" he begins to ramble, and it's the first time you've seen him stumble over his words like this.

"Relax, I hate you, not her, remember." You say it in the same teasing tone you've always used for him, but it seems to land heavier than you expected with how he turns back to face the steering wheel, his lips forming a thin line.

You linger for a moment, and something about the air between you feels different - like you're standing on the edge of something neither of you can name. Sunghoon's hand is still resting on the gear shift, his fingers drumming against the leather in a steady rhythm. 

"Right," he replies curtly, almost to himself and you can sense just a hint of disappointment in his tone.

You should leave it at that, you know you should. But something about the way he's gripping the steering wheel a little too tightly, or how his jaw is tensed ever so slightly, makes you want to press just a little further.

"Unless," you hum, tilting your head slightly, "you'd actually miss me if I stopped coming around?"

"Yeji would," he replies almost immediately - but you don't miss the way his shoulders go rigid for just a fraction of a second before he speaks.

"You didn't deny it," you smirk.

At this, he finally looks at you and there's something about the way he does it - something heavier than the usual irritation or exasperation you're used to. His gaze lingers, his expression unreadable and for a split second, you wonder if you've pushed too far. 

But then, he exhales, something softer flickering across his features before he quickly pulls them back into indifference. "Just get out of my car before I start charging you for emotional distress."

You roll your eyes, but do as he says, reaching for the door handle and pushing it open just as the rain continues to pour outside.

"See you next time, Park," you say, "and drive safe."

"Don't tell me what to do," he huffs, though there's a playful tone in his voice as he smirks at you.

You return his look, satisfied, and finally push the door shut - watching as he shifts into gear, headlights illuminating the street. You know you should get inside and out of the rain immediately but you can’t help but watch as he drives off, heart thrumming in your chest as you find the beaming smile on your face lingering. You shake your heard at yourself, almost as if to shake away your thoughts, before turning to head into the dorm. 

What you don’t see though, is the way Sunghoon glances in his rearview mirror one last time before turning away, just to catch a glimpse of you before you do. 

[moyazaika]

PRESQUE VU

♡ ⋮ yandere ‘boyfriend’ x gn reader

cw ☆ it’s going to hurt.

“i don’t blame you, babe.” his fingers are intrusive, but gentle, as he pries your mouth open. his thumb is calloused, and you can feel the rough skin pressing against the soft flesh of your bottom lip and pulling it down with a pinch. “happens to the best of us,” he says, not unkindly. “and besides, i’m here to take care of you, yeah?”

you give him a sorry excuse of a nod, and he smiles at you over his glasses. “i love that, i ever tell you? when you show me you understand me?” he sighs. “i fucking love it.”

you can see your reflection in the glasses. faint, but unbearably noticeable for every last line of desperation. look at you, nodding again; going yes—yes, i understand you.

do you, really?

“see? you’re so good to me.” beyond the image of yourself, you glimpse the twinkle of his approval (and consequently; your assured safety—at least for now) in his eyes. he only wears his glasses in the early mornings and evenings, when he hasn’t got his contacts in yet. and he wouldn’t right now, considering the two of you’d just woken up. “sometimes, i almost think i don’t deserve you.”

you think of something to say, almost immediately. think of the words so fast that you end up losing them—slipping somewhere just out of your reach.

ah, come on—!

you know they’re important. these words, they mean a lot. it’s imperative you recall them; if only so they can leave your lips.

“but then i think,” dawn’s sun is gentle, blurry glow soft through the bathroom window; hitting him so nicely, and bathing the best and worst of him in gold. “who better for me than you?” features you’ve memorised down to the last detail, your inclination to observe and remember vacillating between an obedience rooted in fear and a strange, beautiful sense of duty owed to what could only be an even stranger sort of love. “and who better for you than me?”

please come back. what were you going to say? it’s—it’s right there, you know it is and you just—what was it, again?

you need to remember. these are very important words that must be said—!

“and no matter how many times i ask myself these two questions,” his other hand, just as rough and warm, squeezes the rolled up toothpaste onto the wet, bent bristles of his toothbrush. it’s a fresh white with specks of bright blue. “the answer is always the exact same. and isn’t that absolutely beautiful?”

he carefully cradles your face with one hand, the other holding the toothbrush by its hilt—or is it called a handle? a body? these autonomous concepts are far beyond your understanding. you perceive even the most mundane object in the only way you know how which is only the one way you’ve been taught to live by.

(hurt.)

but that’s not what you were looking for. no, you’re losing yourself—going off track. you frown, dig deeper. it’s frustrating and you hate the feeling.

you were going to say something—you had to be careful of what you said; speak up only if you’d thought what you were going to say through very carefully—

and here was something you’d thought to waste your few precious words on; only to forget—!

“don’t get lost in your head, lovely.” you blink. look up to find him watching you expectantly.

you realise with a sinking feeling that you’ve been gone for longer than you’d managed to catch. you don’t let that happen too often, nowadays. and for good reason. you immediately make a mental note beneath his curious gaze not to let it happen again.

“there you are. hi, darling. i really hate when you leave me like that.”

you’ve learnt to be attentive and observant, attuned to his every desire—and truthfully, as he often asks you when his mouth is sucking on the sensitive skin of your neck; are they really that different to yours?

so when you notice that his eyes are focused on your lips, instinctively, you part them with a shuddering breath; stand right on your tippy toes and slide your palms up, up, up his body and right over his shoulders—

“oh,” you’re knocked off kilter when his chest, as warm and strong and unyielding as ever beneath your pliant hands, reverberates with unexpected low laughter. you take a step back, but you can see in the reflection of his glasses that he sees it as a stumble; the falter of shame at him having caught your hand in a metaphorical cookie jar. “oh, poor baby. i wasn’t—”

he straightens. catches his breath to wipe a tear from his eye. “oh, darling. you thought i was going to kiss you?”

you stammer, pathetically, hopelessly; only end up looking like even more of a fool when the uncertain edges of an excuse in the back of your mind fail to solidify into something sharper; something that would cut and sink and stay under his skin.

it’s not your fault. really—! you’re just trying to remember those words you’d lost a second ago—where did they go?

he watches with great, quiet amusement as the words continue to evade you, despite your best efforts. eventually, your jaw falls slack and the cat really has got your tongue and even though you know the cat is right around the corner you can’t—can’t quite reach it to get the words back—when they were only just here one second—

“hey. that’s alright.” he squeezes your cheeks together with one hand, and you forgo any last, sad attempt at trying to talk. “i know, baby. i got you. i get it. you understand me, and i understand you. that’s how this works. you don’t have to explain yourself.”

the words in your head are getting closer. clearer. you can feel it; are acutely aware of the fact that you’re on the brink of a breakthrough. monumental for yourself, to know what to say for today, but worth very little to him.

“i’m sorry for laughing. you’re just so cute. i promise i’ll give you a kiss after, okay? i’ll give you all of the kisses you want, darling.” you nod again, more desperate this time. you want him to think back on this morning and remember his glowing success at solidifying your obedience rather than your own spectacular failure at defying him. his grip loosens, hands slide down to your chin—a finger tapping against your jaw with expectation. “but only if you can go back to showing me you’re listening. makes sense?”

it’s very important that you show him you’re listening. very important not to lose yourself in your own head.

“alright, darling. be patient, okay? this is going to sting for a bit. might hurt you a little. so hold onto me if you need, but do not,” he smiles softly, “even think about pulling away. alright?”

the last time you’d lost yourself in your head had also been the first.

you remember, still, looking up at him through your lashes the same way you are now. though, then, you’d been crying. you could afford to do that, before—wave the markers of resistance around like a white flag. it should have been easy; you’d surrender physically—but you wouldn’t really be there mentally. thought that would make the violating ordeal easier to bear.

he’d caught on, of course. the minute your eyes glazed over and your jaw went slack. he hadn’t even pushed his fingers (still slick from your arousal) past your lips—he rolled his eyes. muttered something to himself and got up, instead. you chose not to come back just yet; fearing he’d just return any second now and try again.

from somewhere far away, you’d heard the whistle of the kettle; both at once a shrill scream and yet as silent as a whisper, over the sound of his restless pacing in the kitchen, and then the strangely quiet steps down the hall again.

“you want to zone out when i’m speaking to you, baby?” he’d cooed. pulled out your tongue, pinched between his thumb and forefinger—warm skin unbearably uncomfortable against the wet, squirming muscle that he yanked further out of your mouth. you were there, now, physically and mentally—because you’d seen the kettle in his hands.

“darling, if you think i’m going to just let you check out on me,” he flippantly spoke over your screaming and thrashing, his knee on your chest was painfully digging into your ribs. your body was shaking violently. his hands were as steady as his gaze. eyes trained on your mouth, just like now. “then you don’t know me at all, and that’s very disappointing. so i thought,” he said casually, lips curling into something sweet. “maybe i should show you exactly what sort of man i am. just so you know not to ignore me, again. just so you remember to pay attention.”

and when you screamed again, he’d silently tipped the spout of the kettle over, fingers loosely wrapped around the hilt—and down, down, down had the boiling water gone; spilling straight into your mouth and right onto your poor little tongue.

so today, on this slow morning where the sun hasn’t even risen yet and the stars are still out in the sky, you listen very closely to what he says.

he lines the toothbrush up against your teeth. “open your mouth for me, baby. a little wider.”

you obey.

“that’s perfect, love. come just a little closer, will you? tilt your head up.” he kisses your nose. “good job, baby. now stay still.”

he’s looking down at you through his glasses with a quiet intensity, focused entirely on the task at hand. he still looks golden in the light of the rising sun.

the warm hand holding your jaw in place is soft and his movements are careful as he moves the bristles of the brush over your every tooth with a gentle affection.

he is cleaning you, helping you heal when he takes the utmost care not to let the brush he wields touch your tongue for even the barest moment; the muscle is lying uselessly limp, slack and scarred in the cavern of your mouth—heavier now from the burden of an unspoken confession.

because the words that had been just out of reach have come back to you as quick as they’d first disappeared. in a second, you almost stumble beneath the weight of them; the burden of needing to blurt out what you’ve worked so very hard to get back; something you need to say because you looked for it and found it and you need to tell him. you need to speak. let it out—

say it—!

but you can’t.

so because you can’t quite speak again just yet, even though he does his best not to make it hurt for you any more, you look up and smile at him; sweet, eager, and bright.

his lips curl. you glimpse the approval in his gaze. let yourself feel safe, again, in his hold as he presses another kiss to your nose. “i got you, baby. don’t even need to use your words for me to understand you. i know you already. like i said, nobody better, yeah?”

you can’t tell whether he’s referring to you or himself, so you stay very still as he continues brushing your front teeth, positioning your head at different angles as he makes sure to get every tooth. spends extra time on your canines, you notice.

“we’re going to have such a beautiful day, darling. i think i’m going to love you very kindly today. want to show you that i can be nice, baby. how’s that sound, hm?”

and even though you can see in the reflection of his glasses that despite his careful efforts, your gums are bleeding from the bent bristles of the toothbrush, the blood having mixed with the toothpaste, now staining your teeth a soft, foamy pink; because you won’t quite be able to say it just now—

it’s all you can do to split your lips into a grin and hope he understands.

[witherby]

Wait I kinda wanna see mousy’s blow up 🤭

You can absolutely see the blow up 😏

The Littlest Wayne: Boiling Point

The post that inspired this response is Here!

Masterlist is Here!

You can't remember what started the argument. An errant comment, some joke in poor taste, an accusatory question — it could have been anything. All you know is that you said something you felt was important, Damian ignored it, Tim dismissed it, and Dick acted like you hadn't said it to begin with, and now you're livid and don't want to finish your dinner.

"May I be excused," you say to Alfred, already pushing your chair back from the table before he can respond. Your grandfather gives you a concerned look, but nods.

"Shall I bring something up to you later, young master?" He asks. You don't know if you'll have any appetite by then, but you agree anyway to spare his feelings.

"Where are you going?" Bruce asks, frowning as you stand to leave. "I haven't seen you in a week, honey. Even if you're not hungry, can you sit a while?"

"Whose fault is that," you snap. The room gets real quiet after that, a mixture of surprise and incredulity painting your father's face.

"Excuse me?"

"I'm not making you go anywhere, dad," you scowl, "if you missed me then you'd find the time to see me."

"Hold on. I don't think that's very fair," Hal speaks up, reaching for your hand. You pull it away from him. "Mouse —"

"It's fine," you say, "the needs of the many outweigh the needs of one. I'm well aware. It's fine. We'll spend time together some other day. Go stop a robbery or rescue some damsels or something."

"What's with the 'tude, Flitty?" Dick pipes up, standing to block the door. "Pump the brakes for a sec. Talk to us."

"Talk to you? What, so when you inevitably forget this conversation happened you can pretend we never had it to begin with?" You sneer at your brother, looking him up and down. "No thanks. I'm not interested in being gaslit today."

"Gaslit?" Dick balks, looking like you struck him. "I've never —"

"Let them go, Dick," Tim says, twirling a bite of pasta around his fork. "It's just hormones. They'll go back to normal by tomorrow."

"Oh, of course it's just hormones," you scoff, whirling around to point a finger at Tim. "If it's got a logical explanation it's not worth dwelling on. Isn't that right? I can't be upset because I'm just going through puberty! There's no way it's acceptable for me to be upset over anything! My feelings don't matter, so they should be swept under the rug, just like your parents did to you!"

Tim drops his fork in surprise. A bit of pasta sauce hits Damian's check, and he grabs his napkin with an irritated grumble.

"This is such nonsense," the boy mutters.

"Everything that doesn't interest you personally is nonsense," you hiss at your youngest brother. "God forbid someone try to share their love for a hobby that's outside of what you find enjoyable. If the Blood Son doesn't give it his seal of approval, it's not worth the effort! Honestly, I should feel grateful you've blessed us with your presence at all! Surely your inferior siblings are barely worth your invaluable time!"

Your heart's racing. All the little, irritating things about your family that's been piling up inside you are spilling out. Your anger turns the internal hurt into external jabs and low blows, the darkest part of you wanting them to feel just a fraction of your pain at how flippantly they treat you sometimes.

"Sorry, did that upset you, Dami? Aww, it's okay! Like Tim says, it's just an emotional response brought on by some underlying factor! It won't last so it's not worth devoting your time to! And if you're like Dicky, you can just wave it away and say it never happened, no matter what you show him to prove it did! Maybe if you hadn't had the time to make it to dinner and spent weeks or months rushing off to do something more important at the start, you wouldn't have to sit through this conversation at all! Hope that helps!"

A hand comes down on your shoulder, silencing your rant. You whip around to find Jason staring down at you with a heartbroken frown. He looks so genuinely upset that any remaining anger dissipates immediately.

"Mousey," he whispers, "stop. Take a breath."

He looks so blurry. You blink a couple times and realize your panting and crying. No one will look you directly in the eyes except for Alfred, who's visibly tired. There's pity in his eyes.

It stings. God. Everything stings. Your face flushes with color as you realize what you've said and done. You want the earth to open up and swallow you.

It doesn't have to be the earth.

Before anyone can protest, your shadow wraps around your ankles and drags you down, then dissipates.

"Mouse, don't —" Jason kneels on the floor, just a hair too slow. "Fuck."

[lockandkeyblade]

dead on main first meeting but it's really awkward

"Danny, where have you been?!" Is the first thing Jazz snaps once she answers her phone. She has a right to snap. This isn't Amity, this is Gotham. A place where the villans weren't just ghosts, where her little brother wasn't just a vigilante. He was trafficking bait. He was an accidental drug mule. He was supposed to be back at the hotel three hours ago. She was allowed to be stressed. Although, she can't help but add to that question. "Do you...have a cat?"

"Hey Jazz," Danny's voice is sheepish, almost entirely eclipsed by the rumbling vibrations that seem to be coming from right next to him, if she was to hazard a guess. "Sorry, I uh- got caught up in something?" "In something." Something still sounds like trouble, but it's not coming with the edge of villain, or worse, police, so she exhales. Allows her shoulders to relax.

Crosses her free arm across her chest, because Danny might not be In Trouble, but he is in so much trouble.

"What kind of something?"

"Well... see, here's the thing." She can hear shifting through the receiver, before the purring stops. Almost immediately, Danny lets out a sharp yelp-- and the purring continues, just as sharp and vibrant as before. "I got a little lost, and next thing I know, uh- I think Red Hood thinks I'm some kind of ecto-plushi?"

They both fall into silence, for several moments. The purring does not stop.

"Red Hood."

"Yeah."

"The crime lord vigilante?"

"Yeup."

"Is using you as a teddy? A ghost teddy?"

"Mhm. It's been like... four hours, I think? He calmed down for a while, but calming down doesn't mean letting me go, apparently." Danny huffs, loudly. Ignoring her absent reprimand for making the phone peak. "Nightwing tried to help for maybe five minutes, but I told him to get lost."

"Why?" "I think he was crying?" Danny mumbles something about photos, but right now, that really isn't important.

Her little brother had been kidnapped off the street. By Red Hood. For cuddles.

"...Huh." Okay, sure.

She can't say this is the weirdest thing to happen to them. Sighing, Jazz strides over to her suitcase, digging through her clothes to pull out the Fenton Anti-Creep Stick. "Just send me your location, I'll come get you."

"Thanks Jazz, you're the best."

[nachrosas]

143 | s.reid x reader

summary: in which all that was needed was a post-it note with three numbers on it: 143. pairing: spencer reid x bau!reader content warnings: fluff, just pure fluff word count: 382 a/n: happy valentine's day, everyone!

The bullpen was practically empty when you arrived. Only Spencer and Hotch were there — the latter was confined to his office, a scene you were used to seeing. What you weren't used to seeing was a yellow post-it note stuck to the corner of your monitor, slightly askew, as if someone had just put it there. You automatically recognized Spencer's hurried handwriting on the small piece of paper.

143.

You frowned, holding the paper gently. It was just three numbers. Did it mean some kind of code? Some crazy equation? A puzzle he hoped you could solve? Working with Spencer meant, most days, being faced with unexpected challenges. But this one seemed to be different.

A curious sigh. That's all you did before detaching the post-it and crossing the bullpen, heading towards Spencer's desk; who was too busy, or seemed to be, reading a worn-out paperback.

“Spence?” you called out, waving the paper in the air. He looked up from the page of the book curiously. “What does 143 mean?”

The answer came in the form of a small smile — one of those totally shy smiles, almost imperceptible, but completely loaded with meaning.

You stare at the post-it again for a few more seconds until your gaze meets his again. He's there, sitting in front of you, but with his hands in his cardigan pockets. His expression is calm, but his eyes are filled with a gleam that only appeared when he was on the verge of doing something important.

Your heart races.

“So…” you begin, pointing the paper in his direction. “Are you saying what I think you are saying, Dr. Reid?”

The question hung in the air between you for a few seconds, and you almost regretted saying it out loud. But then he takes a deep breath and smiles — small, shy, but genuine.

“What if I am?”

At that moment the BAU seemed to slow down. The office, the voices coming from outside, the sound of footsteps… none of it was important at that moment.

“I guess…” you swallowed, unable to contain the smile that threatened to escape. “I should know that 143 also applies to you.”

His eyes sparkle, and you're absolutely certain that this code has never made so much sense. 

Because 143 means I love you.

[fangdokja]

Capitalism By Day, Cock Worship By Night

♡ Book. Whispers in the Dark (WITD): Subtle Devotion, Lingering Shadows.

♡ Word Count. 1,910

♡ Yandere! Fanboy who is a respected CEO by day and an unhinged hyperanalysis Tumblr user by night. The duality of man.

♡ Yandere! Fanboy who is the CEO of a multimillion-dollar company but still makes burner accounts to argue with 13-year-olds on Reddit about your character motivations. Who has an Excel spreadsheet tracking your entire career, from your first role as "background corpse #3" to your latest award-winning performance. Who spends his free time doing deep-dive analyses of your acting techniques but no one, not even his closest subordinates, knows he’s the one writing unhinged 900k-word fanfics about you.

♡ Yandere! Fanboy who has carefully curated his public image, who is stoic, charismatic, and feared in the corporate world. But the second he logs in, he’s deep-diving into the lore of you, dissecting every performance, every interview, every offhand comment you’ve ever made with the precision of a man trying to decipher the Dead Sea Scrolls.

♡ Yandere! Fanboy who writes degenerate, filthy, pornographic fanfiction about you—so detailed, so accurate, that it makes even your most deranged fans question reality. Who has crafted a smut masterpiece so depraved, so accurate, that even you would have to double-check your NDA contracts to make sure he didn't bug your dressing room. It’s so well-written it climbs to the top of AO3 and Tumblr overnight, leaving millions thirsting over a version of you that only he could have written.

♡ Yandere! Fanboy who wrote it with the precision of a surgeon and the passion of a man on death row seeing the light. It is filth. Absolute smut with no plot. Unapologetic. A symphony of depravity. And every single word? Perfectly in-character. Because if anyone knows how you would sound moaning, it's him.

♡ Yandere! Fanboy who releases the sequel and watches with malicious glee as the internet collectively loses its mind. Who makes it filthier, darker, and even more in-depth—layering psychological tension so thick that even your most hardened fans start questioning their morals. Who thrives on the idea that, somewhere out there, your closest colleagues are reading this and suffering.

♡ Yandere! Fanboy who did it because none of these incompetent writers could capture your essence properly. They all wrote you like some generic anime character, not the complex, fascinating enigma you are. He had to do it himself. He had no choice.

♡ Yandere! Fanboy who didn't mean for his fanfiction to go viral. He was just frustrated. You kept rejecting interviews, dodging meet-and-greets, refusing to acknowledge his existence beyond a stiff handshake and polite nod. So he did what any normal, well-adjusted person would do: he wrote about you getting railed. And naturally, the internet devoured it.

———

♡ Yandere! Producer who accidentally clicks on the link because some dumbass intern thought it was a business report.

♡ Yandere! Producer who stares at the screen, unblinking, unmoving, as the words "throbbing" and "whimpering" and "pressed against the wall like a starved animal" flash before his eyes. Who is suddenly regretting ever learning how to read.

♡ Yandere! Producer who doesn’t read fanfiction. Because he has a job, unlike these losers. But somehow, this abomination of a fic lands on his desk.

♡ Yandere! Producer who is about to ruin some lives because how dare someone write some filthy, degenerate, absolutely heinous material about his star. His investment. His prodigy. His—

…

♡ Yandere! Producer who is silent. Very silent.

♡ Yandere! Producer who has his phone way too close to his face now.

♡ Yandere! Producer who realizes…

“...Shit. This is actually way too accurate.”

♡ Yandere! Producer who tries to pretend he doesn’t know about it. Who tells himself he won’t read more, that he has more important things to do—but somehow ends up scrolling through it at 3 AM, gripping his tablet with white knuckles. Who gets to the most depraved part and damn near drops his cigarette in shock. Who refuses to look you in the eye for a week because now, every time you speak, all he can hear is the absolutely unhinged dialogue from the fanfic.

♡ Yandere! Producer knows you. Has known you since you were a brat barely able to hold your own scripts. He made you. Every talent you have? Honed by him. Every time you tried to half-ass a scene? Whipped into perfection by him. And yet, somehow—somehow—this unknown fucker has written a version of you so accurate, so filthy, so real, that even he is forced to question whether you’ve been sneaking around behind his back.

♡ Yandere! Producer who stares at the screen with the cold sweat of a man who just found out his daughter is a Camgirl.

His fingers tighten around his phone, veins popping.

“What the fuck is this shit?”

He knows how you move, how you breathe, how you react. But this? The way the author describes the way your body responds, your micro-expressions, the way your breath hitches at certain touches— this is not something just anyone can guess.

For the first time in his life, he feels true, genuine jealousy.

“…The fuck kinda research did this bastard do?”

♡ Yandere! Producer who takes off his glasses, pinches the bridge of his nose, and lets out the longest sigh of his career.

♡ Yandere! Producer who types a single text message to you:

“Explain this shit.”

You: “???????”

———

♡ Yandere! Rival who hates your guts, who would piss on your grave if given the chance.

♡ Yandere! Rival who was barely recovering from the first fic and now has to deal with a second, even more deranged installment. Who reads it out of morbid curiosity and ends up seething because no one should know you this well. Who stares at the screen in disbelief, fingers twitching, contemplating whether to track down the author and demand answers. Who now feels the unsettling urge to confirm for himself whether you are really that way in private—because if not, then WHO THE HELL DID THE AUTHOR BASE THIS ON?

♡ Yandere! Rival who now has his soul leave his body because he just read about you doing things he cannot unread.

♡ Yandere! Rival who is rethinking his entire life because—

“Why the fuck is this hot?”

♡ Yandere! Rival who is now staring at his screen like: 👁️👄👁️

♡ Yandere! Rival who is aggressively scrolling like, “Yeah, this is disgusting. This is so fucking filthy. This is—”

…

scrolls back up to reread a part

…

“Who the fuck wrote this?”

♡ Yandere! Rival who has always known you. That’s the curse of childhood friends turned enemies. He knows when you’re lying, knows what makes you tick. And that’s exactly why when he stumbles upon the sequel—because it’s viral as hell, he’d have to be blind not to see it— his entire body goes cold.

Because this isn’t some vague, generic smut.

This isn’t some horny Tumblr teen’s fantasy.

This is knowledge.

Knowledge that only someone who has touched you— truly, deeply, intimately— could possibly write.

He wants to deny it. Wants to brush it off, mock the poor bastard who wasted their time writing degenerate, nasty, shamelessly detailed filth about you.

But then he reads a line—just one—and his blood runs hot.

Because the way the author describes the exact way your voice breaks—

That’s real.

No one else knows that but him.

♡ Yandere! Rival who now thinks you have a secret boyfriend. Or worse—

You’re in love with someone else.

———

♡ Yandere! Hater who gets links to the fics by some rando trying to piss him off.

♡ Yandere! Hater who is already typing out a snarky message in his head like, “Lmao bet this is another shitty self-insert where—”

…

♡ Yandere! Hater who stops breathing.

♡ Yandere! Hater who has read the first three paragraphs and realizes this isn’t some generic garbage.

This is cinema.

♡ Yandere! Hater who has to pause multiple times because what the fuck is this? Because why is it turning him on?

♡ Yandere! Hater who initially refuses to read the sequel but breaks down after getting multiple DMs from people asking for his "thoughts." Who clicks on the link and proceeds to spiral into a full-blown identity crisis. Who gets irrationally angry because, AGAIN, WHY IS IT SO GOOD? Who starts analyzing the prose structure like it’s a fucking literature thesis, trying to convince himself that he’s critiquing it academically and not... enjoying it.

♡ Yandere! Hater who prides himself on being your biggest critic.

It’s fun for him. Picking apart your performances, your interviews, every public appearance you make—mocking your choices, your expressions, your fanbase. But the sequel? The fucking sequel?

It’s pissing him off.

Because who the hell wrote this?

The first one was bad enough—too well-written, too detailed, too real—but this? This is worse. This is so intimate, so obscenely visceral, that he finds himself clenching his jaw, gripping his phone tighter than necessary.

“Bullshit,” he mutters under his breath.

There’s no way someone else knows you this well.

There’s no fucking way someone has been close enough to you, touched you enough, kissed you enough, fucked you enough to be able to describe you like this.

And that thought alone—the idea that someone else might have you—

He grits his teeth. His eye twitches.

For the first time, he can’t critique.

For the first time, he’s just angry.

♡ Yandere! Hater who then proceeds to read all 20,000 words in one sitting, face getting progressively darker with each passing paragraph. Who realizes, with great horror, that he’s actually getting jealous.

♡ Yandere! Hater who slams his laptop shut, stands up, and immediately walks out of his apartment because this is not okay. Who needs to go touch grass. Who is now wondering if he should start writing his own version—

No.

No.

This cannot be happening.

♡ Yandere! Hater who eventually messages you:

“You got a ghostwriter or some shit? Because whoever wrote this knows you in ways that shouldn’t be possible.”

You: “Excuse me????”

———

Whereas, ♡ Yandere! Fanboy is watching.

♡ Yandere! Fanboy who sits in his private office, sipping imported tea, refreshed and satisfied, knowing that his work has shaken the world.

♡ Yandere! Fanboy who checks the AO3 stats. Sequel already at 100k hits. Comments pouring in. Tumblr discourse ignited.

♡ Yandere! Fanboy who smirks as he reads their reactions because he expected all of this.

♡ Yandere! Fanboy who already has the third installment in the drafts.

♡ Yandere! Fanboy who is only getting started.

────────────

If you want to be added or removed from the tag list, just comment on the MASTERLIST of Whispers in the Dark (WITD): Subtle Devotion, Lingering Shadows. Thank you.

General TAG LIST of “Whispers In The Dark”: @keisocool , @elvabeth , @elloredef , @mjsjshhd , @lem-hhn , @yuki-istired , @lilyalone , @starryperson , @yandreams-storageblog , @tiffyisme3760 , @songbirdgardensworld , @yune1337 , @mocalocha

❤︎ Fang Dokja's Books.

♡ Book 1. A Heart Devoured (AHD): A Dark Yandere Anthology ♡ Book 2. Forbidden Fruits (FF): Intimate Obsessions, Unhinged Desires. ♡ Book 3. World Ablaze (WA) : For You, I'd Burn the World. ♡ Book 4 [you are here]. Whispers in the Dark (WITD): Subtle Devotion, Lingering Shadows. ♡ Book 5. Ink & Insight (I&I): From Dead Dove to Daydreams.

[lady-wildflower]

Using AI like this is, frankly, how you train yourself to be dumb as fucking rocks and I can't believe that that's an advertised feature. Ads on TV talking about how you can use it to summarise your emails and meetings and clean up your language for corporate stuff- THOSE ARE ALL IMPORTANT SKILLS FOR YOU, THE HUMAN BEING IN THIS EQUATION, TO LEARN!

If you're having AI summarise all your big emails to you, not only do you not know for certain if it was fucking correct, you also don't know if it explained it properly and you're so intellectually lazy that you can't be arsed making sure you actually understand what you're supposed to have been told. It might somehow save time, but at the cost of both any nuance the AI didn't catch in its dataset and your own learning. And even worse, if you use it to send an email back, whoever receives that email surely expects you to have understood the actual text of their email, not whatever bullshit the AI hallucinated, when you might not have even read the AI summary very closely! Same with meetings, how the fuck can you trust an AI to properly summarise a whole fucking meeting replete with details AND WHY THE FUCK WOULD YOU WANT TO WHEN YOU COULD USE YOUR HUMAN BRAIN TO PAY ATTENTION AND A NOTEPAD?! Surely I cannot be the only person who realises that such AI-driven miscommunication could be literally lethal in a particularly sensitive field?

If you're using it to code, especially when you're supposed to be learning how to code, congrats you're a moron whose motivation to be in this class I question first of all, second, not only are you producing worse code, you're not learning how to use the code to problem solve! You're not learning the flexibility and critical thinking needed for actual coding, you're actively sabotaging your own learning.

Your homework and exams are meant to prove your understanding of a topic, of course your fellow student is struggling - he doesn't have an understanding of the topic. He's outsourced that to a machine!

How little can you care about a subject if you're using it to research?! How little curiosity can you possibly have?

Don't even get me started on using it to 'write.'

I fundamentally cannot understand the impulse to use AI this way, and I suspect that therein lies the problem; it stems from such a deep level of incuriosity and genuine laziness that it just doesn't make sense to me. Why would you want an AI between you and your coworkers, obfuscating their actual communications? Why would you want an AI to do all your coding for you?? Never mind if it's bad for your soul, it's bad for your mind! At that point, you're making a machine do all of your problem-solving, all of your thinking.

If someone's gonna decide to rely on such a thing like this, then them inevitably becoming a stupid motherfucker is kinda on them. It's an active choice not to learn. And that just flabbergasts me. It's a great retort to impostor syndrome though, those AI-bro fuckers are the impostors. Feel like you're not a good enough coder? I promise you you're better than the idiots using AI.

And all that's not even getting into how wrong it often is!

I just started grad school this fall after a few years away from school and man I did not realize how dire the AI/LLM situation is in universities now. In the past few weeks:

I chatted with a classmate about how it was going to be a tight timeline on a project for a programming class. He responded "Yeah, at least if we run short on time, we can just ask chatGPT to finish it for us"

One of my professors pulled up chatGPT on the screen to show us how it can sometimes do our homework problems for us and showed how she thanks it after asking it questions "in case it takes over some day."

I asked one of my TAs in a math class to explain how a piece of code he had written worked in an assignment. He looked at it for about 15 seconds then went "I don't know, ask chatGPT"

A student in my math group insisted he was right on an answer to a problem. When I asked where he got that info, he sent me a screenshot of Google gemini giving just blatantly wrong info. He still insisted he was right when I pointed this out and refused to click into any of the actual web pages.

A different student in my math class told me he pays $20 per month for the "computational" version of chatGPT, which he uses for all of his classes and PhD research. The computational version is worth it, he says, because it is wrong "less often". He uses chatGPT for all his homework and can't figure out why he's struggling on exams.

There's a lot more, but it's really making me feel crazy. Even if it was right 100% of the time, why are you paying thousands of dollars to go to school and learn if you're just going to plug everything into a computer whenever you're asked to think??

[bbrainr0t]

For when you flower I

Masterlist

Pairing: Emperor Caracalla x Greek!woman/reader x Emperor Geta

Warnings: 18+, minors dni, mentions of violence, blood, death, and slavery, hints of PTSD/bad mental health - there will be an imbalance between the owned and the owner (sexism, oppression, etc.), toxic relationship at some point

Tags: Enemies to lovers (?), triangle drama/love (but no incest, I swear), unhealthy/toxic dynamics, slave x masters basically (for now), no use of y/n, 1st person narrative

Summary: A greek woman has been stolen from her lands, Hellas, and in the midst of questioning her faith and destiny, she ends up before the feet of the emperors.

Word count: 1.9K

A/N: In this story there will appear a few words that's either ancient greek or latin (I study the languages, I know, super cool :ppp) - so I will make sure to add a little note once in a while when a new word pops up that I feel like is important for you to know. Though bare with me as I will not include some of the words... because not even the main character knows the meaning of the words sometimes.

In the worst cases: trust your gut. Believe me, when I say english isn't that far from latin.

This is the first story on my page, so please, if you like this chapter, show support by liking, reblogging and commenting. It'll really motivate me!! Thank you in advance <333 And now, I present chapter 1 of the story "For when you flower."

Dictionary for this chapter:

Hellas = the actual name of ancient greece Hellenes = the people of ancient greece (shoutout to that one ask for calling me out <333) Aphrike = the ancient greek name for Afrika Nemesis = both a god of justice, but mostly a term for revenge when greek had committed hybris - broken the rules given by the gods, which were made to keep the world in order

I was taken from my home.

Not too long ago I was in Hellas, the land of the gods. I was surrounded by my people, by our culture. A people who remained in pain of the filth stowed upon them day after day. A culture robbed of its riches. We were oppressed in our own home – but it was still ours. Ours to appreciate in the shadows, hidden from those not worthy of the glory. It was like one people of the other claimed our land as theirs. There was no peace other than in the dark hidden from the Persians and from the Romans.

It was in the shadows we allowed ourselves to continue our faith, to pray for mercy from the almighty gods. There was no justice outside in the light. Oh, how they dragged our names in the dirt.

It was in the shadows where the statues of the great remained, statues of the house gods to whom I owed my life. There was so much they could deprive us from but not hope. Not then in our land, Hellas.

I remember the day I received my prophecy. It did not speak of the agony I now find myself drowning in, no, it spoke of a resurrection of the people, of the belief.

I was to be an oracle. A hope. It had said: “A holy war in sight, only you can conquer with might. What’s been small and fragile in the past, will then flower from your hands.”

I was never the person to question the Gods intention – on the contrary I was honored to be given such kind words from those who we were taught to fear. I was looking forward to the day the prophecy would be fulfilled, the day were I was to serve the God of all good, sun and light, truth and prophecy, Apollo.

His name has lost all worth for I was brought out of the dark – not by will. And I cried. I cried a river but none of my prayers were heard.

It all changed the day the Romans came back.

I knew of the cruel nature of the Romans – of how they kidnapped and abused our land, but I was yet still too naive to think that they never would dare to touch the sacred, the ever so respected priests and priestess of the divine. They crushed the blest spirit, the day where light was shone on the serene shadows.

In truth I was only starting to understand the practices that were expected of me to perform. Rituals. I was yet to be the oracle, humble servant of Apollo. However, I still had a title to which previous Roman soldiers had respected and truly endeared.

I still remember the roman soldier that had asked for my guidance. Oh, how his eyes lit up as truth and prosperity embraced his whole. I showed him the way into the arms of Hera, Mother of Gods. Maybe he was lying – another mockery.

Hera, Apollo, where are you?

The event of my abduction is merely a night terror in my head by now, consuming my every thought; Every nerve jolting at the irreversible pain that had been caused by the filthy, the Romans. Every second has been a battle to actively try to suppress the memory of that day, that night, that month, that year. The only memory left by now was the change of weather from Hellas to Aphrike to Rome. The grief, the wicked and the filth. And that one man.

Hellenes is now barely a wrinkle in the dent of my cheek. An echo in the weariest of nights where sleep caresses me at last with promises of new hope, a new life. Something no God seemed to care to give to us anymore.

The Gods barely matter. That’s the truth. Today, as I sit with my hands tied, I believe that they were erased together with the rest of torment. Burnt, broken and beaten. I still pray, yes, but no longer with fear as they intended, no, it was disbelief and grief – and that was no righteous way of praying to the Gods I once knew, but it doesn’t matter. What horrid thing had I done that the Gods placed me in the hands of predators to obey? A feel of surrender not only towards Nemesis but also those I now call my masters, domini.

What a horrid word.

Today I sit behind bars with hardly anything to cover up the shame of my position. I have spent maybe a hundred days in this forsaken land, learning their dirty tongue in hopes of finding my eventual master. One, who I hope would have mercy. And perhaps today was the day the Gods finally hear my prayer, or maybe I’m still naive to hope.

I’m being transferred to a place, I have yet to understand the meaning of: Palatium. The name itself placed a heavy weight on my heart like a blanket of steel. I will not give up.

The slave trader waved our carriage away. By my side are other women as well as men, men of honor. All sit mute as If our tongues had been cut off, deaf as if our ears were burnt. In silence we agree that everything has seemed a blur since that day the free became the forced.

Around us men and women dressed in silk and tunics of pride bore at the sight of us. Those who would show interest were collectors which could be seen clear as day by their make-believe costumes of the people of Hellas, Hellenes. Us. They want us, not because of our personal value, the virtue which was supposedly given to us by the supposedly righteously gods, but because of our skin, our blood. They had that in common with the men, scouting gladiators in between our honest men, the heroes of Hellenes.

The injustice floods my already burning chest. My heart is beating but for what? Beating against the steel and iron like the drums of war. I bite my cheek as I feel the phantom sensation of tears flocking my arid eyes. Damn you, Gods. Despite the growing distrust I urge myself to mummer a prayer in our mother tongue with eyes squinted close: “I ask for your justice, righteous Dike, for your mercy on my soul and for whatever deed lead me here, Nemesis. Ares, I summon your war to these wasteful souls that do not honor your name. Oh, Zeus-“

“Quiet down.” The woman to the right mummer. “The Gods intended this. We will meet the ends of our suffering soon enough.” I could feel how I was quick to anger over how she sounded so reassuring – but mostly also how she was right. Peeking a look at her I meet not a woman, but the ghost of life displayed and laying across her pale face. She’s an old woman, probably not intended to see the light of day. Other than her wrinkles, there is no identity to be seen or studied. Her appearance no longer mirrors whatever woman she had been as her clothes are merely a used bag, her hair thin and shed, dead on her shoulder. She will likely be bought for nothing but labor. A prime example of a worthless slave in the eyes of the filthy.

My anger now replaced by pity. Sadness.

“Apologies.”  I slightly nod and purse my lips. I feel my eye twitch. I ponder of her name, but I choke on the words. Embarrassed, I lower my head.

The next thing I hear is a rustle. Perhaps she had read my thoughts, maybe not. A short moment of quiet follows as her hand caresses mine. Comforting. Motherly.

Maybe Hera is here after all.

Suddenly the world begins the spin as the carriage suddenly stops and puncturing whatever hope, the woman had planted and sown. Dizziness takes a hold of my consciousness. The world seems to blur once more. I feel my body become weak and heavy. Her hand on my cheek. Her shoulder next. She saves me from the floor. She holds up me upright.

Our movements become flashes. The world so dark. The next thing I know, I’m on marble floor.

The air here seems heavy and loaded with scents of war. It strikes and pokes my insides like spikes. Carefully I tip my head up to look around at the surroundings – only to meet the toes and the feet of a man, sandals of a noble.

“You brought a weakling into the house of gods?” The sandals huffed. “Surely, you must be pulling some kind of cruel joke.”

It’s like his voice barely made it through his gritted teeth but I cannot see. The muscles in my neck ache. But I feel her hand. The woman is still holding me. It calms my nerves, and I seem to forget the pain.

“And an old woman.” I watch the right foot tap and as it jingles with all its riches. “I cannot believe this… this… insult! This is an insult – towards the gods, let alone the emperors! What will they think?”

“I reassure you; she was fine a moment ago! One of our finest samples!” I recognize this voice to be the dealer, the man who bought me off the coast of Aphrike.

“How am I supposed to make any of these women presentable?” The sandals raised his voice slightly but were quickly to draw a breath. “Out.”

It sounds as if the words were venom, shooting from the teeth of a python. No doubt that this man has power.

“But-“

“No! I said out. Before the emperors see these-“

“See what?”

The atmosphere changes.

A new pair of sandals makes their way across the floor, scraping whatever dirt there is up. A pair of feet who seem too weak to bear the heavy burden of its body or its mind, erratic in its every move. And yet so weary and tired.

And then there were quiet.

It feels as if a minute passes by before any other word is being spilt. The burdened speaks again, marginally more distressed: “Speak up for I wish not to be left out.” The voice takes on a child-like attitude, one which knows no laughter, only squabble and snappiness of the upmost impatient kind. A part of me wishes to look and console this unfortunate soul.

The fancy sandals jerk. “Sorry, my emperor, I was just telling this joke of a seller off because of this abomination of a delivery. I assure you; I am picking only the upmost desirable for you. Ones in the best of health.”

A wish now broken.

“And what do you know about health?!” The voice snaps as if the sandals words truly had offended its entire bloodline – its apparent noble bloodline. Filth.

“That was not-“

“OUT!” It screeched. The sound of a blade rings in the room, making me lower my head by instinct. Blinking, I feel a pain ache in my heart flashing, not of physical pain but of pure agony within my soul. Memories, nightmares flash before me. The thick scent becomes recognizable. My dearest friend as of the last year. The smell of iron. Of blood. The only proof of life and of worth.

Once more it blurs. My soul cannot take this torture any further.

“Caracalla! Calm down!” Is the second to last thing I hear.

“Geta! He is-“ Is the last thing I hear.

I remember them faintly. Their names. The fear that infiltrated my home, my people.

The twin emperors; Geta and Caracalla.

Oh, how I resent them

Next chapter

[angelesca]

🌹🌹"weeeeeelcome to 'the worst dating show in hsr'! i'm your host, angelesca(no one cares🙄), and today, we'll find out who will be your lucky valentine's date this year, based on a crappy personality test~" ft. the victims candidates: mydei, dan heng, stelle n' caelus, and phainon!

rules:

for each question, decide which applies to you most - remember to keep tally of the letters you choose (will determine your valentine's date~)!

other notes:

total of 9 very unoriginal questions

five endings (who you end up with!💗) + a song to match from my trash playlist!

this is a post meant for fun! my headcanons will not line up with everyone else's, but hopefully i didn't do them too bad😭

mentions of hugging and kissing, but nothing beyond that😎

the game show is about to begin! lights, camera, action!

thanks for deciding to take part in the game! let's start with the first question:

Q1] pick a season!

a] winter

b] summer

c] spring

d] autumn

Q2] what's your fav food/most likely to eat?

a] noodle soup, phở, ramen

b] spicy, hot wings, mala hot pot, or foods with acquired tastes

c] cake, biscuits and tea/cookies and milk, parfaits

d] whatever is convenient, or you don't have much preference

Q3] plan your ideal valentine's date!

a] dining out, relaxing spa day/museum trip, shopping spree

b] amusement park, arcade, photo booths and cute accessories

c] going for a drive, stargazing, cosy picnic with fairylights

d] staying in, watching a film under blankets, playing boardgames

Q4] choose a valentine's gift!

a] flowers and chocolates

b] stuffed animal

c] jewellery

d] handwritten poem/letter

Q5] what's your fav trope out of these?

a] forbidden love/star-crossed love

b] childhood friends to lovers/soulmates

c] rivals (or enemies) to lovers/opposites attract

d] fake dating/workplace romance

Q6] pick an ideal love language for your partner!

a] words of affirmation

b] gifting

c] physical touch or acts of service

d] quality time

Q7] what are the most important qualities you look for in a partner?

a] outgoing, flirty, romantic!

b] quirky, humorous, spontaneous!

c] headstrong, loyal, protective!

d] intelligent, calm, reliable!

Q8] there's a pink cupcake on the table. how do you eat it? (help im running out of ideas)

a] the conventional way, unwrapping it and using your hands to eat. nothing fancy

b] twist it in half and stack it so you can eat it like a burger

c] with a knife and fork, or chopsticks, anything to not make a mess

d] remove the frosting and eat just the cake, or eating them separately

Q9] lastly, pick a cheesy and cringey pick-up line! (that i totally didn't steal from the internet)

a] "remember me? oh, that's right, i've only met you in my dreams."

b] "my love for you is like diarrhea, i just can't hold it in!"

c] "i'm not good at holding conversations. can i hold your hand instead?"

d] "forget hydrogen. you're my number one element."

⚔️ if you got mostly a's... 𝐩𝐡𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐨𝐧 is your valentine's date! ♪♫ angel - alice phoebe lou ♪♫ extroverted, easygoing, well-liked by everyone! flirty, romantic, always planning dates like they are anniversaries. any praise will make him shy despite his confidence, lots of blushing. gentleman fr, loves hand-holding, guides you softly with his hand on your lower back, will not kiss you first - only when you want to initiate it! will get clingy if you two are separated for some time, sends teleslate messages every morning and likes using cute puppy stickers. compliments you at every corner, makes you feel like you're in the centre of his universe, looooots of affirmations of his love for you! but behind all the smiles and extravaganza, hides secrets and a pained past unveiled... keep an ear open to let him know you're there for him!

🎇 if you got mostly b's... 𝔰𝔱𝔢𝔩𝔩𝔢 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔠𝔞𝔢𝔩𝔲𝔰/trailblazer are(is) your valentine's date! ♪♫ it was love - yena ♪♫ there's never a dull moment! spontaneous, adventurous, hard to predict their next moves. loves to make you laugh, expressive, will make a fool out of themselves, always goes along with your ideas and jokes, will heal your inner child! loves clinging to your arm, crawls into your bed at night. looooves gifting you! almost always a box in front of your door, filled with trinkets and gadgets that reminded them of you (was it found in a trashcan? welllll it's the thought that counts, right?). all their medals gained from trailblazing are given to you just to impress you! hoards all your gifts, their room might as well be yours. clumsy, never dated before so this is a new journey for them. make sure to tell them if they accidentally upset you! they're willing to learn and understand.

🍷 if you got mostly c's... ʍʏɖɛɨ is your valentine's date! ♪♫ honey - porch light ♪♫ an undying loyalty, his exterior seems tough, some bickering and competition at the start, but he eventually melts, a passionate love behind closed doors revealed to you only. small and quiet gestures like making you walk the inside of the pavement, carrying heavy baggage, always helping you even if unprompted. will send anyone who wrongs you into orbit, never to return. unexpectedly touchy, makes up for his lack of words probably - loves giving back hugs, kisses all your moles, freckles, scars if you have any, hugs you when sleeping, some affectionate biting, worships your body. likewise, loves when you reciprocate. miiiiight get overprotective and possessive, but it's only because he's afraid to lose you someday. bro needs your reassurance. and head rubs too.

🐉 if you got mostly d's... 𝒹𝒶𝓃 𝒽𝑒𝓃𝑔 is your valentine's date! ♪♫ blue salvia - PRYVT ♪♫ pragmatic and reliable. once you get to know him, he becomes more comfortable! his tail will hug every part of your body, uses it to pull you closer, rests your head on his shoulder, and tell you some of his dry humour jokes. always giving you his undivided attention - puts down everything to listen to you, silence is not uncomfortable or awkward for you two, greatly respects your personal space. really loves watching you be passionate about hobbies, work etc.! will sit with you and help if you have a hard task at hand. will research all your interests in depth, notes down your favourite things in his notebook, eventually knowing it by heart. communication can be stiff sometimes, just remember to be honest and open with each other.

🌹if you got no dominant answer (e.g. there's a tie) ... well... that's depressing- uuuh, is that ar-argenti?? he says he's very sad to be left out on valentine's day, so you two can pair together? oh, nice! he's already reserved a restaurant for the both of you. huh? a wreath of 999 roses and a statue in honour of your excellence is on it's way to you?! (alternatively, you can pick whoever you like most out of your results!)

i'd love to know who you guys got!!!♥️♥️♥️(i got ma boi dan heng😎[dh gang assemble here!])

a/n: literally felt like a couple therapist writing this✍️ anw happy early valentine's!! I MADE IT ON TIME YAAAAAY!!!!! this one is going in with my halloween gang😋 if you enjoyed this, lemme know! maybe i'll make more in the future and other minigames? i have one more draft brewing in my lab, a very special one heeheehe. will prob post soon! thanks for playing! 💐

[softtdaisy]

oooh or 14 and hotch :3

ultraviolence / aaron hotchner

summary. aaron had a hard time dealing with your relationship, his feelings for you and seeing you put yourself in danger constantly as your boss. until it explodes.

words count. 2 477

prompt. “I’ve had worse.”“And that’s why I’m angry.” from here

what to expect. is it angst? yes again. reader gets hurt so mention of blood and bruises, very brief mention of abuse and torture. aaron is sad and deserves a hug

a/n. thank you again for your request sweetie, I love writing stories from your idea 🥹 I really love this story I could write more about these two so I really hope you will love it too!! 🫶

F1 masterlist | general masterlist | request

This case was absolutely awful. 

The team left for Los Angeles on Sunday night after a new victim was discovered. It was the fifth in less than two weeks, and the police finally decided to call the FBI for help. Little did you know how horrifying the situation was.

You got the call at Aaron’s place. 

Nobody knew that you were seeing each other. It might not be appreciated for your boss to find comfort in one of his team member's arms. At least, not by the people above him. 

Because unbeknownst to you and Aaron, the team was making bets about when you two would conclude, to which Emily assured it was already done. And about when you would make it official, to which Derek said it would probably never happen considering Hotch needs to keep his private life…well, private.

His phone ring woke you up from a very nice dream that had just begun. After spending the evening together, you and Aaron started spending the night together too. You’ve been in bed for less than an hour when you heard the ring and felt his arm around your waist moving to grab the phone. There was something reassuring in the way he was keeping you against him, with his other arms around you and one of his legs on top of yours to prevent you from moving. He put one last kiss on your hair before answering. 

“Hotchner,” he said with a raspy voice that was caused by you. And it only made you want to start again to hear your name with this voice. Your hand even got lost on the hair in his chest, unconsciously. 

But the reality struck you back. And sooner than you thought, you were back in the office.

Nobody asked why you arrived with Aaron or why you were wearing the exact same clothes as the day before. While your boss had time to change his shirt and tie.

Nobody asked at that moment, and soon, the questions seemed pointless once you discovered the case.

The atrocity of the torture these poor women went through made you all so angry that nothing in your life seemed more important than giving them justice.

Maybe you shouldn’t have worked with your heart more than with your brain these past days.

Maybe you shouldn’t have offered to be the bait to catch this monster.

Maybe you shouldn’t have insisted when Aaron kept saying he refused to let you go there and put your life in danger.

Maybe you should have paid attention to the worried look on your colleagues' faces and not assimilated it as being reluctant to get between the two of you.

But you still ended up at the monster place to catch him. 

You saw Aaron’s look on you when you left the car. It was a mix of worry for letting you get in the lion’s cage and a little bit of arousal, having an idea of what you might look like on a date with him. A date he hoped he could get after the case.

A hope that slowly died during the night. 

When your mic stopped working, Aaron had to fight every single feeling in his body to not run and get you back with the team. He knew you were on a mission and that if you didn’t get any proof, this would have been worthless. Yet, not knowing if you were still safe was killing him. And Rossi noticed how he threw his headset after you lost contact.

One hour.

Two hours.

Three hours went by.

And then a gunshot resonated in the air.

Everyone on site ran from the van to go inside the unsub’s house. Before they could finish climbing the stairs outside, you opened the door. Some still ran inside to make sure the unsub was under control. 

Emily and Derek stayed outside, close to you.

Aaron stayed at the bottom of the stairs, unable to move.

Your dress was ripped at the bottom, and one of the straps was torn and hanging loosely on your chest. Your hair, perfectly done when you came in, was now tangled. And the bruises.

It was killing Aaron to see them on your beautiful face, with your bleeding lip, and others growing on your arms.

It was killing Aaron that he couldn’t see them all.

“I’m fine,” you sighed to stop Emily and Derek from talking on top of each other. You had a big enough headache already. But you still gave them a small smile to prove that you weren’t mad. Just tired.

You wished you could easily accept their worries, but you couldn’t. You just wanted this to be done. There are some reactions you can’t control like that.

When you finally walked down the stairs and came closer to Aaron, you imagined he would be just as worried and asked you multiple questions. But he didn’t.

He ignored you. Worse, before doing so, he gave you the disappointed boss look. One that made the features on his face harder, meaner. One that reminded everyone who was above everybody in this team. A look that you hated. 

The following hours were just as blurry as the rest. Emily came with you to the hospital to make sure you weren’t alone and weren’t in danger. The medics took good care of you, from what you could memorize. The only thing you remember was the single tear that ran down your face with the sudden realization of what happened.

You almost got abused. You almost died there. And the only arms you needed after that moment were firmly closed against the chest you loved to sleep against. 

After Emily brought you back to your hotel room, you expected to have a lonely and sleepless night.

You just had the time to put on a loose shirt before you heard the knocks on your door. 

Just with that, you knew who it was.

Emily never knocks more than twice.

Spencer’s are gentle, like he feared bothering.

“Aaron,” you sighed, opening the door.

His ones were louder, probably coming from his boss' status. But not brutal. Almost like he was trying to contain his strength and not appear arrogant.

You turned around once he heard his steps behind you. You didn’t need to see him. You didn’t even want him around tonight. And you didn’t want to look at him because you knew a part of your heart wouldn’t resist him.

Because you knew, you knew how he would look.

So you ignored Aaron for at least a minute. Until you couldn’t stand the silence in the room suffocating you. 

Like you imagined, Aaron had taken off his tie and shirt and replaced them with a grey sweater that you absolutely loved on him. An old one that faded a little here and here that made him look younger. His hair was still wet from his shower.

But you didn’t expect him to stay by the door frozen. His eyes were locked on the bruises on your skin, and there were still marks of anger on his face.

“What do you wa…” you started, rolling your eyes from the situation. But Aaron cut you off sharply.

“That was stupid.” 

You hated that tone. This wasn’t Aaron. This was Hotch, your boss. And even in other situations, you didn’t remember hearing him like that.

His arms were crossed on his chest, and his eyes finally went up on your face. If a look could kill… “This was irresponsible and dangerous. Look at you.” 

Aaron was not a man to scream. You’ve never, ever heard him scream. But the way he would make his voice harder and sharper was maybe worse.

“Oh, come on,” you sighed, taking a step closer to him. Maybe it was provocative behavior, but you opened your arms so he could have a better look at your body. The way he closed his eyes for a second proved to you that it worked; Aaron had a disgusting taste in his mouth. “I’ve had worse.”

And that was true. You got shot during your first month at the BAU and spent two days at the hospital while the team was still working the case. You couldn’t count the number of cuts you’ve gotten through the years because you were never scared to go or use inappropriate paths to get what you want. Some of these cuts even got infected. Your doctor kind of hated you, to be honest.

But apparently, this wasn’t a good argument for Aaron because he took another angry step towards you. “And that’s why I’m angry.”

“Oh, you’re angry, SSA Aaron Hotchner?” You noticed his pupil get bigger, making his eyes look darker. 

Sometimes, Aaron hated his full name because it was a reminder of who he was and who he couldn’t be. An ambitious man, for sure, he was doing a great job but also a man who seemed austere and who could never be the husband he wished he was. You knew that, he told you during a sleepless night away for a case. And you were hitting directly in the right place.

“We both know why you’re here, Aaron.” You pursued and pointed a finger at him. “You didn’t blame Derek for hurting the officer by accident because he was too focused to care about people around last month. You didn’t blame Emily for almost breaking her arm running after the unsub when somebody was already after him last week. You didn’t blame Sp…”

“Stop it.” The first one sounded like a threat. “Please, stop it.” This one sounded like a pleading.

And in any other moments, you would have stopped. But you were tired of walking on eggshells with Aaron about your relationship and your job. And the link between both. So you selfishly kept pushing him. “Say it. Admit it.”

“What? That I love you? Fine, I love you!” 

The whole room went silent. All that you both could hear was him being out of breath and your heartbeats. It was like your world exploded, and tension could only fall down now. 

You stayed like that for a whole minute, standing and looking each other straight in the eyes. Waiting for one of you to give up and speak. Until Aaron had enough and sat on your bed. You watched as his hands went from his neck to his face, which he hid for a second or two, and ended on his hair.

“It’s not you I’m the most mad about. It’s me,” he continued, looking down at his feet. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m still mad at you for not listening and rushing straight into danger.” 

You let out a small laugh because, of course, he was angry about that. But this laugh gave him a small smile too. One that maybe you needed without knowing it.

“But I know my feelings make my perception of your actions and my reactions more biased. The idea of losing you tonight made me so anxious, and when I saw you coming out, bleeding and bruised… I was so angry at you for putting yourself in danger, at me for putting yourself in danger. The boss and the…whatever I am for you met to create a bigger and angrier version of myself.”

Aaron was so focused on himself that he didn’t hear your footsteps coming closer to him. It wasn’t until your knees touched him that he realized he was there. And when he moved his face up, you realized how vulnerable he looked. 

You never thought Aaron loved you and certainly not that much. It never came to your mind that maybe you were stressing him from something more than the boss and teammate relation by not being scared to go into a dangerous situation. But the way he seemed hurt to look at your bruised face made you realize that with every hit you took that night, Aaron got hit harder.

“Can I?” you asked, pointing at his thighs. He simply nodded, and you softly sat on him. Sure to not lean too hard on your bruises, but also because you wondered if you might break him too. A thought that you noticed in his eyes too from the way he barely looked at you and the way his hands were grabbing the sheet, not you. “Touch me,” you whispered. 

You slowly put a hand on his neck to caress his skin and his short hair. “I’m fine, Aaron. Touch me.” 

“This is my fault,” he sighed, putting his forehead against yours. And if it wasn’t the touch you were asking for or expecting, you took it. Because it was already a step forward. “I can’t have this type of reaction anytime we are on a case. That’s not a boss's posture. That’s not…”

“That’s a boyfriend posture I can understand,” you replied. Your nose softly brushed his, and you loved the shivers you felt in him. “Sure, it’s not easy, but we can work on it. If you want to.”

When you noticed Aaron was closing his eyes, you did it too.

And when you felt his hands slowly going on your hips, not grabbing it like he always does but barely touching it, you smiled.

“Tonight wasn’t easy, not for me obviously. But I get that it wasn’t easy for you either. But that doesn’t mean we can’t work on that.” You spoke quietly.

Again, Aaron didn’t answer, and you could tell the night had exhausted him. From catching the unsub, fearing he would never see you again, to confessing his feelings to the woman he hoped he would never lose.

You stayed like that, cuddling in silence for as long as you needed. Until Aaron offered that you both sleep in your own room, to take the night to think about you. And mostly to rest after everything that happened. And no matter how much you wished you could be in his arms to find peace, you accepted. Because he was probably the one who needed more to be by himself. 

You wanted this to work, and you would go at his own pace.

“And Aaron?” You called, grabbing his hand before he left your room.

He turned around, frowning. He looked so tired you wondered if he wouldn’t fall asleep on you if you didn't let him go. His chest was almost glued to yours, and you enjoyed that touch while it lasted.

“I love you too.” 

You wished you could memorize that smile forever. The way it softened his traits.

Aaron learned to give you two kisses: one on your forehead and one on your lips. 

Something that you knew would become a habit, a secret language. A wordless goodnight and I love you.

A promise to make things better.

[glassfullofsass]

so. It's been a hot minute since I gave a shit about the bible as a "guiding" texting my life, and at least as long since I attended church services with any sort of regularity, but I was raised in the United Methodist Church which does tend to be one of the more liberal* denominations.

(*over the last decade, the denomination has formally split over the Issue of Gay Marriage.)

(I'm going to use "church" as a catchall for A Bunch of Christian Churches that I Feel Confident Grouping Together, lets say Protestants, which covers Methodists, Baptists, Presbyterians and Evangelicals, among others)

There's plenty of nuance to dig into if you want to think about ordained ministers/divinity schools/Christian Educated Folk, but at the end of the day, church leaders follow the teachings they agree with, they find ministry programs that further their beliefs, and they stay on their chosen path.

Regular everyday congregation members are typically exposed to Teachings 1-3 times per week, depending on their dedication and the activeness of the church. (Some denominations certainly meet more often). These teachings fall into two (Very very broad) categories, services and bible studies.

Services have readings, sermons, prayers, and maybe music if your denomination is spicy enough.

Readings are literally just a layperson reading a text that has been selected for them.

Sermons usually involve a reference to the bible (maybe the parable of the sower, or the good Samaritan), and then the pastor's interpretation of it. (And usually his 15 minute illustration of that reference in a "real world" scenario that ends in a shitty joke.)

Bible studies do involve conversation and actual engagement with the text...but its usually a very select piece of text. It's from whatever version of the bible the specific church uses, or whoever is leading the study uses. The study may be lead by the pastor or some other Educated person, or just a layperson. I can't speak for every church, but as far as I remember, all the sunday school and vacation bible school and confirmation classes and youth group discussions I ever attended were not about challenging the text, or digging into it to discover how the teachings might be applied in today's world, they were about learning the story and "understanding" the "lesson". (The Prodigal son, the mustard seed, the one about the two guys that were given their master's coin and the one with more buried it and the one with less invested).

Now sometimes you might get an actual, good sink-your-teeth-in study that does really investigate whichever book. I'm not denying that those exist entirely.

I know Christian scholars exist. I know sacred reading practices have been practiced in Christian traditions. Even some protestants observe the teachings of the saints. There's a *booming* industry of Christian non-fiction where scholars do reach an audience that seeks to deepen their relationship with Christ.

But. The Everyday Layperson isn't expected to challenge the text. It is the word of god. To question it would be sacralidge. Interpretation is for those Wiser and More Holy to pronounce.

The teachings and sermons and passages are all chosen by Important People that the congregation looks up to, and those people sure as fuck have an agenda.

Those sacred reading practices I know about? I didn't learn Lectio Divina or Sacred Imagination in youth group. I learned them from a podcast hosted by divinity school students.

Even if your average layperson decides to Read Their Bible, they likely don't have the tools or the community support to interpret it in a meaningful way.

There is, also, this pervasive teaching that underlies the Christian belief...that if everyone were just "saved" then all would be well. If everyone accepted Jesus into their life, then that would solve our problems. That Christianity is the one true way and we know best and we are the blessed and all others are to suffer for not bowing to the truth.

I'm getting low on spoons, so I'll just wrap up with this-

Particularly with American Christianity, you have a legacy of the faith being used as a tool of assimilation and being claimed as an indicator or righteousness and superiority.

There exists a pattern where access to the source material and the ability to understand it is reserved for those who "deserve" it.

This is the faith that literally stripped passages from its sacred text in order to better master the enslaved people who had been indoctrinated into it.

Americans have not rooted out our indoctrination to the White Supremacist Social Order and American Christians are the natural conclusion to a religion that worships itself more than its god.

Since posting that "how many mass graves and extinct cultures" post last month, I've had multiple Christians in the notes whining that there isn't a "specific instruction of belief that Christianity needs to wipe out every other religion in the world" in Christianity's teachings, and that it's all just The Church/King James/etc.

And every time, I point to the literal text of the passages of The Great Commission.

And nearly every time, that shuts them up; the only time it didn't, it was to engage in some disgusting semantical goalpost moving.

But it's like...

Why do Christians not know the content of their own texts? Is your faith really so tribalistic and totemic around the concept of "Jesus" that you all don't bother to actually read the religious texts?

It feels like it must be--I've heard of too many instances of Christians walking out of readings of The Sermon On The Mount because they think it's "liberal nonsense" and the like, but I just find it baffling and more than a little sad that I, a Jew, apparently knows the New Testament's text better than the people who swear by it and ostensibly believe and follow it.

[revelboo]

I had a question for you! What would your headcannons be if a few IDW autobots walked in on you naked. Let's say you finally were able to get washed up and take off your towel when someone like Rodimus or Swerve walks in. How do you think they'd react?

I feel like Swerve would try flirting while failing, meanwhile Optimus apologies profusely, immediately shielding his eyes.

Oh, poor Optimus. Still embarassed even though he’s been intimate with his human

Accidentally Flashing Bots Headcanons

Optimus

• Head thrown back into the warm spray, you’re half tempted to go give Wheeljack a kiss on those blinky vocal indicators of his for rigging up showers for all of you humans. Suspect his human might not appreciate that, though. Poor thing is so lovesick and it’s their luck that their bot is oblivious. You’d told them they should just strip naked, order him to mass shift, and ride him into the sunset. That comment had only gotten you shocked looks from all of the other humans. Except the one stuck with Prowl. They’d gone red faced and refused to meet anyone else’s eyes. Well, at least you’re not the only alien fucker of the group. Shutting off the water when you hear the door open, you push aside the sheet of plastic meant to give you some privacy and step out.

• Turning at the soft rustle, he startles and immediately averts his optics. Because you’re naked and wet. And laughing at him. “I think we’re past modesty, big guy,” you say, grabbing a towel and bending over to dry your hair. There’s no not staring at you now. Especially when you glance back at him with a little snort and pointedly slide your thigh a little so you’re more on display in invitation and his spike throbs. “You know, I can always take another shower.”

Swerve

• Coming in to his habsuite, he rubs a hand against the back of his neck as he stretches. Where are you? You’re usually waiting to greet him, smiling up at him. Being quiet in case you’re sleeping in your nest, he leans to look and vents sharply. Well, you’re in your nest of blankets, head thrown back and naked. A hand between your thighs, little fingers pumping into yourself and he groans. And your little head snaps toward him, eyes wide as you claw to drag a blanket over yourself and he covers his optics with a hand. “I wasn’t spying on you, I swear. I mean, I can leave so you can finish if you want?” Even though he wants to watch you. Wants to touch you. And you groan, completely hidden under your blanket when he peeks.

• Why is he back early? Mortified, you hide under your blankets. And you can hear him awkwardly shuffling around. Probably as horrified at catching you as you are about being caught. Does he even know what you’re doing? He acted like he did. He’d asked if you needed him to leave so you could finish. You’re not going to be able to look him in the optics after this.

Rodimus

• Face turned up toward the spray, you let the warmth relax tired muscles. And nearly jump out of your skin when something brushes against you. Hip and shoulder banging against the little shower Brainstorm had rigged for you, you try to shove a mass displaced Rodimus out while covering important bits. “What are you doing?” And he stares at you before awkwardly turning his back to you. Still not leaving.

• “The wash racks were full,” he mutters, plating heating as you swear at him and try to shove him out. And maybe he’d wanted to see what a human looked like under all those coverings. What you looked like. Flustered, he stands under the spray with his back to you. How angry would you be if he touched you, because you look so soft and wet. Had gotten a glimpse before you’d covered yourself. Enough to realize you’re made to take a spike. That maybe mass shifted, you could take him. Shouldn’t be wondering about that as his plating pops and becomes uncomfortably warm. Becoming dangerous.