#it is deeply irresponsible as well

[whoblewboobear]

I’m gonna take Kipperlilly from some of yall 👀 you can like a villain without trying to clear their name. She objectively is a murderer and a villain this season. It does not make you a “””””bad Person””””” if you like her. You do not have to try and age her down or make her out to be innocent or gentle or sweet or misunderstood. You do not get to use her mental health to excuse her actions either.

At this point, a lot of these post are getting into slippery slope territory, especially concerning mental health. You can be mentally ill and still understand right from wrong. Infantilizing people struggling with their mental health can cause harm. There are mentally ill people that can/will/do go their entire lives without blaming and trying to harm others because of what they’re going through.

Like I feel like we’ve officially hit Joaquin Phoenix Joker levels of ‘we live in a society’ discourse. Yes, there are things that suck and living with mental health issues and having that make your life harder sucks. But then funneling that feeling of unfairness and frustration into harming other people is not okay or justifiable. It’s a clear sign that someone went untreated or their mental health was not taken seriously enough soon enough.

There are a lot of young and impressionable people in the d20 community (a community that is overwhelmingly very supportive and cognizant of mental health) that will see the KLCK discourse and take some of these things to heart. Please be mindful in what you post. She is a fictional character and in context of the story, instead of getting further help or seeking better treatment for her mental health, she chose to harm people. Some responsibility does fall on her in that regard. Not all, but some. There is a point where things get very concerning when you become a danger to yourself or others, Kipperlilly is in that place to be very clear. She needs help.

Yes she is underage, and I do think Jawbone has a heavy responsibility to either reach out to her parents to report her behavior and figure out a treatment plan for her immediately. This never happened, even when she admitted to wanting to kill Kristen. She continued on, untreated and without her rage issues not being fully addressed. Then she murdered someone.

Infantilizing Kipperlilly to absolve her of her wrongdoing isn’t the convo we should be having. Figuring out where she falls on the morality scale does nothing, she’s one of the villains of the season, by that metric, she’s not a great person (not because of her rage disorder, because of her actions.) There are complexities to her. The conversation we should be having is why not a single faculty member or adult that interacted with her and witnessed this behavior didn’t say “woah hey, let’s pump the breaks and get you assessed for a few things and get to the root of what’s going wrong.”

When you see someone struggling, reach out, assess the situation. If you’re an adult and are in a position to help, don’t hesitate to do so or notify a parent or guardian in their life so they get them help. If you’re underage and see a peer struggling, check in and if something sticks out to you as concerning, reach out to an adult that can help or find someone to help. Don’t enable violent or harmful behavior. /Please/ that person can end up hurting themselves or someone else.

[bougainvilea]

feeling so frustrated

[arminsumi]

PROFESSOR GOJO

↳ GOJO さとる + fem!reader

Note : idk smth about professor gojo... fks me up lol

Warnings : minors do not read/interact : smut/explicit content, teacher/student relationship, implied cheating, spanking, toys, public sex (classroom)

Professor!Gojo spreads your plush ass wide, making sure you can really feel the wood of his desk squishing flat against your pussy after he hoists you up and slams you down onto it.

Professor!Gojo commands you in an icy tone to play with yourself on his desk just like you do when you're alone in bed.

Professor!Gojo murmurs obscenities that a teacher should not be saying to a student while you rub on your pussy for him. His hand traces your thighs, eyes staring straight into your soul.

Professor!Gojo doesn't care that your ass stings from all that spanking. He promised he was going to set your attitude straight, didn't he? What did you expect after making that mocking comment in his class about his irresponsibility.

Professor!Gojo licks his lips and stares at you hungrily, like you're everything that his wife isn't.

Professor!Gojo jerks his fat, thick yummy cock tauntingly slowly while watching you play with yourself. He won't give into your begs for him to stuff you up. Not yet, anyways. He's a good professor. He'd never fuck a student. Especially not a bad one.

Professor!Gojo who has flippantly called you a 'bad girl' in the past when you returned your homework back half-complete, and then bent you over his desk and forced you to fill in this missing answers while he grinded his dick print into your pussy.

Professor!Gojo is always eyeing you out during lectures. Always smirking at your name when it appears next to the C- grade. Always winking at you when no students are looking. Always grading you harshly.

Professor!Gojo starts sweating when he sees you bend over in your uniform skirt. His hand shakes. He has to give his hard cock a few squeezes through his pants.

Professor!Gojo starts breaking down giggling during lectures when he plays with the settings on your wireless vibrator, knowing damn well that the reason you can't sit still is because of the deeply stuffed vibrating toy in your cunt.

Professor!Gojo who promises that if you get all A grades on every exam, he'll give you what you want and fuck your brains out on his desk while you hold onto his tie. A good student deserves a reward, after all.

© arminsumi

Do not plagiarize / repost / translate / copy layouts / etc.

Do not steal what I've worked hard to create.

[sepublic]

Insane to me how Eda must've said yes to Luz asking to stay with her at the Owl house, because she could relate. Because at her exact same age, Eda also struggled with a mother who meant well, but was ultimately doing something that hurt her out of misguided intentions. And because she felt betrayed and didn't want to go along with that plan, Eda also ended up running into the woods outside her home, only to stumble across the portal in the ruins of a Clawthorne ancestor’s home, and go through it despite what her mother had planned. And in doing so, she found independence and began her journey into discovering herself.

So no wonder Eda let Luz do the same. Even if she didn't know her whole story yet, Eda must've picked up on a couple details with Luz deeply resonating with her "Us weirdoes gotta stick together" motto, as well as encouraging the Conformatorium prisoners that nobody should be punished for who they are. The way Luz said that, Eda must've realized she was projecting/relating to them hard. So Eda saw all she needed to, and that's why she let Luz stay.

Her telling Luz to go back to her "real" family in the season 1 finale hurts even more because of this, because I wonder if Eda missed her mother at the moment too. So she wanted Luz to have a good relationship with her mother that she couldn't have. She wanted Luz to treasure that while she could still have it. And at the same time, I wonder if Eda felt as if she was betraying herself by being a hypocrite, telling Luz to stay with her mother when Eda herself hadn't done so and would continue not to.

But then Luz stays for Eda's sake, and she helps Eda get back her relationship with her mother. And Eda helps Luz in making a new portal so she regain her relationship with HER mother. All while lamenting, at one point, that Luz is going to go back to her real family in Eda's Requiem. They're both going back to their biological mothers, so they don't need each other anymore as a substitute. Besides, even if Eda's morals made sense to her at the time, she might've regretted letting Luz in and allowing her to be hurt by the coven.

But Luz and Eda's familial and found relationships aren't mutually exclusive, either!!! And Eda has to remember what she told Luz in Separate Tides, that her life changed for the better meeting this girl! Maybe Eda thinks that she needs Luz, but Luz didn't need her. But she really needed another parental figure, not unlike Manny, to give Luz another perspective to work with, so she could eventually go back to Camila and explain in better terms what she needed. And by the time Luz reunited with her mother, she wasn't able to articulate how she felt, due to a number of other factors outside of Eda's control that made her feel too guilty to ask for that.

Eda meeting Camila was so tense on her part, because she likely though of herself as an irresponsible stranger who kidnapped Camila's child and got her so terribly hurt and traumatized; At least, she couldn't blame Camila for thinking that way. Eda probably felt that way about herself, sometimes. But Luz needed her moms to get along, it'd mean so much to her, so Eda brushes aside the self-pity and presents herself as Luz's other family; Similarly, Camila has already opened her mind to the Boiling Isles because she can tell how much this place and its people mean to Luz. So even if they had different ideas on how to help Luz, they've since made their consensus by listening to Luz herself, and have gotten together over this mutual love.

[queenofwands89]

Do you do fanfic requests? If so I was hoping for maybe an angsty enemies to lovers with Tyler Owens, like they are rivals and just got off on a bad start that spiraled into them hating each other but slowly seeing there's more there but being in denial until maybe like Reader gets injured in a chase or helping someone and Tyler realized how he truly feels? Idk lol. Just need some good angst and hurt comfort.

Stormfront Showdown (Part 1)

Tyler Owens x fem!Stormchaser!reader

Summary: Y/N and Tyler have been longstanding rivals, their past filled with unresolved conflicts and clashing opinions on storm chasing. With vastly different approaches to tracking and studying storms, their heated debates have become legendary. Now, with the upcoming storm chasing convention on the horizon, tensions are set to skyrocket. You know Tyler will be there, and the question is: will this be another explosive encounter, or will the storm finally bring them together in unexpected ways?

Word count: 2262

Warnings: Enemies to lovers, rivals to lovers, verbal sparring, competition, dumb blonde joke, teasing, a little angsty idk.

Notes: Thank you so much for your request! I apologize for the delay; I recently started school and things have been hectic. I took a bit of creative liberty with your request and turned it into a short series. I hope you don't mind! If anyone wants me to make a taglist, just let me know. I hope you enjoy it—bye! 💜

The storm chaser convention is your annual pilgrimage as a weather enthusiast or professional. The ballroom of the Kansas City Grand Hotel buzzes with anticipation. As you stand at the entrance, your eyes sweep the room with a mixture of curiosity and wariness. You don't particularly enjoy these crowded events, preferring the solitude and precision of your solo chases, but your presence here is a necessary evil—an opportunity to share your findings and emphasize the importance of safety and scientific rigor.

You smooth the front of your blazer, double-checking your notes for the panel discussion. It’s then that you spot him: Tyler Owens. The Tornado Wrangler himself stands surrounded by a throng of fans and admirers, his laughter loud and infectious. His rugged appearance, complete with cowboy boots and a well-worn hat, seems to dominate the room. Boone is there too, camera in hand, capturing every moment for Tyler's YouTube channel. Lily, Dexter, and Dani mingle nearby, each in their element.

You inhale deeply, trying to steady your nerves. The name Tyler Owens epitomizes everything you abhor in storm chasing—recklessness, unchecked bravado, and an insatiable thirst for sensationalism. To you, he is the living antithesis of diligent scientific inquiry and responsible journalism.

Your last encounter with Tyler was nothing short of disastrous. What began as a simple disagreement escalated into a full-blown public feud, broadcasted for the world to see via social media and various news outlets. You had penned a scathing article, meticulously criticizing his methods as dangerous and irresponsible. Your words were sharp, intended to signal a wake-up call not just to him but to the entire community of storm chasers.

Tyler, never one to retreat from controversy, responded with an incendiary video. Filled with passionate retorts and dismissive gestures, his rebuttal ignited a firestorm of reactions, polarizing the storm-chasing community and capturing the attention of a captivated audience.

The bitter memory of this exchange still lingers in your mind, a festering wound that has yet to heal. Now, as you anticipate another face-to-face meeting with him, you feel the weight of that unresolved animosity. You brace yourself for the confrontation that seems as inevitable as the approaching storm you both intend to chase.

The panel is called to order, and the moderator introduces the speakers with a flourish. You take your seat, your heart pounding in your chest. Tyler settles into the chair next to you, flashing a charming smile that belies the tension crackling between you.

"Welcome, everyone," the moderator begins. "Today, we have a diverse panel of storm chasers who will share their unique perspectives on this thrilling and dangerous field. Let's start with you, Y/N. Can you tell us about your approach to storm chasing?"

You take a moment to collect your thoughts before speaking. "I believe storm chasing is an essential tool for advancing our understanding of severe weather phenomena. My approach focuses on meticulous planning, data collection, and public safety. The goal is to minimize risk while maximizing scientific value."

Tyler leans forward, a mischievous glint in his eyes as he addresses the room. "You know, while I truly appreciate Y/N's unwavering commitment to safety," he begins, his voice smooth and confident, "we sometimes overlook the bigger picture. Storm chasing isn't just about data and caution—it's about raising awareness and capturing the awe-inspiring power of nature."

He pauses for effect, letting his words sink in before flashing a charismatic smile at the crowd. "My team and I, we're not just scientists; we're storytellers. We bring these magnificent storms to the world, showing people a side of nature they rarely see."

His smile widens, eyes sparkling with excitement. "We have a saying in our crew: 'If you feel it, chase it.' Because in those moments of raw, untamed nature, we find our stories, our inspiration."

The room erupts in appreciative murmurs and nods of agreement, some even breaking into applause. Tyler's infectious enthusiasm and charm work their magic, swaying the audience to his perspective, if only for the moment.

You resist the urge to roll your eyes. "Raising awareness is important, Tyler, but not at the expense of safety. Your methods put not just you and your team at risk but also the communities you travel through."

"And your methods," Tyler shoots back, "might yield scientifically valuable data, but they often lack the human element. People need to see the raw, unfiltered power of these storms to understand what we're dealing with."

The panel has been raging on for twenty minutes, each of you firing verbal volleys that keep the audience captivated. The tension is palpable, and it’s clear that you and Tyler aren’t on good terms.

Tyler leans forward, a cocky grin spreading across his face. He’s baiting you, and he knows exactly which buttons to push. "You know, ever since that article you wrote, questioning my methods, I've been wondering. Maybe you're just not a fan of a little excitement? Gotta admit, though, it did spark quite the public feud."

The hint of satisfaction in his voice is unmistakable—he’s reveling in the attention, the controversy, and most of all, the fact that he’s gotten under your skin.

You snap back, your tone fiery and unapologetic. "And with good reason. Your methods are reckless, Tyler. Capturing nature is one thing, but ensuring the safety of our team and the community is paramount. Data collection can be done without playing Russian roulette with our lives."

Tyler smirks, his eyes glinting with amusement. "Ah, but without taking risks, we miss out on the most stunning phenomena. The beauty of a storm isn't just in its data points—it's in the visceral experience."

Your eyes narrow, voice sharp and unyielding. "Visceral experiences are meaningless if they end in tragedy. We need to strike a balance—pushing limits, yes, but with calculated caution. Not reckless abandonment just to feed your adrenaline addiction."

Leaning in slightly, his voice drops to a teasing whisper, "Careful. If you play it too safe, you might end up in a cozy weather office instead of out there chasing the real action."

You raise an eyebrow, your smile icy. "Better a cozy office than a hospital bed, Tyler. Besides, in the office, I can keep an eye on your antics, making sure you don’t turn yourself into a cautionary tale."

Tyler chuckles, clearly unfazed. "Touché. But admit it, you'd miss our epic sparring sessions out in the field."

You smirk back, your tone dripping with sarcasm, "Maybe. But I'd miss watching you lose a battle of wits with a breeze. It's like a real-life dumb blonde joke, but without the punchline."

Boone, with his characteristic enthusiasm, interjects, "You both have valid points! The thrill and the data—can't we find a middle ground here that marries both perspectives?"

Tyler grins at Boone's comment, "Maybe, Boone. But finding that middle ground is easier said than done."

The moderator, sensing the escalating tension and the need to maintain decorum, finally calls for a break. Their calm yet authoritative voice cuts through the cacophony of arguments, bringing a temporary ceasefire.

"Let's take a ten-minute break to gather our thoughts," the moderator says, brokering no argument. "This will give everyone a chance to cool off and reflect."

The announcement is met with a collective exhale from the audience. You can feel the adrenaline coursing through your veins as you step away from the podium, your mind racing with the flurry of ideas and rebuttals. Tyler shoots you a confident smirk, clearly reveling in the public sparring.

As the room buzzes with low conversations and people stretch their legs, you glance towards Boone, Lily, Dexter, and Dani. Boone gives you a thumbs-up, his eyes sparkling with excitement for the next round. Lily offers a supportive nod, while Dexter's contemplative gaze meets yours, as if silently urging you to remain steadfast. Dani approaches you quietly, her concern evident.

"Take a moment to breathe," she advises softly. "You’re doing great, but don’t let him get under your skin."

You nod, appreciating the support as you resolve to keep your composure for the next part of the debate. Tyler may have won the crowd for now, but the debate is far from over.

You step away from the panel, finding solace in a quiet corner of the room. You sip your water, your mind racing with a mix of frustration and determination. A voice interrupts your thoughts.

"Y/N," Tyler says, his tone unusually soft. "Can we talk?"

You turn to face him, your eyes narrowing. "There's not much to say, Tyler. We clearly have different philosophies that will never align."

He sighs, running a hand through his blonde hair. "Look, I know we've had our differences, but we're both here for a reason. We're passionate about what we do. Maybe... just maybe, there's a middle ground we haven't considered."

Before you can respond, a group of Tyler's ardent fans—mostly attractive young women whose adoration for him is barely concealed—swarm in, interrupting your conversation. Their laughter and excited voices fill the air as they clamor for his attention, each holding out their phones for selfies.

"Tyler, can we get a picture with you?"

"You're amazing, Tyler, can you sign this?"

Their voices form a cacophony of admiration and eagerness. Tyler gives you a fleeting look, a glimmer of regret in his eyes. As he turns to handle the eager fans, you seize the moment. You walk away quickly, your strides purposeful and filled with resolve.

By the time Tyler manages to take a few pictures and sign a couple of autographs, he looks up to continue the conversation, but you're already gone. He scans the room, his expression shifting from hope to dejection as he realizes you're nowhere to be seen.

His shoulders slump slightly, and a look of displeasure shadows his face. The admiring fans around him continue their cheerful chatter, but his thoughts are elsewhere. He looks in the direction you went, frustration evident as he contemplates the vanished opportunity to bridge the chasm between you.

.   ݁ ˖ ࣪ . ⋆ * .♡ *:･ﾟ.   ݁ ˖ ࣪ . ⋆ * .♡ *:･ﾟ.   ݁ ˖ ࣪ .

The second day of the storm chaser convention dawns with a swirl of excitement and anticipation. Yesterday had been a whirlwind, with Tyler and you continuing your intense, verbal sparring match during your panel. As soon as it ended, you purposely avoided Tyler for the rest of the day, determined to keep your distance and focus on the upcoming events.

Today, however, is different. You feel a surge of excitement as you head towards the sign-up area for the competition on advanced research—a competition you have won every year. You stride confidently through the bustling convention hall, ready to claim your victory once more.

Approaching the registration table, you're taken aback to see Tyler there, pen in hand, scribbling his name onto the sign-up sheet. Your eyebrows knit together in a mixture of surprise and annoyance as you walk up to him.

"What are you doing here, Tyler?" you ask, folding your arms across your chest. "This competition has strict rules that you couldn't follow even if they were spelled out in neon lights."

Tyler smirks and meets your gaze. "Decided to sign up this year. Thought I'd give you some real competition."

You lock eyes, each ready for a verbal duel. The air between you crackles with tension.

"If you think you can handle it, by all means, try," you retort, your voice tinged with sarcasm. "Just know that this isn't your usual chaotic escapade. This requires precision and knowledge—qualities that, frankly, I don't think you possess."

Tyler chuckles softly. "We'll see about that. Underestimating me might be your biggest mistake."

Before you can continue your exchange, the host of the panel steps up to a microphone, capturing the attention of everyone in the room. The host, a renowned meteorologist named Dr. Sandra Jacobs, greets the crowd with a warm smile and a practiced ease.

"Good morning, everyone! I'm Dr. Sandra Jacobs, and it's my pleasure to welcome you to this year's storm chaser convention!" Dr. Jacobs begins, her voice carrying effortlessly through the room. "As many of you know, this convention is a celebration of the fascinating and often dangerous world of storm chasing. It's a place for experts and enthusiasts alike to share their passion and knowledge."

A murmur of agreement ripples through the crowd as Dr. Jacobs continues.

"One of the highlights of our convention is the competition on advanced research. It's a chance for storm chasers to showcase their findings, methodologies, and innovations in storm tracking and prediction."

Your eyes shift back to Tyler momentarily, a competitive fire igniting within you.

"This year, however, we’ve decided to change things up," Dr. Jacobs announces, her eyes twinkling with excitement. "There will be no rules and no limits! The stakes are higher than ever, with $100,000 in research funding and a special feature on Discovery Plus for the winner!"

A collective gasp and murmurs of surprise and excitement ripple through the crowd. Your eyes widen slightly, processing the unexpected twist. Tyler glances at you, a satisfied grin spreading across his face.

"No rules, huh?" he teases, his eyes twinkling mischievously. "Looks like your little rule-book speech just got thrown out the window."

With that, he turns and walks away, leaving you standing there, both frustrated and fueled by the sudden turn of events. You watch him go, your mind already strategizing how to adapt to the new, unpredictable landscape of the competition. The game had just changed, and you are more determined than ever to come out on top.

[crownmemes]

Concerned Sentences, Vol. 8

(Concerned sentences from various sources. Adjust phrasing where needed)

"I don't think you can go back to the way it was before."

"You look like you could use some company?"

"Are you sure you don't want to see a doctor?"

"I still think this is deeply irresponsible - and believe me, I would know!"

"Maybe you should tell me what's bothering you?"

"Research shows that it's easier to open up when relaxed. It allows you to talk about what's really bothering you."

"If I know you at all, this isn't the only reason you're here."

"You're acting like you've lost your mind!"

"I think you've had enough to drink."

"You've forgotten what it's like to feel emotions!"

"I've never seen much good come from looking to the past."

"Sometimes an emotional injury doesn't show itself right away."

"This may be something of an understatement, but you are not doing well."

"What secrets are darkening your brow?"

"Grief can drive people to extraordinary lengths."

"You're self-medicating with homemade drugs?"

"Shouldn't you be resting?"

"You do look stressed! Would you like some ginger tea? Or maybe just some gin?"

"If there's one thing I've learnt, it's you can't run away from your own life."

"Don't torture yourself with hypotheticals."

"I know this is serious, but you can still smile. You're allowed to enjoy things."

"I know you want to help me, but I don't think you can this time."

"You've always blamed yourself for things that weren't your fault."

"You can keep on telling yourself that you're fine, but you're not fine!"

"Don't worry about me. I don't want it, I don't need it. Just don't do it."

"If you keep going down this path, something really bad is going to happen."

"I know I don't know you well enough to say this, but you haven't seemed yourself lately."

"You haven't left the house in over a week! You can't just stay inside watching old movies all the time!"

"Does anyone know how sick you are?"

"I have experience with this - this sort of pain - and you can't escape it by building walls around your heart."

"You seem uncomfortable."

"When was the last time that you had a hug?"

[formulanni]

I’m genuinely getting so angry and upset at the comments and dms I’m receiving on Instagram being like “oh so when musicians and actors endorse Kamala it’s fine but when the president of the Fia endorses Trump it’s a problem?”

Like wow. It’s almost as if all art is a reflection of current events and culture as well as the feeling regarding them and can in fact be used as an act of protest. It’s crazy that any artist would express opinions about a current world shifting political event!

Like the thing you have to consider here is that Muhammad Ben Sulayem has consistently made a point to highlight that “politics have no place in this sport.” He has gone far enough to threaten to punish Lewis Hamilton for speaking out about BLM and also threatened Seb for speaking out about Pride. It’s also worth noting that the artists who endorsed Kamala are separate from the corporate entities and are speaking as individuals. MBS is speaking while he is the acting president of the FIA, an organization that represents ever y race creed and religion of the drivers. By endorsing Donald Trump, a rapist fascist and war criminal, and by posting a photo of them shaking hands in front of the McLaren Logo he has isolated his drivers! He has acted out in representation of the fia! He cannot separate himself from his role as FIA president because as long as he is on track or in the paddock he must be that.

Obviously this is a deeply complicated issue but acting as if MBS suddenly bring politics into the sport he has time and time again insisted “has no place in politics” isn’t deeply selfish, irresponsible and as if it hasn’t spit on everything some of the drivers, namely Lewis Hamilton and Sebastian Vettel have taken stands for. It’s very clear that politics are only allowed when it benefits his agenda but it’s very, very disappointing.

[just-trying-to-fangirl-in-peace]

Inspiration (Sauron x fem!Elf!reader)

-> in which you struggle coming up with new designs for the Nine, and the Lord of Gifts helps you overcome your creative block

Warnings: smut (p in v, cockwarming, tease and denial, dom!Annatar vibes), reader hesitates at first because she’s surprised by Annatar’s advances but she’s on board with it, manipulation cause she doesn’t know Annatar is Sauron, small discrepancies with the canon timeline for the sake of the fic’s (very little) plot, unrealistic(?) method of solving artistic blocks (the irony is that I wrote this fic to get out of writer’s block with another one and it worked😆)

Mature content below the cut - minors DNI!!!

“How fares your progress?”

Lord Annatar’s voice nearly startles you when you see him approach. You thought you were alone in the forge room, with nothing but your thoughts and the unfinished Ring designs currently staring in defiance up at you from a piece of paper.

“Well enough,” you say, reflexively. Then sigh, letting your pencil fall on the table. “Well, in fact... it is slow,” you confess, glancing at Annatar as he walks towards you. You wince internally when he looks over your shoulder at your sketches. “My skills are no match for Lord Celebrimbor’s, and even he has had difficulty finding the right designs.”

“And yet he chose you alone to carry on with the efforts in his absence,” he argues, even when faced with what you deem to be your far-less-than-satisfactory attempts. Looking up, you find him offering you a sympathetic smile. “You sell yourself short, my friend. It is a real pity.”

You avert your gaze, attempting yet surely failing to conceal your fluster. His compliments, however small, always have a sincerity about them that touches you deeply.

Lord Celebrimbor had, quite literally, worked himself into oblivion after one too many failed attempts at crafting the Nine, and more hours without rest than even an Elf could endure. He had refused to retire to his chamber for some much needed sleep until he had fainted upon his own worktable, and even then, he had refused for anyone but you to even attempt to create new designs for future tries in his absence. He had been odd, of late, mistrusting and, dare you say, even irresponsible at times. But you were his oldest and most trusted apprentice, and that seemed to earn you some of the good will he still had left.

Not that you feel he has made you much of a favour, leaving you to labour alone on such an intricate task. You are not exactly freshly rested yourself, and you have seen so many Ring designs in the past few weeks, you seem to have been drained of the ability to come up with any fresh ones.

There was only one idea you had that might help you, and you had risen from your seat and sat back down two or three times already, changing your mind about whether you should seek out Lord Annatar or not. Whether it would be appropriate. Now that he has come to you, however...

“I was wondering...” Your eyes wonder about the room, hesitating to meet his. “If it isn’t too bold to ask...”

“Be at ease,” Annatar intercedes with that same gentle smile, and it isn’t so difficult to look at him anymore. “My very purpose here is to aid you in your endeavours. You need not hesitate to ask for my help.”

All of a sudden, you feel quite silly for ever doubting you could speak with him openly. He has been most willing to share his knowledge as he worked closely with you these past few weeks. It’s just that now, he has taken on Celebrimbor’s duties as Lord of Eregion as well, and you hate to feel as though you are keeping him from more important matters simply because you cannot seem to handle your own given task.

“It’s just that I feel so... utterly uninspired,” you confess, casting a dismayed look to the sketch-filled papers in front of you. “The proportions, the aesthetics... I cannot seem to get all the elements right at the same time and the more I try, the farther I stray from the desired result.” You raise your gaze to Annatar’s. “Might you spare a moment to assist me, if only with one design? I’m sure it’ll be inspiration enough for me to finish the others whilst you tend to the affairs of the city.”

“Of course,” he says, placing a reassuring hand on your shoulder. With the other, he picks up the piece of paper, and you are now grateful that his attention is solely on the drawings, for the sudden contact has made you rather flustered. “You see,” Annatar says, contemplating the sketches, “sometimes the artist’s mind, though creative as ever, tends to... restrict itself, in the most frustrating way. So great is the desire for perfection in the end result, that it stifles the natural flow of the precious ideas without which no result may be reached at all.”

You resonate with the wise words, but you are not sure you understand the advice they carry.

“Are you suggesting I... draw whatever design I like first and worry about the practical aspects of it later?”

“I am suggesting,” he says, putting the paper down, “that you do not worry at all.” You frown. With that, you do not resonate at all. But your main focus now is that Annatar steps behind you, this time placing his hands on both your shoulders. Your heartbeat quickens as he speaks, at leisure, “That you do not even... think about the task at hand—not entirely—and that you simply... give in to your most natural instincts.”

“I am... not sure I understand,” you say quietly.

After a moment’s silence, Annatar asks, “May I show you?”

You knit your brow, unsure. You had expected him to help you by simply completing one of the sketches, or even just discussing some new ideas. These cryptic words, along with the physical contact, is all quite peculiar.

But you do trust him. You more than trust him, if you’re being honest. That is why the sudden closeness feels rather nice, though you do not wish to make a fool of yourself by showing it.

In the end, you give a small nod.

“Very well,” he says, and you hear the pleased smile in his voice. “For that, you need only resume your work, and trust me.”

Failing at producing quality designs right before his eyes doesn’t sound exactly ideal, but you put your faith in his methods, whatever they are. You pick up the pencil once more, bring a fresh sheet of paper before you, and begin your fumbling attempts anew.

You note—how could you not?—that Annatar has yet to remove his hands from your shoulders. Because of that, you sit more upright than you usually do, but you doubt changing your posture is his sole purpose. Slowly, he begins to move, thumbs brushing your skin, then softly pressing down onto it in a languid rhythm.

You are grateful that he cannot see the wide-eyed surprise on your face as it dawns on you that the Lord of Gifts himself is giving you, a common Elf, a massage. His thumbs come to knead the flesh at the base of your neck on either side of your spine, and the slight pressure feels divine, especially when you have spent so many hours hunched over the table. You bite down an audible sigh, willing your hand not to waver while you work. You still do not feel particularly inspired, but if he meant to bring you relief from the constant stress of the past few weeks, his efforts are most certainly appreciated.

You mean to offer him a polite and rather bashful thank you, when one of his hands begins to stray. His fingers leave a tingling trail across your skin as he draws them up your neck, softly cupping your jaw from behind. You are quite stunned by the gesture, and find yourself retracing the same pencil line a few unnecessary times before you move on. His fingertips graze their slow way up your jaw, straying briefly through your hair before they reach your earlobe. It’s almost as though he is drawing his own intricate pattern along your skin, and your hand slows in its movements as your heart races in your chest.

Surely, he would not— oh, but if only he did—

And he does. His fingers take their sweet time tracing the shell of your ear, and finally, they reach the tip, where they catch the pointed bit of flesh between them, tugging ever so gently.

Your breath catches in your throat, shivers rain down your spine, and your hand freezes on the page. Because your kind do not touch one another’s ears in such a manner unless they are, or wish to be, courting. The simple reason is that, as you are now vividly reminded, those pointed tips are quite sensitive to touch, erogenous in nature for most Elves—including yourself.

You do not question Annatar’s wisdom or the grace with which he has assimilated into your ways of life, but perhaps he is somehow not aware of this particular intimacy-related aspect? Should you let him know, as courteously as possible? But then how would you explain that you had felt his intent, and despite having been given all the time in the world before his fingers had reached that most tender spot, you had done nothing at all to prevent such a caress?

Before you can decide, his hand returns to your shoulder, any movement halted.

“Is something the matter?” he questions, concerned.

You cannot tell him. You simply cannot. In truth, you miss the touch already.

“No—” you clear your throat, willing the waver out of your voice. “No, my lord.”

“Then, why have you stopped?”

He sounds genuinely curious, as though he could not fathom what had affected you so. You give no answer, other than to put pencil to paper once more. The moment you resume your work, his hands resume theirs—massaging, caressing. He does not touch your ears again, though his fingers do come dangerously close to doing so as he runs them through your hair, and you berate yourself for hoping each time that they would find those sensitive peaks again, catch them in their delicious hold.

So distracted you are by the prospect of it and the images you strive to continue creating, you do not even sense Annatar leaning down. Not until you catch a glimpse of long, blonde hair at the periphery of your vision, and then there is the soft graze of his lips over your neck. You draw in a sharp breath as your skin is set alight, and the pencil slips from your fingers.

“My lord!” you gasp, chest heaving as you whip around to fix him with a most alarmed look. There is no misinterpreting the intent behind that particular gesture, and he knows it very well.

But he doesn’t seem fazed in the slightest as he stands to his full height, seeming to you more majestic in appearance than ever as you look up at him.

“Keep drawing,” he instructs calmly. “Unless you wish for me to stop.”

Your brow furrows even further, your confusion growing, and then—

It all clicks in your mind.

The rules he has demonstrated thus far are simple enough: you stop, he stops. It’s both a condition and a reassurance. You do not have to outright refuse him. You need only refuse to continue drawing, and he shall leave you be, and all will return to the way it was before. But if you do pick up the pencil, it would be tantamount to confessing to the desire you have held secret within your heart for weeks, and that would change everything. Not to mention it would be unprofessional. Most inappropriate.

Your skin still sings where he has touched it.

Be it courage or folly, you turn away from him, pick up the pencil, and draw.

You think you can feel a smile on his lips as they return to your neck. This time, you close your eyes, finally able to savour the sensation—only for a moment, though, for the blissful touch depends on your ability to keep forming shapes on the paper, so you open your eyes and do your best to conjure some semblance of a coherent design as Annatar peppers your skin with unrushed, tender kisses. His lips are even softer than you had imagined, and you tilt your head lightly to offer every inch of skin within his reach. Now that the door has been opened, there is no more use pretending like you do not crave his affections.

Before long, his fingers ghost along the neckline of your dress, then his hand ventures below, to the swell of your breast. You do not make the slightest move to stop him. In fact, you pray to the Valar for the ability to keep your hand drawing at least somewhat relevant lines on the page. For you keep reminding yourself that if you stopped, so would he, and you cannot fathom the loss of his delicate grasp of your soft flesh. He easily finds a stiff nipple, peaking through the fabric of your dress, and tugs it between his thumb and forefinger. You shudder, holding back a whimper—but to your embarrassment, the beginning of one does escape you when his hands and lips suddenly leave you.

“Do you need a respite?” he says with a tinge of admonishment. You’ve abandoned your efforts on the paper without even realizing. You shake your head, not trusting your voice, wishing for nothing more than to feel his touch again, and resume scribbling lines on paper.

“Very well,” he says, and his hands return to you.

It’s increasingly challenging to keep drawing through each graze of lips, each brush of your ears, each tease of your nipples through your dress. It’s already so much, so fast, and yet it only makes you long for so much more. You’ve given up biting back the soft moans in your throat, lacking the power of concentration to spare for that purpose as well. And you certainly cannot help how your thighs press together in a futile attempt to ease the ache growing between your legs.

The sketch of one Ring is already finished, but you don’t even stop to consider whether it’s satisfactory before you begin another. His method shall be most efficient in increasing the quantity of your work, if not the quality. Would he do this with any other smith, you wonder, simply as a means of encouragement? Is this what he has been doing to Lord Celebrimbor on the late nights when the other smiths have gone to sleep, and they alone remain to carry on working in the forge? The thought stings, but the only question on which you can truly focus at the moment is how much further will he go with you, right here and now? As if in answer, his hand begins a most tantalizing descent, over your stomach, down to your navel, and you desperately repeat to yourself to do not stop drawing, no matter what, as you part your legs to receive him without shame.

When he cups you intimately through the fabric of your dress, you truly do not know by what force you are able to keep the pencil on the page, let alone keep wielding it. But thanks to the muscle memory acquired over many years of training, you do, even as you whimper and rock your hips into Annatar’s hand, even as he massages the throbbing bud which had longed for his touch on the shamefully many nights you had stroked it yourself while thinking of him. You wonder if he can feel how wet you have grown for him even through the fabric of your dress, wantonly hope that he does—

He stops. Even though you haven’t—you are so sure of it, you’ve been so careful. You only cease drawing when he lifts himself from you and you turn to him with a questioning, pleading look.

“Stand,” he instructs simply.

You nearly protest. But you remember yourself, that you are meant to be putting your trust in him, and do as you are told. You are hyperaware of the wetness between your legs as you stand, leaning against the table for support. The haze of desire has left you pleasantly weak.

Annatar steps towards you, facing you fully for the first time since he has begun to touch you intimately, and it is both relieving and electrifying to see that desire darkens his gaze as well as he takes in your breathless state. Taking gentle hold of your chin, he lifts it so your eyes meet his, and not a moment later his lips are upon yours, soft and tender. It’s barely more than a short peck, just enough for you to melt into the kiss only for him to pull away before you can fully savour it. This teasing of his is so maddening, like a game to which the only rule you know is that you either submit to his rules, or forfeit altogether, and you can only hope he will not leave you wanting in the end.

Stepping back, be pushes his robes to the side, and proceeds to unfasten his trousers with relaxed, steady movements under your longing gaze.

He pauses whilst he is still decent, and patiently asks, “Will you welcome my flesh?”

Welcome it? You could think of little else for weeks.

“Yes, my lord,” you murmur.

Only then does he bear himself to your gaze. He is a masterpiece, hard and swollen and glistening at the tip. The state of his cock denotes much more impatience than he demonstrates as he gracefully seats himself in your chair. Your cunt clenches around a gnawing emptiness at the mere sight.

“Return to your seat, then,” he invites with a cheeky little smile.

You find it strange that he has not pulled the chair away from the table, sitting in it as though he means to work there himself, rather than receive you in his lap. But you obey either way, a daze of elation coming over you. It’s such a foreign, illicit feeling, pulling up the skirts of your dress with trembling fingers as you step between the chair and table to face Annatar, ready to straddle him.

Before you can lift one knee onto the chair, he stops it with a gentle but decisive hand.

“I do not believe you have finished the designs,” he says. “Have you?”

Frowning, you give a slow shake of your head. His tone nearly makes you feel like a chastised student. Disoriented, you are nothing but pliant as his hands guide you into turning around so that you are now facing the table. Surely, he cannot mean for you to keep drawing once he is inside you? You could barely manage to control your pencil strokes whilst you sat relatively unmoving with his hands upon you, you could not even manage to find the paper if you begin to ride him.

You are about to ride him. Lord Annatar. The thought banishes any such concerns from your mind, leaving nothing but blinding lust in its wake. He adjusts you so that your legs are bracketing his thighs, pulls your garments out of the way to expose your soaked folds, and guides you down so that the tip of his cock is only just breaching your entrance.

That initial stretch alone pulls a small whimper from you, and you plant your hands on the arms of the chair for support, trying not to make any rash downward movement that might hurt you both. But his hands are strong and so safe on your hips, and you surrender to their guidance as he eases your joining. He slowly teases the tip of his cock in and out of your cunt, each time reaching a little deeper than before, until you cannot take it any longer and and sink onto his length completely.

The stretch pulls a mewl from your throat as you finally settle in his lap. You strive to catch your breath, looking down as if to reassure yourself that this is, indeed, real. Your dress covers the place where he has disappeared inside you, but you are so heavenly filled by the length and girth of him, you fear the sight alone might cost you your sanity. You whine, your eyes falling shut as Annatar pulls you to his chest, one hand pressing down on your belly whilst the other gently wraps around your neck, and he whispers in your ear, “How does this feel?”

Your voice is no more than a trembling whisper, “Wonderful.”

You cannot bear to wait a moment more. You try to circle your hips in his lap, moaning as his cock begins to prod at all the most delightful spots within you—

He plants his hands on your hips, trapping them in a firm hold.

“Be still,” he demands. It’s no easy feat, but you settle down, awaiting his direction. “Good,” he purrs in your ear. “Good. Now...” he pauses, letting you quiver with anticipation, “you shall remain still until you have finished the designs.”

Your eyes shoot open, wide and confused as you twist your head to look at him. There is no trace of jest in his eyes. Even the pleasure he feels in the warm embrace of your cunt is a faint glimmer beneath the surface of his determination, subdued with utter discipline. You realize he truly means his words, and you despair.

“But...” You cannot even make a coherent plea. So dreadful is the thought of enduring the pleasure of having him inside you without pursuing it, you are reduced to little more than a pitiful whine, “My lord—”

“Shh,” he coos, tenderly kissing away a tear that had slipped down your cheek, aiming to soothe you as if he is not the very source of your torment. “I know,” he murmurs. “I feel it too. This all-consuming ache to reach fulfillment, this longing for release... the wonders of your mind crave the very same. Open the door to set them free, as you have opened yourself to allow me in. You managed well enough before .”

“Yes, but you were not...” You grimace, clenching around him without meaning to in your anguish. “It’s so deep—”

“And you are so warm. So tight,” he breathes out, hoarse with want. “Yet I shall wait, patiently, for as long as I must. For your sake.”

His tone leaves no room for argument, which only worsens the ache between your legs. But you know by now—either play by his rules, or stop the game altogether.

You sigh, defeated, and nod. “All right.”

Annatar presses a light kiss to your temple, a gesture so sweet and chaste, it makes your head spin as much as his praise. “Good girl,” he rasps out. “Go on, then.”

He offers some support as you will your limbs into cooperating and begin to lean forward, towards the table. The movement jostles his cock within you ever so slightly, and you groan as you withhold from moving your hips in search of any further friction. The position is somewhat awkward, with you leaning over the page from a slightly too high angle, but you plant your elbows on the table and get on with it, determined to see this through.

If someone had told you this was how you would finish the designs—seated in Lord Annatar’s lap, his cock buried snugly inside you, so perfectly stretching you out that it drives you to the brink of insanity—you would have called them a most impolite adjective, and slapped them for good measure. But even less probable, even more scandalous, is that it’s almost easier this way. After a few moments of adjustment, you no longer scratch out attempts before they’ve even begun to take shape, or overthink each stroke of the pencil to the point where you forget what your overall intention had been in the first place. The wonderfully torturous stretch of Annatar’s cock within you takes over that part of your mind, and what is left of it is high on the thrill of it all, the anticipation, the graze of Annatar’s fingers as they trace the occasional languid line along your spine, so tender and encouraging.

The practical knowledge is there, deeply rooted in your mind from years of practice, and the creativity is a gift that’s never truly left you. But it is only now that you finally understand how to let them intertwine without trying to control it, to give in to the flow of inspiration the same way you are giving in to him.

And he keeps his word, sitting silently until the last stroke of your pencil, his hips never once giving the lightest stir. Only when you sit back to show him the finished sketches does he lean forward slightly, taking the paper from your hand as you take deep breaths to cope with the new stimulation.

You plant your hands on his knees for support, nerves filling you now that the creative haze is over. You are left only with great unfulfilled lust, and the creeping doubt that, perhaps, your work is no more adequate than it was before. You’d found a way to push through so far, but you are not sure you could manage such a feat a second time if he asked it of you.

But you would try. You would try anything, if it allowed only the sliver of hope that your Lord Annatar would finally take you, unrestrained and to sweet completion, at the end of it.

To your great relief, when you turn your head, you find him studying the paper with a most appreciative smile.

“See what you can accomplish when you give yourself permission to do so?” he says, caressing your thigh as if in reward. “These are splendid.”

“Thank you, my lord,” you murmur. Before, you would not have dreamed to ask for more than such words of praise. Now, you bite your lip and entreat, “May I... May I, please...?”

“Seek your pleasure?” His voice is knowing, teasing, as if he is not furiously hard within you this very moment. Even after all this, a bout of shyness makes you avert your gaze briefly as you nod. “No,” he says seriously, and your eyes snap to him in alarm. “Not in this manner,” he goes on. “I wish to look upon your face.”

You have no doubt he meant to have your heart lurch in your chest. There is a wicked side to this messenger of the Valar, a shadow hidden within the light with which he surrounds himself. It only arouses you further.

Annatar helps you stand, and the emptiness left behind as he slips from within you would render you an inconsolable mess, if it weren’t for the promise of soon-to-be-found relief. You can’t help but eye his cock, drenched in your arousal and bobbing enticingly as he rises to his feet as well. He sets the precious sketches on the table with care, then turns to you with, at last, unveiled hunger, and reaching to the back of your thighs, hoists you in his arms in one swift move.

You wrap your legs around his waist, cling to his shoulders, and gasp as he carries you to the nearest wall, pressing your back against it. He holds you up effortlessly, even as one hand slips between you to touch your clit directly for the first time. The bundle of nerves has been helplessly throbbing for so long, it only takes a few firm strokes of Annatar’s fingers to have you fall apart with a brisk whimper, burying your face in his neck.

“How sensitive,” he muses, quite content as you pant through the sudden burst of pleasure. “You have craved my touch for a long time, have you not? I admit it has been quite distracting.”

There is the slightest hint of accusation in his voice, and you know he doesn’t just mean since he first touched you today. You must have failed, in all those weeks you worked together, to withhold the lustful thoughts he invoked in your mind from showing in your eyes. And so you had distracted a messenger of the Valar from his work on the crucial task to save all of Middle-Earth.

“Forgive me, my lord,” you whisper into his hair.

“Whatever for?” he asks as though you’ve said the silliest thing. Cupping your face, he tilts your head up so your gaze meets his. “Have you forgotten my name?” he speaks softly. “I am here to give.”

And give, he does. He slides inside you to the hilt, gladly welcomed back by your still-aching cunt, and this time, finally, finally, he withdraws and sinks back in once, then again, thrust after thrust until he builds to a quick rhythm that has you drowning in the pleasure after which you had thirsted for so terribly long. A string of ‘pleases’ leaves your throat, unbidden, even though you can hardly ask for more than the stretch of him inside of you, the relentless press and drag against places so sweet and deep within, the ceiling is filled with all the stars in the night sky as you throw your head back against the wall with abandon. Annatar leans in to kiss your neck, his tongue setting your skin even more ablaze. Your sole remaining ability is to moan and cling to him, receiving the pleasure you are being given.

Sauron is deeply satisfied as he takes his own. He has been aching as well, though the Maia is far more skilled at mastering the urges of his flesh. You had been quick to obey, eager to follow his commands, even without his influence nudging at your mind to suit his purpose, which in itself was as pleasurable as having your tight cunt wrapped around him as you worked. And now you are so pliant in his embrace, moaning in sweet submission as you reap the reward he most graciously offers—the very picture of the peaceful surrender he seeks to accomplish through the Rings. If only every being in Middle-Earth would accept the blessing of his authority as easily as you have, they would spare themselves so much wasteful bloodshed.

Perhaps he will keep you safe from it. Perhaps he will keep you to himself.

But you don’t know what is to come, nor would you care as your pleasure crests towards its peak, and you cry out with the force of your release, clenching around Annatar’s cock.

“Thank you,” you mindlessly gasp in between whimpers as he generously fucks you through it, “thank you, thank you, thank you—”

With one last, brutal thrust that pins your hips to the wall, Annatar groans, long and deep as he throbs and spills inside of you. It occurs to you that he has barely made a sound besides his laboured breathing throughout your coupling. Before he even slips out of you, spent, you wonder if you might have the privilege of hearing more in the future.

He is gracious enough, as your high subsides and you catch your breath, to carry you back to your chair. You doubt your legs would support you this very moment. He sets you down, fixes his robes, then stands before you as poised as ever. If it weren’t for the spark of mischief in his eyes, one would think you had done nothing but discuss Ring designs over a cup of tea.

“Thank you, my dear,” he says, retrieving the sketches from the table, “for your most valuable work.” He admires them for a moment, then gives you a knowing smile. “Do not hesitate to ask for my aid, should you need it again.”

With a polite nod, he leaves you sitting in your chair by the table, much as you were when he had found you. Only, at that time, his spend had not been pooling between your legs, and it was hard to imagine it ever would be.

You smile to yourself. What an unconventional emissary, and how lucky you are that the Valar have sent him to guide you in your endeavours. For indeed, you are sure you shall require his assistance again quite soon.

Sequel -> Further inspiration

[necroromantics]

How To Write ASPD / Psychopathy

half educational, half ramble. dedicated to the creepypasta fandom.

(check out my how-to-write bipolar + ticci toby here)

What is ASPD?

Antisocial Personality Disorder (ASPD) is characterized by a disregard for others rights and feelings. It's a personality disorder, which means the mindsets and behaviours associated with this condition are deeply ingrained and maladaptive.

The current DSM-5 diagnostic criteria states that to be diagnosed with ASPD, a patient needs to have a long-term (occurring since at least age 15), consistent, and persistent history of three or more of the following:

failure to conform to social norms; repeatedly breaking rules/laws that may be grounds for arrest

deceitfulness; lying, tricking others for personal gain

impulsivity or a failure to plan ahead

irritability and aggression; fighting, hostility, outbursts

reckless disregard for the safety of self or others

irresponsibility; repeated failure to comply to work or financial obligations

lack of remorse; being indifferent to or rationalizing having mistreated or hurt others

ASPD, by definition, can only be diagnosed in people who are 18+. Minors cannot have ASPD due to treatment and intervention reasons. A minor who exhibits traits of ASPD will be diagnosed with Conduct Disorder.

At it's core, though it may seem like people with ASPD are just hostile and insensitive and rude, is a defense mechanism formed in childhood, typically in response to an abusive environment. Self-preservation and a "dog eat dog world" mindset are very common in those with ASPD. Everything is about doing what it takes to retain social dominance, control, and ultimately safety. Boredom and risk-taking is also very common in people with ASPD, and many people with this condition have never had proper, healthy influences in childhood to teach them proper manners, social norms, morals, or how to regulate their emotions and aggression.

It is a chronic condition that affects about 1-3% of the population. Its very prevalent in the prison population as well. ASPD not only causes a person to potentially cause harm to others, but is a condition that very negatively impacts the patients themselves.

(Note: The term "sociopathy" is typically used to refer to an extreme presentation of ASPD. "Psychopathy" may sometimes be seem as a very very extreme presentation of ASPD)

What is Psychopathy?

Psychopathy refers to a set of traits/issues that might be seen in patients. It is NOT a diagnosis. If psychopathic traits cause dysfunctional behaviour in an individual, they will most likely be diagnosed with ASPD.

Psychopathy is now most commonly used in research settings to use it as a term that describes certain patterns and behaviours. It is something professionals study, not diagnose.

The traits related to psychopathy are:

manipulative behaviour; superficial charm, persistent lying, deceiving others

grandiose sense of self

lack of remorse or guilt; lack of empathy, callousness, shallow emotional expressions

reckless lifestyle; need for stimulation, parasitic (constantly takes from others), lack of realistic long-term goals, impulsivity

antisocial behaviour; poor behavioural control, early behavioural problems, trouble with the law in youth

Not all psychopathic people fit the criteria for ASPD, not all are disordered by their traits, and not all people with ASPD are considered psychopathic. But there is a very big overlap.

Psychopathy is typically only recognized in a forensic or research setting. It is often wrongfully used in the media to describe people who are serial killers, abusive, or used to dehumanize others.

Personally, I believe that media and creators need to move away from the terms psychopath/sociopath. They have far too much negative connotation that only exists to demonize people who suffer with unconventional traits. If you want to write psychopathy correctly, do your research on what it looks like in its presentation, and just drop the label.

What are some harmful tropes with ASPD/Psychopathy in media?

ASPD and Psychopathy have been tossed around in many different settings as ways to cheaply create an evil villain, or a cold calculated monster, or a reckless criminal. There has been only one instance in my lifetime of watching hundreds of movies and shows that I have seen an accurate, humanizing portrayal of ASPD. (That show is House MD by the way, I highly recommend if you want to see good representation).

So what are some of the tropes to acknowledge and avoid?

1. Psychopathic serial killer

Have you seen American Psycho? Great movie. Don't do that. While the character Patrick Bateman is commonly associated with the terms "narcissist" and "psychopath", he also is a satirical character who is a very dramatized and exaggerated presentation of some psychopathic traits.

I will be honest. A lot of real-life serial killers do suffer from various mental health conditions, but correlation is not causation. In the Creepypasta fandom we are surrounded by different characters who are almost all serial killers, and people like to make things easy and just throw the label of "psychopath" onto them and call it realistic. This is very cheap, and very harmful.

If you want to write a psychopathic serial killer character, then acknowledge how harmful, fear-mongering, and dehumanizing this trope is towards people who actually suffer from these traits.

2. ASPD synonymous with abusive behaviour

ASPD is a disorder that does cause people to do and say things that will harm others in some way. Cluster B personality disorders are commonly seen as 'social disorders', as in they cause dis-order in interpersonal relationships, and in response to society. Borderline personality disorder (BPD) for example may cause somebody to threaten harm to themselves in response to percieved abandonment, or to have intense fights due to emotional dysregulation.

ASPD in particular may cause someone to be insensitive towards others problems, lack morality, be aggressive or hostile, put others down, or get into reckless situations. This is why they are disorders. Because they cause significant and serious problems in the persons life.

It is not pretty, and it's not fair, and yes, people with disorders may cause harm to others due to behaviours associated with their condition. But there is a difference between causing harm, and abusing another person.

Lying to someone is not inherently abusive. Being reckless is not inherently abusive. Being an insensitive asshole is not inherently abusive. To not understand the nuance and the complexity of these situations is to completely demonize and stigmatize a serious mental health condition. You don't call people with BPD abusive for their actions inherently, because you acknowledge they are hurting and only doing what they know to cope with this hurt. Of course it's unhealthy. That's what a disorder is. That does not make someone abusive by default. Anyone with any condition, even neurotypical people can be abusive.

3. Cold, emotionless robot

People with ASPD can and do feel emotion. People with psychopathic traits can and do feel emotion. They get sad, disappointed, disgusted, happy, excited, jealous, hurt, angry. There is nothing in the ASPD criteria that states anything about emotional presentation or experience.

In psychopathy, it is mentioned that there may be a shallow emotional expression. This may also be present in ASPD. This means that while a person will feel emotions, it is either beat down or brushed off, or completely repressed. The emotional repression may come from childhood abuse where they were punished for expressing emotions, or expressing emotions had caused them harm.

Lacking emotions/emotional expression is instead highly linked to Schizoid Personality Disorder, and is apart of the criteria for said disorder.

Media protraying people with ASPD/psychopathy as cold, emotionless, calculating robots is another trope used to dehumanize people with mental health issues. It's used to make people with ASPD seem evil or not having feelings that could be hurt. In reality, nearly everything a person with ASPD does, is their dysfunctional way of protecting themselves from being hurt.

People with ASPD may lack the emotional capacity for things such as empathy and remorse, though. Its common that they are unable to care for, or feel upset for others suffering. They may also be unable to feel guilt. This criteria is seen in about 51% of people with ASPD and is associated with more extreme presentations.

Do you headcanon anyone to have ASPD?

Yes, but I don't like to use the label on them. I do write a lot of antisocial mindsets into my headcanons for Ticci Toby, and I heavily write ASPD into my OC, Tobin.

For Toby, his presentation of ASPD comes in the form of rebellion, not understanding/following social norms, recklessness, and a strong desire for power, dominance, and control. I write this as his subconscious response to the trauma he faced in childhood. As a child Toby was constantly put down and made to feel small and powerless at the hands of his father. In order to make sure his father abused only him and not his mother and sister, Toby would act out and be a troublemaker. I think that he would have a lot of ASPD behaviours and views on the world.

For my OC Tobin, he's pretty similar in presentation in regards to power/control, and not following social norms. He is very prone to justifying and rationalizing his behaviours to the point he doesn't feel remorse for the harm he causes. Tobin grew up in a very unstable and abusive environment where, like Toby, he did what he needed to do to get by. He never learned proper morals, norms, regulation, etc. But Tobin does care about others. He takes care of his little sister, and loves his girlfriend, and is very protective. Tobin is still a complex human being with more to him than just being an antisocial insensitive prick.

How can I write a character with ASPD?

Do proper research. Not on Reddit, or Quora, or WebMD. I mean go find trusted, scholarly articles and read real scientific papers and studies on ASPD. Do research into how/why it forms, the mindsets, the symptoms and their presentation, the neuroscience even.

Humanize your characters. While it's fun to throw around a bunch of negative and toxic traits to a character you want people to see as 'bad', it's lazy character development. Give them good, positive traits as well. People are very complex, and nobody will fit in to the mold of good or bad. Make them human enough where someone wont look at your character with ASPD and assume everyone with ASPD are monsters.

But also, don't water down the disorder. ASPD does cause harm to the patient and the people in their life. I've seen it a lot where people will try to fight against stigmatization by completely glamorizing the disorder. "People with ASPD aren't inherently bad! They don't actually hurt others or act hostile or say insensitive things"... Yes we do. And it causes many problems. And that is why its a disorder.

Personally I don't like to throw the ASPD label onto my characters even if I do write them to have ASPD because I feel like it just boxes them in. If you write a character with ASPD, try doing it in a way where a professional would be able to tell they have ASPD without you even mentioning the label.

Remember that ASPD is COMPLEX. It varies vastly in its presentation, its a disorder that is life-consuming and the dysfunctional beliefs and behavioural patterns are deeply ingrained and consistent throughout many different areas in someones life. It's a label to describe preexisting issues. It's something that is highly associated with childhood trauma, and drug addiction, and general suffering for the person dealing with their own chaotic mind.

The biggest problem I see that frustrates me is the way people throw around the terms "psychopath" and "sociopath", especially when someone just wants to add a layer of edginess onto their character. Remember that you are dealing with a condition that real people suffer from every day. If you can't handle it respectfully, and if you would demonize someone with ASPD in real life for acting as your character does, just don't write it in. Keep the label separate. We don't need any more stigmatization and misinformation.

I know this was very long, but it's such a multifaceted and complex issue and I've seen it enough times in the fandom to be frustrated enough to write this. If you have any questions, want more advice or information, please feel free to ask away in my ask box 🔥

[north-noire]

My Michael Afton throughout the years! ft. his own little doodles. I'll try to be brief about the timeline and how my Michael was without saying too much since it'll be explored in the Hidden Hands AU fic's chapters anyway so I won't say all the details. Feel free to read if you guys like! I have a lot to say about him.

1983 (FNAF 4) - Michael was 12 or 13-ish when the Bite happened. Very reckless yet adventurous kid. Didn't really hate Evan (William, as much as he had a soft spot for Evan, still loved Michael all the same), just had really bad friends and influence (his friends were mostly bullies) - and didn't really like that he's being told to parent a little brother he had no idea how to take care of. It didn't help that Evan tended to be a tattle-tail sometimes about the trouble he was getting into. Michael also, deep down, got scared of what the bullies would do to him if he dared stand up for his brother or spoke out against them, so he ends up going along with what they did for his own sake. After the Bite, Michael was still deeply guilty about what he did to Evan, and it haunts him every night, knowing he had no good excuse but irresponsibility for what he did to his brother, because after all, it wasn't like William wasn't giving him enough attention. Michael just knew that he deserved anything unfortunate coming to him, but is genuinely surprised that his father kept telling him he loved him all the same. From this point on, he becomes easily troubled, tends to stay close to his dad. Makes sure he follows the rules and doesn't do trouble. Just wants to do a complete personality shift, and is deeply ashamed of who he was before. 1985 (Charlie's death, Fredbear's Family Diner shuts down) - Michael was 15 here. Over the years, he slowly isolated himself from most of the people in his life since he gets worried about his past scars coming back to haunt him. Mostly a recluse and reserved. He's not handling things well after Charlie's death and a family divorce - not to mention the non-existent social life he had. Just prefers to be left alone, but he's nice if you get to know him. Doesn't really have a good relationship with Elizabeth, but is actually pretty close with William. Feels extremely guilty and hates himself/blames himself for Charlie's death. He gets paranoid easily, as he thinks whoever took Charlie is now after him, but his father tells him to not worry too much about it. 1987 (FNAF 2) - (17) Slowly having a good relationship with Elizabeth. Starts to get into stuff like the supernatural and becomes superstitious to a degree over the years. In public, he's mostly polite and nice, but his actual personality shows through whenever he's with his father or Elizabeth - he's sarcastic, and has quite a dark sense of humor, can be a bit of a rebel, he's just more subtle about it. A bit of an over-thinker - he gets lost in his imagination/head easily. Has a (surprisingly) good relationship with his dad, as he's not really afraid to be himself around him - sometimes gifts him funny things or something he knows his dad would love/would use (he gifts William a rabbit's foot - for good luck, he says). He also helped William build the Fun-Times with blueprints and other technicalities (He's not really aware of the questionable features they had, unfortunately). He couldn't really come with his father and Elizabeth on Circus Baby's Pizza World opening due to things he had to catch up with his home-schooling, he had been skipping classes to work on the Fun-Times, but he really wanted to graduate highschool with a bang, so he's giving everything his all, here. Then Elizabeth suddenly goes missing all of a sudden, and, well... I would say more, but my fic sort of takes a canon-divergence route around FNAF 2/SL-FNAF 1 so that would spoil half of the stuff I've been working/writing about! Reference-sheet wise, I just wanted to show how he progresses from a rebellious, happy and adventurous kid into a more reclused, anxious and soft-spoken adult. Sorry for the long post! I've just been wanting to talk about him for some time now. There's a looot more that I've left out but yeah that's because there will be more in the fic!

[stevenose]

for anonymous - thank you for voting!!! hope you like this hehe <3

contains: love drunk!steve; gender unspecified reader; flirting; s4!steve

He’s practically drooling. If he were someone else, he would call himself pathetic - even if he knows he is. Steve licks his lips, watching you reach high for a tape, your shirt riding up a little.

“Are you serious?”

He can’t hear Robin, or maybe he just doesn’t want to. Loves her, but pretty boy duty calls.

“Steve!”

“Huh?” he finally asks, turning to face her.

“Have you even heard a single thing I’ve said in the last —“ She checks her watch. “Three minutes?”

“You were talking for three minutes?” he asks, startled.

“Oh my God, Steve.” She’s pissed. And he feels bad, but he knows she’ll be fine in five minutes, and probably even better if he fucks up while checking you out at the counter. “You’re such a bonehead.”

He rolls his eyes and looks back at you. You’re looking at him, all amused. He feels so deeply seen, like you shouldn’t even be looking at him, like he doesn’t really deserve the attention.

“Sorry,” you say. Your voice sounds so sweet. “I just haven’t heard someone say ‘bonehead’ in a while.”

“He is,” Robin says flatly.

You smile at him and his knees feel weak. “I’m sure.”

You continue browsing. Robin looks at Steve. “You are a bonehead,” she affirms, grabbing a cart of tapes to put them away.

Steve feels all dizzy. He’s seen hot people in the store, but this is different. You’re straight out of a dream. He doesn’t know how he hasn’t seen you before. You’re about his age, but he doesn’t remember you from high school. Not that three concussions haven’t ruined his memory.

He perks up when you come to check out. Steve has no small talk in his mind for your selections. His brain feels frozen and it reminds him of his time at Scoops a year earlier.

“Do I know you?” he asks. It comes out awkwardly.

“I don’t think so,” you say. “I’m just - I’m here visiting some family, and I have to babysit.” You point at the two animated movies you’d chosen. “So, no, I don’t think so.”

“Babysit?” he says. “I babysit, too.”

You nod. “Okay.”

“Yeah,” he says. Now he’s spitballing. “They’re little shits though. Always dragging me into things I don’t want dragged into. But they’re sweet, I guess. Except one of them.”

You nod politely.

He wants to hang himself with film strips.

“Well, if I need help, I’ll definitely call you.”

Finally, an opening. “You’d need my number to do that, huh?”

Now you’re frazzled. Thank God. “I guess so.”

“How long are you in town for?”

You bite your cheek. “Another week.”

Steve hums. “I say we take our kids, drop ‘em off at the arcade, and head to the movies ourselves.”

You laugh, looking at him like he’s crazy. Your eyes are soft, though, and your smile is genuine. “Seems irresponsible.”

“Self indulgent, maybe.”

You stare at him for a moment longer before realizing you need to pay. You mumble and search your bag for your wallet, sliding a five across the counter. “Sorry,” you say, shaking your head. “I’m a little frazzled.”

“I have that effect on people.” Oh, he’s so back. He grabs your change, slipping it back to you.

“Want your receipt?”

You read between the lines. “Sure.”

He grins and snatches the paper from the register, scrawling his number across the top. He writes his name before realizing he never said it out loud. “Oh! I’m Steve, by the way.”

You give him yours and take the receipt from him. “Nice to meet you.”

He nods, waves as you leave, heart thumping. He collapses against the counter once you’re out of sight, head in his hands.

“A week,” Robin says, startling him. “You gonna have a whirlwind romance or something?”

“Maybe,” he says.

She scoffs. “You’ve been watching too many movies.”

[manszen]

long distance situationship

pairing. fem!reader x vinsmoke sanji.

summary. you yearn for a certain blond pirate to come back home to baratie.

contains. fluffy angst, comfort at the end, whole cake island spoilers, told from the reader’s pov.

word count. 1.1k.

note. i really adore sanji and zeff's familial bond.

the loud commotion from your workmates inside the cramped kitchen of baratie draws you away from your dish plating.

“it’s here!”

“let me see! let me see!”

“how much is it this time?”

“i bet he tried his best to look cool. he looks like an idiot with the last one,” patty who’s next to you whispers down on your ear. he wipes his hand with a kitchen towel, a fond smile on his lips.

you laugh quietly at him.

“eh? what’s this?!”

you lift your head, a tad surprised. carne’s shrieks sound too shell-shocked for someone who claims over and over again that he doesn’t care at all about sanji.

“the bastard is a vinsmoke?!”

at that exact moment, zeff enters the room. his wooden leg clicking against the kitchen floor, effectively silencing the gasps of surprise of his workers.

“figures,” he quips after gaining everybody’s attention. “what’s the boy’s bounty now?”

“it’s 330 million berries,” carne announces, raising sanji’s wanted poster up in the air. his other hand grasping the rest of the newspaper. “they still used his old photo, though.”

“that perverted face of his again?”

you let out a small giggle and everybody turns their heads to you. as if with one accord, they all smile knowingly. even zeff, the baratie’s owner, appears thoughtful.

the kitchen suddenly feels warmer than usual.

“his photo isn’t so bad,” you mumble, trying to brush off their teasing looks.

“says the girl who collects his wanted posters before owner zeff can,” patty chimes in. you have this crazy urge to scream at him for exposing you like this until carne clears his throat, reading the newspaper article out loud.

“it says: ‘the vinsmoke and charlotte families entered into a political alliance via marriage between the third vinsmoke son, sanji, and the 35th charlotte daughter, pudding’.”

oh.

patty, zeff, as well as the others, wince when they hear carne’s announcement. you’re grateful they don’t say anything more about the matter, but you don’t give them time to say something anyway, since you’re already turning your back and resuming your work.

“say no more,” you hear zeff say to carne. “i believe sanji wouldn’t marry someone so easily. at least, without my approval.”

something heavy lodges in your throat right then. you mutter a cryptic excuse, weaving your way outside the kitchen doors and rushing to the safety of the girl’s restroom before anyone else can grab a hold of you.

anyone who works in baratie knows about your little infatuation. they’re not against it, but they’re not extremely supportive of it either. it’s just… it’s sanji that you’re head over heels with.

sanji who plays it cool and thinks before he acts.

sanji who deeply cares for almost everyone in baratie.

sanji who respects food more than anything else.

sanji whose only fault is that he’s borderline crazy when it comes to women.

you know exactly how crazy and submissive he is with women.

you aren’t an exception to that rule either. he proved that to you one late night as you both wash the rest of dishes after closing baratie.

he said a lady shouldn’t soak her hands in dishwashing soap for a long time, that you should let him do the rest. to which you only bumped his shoulder, joking that if he treats you the same way he treats his female customers, you’d feel somewhat special.

and his response?

‘you are special. and to me, you’re extra special.’

it might seem normal for him to compliment a woman, but you, on the other hand, are not used to it. growing up with nothing but irresponsible men around you, it’s only tough love that you’ve ever known.

that’s when you start to see sanji in a different light, with the intention to suppress it for as long as you could simply because you’re terrified of your own feelings.

you’re terrified of your feelings not being reciprocated.

although somehow, it has become an unspoken deal between you and sanji.

you start to seek each other’s company when your designated rooms feel too cold and lonely at night. you start to catch each other’s eyes during work hours, over tens of long kitchen counters, and smile shyly as you avert your gazes. you even start becoming touchy, leaning your body against him when he wants you to try some of his cooking, and while he’s shaking with exhilaration, he doesn’t make a huge scene out of it in hopes you two won’t be found out by zeff.

you start to get this fuzzy feeling the two of you are finally onto something.

but, as fate would have it, sanji got recruited by a man named luffy, claiming that he needs the best cook out there if he’s going to be the king of pirates.

and who are you to hold sanji back?

you kept your mouth shut as he told you his final decision, tucking away your own selfish desire to not let him go. you patted his shoulder, bravely smiling that he should follow his heart and see where it takes him. and he gave you one of his boyish grins, whispering thank you for being so understanding.

you promised yourself back then that you wouldn’t be the very reason who would break that smile.

you close your eyes and lean back against the restroom door, reminding yourself that he's still in the process of chasing after his dream — his childhood dream. after all that, he will be back in baratie in no time.

you just didn’t think you would find his name on the news with the word ‘marriage’ attached to it, that’s all.

a gentle rap at the door knocks you back to your senses.

“there are customers waiting to be served,” comes zeff’s soft warning. “forget that shitty kid. you deserve better.”

you snort. even if he says those harsh words at sanji, it’s still laced with fatherly affection. the impression brings a soft smile to your face.

“hey, owner zeff,” you begin. it seems that speaking with a thick door in between you and your employer helps. “do you think… do you think he’ll come back?”

“hmp. do you really think he won’t? the boy might be stupid but he’s not stupid enough to forget where his heart is.”

his words make you feel a hundred times lighter. “so baratie is where his heart is?”

the silence stretches on from the other side of the door you’d think zeff has already walked away. until he says with a warm voice, “you are where that boy’s heart is.”

stealing, modifying, translating, or reposting this work on other platforms is strictly discouraged.

[queer-geordie-nerd]

No, it is deeply, truly fucked up that activists for the Palestinian cause are holding up public suicide as martyrdom/something that should be celebrated.

A young man on the other side of the world from the war took his own life in one of the most excruciating ways possible and the response has been "well done." ABSOLUTELY NOT.

What has this act achieved? Absolutely, substantively nothing but one more human life wasted. I'm sorry, I think life is worth more than throwing it away in a pointless performance that changes nothing. I am truly sorry that this young man never got the support he so clearly needed. His life was worth more than his death and it's so disturbing to me on a fundamental level that there are people who think otherwise. Him staying alive and contributing to and working for aid organisations or doing any number of things that would have made a concrete difference to people on the ground would have been a far more substantive contribution to the cause.

People lionising this inherently disturbed act as the height of activism is crushingly irresponsible when there are so many young people who are desperate to give their lives meaning or to find something bigger than themselves - taking their inherent desire to do good in the world and twisting it until many of them, perhaps already mentally ill and suicidal, come to believe their life is only worth something by ending it "for the cause." It is utterly and completely abhorrent.

Adding more pointless suffering into the world is not helping anyone. Anywhere. At all.

It is absolutely horrifying and mind boggling to me that we have gotten to this point - glorifying extreme suffering, either as “resistance” or “activism” and then having the gall to turn around and tell anyone who disagrees that they’re the ones who don’t value human life.

[txttletale]

re: holodomor reblog i think the generic term 'genocide denial' is deeply pernicious because 'holocaust denial' is so heinous and an obvious declaration of genocidal intent precisely because the holocaust and its scale and intentionality is so well-documented at literally every possible level. the evidence is incontrovertible, and so the only possible way a denial of that can be interpreted is as a declaration that jewish suffering and death is fundamentally invalid, doesn't count, is even desirable. denying the holocaust is a statement of genocidal intent.

& so even if you do believe that e.g. the ukrainian famine or china's oppression of the uyghur people constitute a genocide, treating people (who often, you will find, agree on you on the majority of the established on-the-ground-facts) who don't think either of those things constitutes a 'genocide' as somehow equivalent to holocaust deniers is, like, tremendously and irresponsibly downplaying the magnitude of holocaust denial. & this is going to remain the case until people can come to understand genocide as a specific type of action rather than the extra special bad word for when a crime against humanity is Like, Really Bad This Time

[doomedlovers]

baby (derogatory)

char: sukuna ryomen

word count: 951 words

tags: smut, mdni, modern day!au, yuji is a kid but also kinda irrelevant since he doesn't appear, unprotected sex, irresponsible sex, bdsm undertones (?), spanking, pet names used ("baby"), penetration (p in a non-specified hole), edging, size kink and uhhh that's it i think.

lewd noises echoed all throughout the tiny apartment. young yuji was at megumi’s house for a sleepover, which meant that you and sukuna had the house to themselves. the night started normally, a movie and some wine and then some more wine. minutes passed and the two of you got progressively more drunk. Well— you did. Sukuna, on the other hand, was moderately tipsy at best.

he was aware he was putting his hand on your thigh, softly caressing you with his large fingers. he was aware he was taking off your pants, inch by inch until they were discarded on the floor. a soft kiss on your neck was all he needed to make you putty in his hands, melting under his large palms as he gripped your waist. it was almost sweet, the way he caressed your inner thigh, his long nails gently scraping against your privates, stimulating them ever so slightly, but not nearly enough. a soft chuckle escaped his lips as he felt you grind against his fingers, hoping to gain more friction. he trailed kisses down your neck, slowly reaching your collarbone.

What was once a simple make-out session, had led to you being on all fours, tears down streaming down your face. sukuna was holding your hips up, teasing your hole with his large cock, his precum being make-shift lube. His left hand was hoisting your hips upwards so it could align with his own, while his other hand was kneading the flesh of your ass. Nails digging deeply into your butt cheeks, leaving scratches. thin trails of blood ran down your thighs, as he chuckled a the sight of it.

“Oh, baby,” he taunted, his characteristic smirk evident on his face. his voice now was but a deep rumble, echoing from deep within his chest. leaning closer, he teased your entrance again, pushing in just the tip; just enough to get you going, but not enough to gain the immense pleasure you were used to with him.

one would assume that after so many nights without sex, sukuna would be jumping at the chance to fuck you, nice and deeply as he tended to do when he was pent up. and yet, he was taking his sweet time, almost enjoying this slow and agonising pace. the teasing and the edging, all drove you insane, both hating it and loving it at the same time. his hand slowly left your asscheek— which was now filled with bloody marks and red handprints— and moved towards your crotch, teasing you ever so softly. with the tip of his nail he pressed against your intimate area, up and down, up and down— god, it was agonisingly beautiful.

“can you hurry up—” you cried to him, turning your head to face him, before he grabbed your nape and buried your head into the mattress. muffled moans escaped your lips as his sharp nails dug into your skull, scratching you in the best way possible.

“patience, baby,” he said sharply, but you could hear the smirk in his voice. raising his hand, taking it out of your hair, he delivered a sharp blow onto your ass. a pained cry left your throat, as he chuckled darkly. “how cute. perhaps i should reward you.”

before you could even process his words, he shoved himself fully inside of you, his large cock stretching you completely. you were certain that if you looked to your stomach you’d be able to map out his cock. all words failed you as he moved his hips in a slow pace, never fully getting out. low moans left your lips as he rocked his hips in that tantalising pace, as if punishing you for god forbid getting impatient.

you were about to retaliate again, before he grabbed a fistfull of your hair and shoved your face again into the mattress. a low groan escaped his lips as he fully entered your entrance before he shoved his cock right back in with all his strength, a loud pap echoing inside the room. he slammed his hips into yours, over and over and over again, as if he was in a daze, as if you were but a fleshlight for his amusement. any moans that came out of your throat were left there, the mattress muffling your cries of pleasure. tears started streaming down your eyes, the pleasure way too much as sukuna kept smashing into your hips, his large cock hitting your g-spot in every single way.

his arm let go of your hair and now both hands were now gripping your waist, moving your body in sync with his quick and deep thrusts, a silent warning that he was about to cum. lifting your head ever so slightly, you bubbled out a few incoherent moans, a response to his own high. the erotic scenery, almost taken out of a porno, reached its climax right as sukuna slammed his hips into yours and held you there, making you take all of his cum deep inside of you. “don’t waste a drop, baby.” a choked out groan left his lips as he emptied his balls inside of you. one of his hands left your hips, reaching towards your intimate spot to stroke it, riding out your own climax as a strangled scream left your throat.

after he was done painting your insides white, he shoved you into the mattress and sat beside you. yet, despite his roughness, a hand reached to caress your thigh as you both recovered. getting used to his gentle touch, you felt your eyelids heavy, before feeling his hand creeping closer to your crotch.

“don’t fall asleep on me yet, baby. we’re just getting started.”

[redhoodinternaldialectical]

It's quite important to me that Jason and Bruce's conflict is not a misunderstanding.

I truly believe that if each of them had perfect omniscient knowledge of every detail of what happened surrounding Jason's death, not only would they still have conflict, but they would still have the SAME conflict. Neither the question nor the answer of Under the Red Hood's climax would change.

Sheila's betrayal is often known about in canon (frankly there is no way anyone but Jason should know; it is deeply unclear to me why comics allow others to be aware of this) and it does nothing to change anything.

Bruce's one off attempt to kill the Joker at most changes a few lines during Jason's plea to let him kill him ("Please! I know you wanted to, I know you tried to once, what changed? Did you forget about me? Did you stop caring? Did you fucking well forgive?! You for whom vengeance is your only life?")

Learning about the people Jason saved doesn't do much to assuage Bruce's horror at what Jason has become ("Each life is precious, unique, irreplaceable. It does not absolve him.")

Learning exactly what was done to mourn him modifies the depth and force of Jason's fury some ("You buried and destroyed all trace of me, the actual person, didn't even try to tell Dick, and then blamed my death on my own irresponsibility?!") But otherwise does very little.

Talia's involvement being revealed does nothing, because frankly she didn't do much of anything except stall this confrontation and give him a knife. It's a really cool knife, granted, but it sure as fuck didn't convince Jason this needed to happen!

The exact details of Tim's induction into the role have the largest effect - on an issue that is utterly tertiary to his main conflict with Bruce ("Oh wow, cool, great, the new kid you got to emotionally support you actually volunteered, and has parents so his entire well-being doesn't hinge on your approval. Congrats on approaching the bare fucking minimum! Now, wouldn't you agree that you have a duty to protect him by taking care of the murderer who killed me?! Instead of fucking demanding that he be good enough not to get killed?!")

I have a whole damn post on the can of worms Jason understanding the events of War Games would open! ("YOU LET ANOTHER ONE OF US DIE WHILE I WAS GONE?!?")

I am convinced that the only ways in which their conflict becomes less intense is through a misunderstanding.

And I like it that way. I'm really, really glad it's not a misunderstanding, and that it can't be resolved through better communication. Their issues are real and meaningful and cannot be swept away without one actually conceding to the other's demands.