#like he IS that but that’s not ALL he is good lord

[notrobinsomethingworse]

Clark: I had a good night Bruce.

Bruce: I did too.

Clark: I’ll see you tomorrow then?

Bruce: Yes. I will see you tomorrow.

Clark: … Goodnight Bruce.

Bruce: Goodnight… Clark.

Bruce: [sighs] wait.

Bruce: I’m not a man who expresses his emotions easily but… Clark. I love you.

Clark: Bruce-

-

Batkids, in a bush nearby

Cass, peaking out with the only pair of binoculars.

Steph: You gotta tell me what’s going on. Come on Cass.

Dick, also looking out: Shut up he’s saying something.

Steph: Cass please.

Tim: You all realise Clark can hear us right now…

Damian: Please. The alien has always been incompetent and with Father providing an acceptable distraction I doubt he even noticed the poison I snuck into his wine.

Dick: Damian. You did what-

Jason: Good job baby bird. Getting a little practice in before the kryptonite?

Dick: Don’t encourage him-

Steph: Cass come oonnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn-

Duke: This is insane. You guys all know this is insane right? Why did I agree to this-

Jason: I have no idea why you think I’m supposed to be a good role model. I’m a drug lord.

Dick: Well right now you’re not. You’re fuckin Jason Todd.

Jason: I’m fuckin legally dead dickbird-

Tim, elbowing Damian: Use this wisely.

Damian, taking the lead lined box: This does not mean I will consider you my equal.

Tim: Ha. You’re nowhere near my equal.

Damian: How dare-

Tim: You’re more like my grandson with how Ra keeps wanting me to have his babies.

Dick: Hold up-

Damian: DRAKE-

Steph: Okay Cass it’s been like twenty minutes. Pleeeeaaaase tell me what’s going on.

Duke: -I could be takin’ a nap right now. Havin’ a bubble bath. I’m not a bath kinda guy but I could be. Ya know?

Jason: Amen to that.

Dick: Can we rewind to Tim being courted by Ra Al Ghul.

Cass: We have been spotted.

[Everyone shuts up]

Cass: Both are on route.

Dick: Manoeuvre 3C. Run for your fucking lives.

[Mad dashing]

[theladyeclectic79]

That’s the fic I’m writing now!!! SolRook/DreadRook fic over on AO3, chapter four is now live!

So,” Varric said, pulling his boots off the table and leaning forward in his chair, “how goes your latest mission?”

“Figured you knew already: killed a couple gods, imprisoned another one, bing-bang-boom.” Rook waved an airy hand. “Saved the world from the blight to end all blights, all that jazz.”

Varric chuckled. “Nah, not that one, although good job with the whole world-saving thing.” He leaned forward almost conspiratorially. “I mean the one where you convince Solas not to destroy everything once he eventually does get out of his prison.”

A shiver went down Rook’s spine. “What makes you say that,” she asked, setting down her tankard carefully.

“C’mon kid.” Varric looked at her sadly. “You of all people know you just kicked the can down the road a bit. Solas insists on walking his din’an shir’al to its logical end; he’ll see the world burn because that’s the mission.”

“You seem to know a lot about what Solas is thinking,” Rook said softly, studying her old mentor.

“I dunno, maybe death just opened a lot of doors for me.” Varric finished the ale inside his tankard. “Funny story: Fen’Harel was never actually called the god of lies by the elves. God of rebellion, sure. Lord of Tricksters, He Who Hunts Alone, the list goes on. Guy’s got more nicknames than even I can count, not all of them good.”

Rook frowned. “But Solas himself told us he was the god of lies.”

“Wonder why he’d say that.” Varric hitched a shoulder. “The Solas I know is more a tell-them-half-truths-and-let-them-come-to-the-wrong-conclusions kinda guy, but outright lying? Not his style.”

“Now that,” Rook said, pointing across the table at Varric with her tankard hand, “sounds like something the god of lies would say.”

Varric chuckled ruefully. “Fair enough.”

fucked up hurt/comfort. the person who stabbed you tends to your wound. the person who killed your loved one helps you grieve.

[david-tennant-in-chairs]

He's so beautiful it makes me wish I knew how to sculpt

[keyaho]

Shy!character x Rough Boyfriend Terry.

Reader isn't vocal like Terry wants her to be so he makes her beg for it .

Praise In Advance

summary: is this man a demon? he's rough, but controlled. blink and you'll miss it.

His hand, large and smoothed-with manicured fingernails, was pressed between her shoulder blades as he pushed her into the bed. Sweat dropped on her back from his body, his hips smacked against hers so hard the headboard bounced against the wall. If they had them, the neighbors would definitely know her name. His too, if only she would open up that pretty little mouth. 

He had already defiled it. He knew what it was capable of and yet, here she was, quiet as a church mouse. Terry smiled to himself, she was in fact a little church mouse. Dedicated to Sunday service every week. The floral dresses and wedges accentuated her long legs and full thighs. He watched her sway out the house every seventh day knowing he'd defile her garden as soon as he got home. A serpent in her pussy. 

"Nadia,' he still his hips as he leaned down, knowing she was delirious he licked the shell of her ear. "Tell me that shit feels good." 

Silence. 

The wetness between her legs continued to drip as she buried her face into the pillows. Such a holy offering. 

Not to be ignored, Terry leaned forward, pushing his dick deeper until his pelvis was pressed against her ass and she was smushed into the bed, unable to move as the tip of his dick, tickled her cervix. He spread his own legs, steadying himself on his knees with her body between them. He grabbed a handful of her hair and yanked her head up. The bed was a mess and the wet stain where she had drooled added to the mess. 

"I've heard you in church, mama,' he smacked, his hips slowly beginning to move. 

His strokes were long and deep, making sure all nine inches had a home in her temple. 

"Sing for me,' he asked, "let me hear that praise." 

He placed a hand on her hip, holding her in the position he desired as he rode her towards exaltation. Naked and wet, Nadia clenched her eyes shut as Terry had her by the hair, his grip tight as his dick filled her to the brim. She swung a hand back, hoping to push at his thick thighs, when he smack it away, then grabbed it and pinned it to her lower back, pushing upwards so her elbow bent.  

"Tell me what you want,' he growled, letting her go so suddenly that Nadia dropped to the bed, but that didn't stop him. "Open that mouth, PK." 

He felt her pussy clench around him, sucking him in as he tried to pull back. "She's talking to me,' he added. "She's loud too. Wet and gushy." 

Nadia whimpered. Through all of it she was still that little mousy soft spoken girl. She had a little embarrassment already. She thought her moans sounded terrible and would bit her lip to keep them in. Instead, Terry was trying to draw them out. 

"I need you to open that mouth, Nadia." He dropped both hands to her ass, watching them jiggle from the intense slap. 

"Oh shit,' she cooed, just loud enough he could hear. 

How fucked of him to fuck the preacher's kid every Sunday, smiling in her father's face when he joined them for dinner once a month, citing his work schedule as his reason for not stepping foot in the church he preached at. Lying around a mouthful of greens about his devotion to the Lord. Terry rolled his eyes and pulled out of Nadia before flipping her onto her back. He and Nadia knew the only doors opening on Sunday for him were her legs. 

Raw as he came into the world, he fisted his dick while rubbing the tip against her clit. Her sweet serene face twisted as she tried to swallow the sounds he could see getting stuck in her throat. 

Maybe it was the eye contact, the stern look in his eyes, his hands on her hips, the heaviness of his dick, but Nadia couldn't stay quiet longer. Terry thrust froward, sheathing himself in her alter. 

"Oh, Terry!" 

Finally. 

He grinned. "There's my little angel. Praise me, baby. Let me hear it." 

@nayaesworld @peachbuttetfly @heauxvibez @avoidthings @mymindisneverhere @eilujion @heytaewrites  @insidefeelingofanadult @captainwithoutmakingitlove  @kindofaintrovert @jimmybutlrr @beenathembo  @virgomess  @theereina @randomhood @ash-ketchumzzz 

@wabi-sabi1090 @iterum-incipi @liquorlaughslove @eilujion @taureanstargirl @mzv11@Disc0fair @prettyfilmz @simplyzeeka @heytaewrites vivaalenaa theogbadbitch

Insertcatchynamerighthere writingsbytee pocketsizedpanther

[revelboo]

*dies* the plot twist in the last Everything is Alright update!! I was expecting soundwave to end up with the sparkling, then star would have to except him, but Megatron is even better,I'm been waiting for him to bond Reader. I think I'm going to go hysterical waiting for the next part! (No pressure, I'm just obsessed with your writing ♡♡♡)

Poor Megs getting to figure out the hard way how interspecies reproduction between Cybertronians and humans works. I’m sure this won’t be awkward at all…

Everything Is Alright Pt 115

IDW Starscream x Reader, Soundwave x Reader, Megatron x Reader

• “I’m sorry. What?” You manage, struggling to sit up in his palm as he sits on his berth holding you. And you feel oddly exhausted as Megatron just stares at the far wall. Your own tired brain teetering dangerously close to the urge to laugh, and afraid you won’t be able to stop if you start. Because of course this weird alien bullshit can get worse. Nothing should surprise you at this point. And then you think about how Star’s going to react to the fact that you somehow gave his spark he’d created with you to his worst enemy. “Can you give it back?” Before Star figures out what happened?

• Venting, he scowls at you. “I don’t even know how I took it,” he growls, head lifting when someone starts banging on the door to his habsuite and you wilt. Because of course, your spark mate would have felt you collapse. Standing, he carries you to unlock the door and is surprised to see Soundwave, not Starscream. Doesn’t even protest when the communications officer reaches for you and you slide over into his hands. Abandoning him after sparking him. “Where’s the Seeker?” Because he’d rather just get this idiocy over with. Because this isn’t how this works. The carrier keeps the spark, but you’re human not Cybertronian.

• Servos stroking over you, physically you seem fine, but your emotions are all over the place, jangling through him. “Collapsed. Hurt?” He asks, tipping your chin up and you grab onto his servo. ‘Wait, Star collapsed?’ You ask as Megatron makes a noise and you shoot him a look. What is he missing? There’s something there in the expression on Megatron’s face, but he’s just so glad you’re okay. It feels good to have you in his hands again, thought when the Seeker collapsed that he wouldn’t have a chance to apologize to you. To do better for you. Thought he’d somehow lost you. Starts to ask about the spark and hesitates glancing at Megatron, remembering that it’s secret.

• Pushing at his servos as he nervously touches you, feeling your heart, checking you over in gentle touches. And not answering you. “Soundwave, old friend,” Megatron says, his tone almost friendly to make your skin prickle all over. “Were you aware that our pet was sparked? With Starscream’s young?” Oh, he’s smiling. If shark’s could smile, that’s exactly what it would look like. That gleam in the warlord’s optics makes you want to try to pry open Soundwave’s cassette compartment and hide inside.

• Waiting patiently as Soundwave slowly inclines his head, Megatron presses his servos against his helm. “Lord Megatron?” Soundwave asks, servos curling protectively around you. Like his commander thinks he’s about to lash out at you. Not realizing that you’re absolutely safe from him. That you’re fully bonded to him and Starscream. “The spark?” His communications officer asks as you just hide your face in your hands in mortification and he looks from you to Megatron at a loss.

• Coming online, Starscream struggles to get free of the two Constructicons lifting him off the floor. Hearing them swear at him as he breaks loose and takes off. Because that fear that had slammed through him before something has gone wrong with his spark and processor had been yours. And all he can think of is that you need him. He’s terrified for you. That your weak human body has rejected the spark, that you might not survive it. Running, for Megatron’s habsuite as his own spark constricts painfully. Even if you’re still upset with him, he needs to see you. To reassure himself that you’re okay. Because you’re what matters to him.

Previous

Next

Clumsy Heart, TKO, and some TFA updates later hopefully

[fagottkatie]

I certainly love you too and may only good things happen in life the best of things the peace the love the joy the acceptance of who we are and who really masters. He dies. You know His name. He loves us as much as infinity x 5000 and that darlings is no joke or is no room for anyone to joke about only a loser would hate love and that’s all He did. They mauled his body made him carry a cross through a crowd of shitbags who mocked him laughed at him spit on him til they nailed his hands to that wooden cross and tg’s. Big spikes through his feet and stood tge cross upright and He died in agony blood running down him til out Lord died a slow death of suffocation. He did that all for you the person who ever reads this. Only 2025 years ago short time only considering our earth is 4.5 billion years old. I love non believers any religion except the fkn IS cunts now those there are some fkn Faggott biggest cowards on the planet. They hate us darlings and gay dudes. The head choppers us they love throwing the hell off tall buildings. Other then them IS rat bastards 95 percent of Muslims are the best people to know. Very mannered and nice. Every race has the five or ten percent of racists ur queer hate. Bring this Faggott your hate, zero tolerance for hate anymore and the world is our oyster with Him the one that brings joy and Suoer natural strength. Inside you to ever ease any painful times in life and there are a ton of those pains. Especially losing loved one. And now in the world alone. Nope not alone he is right by your side. And darlings that is what makes this flag. We Are Not Alone. He is with us. We Are Not Alone When The Hate is in your face He is with us. No loving the hate nor hating them in return. Drop the pricks, there is tough in all of us. Do not allow anyone to tread on you ever even if it cost you your life don’t run or hide if evil is stalking you. I fkn don’t. I never in my life did. After 5th grade I got tough my dad made me bad ass. Picked on man by everyone and then i was a sissy runaway from a tough idiot man that was fkd up I was a like that man when I look back. But 6 th grade and thus us an adult read but 6th grade I was a crossed dressed but they didn’t pick on me for that they did it because they smelt weakness. 6 th grade I was in a new school I dunno maybe the second month in I get a note passed to me I open it this Chris dude 2 nd toughest in the class I had to fight him the nite said from him to be. I was like you mthr fkr just got to this school catholic school it was and now this shit. I bet him by him at bobs house in the alley as directed. I thought of my dad who was extreme bad ass and me his boy want going to ever let him down again coming home all beat up. Well anyway I dropped the mthr fkr and fkn cracked his nose and the beauty of blood spurting out the mthr fkrs nose it makes sounds. After I had many many fights never lost another one. I get fkn. Psycho at fight time I wrestled in high school learned such valuable moves and the striking back. Never ever did I strike first. Only a fkn weirdo wants to strike a bad actor. Yummy the crack in the face than psycho time. Just beat the mthr fkr like a drum no matter who or how big and bad. It’s ago Time At Insult or injury. For me and hope you find that bad ass in you if you didn’t already. It’s in all of us. He gave us that too. Anyway. Just a read if nothing to do.

remember: you are loved 💗

[i-just-like-crk]

Just finished playing the new EP and good lord. Do you know how terrifying Shadow Milk would be as a yandere? I mean, he’s already one by default.

He’s a master manipulator, a shape-shifter, can spy on anyone from anywhere from any place, the (ex) master of all knowledge, literally has the ability to re-write your memories, oh— and his house is a lawless time and space maze. We haven’t seen him in an actual battle yet either, but we can assume that the (ex) Master of All Knowledge must know magic that wields a devastating amount of power.

Seriously. How do you run from this guy??? You just.. can’t. He’s constantly ten steps ahead of you, in his spire where the past, present, and future intertwine. He knows your next move before you do, and has already laid out clever traps and obstacles by the time you come to your decision. Each hurdle you stumble upon challenges your resolve, challenges your knowledge. You begin to doubt yourself with each one; questioning everything you’ve ever known and everything that you are. Horrific hallucinations chip away at you bit by bit, until you’re delirious and vulnerable, uncertain about everything— but one thing does remain certain. Each path you take leads you back to him. And when you finally circle back to him (just as it was written in the script), walls broken down, leaving your fragile mind and soul bare and at his mercy— he strikes.

The worst part of all is how much joy he takes in seeing you try. It’s not that he likes it when you run off (in fact, he’d prefer if you didn’t leave his side at all), but the crushing defeat in your eyes when you realize how futile it all was, when you finally realize the truth— that you were destined to be his, from the moment of the world’s inception, it was written that you belonged to him. And there is no running from destiny.

[ihfmseatsoch]

He's sick, and he's taken, but honest 🚀🌠

Grant Curly x fem!intern!reader

Summary: Stuck in an unhappy marriage, Curly's new intern brings some much needed excitement into his stagnant life.

genre: smut

word count: 4.7k

warnings/content: cheating, (legal) age gap, a lot of pining, curly is #depressed, semi public sex

—

Marriage is a common life goal most people aim to achieve. Curly was one of them, believing it'd give his life purpose. He'd have someone special to come home to after a long haul, maybe even a couple children in the future. He'd have a family that'd mitigate his loneliness, and he'd feel more accomplished as a human being. Lord knows his career would ever give him that feeling.

That fantasy turned out to be nothing like he anticipated. Everyone always talks about married life like it's some cushy, idealistic dream, so it's only natural that he expected... more. Something fulfilling.

Maybe it's because he rushed into it. Slapped a ring on the first girl he thought could be "the one", because he didn't want to waste his twenties being alone and single, while his other friends were already hosting baby showers and inviting him to weddings. He didn't want to feel out of place, and honestly, he was a little too desperate for normalcy. Stability. Whatever settling down brings you.

No one tells you what you're supposed to do when "the one" isn't who you thought they were. When "the one" becomes bored of you in less than a year, and you're forced to spend the next decade attempting to relive your honeymoon phase, rekindle the initial spark you and your spouse once had.

In the end, it was all fruitless.

One sided arguments were frequent, Curly typically too worn down to shout back at his wife, who's nagging him about something he did, or didn't do. Most of the time, Curly finds himself dissociating throughout the bombardment of verbal assault, which causes her to accuse him of not caring about their relationship, due to his lack of a reaction.

And, perhaps there's some truth to her claim. He cares enough to stay, but... does he want to continue putting in the effort to make their failure of a marriage work? Was their partnership worth trying to salvage?

The answer was a resounding no. Not anymore. Curly came to realize that he stayed out of obligation, not out of genuine love.

At least when he was piloting the Tulpar for over a year, it was a reprieve from his home life. He never thought he'd consider his job to be equivalent to a vacation of sorts, but that's where he is in his pitiful existence.

It wasn't until Curly was informed that an intern would be assigned to work alongside him, that the painstaking boredom of his routine was replaced with a breath of fresh air. Initially, he fully expected the new responsibility of tutoring someone more inexperienced than him to be a hassle.

But as soon as he set his sights on you, a pretty young thing with the aura of an angel, the thought of spending every waking moment with you didn't seem so bad. Not bad at all. You captivated him completely, which caused a bit of guilt to stir deep inside his stomach. He shouldn't be thinking of another woman this way, especially not one that was just learning how to say their first word by the time he was in highschool.

But god, were you entrancing. The most beautiful girl he'd seen in a long time. Curly felt worse than terrible for finding you more physically appealing than his own wife back on Earth, but you were so much sweeter than her, listened to him so intently, hanging on his every word as he explained the how the controls in the cockpit functioned, your compliments on his knowledge and experience going straight to his ego—

Oh, he was doomed. Utterly fucked.

"I don't think I'll ever be as good of a Captain as you, Grant." You spoke humbly, referring to him by his first name, ever so polite and respectful. Even if the rest of the crew called him Curly, you insisted on formalities. He was your boss, after all. That's part of what he appreciated about you.

How mature you were for your age.

"Don't be so sure 'bout that," He shot you one of his signature smiles, charming, but not quite reaching his eyes. "You've got a lot of potential, more than most kids your age. And it's not about bein' as good as me, y'know. You've gotta pave your own path. Learn at your own pace."

You had that usual expression on your face whenever he gave you a bit of his wisdom, which was truthfully just him parroting back what his brain had absorbed from the Polle posters with bland motivational quotes scattered around the ship, simplistic and cliché. Your eyes were locked onto him, focused, and beautiful as ever. You took him so seriously, it was almost a little silly. Sure, he was an authority figure, but he wanted to be more of a friend to you, rather than your superior.

"Just 'cause I'm younger than you doesn't make me a kid." You tease him a bit, and he's glad you're finally comfortable enough with him to do so.

"Right, my mistake," he chuckled, "Forgot I'm dealin' with a grown woman here. Forgive me."

"Forgiven." You quip back with a short laugh of your own. Fuck, you were cute. Such a pretty little smile, lips soft and kissable, practically begging him to smash his own against them, to bite, taste, and lick, until they were swollen and red from the aftermath.

Blinking a couple times, he clears his throat. Not now, Curly, he chastises himself. Get a grip. This stupid crush was completely inappropriate. Unethical. So why couldn't he brush his lustful fantasies aside, if he was aware how wrong they were? Why was he treating his life partner as an afterthought, willingly allowing himself to be ensnared by you?

He thought pumping his aching cock in slow, deliberate strokes, late at night in the privacy of his quarters, thinking of that tempting mouth of yours full of him, taking every inch of his shaft down your throat, running your hot, wet tongue along the length from base to tip, would make all those feelings go away. He doesn't know how long it's been since him and his wife have been intimate, he just needed some relief. Right?

Even after he spilled a thick load of cum all over his muscular stomach, abs softened from months of inactivity, he still wanted you. In fact, it only made his desire for you worsen, blossoming by the second. You were an insatiable craving he couldn't ignore. Not until he got a taste.

Curly didn't want to creep on you, but how was he ever going to initiate anything? Were you even interested in him in that way? How could he even suggest anything so uncouth, so perverted, especially as your boss? He wasn't a man who took advantage of power dynamics. Confessing how he felt towards you could jeopardize his position if you took it the wrong way, or, at the very least, damage the relationship he's been steadily building with you.

Instead of being upfront, he maintained an air of casualness when asking about your personal life. It was all normal, at first, asking about your parents, your upbringing, social circle...

And, eventually, he felt as if it wouldn't feel awkward if he inquired about a possible romantic partner, since the question was on topic. "You got anyone waitin' on you back on Earth?" He broached the subject with feigned nonchalance, hoping you don't take the question as too invasive. He felt the need to backpedal, his confidence wavering. "You don't gotta tell me, if that's too personal. Just curious."

"No, nothing like that." You answer, looking down at the coffee in your mug, not particularly interested in drinking any more of it. The first, very disappointing sip was enough. "Huh." Curly made a mild sound of surprise at your response. He fully expected someone to have snatched you up before him.

The fact that you were available made him feel a sense of relief, but also... worse, in a way. There was nothing holding him back from shooting his shot with you, no one in the way. No one to stop him from possibly making a horrible decision. Besides his wife, but... in all honesty, he suspects she's not being all that faithful back on his home planet.

"What about you?" Your question catches him off guard for a moment. Had he really not mentioned that he was married? Not once? He has to think fast. He has the opportunity to lie, or be honest with you. On one hand, the less you know, the better. On the other, telling the truth would prevent anything from happening between you two.

Steeling himself, he quickly makes up his mind, deciding that he can't bring himself to be dishonest. You'd find out eventually. "I'm married." Curly admits plainly, unable to force any kind of joy into his tone. He doesn't even smile, or look proud, like most husbands would when speaking about their wives. When did he become such a shithead, he wonders.

"You don't seem too happy about it." You immediately notice how... depressed he looks at the very mention of his spouse. Catching yourself being a little too blunt, you follow up with, "Um– not that I'm implying anything! Sorry..."

He sighs, dejected, tiredly rubbing his face, as if he could wipe the evident dissatisfaction clean off. The crushing weight of pretending everything's fine and dandy is catching up to him. "Nah, don't apologize. You're not wrong." He confesses out loud for the first time, even to himself. "Goin' through a rough patch. Have been for a long time."

Curly can hardly look at the raw, genuine sympathy on your face. He doesn't want you to pity him. He doesn't want anyone to. That's why he's hidden his marital problems from everyone he knows. Besides Jimmy, that is, but he's not the best guy to vent to, and Curly's only told him bits and pieces, to which Jimmy responds with the oh so helpful advice to simply get a divorce, like it's that easy.

"Sorry to hear that." You place a tender hand on his broad shoulder in a comforting manner. "I know what it's like, being in a shitty relationship. You can always talk to me about it, if you need to."

He can't help but melt into the display of physical affection, no longer used to feeling a loving touch. It was refreshing to experience genuine compassion for once. With a forced, half-hearted smile, he speaks solemnly, "Nah, don't wanna bother ya' with my problems. I appreciate it though, really."

Curly doesn't mention anything else about his personal life for a while, too embarrassed by the smidgen of vulnerability he showed you. He's supposed to be the Captain. The strong one. The guy who has his shit together. He can't let anyone know he's the opposite of who he presents himself to be.

But having you around has made him feel emotions he hasn't experienced in god knows how long. Plus, you're good company. A good friend. You make him feel alive again.

You're exactly what he needs.

Maybe he idealized you a bit, but how could he not? You were perfect to him, delicately handcrafted by angels, everything about you so sugary sweet that his teeth hurt just thinking about you. It came to a point where he genuinely wanted you to stay in his life for good, because without you, he's sure the vitality you instilled in him would fade, and he'd immediately wilt like a neglected houseplant; visibly half-dead and parched in the corner of the room, but no one takes the time to tend to it, or even acknowledge it's suffering.

His yearning became palpable, affecting the very atmosphere whenever you two were left alone. Curly had asked you to demonstrate what you've learned so far, and as you listed off the proper names of each button, lever, dial, and switch, summarizing your basic aviation knowledge, he simply couldn't focus on your words. Didn't need to, actually. He already knew you were smart enough to fly the ship yourself, so he took the time to just... admire you.

You were the epitome of light, brightening his days, no matter how dreary.

What he would give to have you sat in his lap as he mentored you, his hands guiding your own as you learned how to take the controls, whispering instructions into your ear just to watch your cheeks flush with warm blood, and listen to the way your breathing hitches when he pulls your body closer–

"Grant?" Your voice brought him out of his own head. Must've spaced out again. He's gotta stop doing that... "You're looking at me weird. I don't sound dumb, do I?"

Curly realizes he's been staring at you with a dopey, lovesick expression for way too long, and he sheepishly rubs the back of his neck, feeling like an idiot for acting this way. "No, no. You're doin' great. Ain't you, just... haven't gotten a proper night's rest in a good while." That's a half-lie. Sure, he hasn't been sleeping well, but that's every night. Not much of a difference there. The only problem here is him and his lack of self restraint.

If only you knew how hard he's struggled to not shove his tongue down your throat.

"Something keeping you up?" You lean in closer, so willing to listen to his problems and carry his woes in your two shoulders. He can't tell you the truth. Can he? You're a good person, much better than he is. You wouldn't want to be with a married man.

Then again, he doesn't want to lie to you. It's been so difficult to hold back from declaring his feelings for you, it's eating away at his insides, tearing him apart little by little.

Guilt weighs heavily upon him like an anchor tied to his neck, pulling him to the bottom of the lake. "...Yeah," He swallows, "S'pose there is." He keeps his voice low, sounding immensely ashamed, like a child confessing to eating a dozen cookies before dinner.

"Talk to me." You urge, so oblivious to the cause of his inner turmoil. It's now or never. He either screws this up so irreparably bad, or you accept him and his shame.

Curly takes a deep breath, before forcing it all out in a quick, rushed jumble of words.

"I– fuck, don't think badly of me for this. I can't stop thinkin' about you. Can't get you outta my head, no matter how hard I try. I know it's wrong, god, do I know, but you're... you're just so..." He trails off, his own humiliation cutting his sentence short, and he mentally prepares for the worst rejection of his life.

An awkwardly long silence falls between you, as you take the time to process his confession. He looks like a broken man in front of you, unable to make eye contact, his hands clasped together, sweaty with fear.

"Grant..." You start, unsure how to go about this situation. "I'm glad you told me, and– and I like you too, I really do. But... your wife..." You bite your lip, bashful, never expecting yourself to develop feelings towards a married man of all people.

His heart sinks like a stone as you bring up the woman whom he had vowed eternal loyalty to. He exhales shakily, avoiding your eyes. "I know. Just... me and her... ain't been the same as it used to. Not for a long time."

"I'm sorry." Your heart swells with empathy, wondering why anyone would dare to mistreat a man like him. He's nothing but a sweetheart in your eyes. Flawed, yes, but so is everyone. "I... I don't think I'll make you happy, though. And... being the other woman, it'd feel... wrong. Even under these circumstances."

He nods, silently agreeing with you. It would be downright horrible of him to cheat on his wife, especially with a younger woman who he has a position of authority over. A position of trust and responsibility. A position in which he can easily take advantage of you if he really wanted to. Isn't that a sickening thought.

He's supposed to be better than this. Stronger than this. But he doesn't feel much like a good man right now. Feels like he's drowning.

You sigh at his silence, taking his clammy hands into your own. Your heart hammers against your chest wall. The forbidden aspect of the entire situation is adrenaline inducing. His sad puppy eyes make you feel awful for rejecting him, but if you two started anything, it'd end up a terrible mess.

Yet, you can't stop your body from inching even closer to him.

"I don't want you to be unhappy." You tell him, speaking quietly, as if to avoid eavesdroppers.

He knows he's supposed to pull away, to do the right thing for once. But when has he ever done the right thing when it comes to you? He dares to look into your eyes and his body tenses. You're so close, near enough to where he can see himself reflected in your dilated pupils.

This is wrong.

"You're too damn sweet for your own good," he murmurs, gaze flicking down to your lips, "Ain't makin' this easier for me."

It doesn't take long for the tension between the both of you to become unbearable, your hand finding his scruffy cheek to pull him towards you, practically smashing your lips to his. His beard tickles you as you kiss, but it doesn't deter you from allowing him to ravage your mouth.

A deep, almost guttural sound of desire rumbling out from his chest. The kiss is messy and desperate, bordering on hungry, starved of the affection you're giving him in this moment. He doesn't hesitate to hoist you up by your waist, sitting you down on the console, the sudden movement eliciting a surprised squeak from you, the sound muffled inside of his mouth.

Pulling away for air and a moment to compose yourself, your lips coated with a sheer layer of own another's saliva, you stare into each other's eyes as you breathe heavily, his large hands gripping your hips to keep you balanced and supported on the surface. "Grant..." You breathe his name, unable to come up with anything else to say in your dazed state of mind.

"You have no idea," he begins, huskily, "How fucking bad I want you." His firm tone makes your thighs press together, a jolt of arousal hitting you right in the gut. It's not the first time you've heard him speak in an authoritative voice, and it's not the first time it's made you fantasize about him using it... somewhere more private.

"The... The door isn't... locked." You point out, still apprehensive despite your growing need. Dipping his head into the slope of your neck, he mumbles against your skin, "Think you can be quiet, then?"

You don't think twice before you nod, even though you're truthfully unsure if you'll be able to hold back from crying out and alerting the others. Only one way to find out. He presses his groin to yours, the friction making your clit twitch as he makes direct contact with the clothed nerve. Curly's dick is already hard, straining through his uniform, and you can feel just how massive he is, even through the fabric.

"Tell me if you want me to stop," he rasps, zipping his uniform down hastily, "You want this, yeah?" It was sweet how he asked for your consent, as if you two weren't already in the foreplay stage. You nod to ease his worries, pulling your own coveralls down, revealing the pajama shirt underneath, embarrassingly old and tattered. But you didn't exactly imagine you'd be fucking your mentor today, so there was no reason you would've thought to change into something sexier. You didn't even bring anything sexy on board. It's this or nothing at all, not that he seems to mind the less than elegant garment.

A brief, shaky laugh escapes him at the sight of you, only adoring you even more. "Cute," he comments, "Hope you don't mind if I take it off, though." Hopking his fingers under the the hem, he diligently pulls the shirt over your head, exposing the plain bra underneath. Underwhelming, but witnessing your half naked body is still a heavenly sight.

You decide you should start touching him as well, just to make it fair. You slip one hand under his shirt, feeling up his torso, your fingers exploring every groove of his defined muscle, even the slight pudge of his stomach. Not to mention, his chest is huge. Bigger than yours. You're almost jealous.

Curly's a little self conscious about the excess fat around his belly, but the way you're touching him as if he's a perfectly chiseled statue, fingertips grazing his skin with an awestruck expression on your face, makes him feel a little less insecure.

His own fingers dip down, the large pad of his thumb lightly stroking your clit through your panties. You have to bite down on your lip to keep yourself from moaning. "Nnh– Grant–" You shudder, speaking as quietly as you possibly can with the way he's touching you, sending electric shocks of pleasure throughout your cunt.

"Call me Curly." He sounds like he's demanding you, rather than asking. "Don't gotta be so professional anymore. Not when you're gettin' this wet from just my fingers." There's a hint of pride laced in his voice at the end of his sentence. He's still got it.

"C– Curly..." You stammer, as if testing out the way his name rolls off your tongue. You reach up to grasp onto his shoulders as he pulls the fabric of your underwear aside. "Atta girl," he encourages, tracing the outline of your slick folds with a finger, "Always such a fast learner."

You intake a trembling breath of air, feeling him explore you, spread you open, tease your entrance, so tantalizingly close to sliding inside of you. "Need you, Curly..." You whimper, a little pathetically, "Need you so bad, please..."

He complies with your plea, reveling in how desperate you look for him. No one has desired him like this in years, his own wife has never looked at him the way you do, even before their issues. "Shh, I know, I know... don't worry. M' gonna make you feel real good, doll." He coos, slipping his index into your hole, your slick making the insertion smooth and easy. Even just one of his thick fingers make you feel full, not to mention it's long enough to immediately nudge against all the right places.

Your eyes roll back as he adds a second finger, stretching you open, the obscenely wet sound of him pumping in and out of your heat filling the cockpit. You let out a string of soft whines from your parted lips, fingernails digging into his shoulders.

"Oh my g– goddd– Curly, fuck–" You cry out, spreading your legs even wider for him so he can prod your insides at even more angles.

Your cries are like sweet hymns to his ears, the sight of you coming undone before him is glorious, and he wants nothing more than to worship you, all of you, for the rest of his life. "Yeah? This pretty cunt likes that, huh? I can tell, she keeps squeezin' down on me, suckin' me in..." Curly can hardly believe the filth coming from his own mouth. He's been so deprived of any sexual contact with a woman, that he feels slightly unhinged now that he finally has it. His dick aches, watching his digits disappear, sheathed inside you, before pulling back out again, coated in your arousal, over and over again.

"Think she can handle more than my fingers?" He asks, his body practically jittering with the need to fuck you stupid. The way he's talking about your pussy, like it's a separate being from you, is strangely hot. You nod, the very idea of having his cock inside you makes your walls involuntarily clamp around him. "Uh– Uh huh..." You nod, already dumb and drunk off the pleasure he's giving you.

Curly slips his fingers out, leaving you feeling momentarily empty. You watch him pull his cock from his boxers, throbbing and rigid, tip flushed red. His size is intimidating, and you can't fathom why his wife would reject this for anything. You're openly gawking at his dick, which fuels his ego nicely. "Not polite to stare." He teases, and your face grows warm from being caught. "Sorry..." You avery your eyes, sheepishly. "You're just... um..." You're unable to tell him how fucking huge he is, feeling too embarrassed, but his mind fills in the blanks.

"Don't worry," He soothes, "I'll be gentle, okay?" With a kiss to your temple, he lines himself up with your hole, aching more intensely than it ever has for anyone else, the extent of your arousal almost overwhelming.

"You ready?" He asks, looking at you for permission to proceed, scanning your face for any sign is discomfort. You nod timidly, admittedly nervous, but more than willing to take him. "Mhm," you shakily hum, "I'm ready..."

With your consent, he presses himself into you, swallowing your moans with a kiss as your hole stretches to accommodate his girth, your nails raking down his buff forearms. He groans lowly into your mouth as he sinks into you, nearly orgasming from your tightness alone. When he bottoms out, he pulls away from your mouth just enough to whisper against your lips, "M' gonna start movin', okay? Be good n' stay quiet for me. I know you can do it."

You nod obediently, and he begins to rock his hips, pulling out, pushing in, rhythmic and gentle, allowing your body to ease into the feeling. You wrap your legs tightly around his hips, ensuring he stays as close to you as possible. "F– Feels so good, so good–" You babble, your voice raising to a higher pitch than usual.

He kisses your neck, your jaw, your collarbone, anything that's within his reach, murmuring praises against your skin, "I know, pretty girl. Takin' it so well, look at you... so good for me, always so fuckin' good..." You feel him all the way in your stomach, his fat tip almost punching your cervix as his thrusts accelerate, your thighs tensing around him at every harsh movement, his heavy balls slapping against your ass, making you fearful of the sound attracting the others towards the cockpit, but not scared enough to do anything about it.

You grow close humiliatingly fast, but you can't really blame yourself when the biggest cock you've ever had is slamming into you, rubbing against every sweet spot in your cunt. "Curly– M' gonna–" you can hardly choke the words out.

"Yeah? Gonna cum for me?" He pants, pressing a kiss to your sweaty forehead, "Go ahead n' cum, sweetheart. Rub that pretty lil' clit and make yourself cream all over my cock." His tone is so gentle in comparison it his vulgar sentence. You obey his instructions without hesitation, ardently using two fingers to rapidly stroke the hard, swollen bud, enhancing the euphoria washing over your body. Your body spasms as your orgasm hits you, more explosive and perfervid than you've ever felt before, your cunt pulsing around his cock, your sticky and lustrous arousal coating your thighs.

"That's it, there you go..." He grunts lowly, thrusts growing erratic, his movements losing their fluidity as he quickly approaches his own release. "So beautiful when you cum on my cock like that... mmph– fuck– m' almost there, hold on a little longer for me–"

Thankfully, he doesn't continue to fuck your overstimulated pussy for too much longer, completely overwhelming your senses. Curly pulls out and gives his dick a couple pumps, before spilling onto your stomach, some of his seed shooting onto the console, mixing with your own juices. This'll be disgusting to clean up.

You rest your head on his broad chest, catching your breath, both of you coming down from the intensity of your high as he strokes your hair soothingly. "Shhh, shhh.... you did so well... you feelin' alright? Anything hurt?" His aftercare is sickeningly sweet, and it's evident he genuinely cares about your answers to his questions, and how you're feeling.

In your mind, it's too soon to call the affection you have for him anything veritably close to true love. On the other hand, to him, he's head over heels for you, after knowing you for two months at most. Or, at least, that's what he believes.

A nagging thought is stuck in the back of his mind, one that he'd rather not contemplate for too long:

How the fuck is he going to look his wife in the eyes when he returns to Earth?

—

[vonlycaonwife]

Seth, Lighter, and Harumasa w/ Crush Accidentally Confessing Hcs

Wanted to do these with the other boyos

Warnings: none

And here's another thiren who absolutely did hear you no matter what, and also not subtle about it. It's obvious from the way his tail stops and his ears perk up.

Though luckily for you he's also one of the boys who won't give chase, or at least give up easily once he realizes what he's doing.

Though don't think he will let you avoid him after that, but you can thankfully calm down since he seems to act nonchalant about what happened.

Oh how absolutely wrong you are, after heading home this poor poor flustered feline was blushing like a tomato. He could not get your words out of his head, even if it was just a simple accidental confession.

So he made a promise to himself to showcase his feelings to you back, though more subtly until he himself worked up the nerve to confess. Luckily knowing it's reciprocated does give him a small confidence boost.

Though he'll definitely be teased to hell and back by his colleagues if anyone saw (they did, they all bet on who would confess first).

Honestly if you did this you don't have to worry about Lighter's reaction, it's the rest of the biker gang you have to watch out for.

As if one (Ceasar or Lucy) hear you then all the girls are crowding around you for clarification.

Even if you tried to run you're getting chased by them and they will catch up no matter what. Lighter almost feels bad as he sees this happen before you all disappear from his sight.

They will corner you and demand for more details. They most definitely already knew about Lighter's feelings for you, so once they find out about your shared love those girls will drag you back to repeat the confession.

Though that's mainly Caesar and Burnice, Lucy and Piper are easier to convince to let you do it when you're ready and pretend nothing happened.

As for Lighter himself, after the girls return with you in tow he's most likely already calmed himself down by then. Though trust me he would have a hard time looking you in the eyes without blushing crazy.

But I can see him subtly sneaking you two into a more private area to gently ask you to repeat your confession. If you wish to pretend it didn't happen still, he's hesitant to go along, but he wants you to be comfortable.

If you do repeat it, then he's gonna be blushing even more! And also awkwardly cough into his fist to try and pretend he isn't. But! He's gonna reciprocate the confession, though not as cooly as he wished he could've done it. 

Lord help you because Haru will freeze in place very obviously. Like any teasing he was doing is just stopped and most likely would have everyone worry about his heart suddenly stopping.

His entire face will turn red as his brain quickly processes what just happened.

If you had run away while this was happening he's giving chase. Good luck because he will catch you!

I mean you do have the advantage since besides strength from using his bow, stamina wise he's last within Section 6.

But he has the home advantage of knowing every hiding spot within HSO headquarters. So you'll be in for a shock as he just barges into the space and leans his face dangerously close to yours.

And he's not backing away until he can hear you say it all over again, and maybe asking you to repeat several more times. 

He'll let out a chuckled apology once you berate him for it, but ask you to repeat it one more time. This last time he'll interrupt you with a kiss.

[middle-earth-mythopoeia]

While I agree that not everything can be effectively translated from page to screen, I don’t buy that in this case. I just recorded myself reading these lines, not rushing, but reading them how I’d like to hear them spoken, and it took me 12 seconds. 12 seconds. It might take me one or two seconds longer if I really slowed down for emphasis. More on this in a minute.

Why do you think it would be comical? Not if it were done well, and Miranda Otto would certainly have done it well. Not if it were allowed to have the same importance that some of Tolkien’s other canonical dialogue had in the movies. This scene has nothing in common with a real emergency situation or a real combat situation, even if it’s depicting one: what it actually is is art, and the rules are different.

Was there time for Théoden to make his speech before the Battle of the Pelennor Fields? In a real emergency situation, shouldn’t they have just charged? Yes, but the thing is, it isn’t a real situation, it’s a story. It works for Théoden to make that speech. It makes the scene infinitely better. In fact, it’s one of the best scenes, if not the best scene, in both the books and the movies. This should have been treated no differently. Cutting down Éowyn’s dialogue didn’t make her scene work better, it removed the full gravitas that it could have had.

Théoden’s speech in the movie takes a long time. First he gives commands to Éomer, Gamling and Grimbold, and I’m not going to count that part, because it’s the most “realistic” part of his speech in the sense that it’s necessary for winning the battle. That takes about 11 seconds, for reference. Then this takes him 18 seconds to say: “Forth, and fear no darkness! Arise! Arise, riders of Théoden! Spears shall be shaken! Shields shall be splintered! A sword day, a red day, ere the sun rises!” After a pause, he says: “Ride now! Ride now! Ride! Ride for ruin, and the world’s ending!” That’s 11 more seconds of dialogue, not counting the pause. This is already significantly longer than Éowyn reading those lines would have been! And this is all before they start chanting “Death!”

Between “Forth, and fear no darkness” and the time they charge, more than a full minute passes. Is that realistic? Is that what you should really do in an emergency? No! But it's REALLY REALLY REALLY GOOD IN A STORY. If this speech had been cut down for brevity or so-called realism, the scene would have been much, much poorer for it.

Movies get a lot of criticism, often rightly, when opponents talk to each other during a fight, because it can seem absurd to talk while actively exchanging blows. But dialogue during a fight is different that dialogue before a fight. When Éowyn confronts the Witch-king, they’re not actually fighting yet. Théoden has just fallen beneath Snowmane and the fell beast has landed on it. He’s trapped. The Witch-king is in no hurry, and not only that, he’s used to being unopposed: most mortal Men fall to the ground in terror just at the sound of his voice. He has no expectation that anyone will try to challenge him, let alone kill him.

There’s actually even more dialogue before the quotation we’re talking about:

‘Begone, foul dwimmerlaik, lord of carrion! Leave the dead in peace!’ A cold voice answered: ‘Come not between the Nazgûl and his prey! Or he will not slay thee in thy turn. He will bear thee away to the houses of lamentation, beyond all darkness, where thy flesh shall be devoured, and thy shrivelled mind be left naked to the Lidless Eye.’ A sword rang as it was drawn. ‘Do what you will; but I will hinder it, if I may.’ ‘Hinder me? Thou fool. No living man may hinder me!’ Then Merry heard of all sounds in that hour the strangest. It seemed that Dernhelm laughed, and the clear voice was like the ring of steel. ‘But no living man am I! You look upon a woman. Éowyn I am, Éomund’s daughter. You stand between me and my lord and kin. Begone, if you be not deathless! For living or dark undead, I will smite you, if you touch him.’

Note that the fighting happens after this. She kills the fell beast and they fight after all this is said. Now the dialogue is long, and I understand cutting it down, and I get that there are changes that need to be made from page to screen. But we’re talking about 12 seconds, the part at the end right there, just 12 seconds, give or take.

Now let’s talk about the movie scene for a minute. It’s quite different:

Éowyn says, “I will kill you if you touch him.” The Witch-king says, “Do not come between the Nazgul and his prey.” She kills the fell beast. They fight. He chokes her, which didn’t happen in the book, and I really hate it because it was completely unnecessary. He says, “You fool. No man can kill me. Die now.” Merry stabs him in the leg. Éowyn says, “I am no man,” and kills him.

In my opinion, the way they expanded the fight part of this scene actually removed some of its drama. Cutting down the dialogue also removed its drama. The part where he choked her was awful and should have been changed. And do you see how in the movie version the dialogue is actually interspersed in the fighting, which is not the case in the book? That also reduced the drama of the scene. Imagine instead a version of the movie that more heavily relies on Tolkien’s dialogue and how the scene actually went:

The fell beast lands on Snowmane, poised to attack. Éowyn draws her sword and says, “Begone, lord of carrion! Leave the dead in peace!” The Witch-king says, “Thou fool. Come not between the Nazgûl and his prey. Or I will not slay thee in they turn, but bear thee away to the houses of lamentation, beyond all darkness, where thy flesh shall be devoured. No living man may hinder me!” Éowyn laughs and says, “But no living man am I! You look upon a woman. Éowyn I am, Éomund’s daughter. You stand between me and my lord and kin. Begone, if you be not deathless! For living or dark undead, I will smite you, if you touch him.” Then the fell beast attacks her and she chops off its head. The Witch-king attacks her and breaks her arm and Merry stabs him in the leg and she kills him.

This is so much more dramatic and carries so much more weight and meaning than the scene in the movie. Of course some things could be added or subtracted, and there are different ways it could be done, but I’m just showing you that the original dialogue could have played more of a role here. It not only adds to Éowyn’s gravitas, it adds to the power of the Witch-king and makes his defeat more satisfying. And it actually builds to a crescendo. It’s far better to have the dialogue first and the action after rather than breaking up the dialogue with an unnecessarily extended fight scene.

Tolkien knew what he was doing. It absolutely does make sense for Éowyn to verbally challenge the Witch-king this way, and it works within the style of writing and the story that Tolkien created. There were many times when his dialogue translated beautifully from page to the screen, and this could have been no different!

The movie dialogue could never measure up to this:

“But no living man am I! You look upon a woman. Éowyn I am, Éomund’s daughter. You stand between me and my lord and kin. Begone, if you be not deathless! For living or dark undead, I will smite you, if you touch him.”

How could anyone cut this?! How?! How?!?!?!?! These lines are so incredibly stirring, so powerful, so moving. “I am no man” doesn’t even come close.

First of all, I like that the negative statement of “No living man am I” is followed by the positive statement of “You look upon a woman.” It’s direct and definitive. She’s been disguised as Dernhelm up until this point—another thing that was cut from the movie—but now she’s revealing who she really is.

Second, in a similar way, I like that she says, “Éowyn I am, Éomund’s daughter.” It’s like a challenge. It’s like announcing one’s identity before a duel—which is in effect what she is doing.

Third, “You stand between me and my lord and kin.” This reminds me of one of the most poignant quotes from the book: “I do not love the bright sword for its sharpness, nor the arrow for its swiftness, nor the warrior for his glory. I love only that which they defend.” It’s very important that Éowyn did this brave deed out of a desire to protect Théoden.

Finally, “Begone, if you be not deathless! For living or dark undead, I will smite you, if you touch him.” THIS IS LITERALLY SO AMAZING! THIS IS SO COURAGEOUS! I CAN’T EVEN EXPRESS HOW THIS MAKES ME FEEL! I don’t know which part is better—the fact that she threatens him, or that she gives him the choice to forfeit and flee the battlefield.

There’s an incredible heroic resoluteness to the final line, “For living or dark undead, I will smite you, if you touch him.” This, right here, is the essence of the courage of mortals in Tolkien’s books. It’s the acceptance of death, but the desire to go down fighting—the knowledge that death is inevitable, but the one thing we have control over is how we meet it.

Éowyn is facing Sauron’s most powerful servant, who is almost a personification of death itself, and she is declaring that no matter what he is, and no matter the outcome, she WILL fight him. When she says these lines, she doesn’t know that she and Merry will vanquish him. It’s sheer determination against impossible odds, it’s extraordinary courage in the face of death—and THAT is why this scene is so powerful.

[fancyfeathers]

Part two to this post

Barry Allen would baby trap his darling at some point, it’s when he would not if he would. He also does not exactly view it as baby trapping, it is just the next step in life, you get saved by the Flash engaged, you get kidnapped married, so naturally kids would come next in the line. He know, he know, kids are a really big step, but they have time. Then they have to figure out what to do if the kids have their father’s speed, there is no way his darling can raise the little ones all on her own as a stay at home mom, they’ll have to figure a dynamic that keeps him home more often so he can teach the kids while she is getting dinner ready-

Meanwhile while telling his darling about his their future plans while eating dinner with her and she is just sitting there horrified, he had their whole life planned like they had been together for years.

“Hey, hey, hey, baby, don’t cry. I know this is scary, but we’ll figure it out together.”

The moment he finds out she is pregnant, he hits the ground running, pun not intended, on the preparations. Then literally a minute later after getting the news he has the crib built and is just all over his darling, names for a girl, names for a boy, what if they have twins?

When the baby is born, he does not want to put them down, Barry always needs to holding his baby. Hey, kangaroo care does improve brain and motor development, lowers risk of infection, regulates temperature, and improves weight gain.

Oliver Queen does not really try to get his darling pregnant, but it is not something he bothers to prevent either. It is a thing that naturally happens in time so if they are meant to have kids then so be it, if they aren’t then that is fine to. Now unlike some of the Justice League members, Oliver is more in tune to his darling’s emotions and chances are when she gets that positive pregnancy test that she will not exactly be happy, probably be crying. Oliver will not say anything and he will just sit with her on the bathroom tile and hold her while she cries.

Now just because he understands how his darling feels does not mean she doesn’t have to carry the baby, no she still has to, after all it’s their future child, it means that Oliver will be far more lax with things. Oliver doesn’t really have a lot of rule, and the few he does have are to protect his darling from the sort of threats that may come at her because he is Green Arrow, he is by far one of the least up tight members of the Justice League with their darling. She can go out with him if she wants to rather than being stuck home all day long, she can stay up later, she can even go with him to Justice League meetings because the social interaction would be good for her especially since at least one of the Green Lanterns’ darlings is around the Watchtower while their partner is off planet, and if Clark’s darling is around it is good for them to talk because lord knows how many babies she has had so there is bound to be good advice from her.

Also I think that Oliver would want to do an at home birth, it is free from all the chaos of a hospital because it will attract attention if he is there suddenly with a wife no one has ever seen, plus his money will cover everything, even hiring private doctors for the baby’s vaccinations and such post delivery, and then not to mention to comfort of being able to relax in his own home with his darling and their little baby after the delivery, holding them both and just being in the moment without the stress of anything and not having to be away from either of them.

Also I feel like Oliver would be such a girl dad, like sure he would be happy if it was a boy, but if it’s a girl then that’s his little princess.

Look with Bruce Wayne there is only one correct answer here, absolutely he would. He would not even need to get his darling pregnant to do it, he already has too many children to count. But sometimes empty nest syndrome hits rather hard especially when Dick moves out to Blüdhaven and then the grief when Jason died, then as the other kid come and go they get older and grow more distant, then only one of them is biological and Bruce never got the chance to see Damian as a baby because his son was being raised by the League of Assassins and Bruce had no idea he even existed, so maybe having a child would not be such a bad idea after all.

He would not be surprised or acted surprised when his darling tells him she is pregnant, he planned everything down to the little details, tracking periods, morning sickness, everything. He is happy, but he is calm, telling her that they can handle this. The big thing is telling the rest of his children, who are most likely yanderes as well, that she is pregnant, it’s difficult enough to get them all in the same room at the same time and it is even harder to get them all to calm down when they tell them the news. Dick and Stephanie are by far the most excited at the news, Dick is so excited that he picks her up in a hug and spins her around, but meanwhile Cassandra is just staring at her, just with a look she knows that Bruce’s darling is not happy with this but she can’t exactly say that out loud in a room full of people who are more happy about her baby than she is.

Setting up the nursery is even a family affair, Dick and Tim are painting the walls while Bruce figures out how to build the crib, and meanwhile she is just sitting in an armchair with a cup of caffeine free tea from Alfred with Stephanie and Duke suggesting names while she drinks. Meanwhile Jason takes the initiative to begin to baby proofing the manor because they cannot expect to have gear outside the Batcave with a baby in the house, not ever child in this family is going to be a vigilante.

Then when the baby is born, Bruce makes it a point to shut down any jokes about the baby becoming a Robin, they are not going to be trained from birth like Damian was and they were not taken in by Bruce like the others were. Though Dick and Barbara definitely get the baby a Robin onesie as a gag gift.

But one good thing about having Bruce’s child, when the baby wakes up in the night, either Alfred, Bruce, or one of the kids get there before she does. Now Bruce or the kids may still be in full costume and have just run upstairs from the cave to help after getting back from patrol, but it’s fine.

[pr0cyon-lotor]

Au where SVSSS has a/b/o dynamics, but so does the world Shen Yuan came from.

SY is an alpha in his last life but like never used it. And because he never used his alpha status, he grew to resent it. When he croaks and gets booted into PIDW, the system reveals he's a beta this life. And he's like "FUCK YEAH!!! I don't have to get impossibly horny just because someone smelled nice!"

He somehow ends up in Cang Qiong Mountain in the beast peak. He's living his best life, unaware that he still technically acts like an alpha. He acts aggressive if someone tries to take his stuff and he can intimidate an alpha that messes with his juniors.

The beast peak lord sees this along with his good cultivation and aptitude with beasts and says "Y'know what'd be funny?" And makes him the head disciple.

And like imagine Shen Yuan accidentally walking into another head disciple having a heat in the middle of a hunt and he brings them to Qian Cao without trouble. Like not even fazed because he can't really smell them, but everyone thinks he's just so chivalrous and has a strong grasp on his instincts.

Anyway when they ascend, its established that all the peak lords are alphas except for SQH who is an omega and MQF who is a beta. (They are all wrong)

Anyway during a Peak Lord meeting someone fucks up and reveals that they're an omega. This leads to a domino effect and everyone reveals that they're also omegas masquerading as alphas.

Now cue MQF and SQH sweating bullets and revealing that they're both alphas. And everyone is like "But Mu-shidi never smelled like one and you never reacted when one of us was in heat" and he's like "scent blockers and willpower + common decency"

And everyone turns to SQH like "You don't act like one" and he's like "Okay rude, but fair."

And then YQY says something like "Well three alphas out of twelve peaks. What a small fraction." And SY is like "Oh, who's the third alpha?"

Everyone looks at him and goes "You?"

And SY is like "Girl where 🤨 I'm a beta"

That leads to another screaming match and then YQY recounts "Two alphas, nine omegas, and one beta"

Anyway shenanigans ensue. I just want polycule silliness

[cherrixpie]

NEMESIS

part four of five

↬ you were supposed to steer clear of mattheo riddle. Shame that he was just so irrestible.

↬ sfw; wc: 9.1k (good lord these keep getting longer); cw: violence, blood, broken bones, suggestiveness, swear words; tags: gryffindor!reader, muggleborn!reader, enemies to lovers

( masterlist )

The wind howled through the stands, tearing at banners of both red and green, as sheets of icy rain slashed down in relentless torrents. Over night, the weather had taken a dramatic shift, to the disfortune of any poor bloke who was on the pitch today. The pitch had turned into a mire of mud and puddles and looked more like a battlefield than the site of one of the most anticipated Quidditch matches of the season: Gryffindor vs Slytherin. Above, the players on their broomsticks were little more than blurred streaks of color, their shouts swallowed by the roaring of the storm. The sharp crack of a Bludger smashing into a broomstick echoed through the chaos, drawing gasps and cries from the diehard fans who clung stubbornly to the stands despite the weather.

Near the base of the stands, Madam Pomphrey hovered over you like an agitated owl as you sorted through the bandages and potions at hand. Ever since you'd started practical training in the Hospital wing to improve your chances to become a healer at the prestigious St. Mungos Hospital, you'd been assailing her at quidditch games. But you'd only ever had Gryffindors to look out for before.

“Playing in this weather is nothing short of lunacy,” Madam Pomphrey muttered, her words only heard over the howling wind because she stood so close to you. “The last thing I need is another student catching their death out here- or worse, ending up on one of my stretchers.”

Though you didn't say it out loud, you estimated the chances of that being close to zero. Not only the weather made this an exceptionally brutal game. It seemed as if the players translated the stress of playing in such conditions into pure violence, and the thick mist of rain only made the many fouls harder to detect. The game was turning more brutal by the minute. You did your very best to identify your friends, but only caught a glance of Harry hovering over the game, looking for the faint glint of the snitch through the fog and dodging the occasional bludger. And, of course, Ron, guarding the rings.

But your restless eyes didn't only scan the skies in search of your friends. Any time a Slytherin player passed the stands, you'd anxiously try to make out whether they were a beater, whether they were Mattheo. But he seemed to be amidst the center of the game. Sometimes you thought you spotted him when you recognized a figure with club that vaguely resembled him. Sometimes, you thought the figure looked back at you, but you couldn't be sure of anything when rain and fog clouded your vision and made it impossible to pin point anything.

Suddenly, another violent crack echoed through the stadium and the fans let out a collective gasp when the small, blurred figure of Gryffindor’s seeker slipped from his broom, having been violently hit with a bludger. Before even Madam Pomphrey could react, you, who'd been on your toes all game, cast a spell to slow his fall and took off over the field to meet him when he met the ground in a rather soft thud thanks to your spell. The nurse followed hot on your heels and together, you hoisted Harry up on your shoulders and helped him towards the sidelines as Madame Hooch signaled time-out.

The bludger must've hit Harry in the face at short distance, because it only took one look at his blood-smeared face and crooked nose to know the latter was broken. You had the vague idea it wouldn't be the last one toady. As Madam Pomphrey healed it with a flick of her wand, eliciting a crack from the nose as it sprung back in place and a pained groan from Harry, you recovered a diptam from your belt and leaned down in front of him to apply it to his face.

“That was Riddle,” said Harry bitterly as you healed the cuts and bruises to the best of your abilities. The murtlap essence did wonders on his injuries, but still, your worried eyes scanned his face restlessly as Harry kept raging. “He's had his sights on me ever since we lifted off the damn ground! Dunno what's up with him, it's like he doesn't even care about the game anymore. He's a damn psychopath, he is.”

Before you had the chance to respond, three thuds announced the arrival of three other players and you turned to them as they approached. Madam Hooch lead them, she walked on large strides over to Harry to inspect the graveness of his injury. Behind her followed a highly enraged looking Malfoy, platinum hair clinging to his forehead, and Mattheo, seemingly relaxed though there was a storm brewing in his eyes that rivaled the one he and the others were facing above ground. Your eyes met and you froze mid movement when he, despite the situation, gave you a quick grin. Just like Harry and Malfoy, he was covered head to toe in mud and his hair was even more of a mess than usual, but you had to admit it suited him better than the other two.

“From such a short distance, my my,” raged Madam Hooch who was quite red in the face. As most teachers did, she directed her anger at some point over Mattheo's shoulder instead of looking him into the face. “That's a foul if I ever saw one. Gryffindor gets a penalty.”

“But Madam Hooch!” called Malfoy indignantly. “He only did his job, isn't it allowed for the beaters to use their clubs anymore?”

“On the bludgers, not on fellow players!” hissed Madam Hooch angrily. Malfoy stroke up another argument, beginning with the words "my father...", but Mattheo couldn't have cared less. So what if Gryffindor got a damn penalty, there was much more important things to be enraged about. Like the way you fussed over Potter, how worried you looked, how pretty you looked in your nurse uniform, a white dress that fell down to your knees paired with the most adorable nurse cap. Mattheo realized he liked white on you. In his world that was drowned in such darkness, you stood out amongst crowds like a glowing ember. As much as he hesitated to admit it, he felt lighter anytime he laid eyes on you.

“Mate, help me out here!” Malfoy pushed him, but he fell on deaf ears, because you had just glanced back at him. Your reproachful look almost made him smile. A few loose strands of hair fell from your nurse cap into your face and clung to your skin. Even if you were to glare at him, he'd much rather have you do that than go back to giving your attention to Potter, of all people. But alas, you turned back to him and wiped the paste off of his face, giving him a light slap on the back to get back on his broom.

If possible, the wind cut even sharper as the game went on. Even under the cover of the stands, theoretically providing protection from the rain, you were soon drenched to the bone. You'd even had to borrow a Gryffindor sweater from Dean because your uniform had started to become see-through, and the material wasn't thin. By now, everyone was just praying for one of the seekers to catch the snitch and win the game. Though Slytherin was in the lead, partially due to a newfound brutality from their beaters, if Harry caught the snitch soon, Gryffindor would still win.

Just when you dragged the box with the medical supplies further under the cover of the stands to prevent the bandages from soaking up- by the looks of the game you would need them plenty- it happened. You hadn't looked, preoccupied with your task, so the only indication that something was wrong was the shocked screams of the crowd. As you looked up to see what was going on, for the smallest split of a second, you could make out a seemingly rogue bludger rushing towards the stands, specifically, towards you. You didn't even have time to close your eyes or shield yourself from the impact when a flash of green shot through your field of vision and the crowd breathed a sigh of belief.

Rushing forwards, you gripped onto the barrier and looked up at the sky only to catch a glimpse of Mattheo's jersey until he disappeared into the mist once more. Gryffindor scored. As the red and golden covered stands to your left erupted in hollers and cheers, you were hit with the sudden realization that Mattheo had not only saved you from being hit by a bludger, but had also diverted from the Gryffindor chasers, allowing them to score. It didn't fit. He'd been playing with undeveloped ferocity the whole match and now passed up the chance to intercept Gryffindor scoring? But, you thought to yourself, heart still hammering in your chest from the shock, maybe you should just give up trying to make sense of Mattheo Riddle, when he'd so far proved to be everything you thought he wasn't.

Due to the doubled efforts of Nott’s solo runs and Mattheo's bludgers being a major hindrance to the Gryffindor chasers and messing up their formations, forcing them to scatter, Slytherin took the lead by a long shot. But still, if Harry caught the snitch now, they could still win.

You were focused on him that you didn't even catch the maneuver of the Gryffindor beaters. There was a resounding crack heard throughout the stadium, even through the splatter of rain, and one of the Slytherin beaters was slammed into one of the stand walls with such force he bounced off of it before hurling towards the ground. Seconds before the player could hit the ground, they managed to pull their broom up and towards the sky, but their face was full of blood.

Your brain needed a moment to comprehend the situation, but then you read the name on the back of the player’s jersey and the blood seemed to freeze in your veins. Oh God. It was Mattheo. Panic-stricken, you turned to Madam Hooch. Not only had this clearly been a foul, but Mattheo needed time out to get patched up. But Madam Hooch was preoccupied with overlooking the Slytherin chasers ramming through a Gryffindor formation and the endless sheets of rain seemed to obstruct her vision. The Slytherin stands roared in indignation, but Mattheo steadied his broom mid-air, wiped his sleeve over his face, which only seemed to make it worse, and got back into formation.

Even Madam Pomphrey, who had expressed her dislike of Mattheo several times, gasped worriedly. “The game needs time out! He can't play in this condition!”

Your insides felt like claws, reeling against your ribcage as a sudden assault of worry hit you. The impossible frustration of not being able to help, to have to watch Mattheo get back into the game with gritted teeth was suffocating. Past you would have been indifferent, maybe. Past you was an idiot. Your hands gripped the barrier so tightly your knuckles turned white, and you couldn't take your eyes off of Mattheo’s figure. The blood seemed to be obstructing his vision even more than the walk of downpour already did,

Why did you care so much? Why did worry over a boy like Mattheo Riddle eat you up from the inside? Though it was quite untrue, you doubted there was anyone like Mattheo Riddle. Maybe it was just easier to pretend that your concern, the fact that you cared so much, was illogical, than to admit to yourself that he wasn't just you-know-who’s son anymore. That your fear of him had subsided and given way to not only interest, but affection.

The thought scared you. You knew exactly what your friends would say if they knew that you cared for their mortal enemy. Hermoine would look at you with a mixture of disgust and worry, maybe she'd even feel betrayed. And Ron? He'd feel like you'd fratanized with the enemy, you knew he would be angry. What about Harry? He'd been so understanding yesterday, but only after you reassured him that you detested Mattheo. A lie. Mattheo was supposed to be your nemesis, too. But he wasn't anymore.

What was he to you? The question rummaged in your brain as you watched his figure anxiously, wincing any time he got too close to a bludger. In the forest, he'd been intriguing. In the kitchens, exciting. Then, in the library, and you felt almost ashamed to admit it, attractive. But that wasn't all. What you felt for Mattheo couldn't be summed up in mere interest or attraction. It was a coiled up snake in the deepest pits of your self that had raised his head slowly, before you'd even realized it. You couldn't pin-point it, you just knew you wanted to know everything about Mattheo there was to know, and, that you hated to see him hurt.

The Slytherins were now in the lead by one-hundred-and-sixty points, but you couldn't have cared less about the score. More than ever now, you hoped for the game to end so you could have a look at Mattheo. But when the whistle sounded shrilly through the stadium, it was only to announce another two penalties for Gryffindor after Malfoy had fouled Harry mid-dive, both of whom Ginny dunked.

And then, finally, Harry and Malfoy went into a dive and, under the victorious roars of the Gryffindors, Harry emerged holding the snitch over his head. The score board showed Gryffindor: 260 points - Slytherin: 250 points.

Mustering up little more than a sigh of relief, you hurried over to the cart with the bandages and healing potions, arming yourself with supplies as the players landed one after the other. More than half of them immediately made a beeline for the medical tent, to you and a very ill-tempered Madam Pomphrey who muttered something about high risk sports and student safety. It had been an exceptionally rough game, and most players were at least bruised up, at worst limping heavily and clutching their ribs. As they trailed in, your eyes frantically darted around in search of Mattheo, but you couldn't find him.

Soon, you were preoccupied with fixing up the Gryffindor chasers, but your quick, distracted glances around the tent told you that he wasn't here. But where could he be? Dread pooled in your stomach as you bandaged up Ginny’s left hand and applied murtlap essence to her fellow chaser’s cuts and bruises. Only more people seemed to trail in, but, bit by bit, you managed to send them all off again. Still, Mattheo hadn't showed. As you were just contemplating whether you could just walk into the snake’s den, aka the Slytherin changing rooms, and offer treatment, you felt someone’s hand on your shoulder.

You spun around and were faced with Theodore Nott, looking very wet and very moody. The sight of him calmed you somewhat, you knew he and Mattheo were close. Nott looked as grumpy and sinister as ever, but he didn't sound aggressive. “Are you free here?” he asked in his Italian accent and you nodded silently. His frown subsided somewhat. “Can you come with me? Mattheo’s refusing treatment.”

For a split second, you wondered whether Nott knew about Mattheo and you. Then, you mentally slapped yourself back into reality. There was nothing between Mattheo and you, other than a few late night encounters. He'd only asked for you because he didn't want to ask Madam Pomphrey, you supposed.

“Of course,” you said, a little more enthusiastically than would have been necessary, and quickly rounded up some medical supplies to stuff them into your bag. Then, you followed Nott out of the tent, through the downpour of rain and down the steps that led into the Slytherin’s changing rooms.

As you walked down the stairs, you passed a group of Slytherin players who shot you nasty, albeit unsurprised looks. Struggling to keep up with Nott’s long strides, you hurried after him and averted your eyes from the passing Slytherin's. In front of a door with the engraved words ‘changing rooms’, Nott halted his step and nodded towards it. “He's in there, make it quick.”

Nott took off after his friends and you were left standing before the door. For a few hesitant seconds, your fist hovered in the air in front of the wood, and for some silly reason, your heart was thumping like mad. Finally, you knocked. Due to your sudden surge of timidity, it was a soft, quiet sound, barely heard over the splatter on the roof. Still, a voice you recognized as Mattheo's called from inside, clearly audible. “Come in, princess.” As if it had been a command, your hand fell down to the handle, you pressed it down and the door swung open.

The first thing you noticed about the Slytherin changing rooms was that they were way tidier than the Gryffindor ones that you'd often visited after a game to fetch Harry and Ron. No empty bottles, no forgotten jerseys on the ground and it smelled surprisingly good for a sports changing room, though the distinct smell of smoke clung to the air. All seemed perfect in place- except for the a smashed-in locker on the left side and the boy that sat, smoking, on one of the benches.

Mattheo hadn't even made an effort to change yet, both his jersey and his face were seeping with blood. His nose looked broken and his lip was busted up, which didn't stop him from taking continuous drags out of his cigarette, the ember glowing faintly in the dim light. Wisps of smoke curled around him like ghostly shroud. His dark curls hung heavy and damp over his sharp features, framing the defiant smirk that tugged at his lips despite the pain evident in his furrowed brow and clenched jaw. His eyes, dark and unfazed, met yours with a flicker of something unreadable- half daring, half relief- as if, even now, bloodied and battered, he was too proud to let the hurt take hold. Or too used to it.

His heavy gaze felt disarming as you stood aimlessly in the doorway, faintly dripping with water falling from loose strands of your hair. Mustering up a small smile, you closed the door behind you and attempted to ignore the way his gaze burned into your back as you turned to the door. “What if I hadn't been me?” you asked in an effort to diffuse the situation of the weird tension in the air. “What if I'd been one of your friends? That would've been awkward.”

When you turned back to him, his gaze had softened almost indiscernibly. His cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth, his eyes raked over your drenched and drippy figure before snapping back to your eyes with the self-assurance of a skilled predator cornering its prey. You met his eyes without blinking and the corner of his lips twitched slightly. “None of my friends knock as if they're scared somebody will hear it.”

Your lips curled. “Touché.” With slow, deliberate steps, you walked over to him and came to a halt before him, fingers closing tensely around the handle of your medical bag. Even just the parts of him you could see looked badly hurt, though he didn't show any signs of pain. Maybe he had CIPA syndrome. Or maybe he was just a masochist.

Mattheo caught your wandering gaze, blew a cloud of smoke your way and leaned back against the back of the bench expectantly, cigarette between his bloody fingers. “Well, then, I'm all yours.” A lazy grin played around his lips, in spite of the situation, and it was as attractive as it was infuriating.

Before he could react, you snatched the cigarette out of his fingers and discarded it into an ashtray near you before turning back to him. “It smells disgusting,” you let him know and he chuckled, raising his hands in faux surrender.

You felt hesitant to approach him, touch him, even though you had his consent. His dark eyes rooted you to your spot, made you unable to move. You wondered whether it was some sort of spell until he raised his brows. “Any day now, princess.”

“Don't rush me,” you whispered, averting your eyes and scrambling around in your medical kit for the right supplies. You layed out bandages and healing potions out on the bench opposite him and turned to him once more to tap your wand against his nose, murmuring “episkey” under your breath. With a disgusting cracking sound, it snapped back in place, but Mattheo didn't flinch, only continuing to stare up at you. With the same feeling of sticking your head into a snake den, you leaned down nervously to examine the wounds on his face, whether they needed stitching. The deep cut near his jaw did.

“Careful there, princess,” Mattheo murmured and your eyes snapped from the wound to his eyes, only inches away. “Someone might think you have un-pure intentions.”

You couldn't help the blush that painted your cheeks pink, more so due to his proximity than his words. Still, you brought some distance between you and searched in your bag for needle and thread. “My intentions couldn't be more pure,” you huffed and he laughed lightly from behind your back about a joke you couldn't understand. Or maybe, you did.

“That is true,” he lamented and you heard ruffling. You turned around quickly and snatched the pack of cigarettes out of his hands. He looked mildly surprised at the frown on your face.

“Come on,” you said, voice somewhere between annoyance and pleading. “are you really going to poison yourself while I try to patch you up?” Fitting the threat through the needle, you ignored his raised brows and concentrated your attention on the deep cut in his cheek. A damp towel in the other hand, you ran it over the wound to clean it and then leaned in closer. “This might hurt.”

He completely ignored the last part, but you could feel his eyes on you. Damn him, he was just so distracting. “Hm,” he hummed, as if in thought, and ignored your hiss to keep still. “One might almost think you care about me.”

“I do.”

Both you and him looked up in surprise, and you quickly looked away as his eyes stayed on you, almost hungrily. “Hold still,” you murmured, and finally, he complied, allowing you to insert the needle as gently as possible and start to surture the wound. It was almost scary how still he kept now. You desperately wished to break the silence that spread, that followed your words like a blanket of led pressing down upon the both of you. It was only the truth, you cared about him. You cared for him. You cared for Mattheo Riddle. In order to concentrate, you attempted to shut all that out, but the confession hung in the air between you, as impossible to ignore as he himself was.

Finally, you finished the last stitch and tied the suture with a surgeon’s knot off the side so it didn't touch the wound. A small part of you hoped desperately that Mattheo would overlook your slip up, maybe even forget it, but that, of course, was naive. When you put away thread and needle, grabbed the murtlap essence and walked back over to him, he looked up at you without the trace of a smile on his lips. “You care about me,” he repeated, not a question but a statement. His eyes fixed yours as he got a hold of your wrists. “More than you care about him?”

“Who?” you asked, perplexed by the severity in his tone. A hint of displeasure washed over his face, but it gave way to indifference after just a second. “Potter.”

“W- what?” you spluttered out, laughing nervously. How on earth were you supposed to answer that question? “He's my friend,” you said hesitantly and freed your wrists to dab some of the potion onto the tips of your fingers. As you leaned down, you froze mid motion when you felt hands on your waist. His hands on your waist. Large and warm and rough even through the fabric of your nurse uniform. His touch seemed to send sparks of electricity through your body that balled in your stomach and made your breath hitch.

“Go on,” he commanded quietly, and though they were trembling, you brushed your cream-smeared fingers over one of the bruises on his jaw. They travelled up over his cheek, tending to the scratches there, but you could hardly keep your attention on them when his eyes seemed to bore through your skull.

With a low voice, he muttered your name, your first name, and you were so shocked to hear him call you anything but ‘princess’ you did the smallest of double takes. “Is there anything more than that?” he asked, and he seemed more tense than before as his fingers curled into the flesh of your belly lightly. “Between you and him?”

Both the idea and the fact that you'd just been asked it by Mattheo Riddle of all people elicited a shocked little laugh from you. But he didn't laugh, only watched you with an expression that you might have mistaken for indifference if it hadn't been for the clenching of his jaw. “He's just a friend,” you clarified, your cheeks growing warm. “We're not- we've never- It's not like that,” you closed abashedly and put a bit of distance between you under the excuse of getting more murtlap. His hands fell from your waist as you walked over to the opposite bench, heat boiling in your face.

You tried to keep your expression composed as you got back to him to tend to the other side of his face, putting some murtlap over the stitches as well for good measure. This time, he didn't hold your waist, but when you were finished and brushed off the remaining essence on your skirt, he caught the hem between his fingers and his light tug caused you to stumble forwards in between his parted legs. His hand travelled upwards, tracing the curve of your hip without ever touching them and locked around the hem of your Gryffindor hoodie. There was a magnetic sort of darkness in his eyes when he looked up at you, two black holes that threatened to swallow you whole. “Take that off.”

In hindsight, you probably shouldn't ever have complied with his request. But his voice was so soft, his eyes so alluring, his whole being like a siren’s call. So you curled your fingers under your hoodie and, heart beating hard against your ribs, pulled it slowly over your head.

Mattheo's breath hitched as his gaze locked on you. The dim light of the changing room caught the soft outline of your figure beneath the thin, damp fabric, your nurse’s uniform clinging to you like a second skin, innocent in intention, but anything but now. The delicate outline of your bra was visible through the slightly see-through fabric. His throat tightened, a mix of a pang of guilt and a despicable surge of fire curling in his chest like smoke.

You looked so pure, so untouched by the edges of the world that had long since roughened him up. The contrast hit him like a bludger- your soft, careful hands that had just cleaned his wounds now pulling your hoodie over your head, oblivious to the firestorm you'd lit inside him. The urge to discard that Gryffindor hoodie and dress you in one of his jerseys, hiding the sacred sight beneath with a claim of his possession, was so overwhelming he clenched his fists, desperately trying to remind himself that you were not his, you were too good, too-

His train of thought was interrupted when you shifted slightly and folded your arms over your chest, only pressing your boobs together. He dragged his gaze away, but the weight of your unreachable warmth, your white-clad purity, lingered, carving through his battered core and leaving him feeling utterly undeserving.

When he looked away, you recoiled slightly and scolded yourself for thinking, hoping, he might react. But before you could put some distance between you, he looked up at you and his gaze locked you in place, making you freeze just as effectively as a pointed wand might have. Mattheo leaned forward and for a confused moment, you almost thought he was going to kiss you, but he only rose from his seat and walked past you.

Only when you heard shuffling behind you, you realized he was rummaging around your medical supplies. No, not rummaging, you realized when you looked over in alarm. He was cleaning up, packing all bandages and potions back into your bag.

“You don't have to do that!” you called and hastily approached to take the murtlap essence out of his hands. But he kept a firm grip on it and raised his brows at you with a mocking little smile. It seemed so out of place after the heavy tension between you in the room. “Hey, ‘m trying to do something nice here, princess!” With one glance, you assessed that Mattheo wasn't one for neatness, as he didn't assort the items in any order or symmetry whatsoever but merely threw them all into a heap and closed the lid. But still, the gesture was weirdly considerate and you couldn't help the little smile that crept onto your face.

“Thank you,” you smiled and he only nodded, averting his eyes. Right now, with your moist strands of hair sticking out of your nurse cap, your pretty little smile, the way the nurse uniform clung to your body, it was hard to withstand the urge to kiss you. Then again, what if he did? It'd all be over. It was etched into Mattheo by habit that if he got close enough to a girl to get intimate on any physical level, it was time for any strings to be cut loose as to not endanger the fragile balance that was what was left of his heart.

But it had never mattered to him, he'd kissed and fucked them anyway because he could, and it felt good, and then he was relieved when it was over. He’d never before held back. And in favor of what? Spending time in your presence? Pathetic, was what his father would call it. Mattheo couldn't explain it either, he just knew that, in this moment, his desire to be near you, to keep you, was stronger than the desire to rip your damn uniform off of you, explore the soft flesh beneath and give you the time of your fucking life right here on this bench.

You seemed hesitant as you grabbed the handle of your bag, your eyes raking over his torso. Of course, you were too good of a nurse and too smart of a woman to not guess what wounds he had to hide beneath. But for now, you couldn't see them.

“Thank you,” he said honestly, and the unfamiliar sound felt so natural when he said it to you. “For patching me up. Fine nurse you are.” He made no attempts to hide the flirty undertone and the lightest of blushes spread across your cheeks. He breathed it in like a drowning man.

With a barely concealed smirk and a “you're welcome,” you approached the door of the changing rooms.

Something like an iron fist closed around his insides as you opened the door and he couldn't hold back the words that stumbled from his lips. “Wait!” You froze and turned to him once more with an expectant look, and, as if he'd always known it, a stroke of genius found his way out of his mouth. “You know shit about muggles, right?”

A genuine grin formed on your lips. “I should hope so.”

“How ‘bout you tutor me in muggle studies then?” he asked, trying to sound as casual as possible. With a light frown, you crossed your arms over your chest and he gave you a pleading look. “I'm gonna fail the class if I don't get my grades up asap.” Satisfied by the way he could practically see your resolve melt at the look he was giving you, his lips almost twitched but he bit down on it to hide any trace of his true intentions. In truth, he couldn't have cared less about muggle studies, but it was the perfect excuse.

“Fine,” you said, albeit begrudgingly, but you also gave him a little smile as you slipped out of the door, leaving only the vague smell of your perfume and a shaken up Mattheo behind.

Even though you had been apprehensive to the idea at first, tutoring Mattheo turned out to be something you started to look forward to every week. With every tutoring lesson, he seemed to be warming up to you more and more- and you did, too.

A few weeks into december, you found yourself laughing at his jokes and getting caught up in his brown eyes, that seemed softer than you'd ever perceived them. And you discovered that Mattheo was funny. He had a dry, sarcastic sense of humor that never failed to make you chuckle, even when you probably shouldn't have. Not only that, but he was also smarter than you'd ever given him credit for.

Previously, you'd thought of him as a mix of brute force and cunning, not unintelligent but thinking more so with his fists. But he was incredibly smart, and you felt not only a growing bond but also fondness in a not-so-platonic way. It also helped that confusion looked simply adorable on him, which was not a word you thought you'd ever apply to Mattheo Riddle.

“So,” he asked in one breath as he plopped down on the seat opposite you in your secluded corner in the library one snowy tuesday evening, “what the fuck is a movie?” Taken aback by his sudden arrival, you did a double take and quickly cleared the desk of your schoolwork to make space for his books and parchment as well. As he spread them out, your eyes got stuck on a few splatters of blood on his white shirt and you frowned. He, of course, didn't miss it, you saw it in the way he shifted his jacket to cover the stains, but didn't mention it further.

“Harry or Ron?” you asked, as you knew him well enough by now to know that the only instance in which he wouldn't brag about his brawls to you was when your friends were involved. He looked almost guilty when he glanced up at you. Almost.

“Both”

Rolling your eyes, you put your books aside and crossed your arms over the table. “So, movies, huh? Where might that word come from, ‘movies’?”

“Come on, princess, you know I hate word definitions,” he whined, resting his head on the propped up palm of his hand and making his best puppy eyes at you.

You chuckled about his behavior and gave a light slap to his forehead that made the curls fall into his eyes in the most irresistible fashion. “It's supposed to come from 'moving pictures’”

“But muggle pictures don't move,” Mattheo frowned, seemingly recalling what you'd taught him just last week.

You nodded. “No, they don't. You see, when muggle pictures move, they don't call them pictures, they call them videos. And they don't move in their own, but because muggles line up an unbelievably high number of pictures and then play them in order, so they look like they're moving. Of course, today, the technology is a little more advanced. But movies often span one if not several hours and they tell stories, like books. It's kind of… as if books came to life. They have a whole range of other means to archived their ends though, like camera perspective, many also have music that can emphasize moments and influence how you see them, actor's performances, lighting-”

You fell silent suddenly and cleared your throat. As so often when you explained muggle concepts to him, you had started to ramble on with increasing passion. Now, you looked back at Mattheo to apologize, but his gaze was locked on you and a light smile graced his lips. Your heart seemed to skip a beat and you quickly averted your eyes down to your book. “Sorry, that was- I'm rambling again.”

“Do you see me complaining?” Mattheo asked with raised brows and kicked your shin lightly under the table to make you look up at him. “So, what's your favorite of these things? These movies?”

“Impossible to answer,” you laughed outright and ran a hand through your hair. “There's so many that are just so good, I could never pick one.” The smile remained in your lips as you contemplated the movies you'd maybe have chosen, but none of them were better or worse than the next.

“So, you like them? Movies?” he asked, watching your features closely. These last weeks, you'd started exposing more of your emotions to him through free expression more than words, had taken down some of the walls you still had left around him. Though he didn't say it out loud, you could tell he appreciated it, because his eyes studied every change of expression rigorously, as though he'd receive everything you gave to him of yourself with insatiable hunger, though he didn't reciprocate them in the same way.

“Yes,” you replied, fiddling with your quill.

There was a slight furrow of his brows when he locked eyes with you. “But they don't exist in our world. So, you'd give them up?”

“Why would I have to give them up?” you countered and leaned back in your seat. “I think the way we talk about the muggle world and the wizarding world is completely wrong. We talk about them as if they are different universes entirely and not part of the same word, the same country. Look at me!” You performed an awkward motion indicating yourself. “I'm part of both, and I don't feel torn, I feel more complete.”

His eyes flickered between yours as he contemplated your words. In the short silence that followed, you glanced around to make sure no one had taken notice of your little outburst. You hadn't told anyone you were tutoring Mattheo, that you were meeting you-know-who’s son two times a week in one of the more secluded corners of the library. Your friends would freak out if they knew, you could picture their aghast expressions, they wouldn't understand that an irresistible force pulled you towards the boy sitting in front of you. How the tutoring lessons had turned into a game of pretend for you, as you tried to hide your growing fondness for him while opening up parts of yourself for him to see. A fragile balance. And whether intentional or not, you'd seen parts of him you'd never known, or maybe you'd heard them through the tone of his voice or the tapping of his hands.

“There are worlds within worlds,” Mattheo broke the silence, and you frowned. His serious look indicated that he wasn't merely talking about the muggle and the wizarding world. You caught his hands tightening ever so slightly around his book and bit down on your lower lip.

“I’d have to disagree. There are just collectives within collectives. If the limits of different worlds are separating us, we can just make it simple and give each other up.”

You'd made it personal, and you scolded yourself silently, glancing up at the clock despite not really seeing the time. Both you and him knew you had slipped up. When talking about issues slightly more serious than movies or superhero comics, which had amused Mattheo greatly, it was a fine line drawn in the sand neither of you could cross, a silent agreement.

The air felt weirdly tense whenever one of you- more often you than him- threatened to bring up the fact that the unmistakable divide between the two of you went far beyond little house quarrels and teasing. That there was a world behind those protective castle walls both of you drowned out whenever you were in each others presence. The clock showed ten past nine.

“Worried that you're going to break curfew again, princess?” God, how you hated yourself for loving the way he said it, that little nickname that you used to despise, and now it was all his.

“No,” you said, tearing your eyes away from the clock and back to him. Nothing in his sharp features indicated that he recognized the tension that had lingered in the air just moments before, but he was too perceptive of a person to have been unaware. It dawned on you that he was probably trying to make you less uncomfortable and nervously tapped your quill against your lips. Mattheo Riddle being considerate was dangerous, because every time he showed his gentle side, it evoked a hunger in you to see more of it.

“You sure?” he asked, a sly, teasing smile resting comfortably on his soft lips. Only now that you found yourself looking at them closer, you realized there was a cut on them, continuously seeping small drops of blood into the corner of his mouth. You suppressed the sudden and utterly mental urge to lean over and wipe it off with your sleeve. It was not the blood that you minded, though. Maybe his craziness was rubbing off on you, because you abruptly thought that you wouldn't mind having his blood on you. Yep, he was definitely rubbing off.

Then, you realized what you were doing, staring at his lips, and fumbled to answer his question. “We still have enough time until curfew, if we leave in half an hour, we'll still have more than enough time to get back to our dorms.” You realized you were babbling on to avoid his heated stare and looked back at him almost defiantly, daring him to tease you for it.

Mattheo didn't take his eyes off you as the corner of his lips quirked upwards lightly. “Look at you, little miss perfect. I'll bet you’ve never broken a single rule in your life before I came along.”

You shrugged, feigning indifference. “Maybe I don't feel the need to.” The ‘unlike you’ lay on the tip of your tongue, but you didn't need to say it out loud.

Mattheo grinned and shifted in his seat, his knee brushing yours under the table. “You're missing out. Breaking the rules is half the fun. The other half is not getting caught.” He watched you bite your lip, trying to conceal a little smile that threatened to creep onto your face. So, he'd been right, you had enjoyed your more risky encounters. Thinking back to the night in the library when you'd fled from madame pince, he remembered the way your breath had hitched when his hand had touched your neck. The way your soft skin had felt against his rough palms, your doe eyes glittering in the dim light.

Suddenly, there was shuffling in the shelf behind you and you shot around, holding your breath. The place you'd chosen for you tutoring lessons was hidden behind the shelf with the twelfth century economical wizarding records and every single tome in it was layered with a centimeter-thick layer of dust that had allocated there over centuries of disinterest. You'd thought it the perfect hiding spot. But after a few seconds of nervous glancing around and your heart racing as you listened into the silence, one of the school’s cats rounded the shelf and passed by you and Mattheo without a glance.

You breathed a sigh of relief who looked back at Mattheo who was watching you closely. “Dangerous, isn't it? Sitting here with me like this.” He twirled his wand around his fingers and leaned forward subtly, the motion alone making you feel as if he was cornering you against the shelf behind your back. “People would start talking.”

“About what?” you said dismissively and rummaged through your notes, just to have something to do with your hands. This tended to happen once you'd strayed from the topic at hand even slightly. Mattheo starting to tease you out of nowhere, and you struggling to keep up with his quickly changing moods that sometimes threatened to give you whiplash.

Mattheo leaned closer still and propped up his chin on his elbow, still wearing a casual grin. “Oh, I don't know. Maybe about how l've completely corrupted you with my evil charms.”

Your sighed with a mix of exasperation and amusement. Tapping your finger against your chin, you rolled around the words in your head before speaking. “You know I'm not treating this as, I don't know, something forbidden. I'm not scared of, how did you put it last week? Ah, yes, tarnishing my reputation. You're-” you hesitated, but then, your words reached out to him like a welcoming hand through cold and unfeeling fog. “You're not as bad as people think, by a far.”

A dry, almost bitter chuckle fell from his lips as he absentmindedly fiddled with the collar of his blood-stained shirt and bit down on the cut of his lip, drawing drops of red from it that trailed down to his chin without hinderance. This time, you couldn't resist the urge and leaned over the desk, extending a hesitant hand. Mattheo froze, not watching your approaching hand but you, but he didn't recoil either, so you wiped the blood from his chin with the hem of your shirt sleeve. The blood stood out prominently against the white of your shirt.

When you drew back your hand, his shot up like an attacking snake and closed around your wrist. With some sort of morbid fascination, it seemed, he stared at the tiny spot of scarlet, before his eyes snapped back up at you. His tone surprised you, you couldn't really place it, it was a mix of softness and chilling intensity. “You really think there's good in everyone, don't you?” he asked, piercing you with his brown eyes that were so unlike those of his father.

“I try to,” you said, attempting to sound humorous, but the chuckle dried on your lips and your voice swayed to softness as you held his gaze. He didn't have to ask, you could see the question burning in his eyes, so loud as if he'd screamed it. And you didn't even need to nod your head to make him understand that the answer was yes.

The winter holidays came and went. The lesson before departure day, he'd told you he'd stay in Hogwarts over Christmas, and you felt tempted to invite him over to yours for a split second before the cruel claws of reality dug into you and you merely wished him happy holidays.

There was a slight unease in you when you boarded the train, as if something was about to go horribly wrong. But when you arrived after the holidays and left the train alongside Harry, Ron and Hermoine, you spotted his shrouded figure in one corner of Hogsmeade train station, a soft curl of smoke rising from his dark profile. For a split second, you'd locked eyes with him and you couldn't help a smile of relief to see him again.

Because both of your friends started asking questions eventually, you often met up after curfew, though you still hushed around the halls nervously any time you did and earned a great deal of teasing from him for your timidity. From time to time, you managed to break into (you preferred the term sneak into) classrooms at night.

These weeks of sneaking around made you masters of discovering hidden chambers in every corner of the castles, and you were particularly careful and made sure Harry ‘forgot’ the marauders map somewhere in the common room or ‘lost’ it and found it again next morning under his bed. Frequently, you met up in the kitchens and you baked while telling Mattheo all about muggle cellphones, that he understood the concept of surprisingly quickly.

On one occasion, you even demonstrated them to him as you pretended to get lost in the sheer blizzard howling around the houses in Hogsmeade to meet him behind Madam Puddifoots and called your parents, fascinating Mattheo. This night, however, Mattheo had discovered a new room behind the entrance hall. The two of you had cozied up with blankets and candles on the couch, keeping a few inches distance at minimum. The dim candlelight was way too ripe for disaster.

“So, let me get this straight,” Mattheo said an hour and a half into your study session. “Muggles have metal, bird-shaped containers with which they can not only fly, but they actually do it.” You laughed at the incredulity in his voice, though a tad bit distracted by the shape of the record sleeve digging into your back. Because Hogwarts castle only had enchanted record players available, you'd asked your parents to send you one of your vintage vinyls you thought he might like, but you were hesitant, had told yourself that you'd just take it in case there was a record player in the chamber Mattheo had discovered. Well, there was.

“I don't really like planes either,” you said, smiling understandingly, “I even prefer brooms over them and you know how I feel about those.”

He hummed vaguely and glanced over at you. “What's got you so shifty, princess?” A sly grin spread over his features. “You got something hidden behind your back, don't you?” Infuriatingly good at reading you, he was, as ever. With a small sigh, you decided that he'd learned enough about muggle transportation for tonight and pulled the record sleeve out from out of your bag.

“Listen up,” you said, excitement and nervousness coiling in your stomach. “Do you remember when I told you about muggle music?” Though Mattheo had undoubtedly been preoccupied with watching your expression shift with passion and your hands gesticulate, drawing patterns into the air, he nodded. “Okay,” you said, nibbling on your lower lip, and held up the vinyl awkwardly. “I thought I might give you a taste of muggle music, only if you want, of course.”

He could tell you were anxious about playing him the track and raised his brows at your humming and hawing and nervously twitching fingers. “What are you waiting for, princess?” The abashed smile you gave him melted him in ways he'd never be caught admitting out loud.

Sometimes it was quite frightening how you made him feel, and more than once, he'd found himself laying awake at night, not only because of his chronic insomnia and returning nightmares but also torn between the reflexive urge to push away you and how you made him feel so utterly disarmed and vulnerable, and the irresistible desire to see you smile again and let your unconditional kindness wash over him, soothing the dark voices in his head.

By now, you'd walked over to the record player and inserted the vinyl. With a tap of your wand, it started spinning and the sounds of a guitar filled the room. The muggle guitarist played a few chords before starting to sing. When you lowered yourself down on the couch, you didn't bother with putting the usual space between the two of you. No, you seated yourself right beside him, so that he could feel the warmth of your body radiating against his like a hug. As the refrain set in, you put your head on his shoulder.

“And if a double-decker bus

Crashes into us

To die by your side

Is such a heavenly way to die”

Mattheo froze for a moment, his breath caught in his throat as your head gently shifted against his shoulder. The simple, unspoken gesture of affection sent a rush of warmth through him that was both startling and utterly intoxicating. He glanced down at you, his a dark eyes softening as they traced over the curve of your cheek, accentuated by the flickering candlelight, and your lashes resting light as feathers against your skin. A faint smile tugged at the corners of his lips, hesitant at first, afraid to disturb the fragile moment. Slowly, very slowly, his hand shifted, fingers brushing against the fabric of the couch before finding their place beside your arm, just close enough to feel the warmth radiating off of you.

“Take me out tonight

Take me anywhere, I don't care,

I don't care, I don't care”

He felt like one of the mythological figures you'd told him about. Mattheo had scoffed at Icarus' idiocy, but now, he felt like he could understand where he was coming from. His voice, when he finally spoke, was low and teasing, betraying none of the blazing storm raging inside him. But even still, it was edged with a sincerity he couldn't quite hide. “Getting comfortable, are we?”

You only shuffled closer in response, but Mattheo had to suppress the urge to pull you in, wrap his arms around you, drag you into his lap for all the pleasure and calm it would give him. He was a selfish creature, but at this moment, he managed to stay perfectly still, safe for his fingers barely brushing over the fabric of your sleeve. Your breathing, having come in small, hasty little puffs before, slowed as you sat in silence, leaning on each other and listening to the lyrics filling up the space in your room you didn't fill with your words, because they would never be sufficient.

“There is a light that never goes out

There is a light that never goes out

There is a light that never goes out”

The song faded into silence and you started to move again. Mattheo hid his disappointment when you stood up from the couch to walk over to the record player. As you put the vinyl back into its sleeve, you turned back to him and for a few seconds, you merely watched each other in silence. Then, Mattheo rose as well and handed you your bag, that you took without looking at it.

Could it be that you felt the same reluctance to leave this room as he did? But you had to, his gaze flickered to the clock. Other than him, you had the chance to get some sleep tonight. So he threw one quick glance around the room, the floating candles, the sleeping portraits, the empty couch, leaned down to your level and pressed the lightest of kisses to your cheek. It was warm and soft under his lips, and he could hear your breath hitch in your throat. Damn little minx you were.

“Good night,” you said, quietly, and he returned your smile before opening the door for you, the feeling of your skin against his still lingering on his lips.

Maybe you both should have known it was going a bit too well. Maybe you'd become too self-assured in your nightly adventures. In any case, neither of you had caught the portrayed woman in the frame above the couch watching you through half-closed eyes, feigning sleep. As you closed the door behind you, she rose from her false slumber with a dirty secret in her hands- and a burning desire to spread it around the castle.

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[idylls-of-the-divine-romance]

I never said he was political. What I said was "His followers then went on to live in voluntary communism", which is an objective fact of the Jerusalem centered community of the Early Jesus Movement.

The definition of communism (lowercase c): "a form of economic organization in which private goods are held in common by a community"

Twice in the Book of Acts does it say that the "And the multitude of those who believed were of one heart and being; and not one was saying that anything belonging to them was their own, but all things were common property to them. And with great power the apostles were giving testimony to the resurrection of the Lord Jesus, and abundant grace was upon them all. For there was not a needy person among them, for all who were owners of land or houses would sell them and bring the prices of the things being sold and lay them at the apostles’ feet, and they would be distributed to each to the extent that any had need."

Now, one of my bible commentaries (NIV) would say this isn't communism because:

"the sharing was voluntary" This doesn't make it not communism - a form of economic organization in which private goods are held in common by a community. That is literally what this is.

"it didn't involve all private property, but only as much as was needed" Scripture doesn't say that, nor are their any hints or hyperlinks that suggest such. We could reason that this is an example of exaggeration to make a point (see: Solomon's wealth) but I don't really think that's necessary. It is quite possible that in fact most of the people in the Jerusalem district of the Early Jesus Movement decided that the best way to live at the teachings and message of Jesus, the Torah and the prophets, was to live together as a communal group.

"it was not a membership requirement to be a part of the church" Ofc not, which is what makes it better! This wasn't motivated by any political or economic theory, any more than Jesus' life was motivated by political philosophy: it was koinonia rooted by agape - other centered, life giving love from me to you that causes me to lay down my life for you.

(Side note: I do not think it's a coincidence that Jacob/James who was leader of the Jerusalem church wrote the way he did on wealth. It is clear that there was some sort of issue in the socio-economic reality of Jerusalem, likely centered in oppression of employees and heavy taxes as well as ethnic differences, that the early Christians were NOT a fan of).

Also all of this makes perfect sense tho. You can say whatever you want about Jesus not being political (and I won't address that because we'll need to define that word and this post is long enough) but there is something undeniable: Jesus, and also the rest of his Galilean disciples, were not a fan of people who lived comfortably on their wealth while other's went hungry. Which is incredibly uncomfortable for me (it actually put the fear of God in me a few weeks ago) but it is what it is.

Now. I am not a communist and never have been, not because the scriptures ever condemn communism, but because the human heart is wicked above all things and is irreversibly sick without the Spirit giving them a new one (see: the entire Tanakh). I do think there is a reason why when the government decides to implement communism it ends in dictatorship. Instead, I've been looking into Catholic Social Teaching and find Distributism to be interesting.

That said, I think local Christian communities can and should absolutely consider whether they wish to live communally together and what that would look like for them. And no matter what all Christians must change the way they look at their possessions.

Other Christians: Yeah I’m a Christian, but don’t worry, I’m normal.

Meanwhile, Christian Tumblr: I worship a triune God who emptied themself to become a human. He was born a poor teenager and grew up in poverty and at risk of homelessness. He was fully God and fully Human. He taught and lived in radical indiscriminate self giving love and subversive peaceful resistance of oppression. He fought the cause of the widow, orphan, immigrant, poor, and oppressed. He loved the sinner so much they left their sin and followed him, and reconciled both the government allying capitalist and the rebel freedom fighter to harmony in himself. He invites us to take his prescience into ourselves by eating his flesh and drinking his blood. My God then enthroned himself as the exalted king of the world by dying the death of a cursed blaspheming slave. He then rose from the dead and decided his first witnesses would be women, whose witness is worthless in court. His followers then went on to live in voluntary communism, to advocate radical generosity, to destroy ethnic barriers, to elevate the inherent humanity of women and the enslaved, to self identify as exiled and enslaved refugees and pilgrims, to equate God with Love, to diagnose the government as a necessary evil worth responding to with equal parts submission and resistance, and to make the preposterous claim that we conquer the world by giving our lives in self sacrificing love. In my faith, normalcy is heresy.

[viennakarma]

VIE PLEASE WRITE THE MAFIOSO LEWIS FIC 2IFNEJJFNDJ2JDNJENE IN THE YEAR OF OUR LORD 2025 THE MAN DO BE LOOKING SOOOO FINE even Lando had to comment!

inspired by THE pic

LISTEN—

tw: mentions of violence, guns, blood and death

Mafioso Lewis isn’t one for unnecessary violence. He does the job, he gets the money, and go home. He’s not particularly prone to viciousness. He does it right, and swiftly. He doesn't come from generations of a mafia family, no. He is the only to build his own empire from the ground and he is damn good at keeping it working.

He is very happy with separating his work life and his home life. Despite knowing who he was and what he did within the first year you first met him, Lewis always promised to keep you, his wife, his love and life partner, away from his mafia life. You and his children live away from the city, in a place a little far, up a hill with state-of-the-art security and guards.

Until, one day, he needs to go out of the country for a mafia meeting. You stay at home, taking care of the kids, 5 and 3, keeping the house running like you usually do. He's halfway to his destination when you call.

Gunshots.

Gunshots are the first thing he hears as he picks up. And then, your voice, shaky, trembling with some kind of fear he never heard from you before. A fear that takes inside his chest and expands its roots. He slaps himself as his stomach drops, thinking of you, and guns, and the kids and—

You say there are people invading the property, killing all the guards point blank, one by one. And he thinks of his kids that were asleep for the night when he left. He tells his driver to turn back around, to go back home as fast as possible, though he knows he’s too far now, even as fast as possible he’d be home in around two hours at least.

He swallows the burning panic, focusing on you on the call, on calming you down, on telling you about the emergency button in his study, to tell you about the gun hidden inside the piano, to tell you about rushing to the kids, about desperately getting to them before the rivals entered the main house.

That night, when he arrives home, following a trail of blood and dead bodies, he finds you inside the safe room, your small children hiding behind you. Your face and silky pajamas sodden with blood, none of which are yours, your hand holding a gun pointed towards the door.

When he walks in and you put the gun down, he hugs you, his children.

As he looks in your eyes, he sees that fierce, blazing gaze and he knows.

He knows he found his right hand man. His vicious hand.

[konjiangs]

AU/Headcanon

People didn't realize how good sqh looked because he never cared for himself, nor did he have time to do so. But once he was no longer constantly stressed about getting killed by MBJ, he got into a better self-care routine. People began to notice that although he doesn't have the same sharp features as SQQ, he still possesses smooth skin and soft features. He almost looks like pre-abyss LBH with his big eyes and curly hair. SQQ would unconsciously squish SQH's round cheeks and pet his head because that's what he did to LBH when he was younger.

Unlike the other peak lords, SQH was approachable and more social, so the number of people, both human and demon, asking YQY for SQH's hand in marriage exponentially increased. YQY was able to swiftly and politely reject all of them until MBJ teleported into his office, handing him a letter and glaring at him until he opened it. YQY stared at the content of the letter, exhausted from the whole ordeal. He just sighed and told MBJ that he'd send an official response.

He thought he only had to chase off SQQ and LQG admirers. But now he has to do more work chasing off SQH's admirers. SQH went out on more missions and socialized with more people for trades than SQQ and LQG, so he's charming people left and right without even realizing it. He really hopes MBJ succeeds in courting SQH. YQY couldn't deal with rejecting people any longer.