#or you simply just lack reading comprehension

[factsilike]

A piece of media politically relevant to today's real life issues: has a lone "low class" character attempt to rise against and directly challenge the inherently classist and hypocritical hierarchy that others and themselves have been abused by their whole life at the cost of their reputation, home and life, etc has them directly walk away from their former comfortable life, and not back down in the face of dire consequences and stand firm on their choice, for their loved one or simply because it's the morally right thing to do, even as they're painted as the convenient villain by the corrupt people in power for it-

Some People: well, you see nothing is that black and white, and my faves (antagonists who are in the class structure directly benefiting from their privileged position by the way) couldn't make that same choice because it's too complicated! (They're completely unwilling to face the same dire consequences, too comfortable in their ways to do anything other than compliantly go along with the powerful elite). And to make myself feel better about their lack of morality and plain cowardice, I'm going to call all of the characters ✨morally grey✨ (even the truly righteous ones confirmed by the author herself), and say no one is truly good or bad because that's the only way complexity works in a story apparently. I am very smart.

[bidokja]

i will not block someone just for mostly harmless cringe opinions i will not block someone just for mostly harmless cringe opinions i will not block someone just for mostly harmless cringe opinions-

[homunculus-argument]

It can actually only be called "misleading" if it was the author's deliberate intention to mislead the audience. If the author had no intention to lead you to the wrong conclusion, and you simply arrived at one all by yourself, it's just sparkling Your Lack Of Reading Comprehension.

[incognit0slut]

Lesson learned

PART 3 OF KINKTOBER | MAIN MASTERLIST

Unit Chief!Spencer x BAU!Reader Your boss decides to teach you a lesson when you question the motivations behind a certain case.

Content: (18+) 6k, breath play, fingering, a little case description, BDSM discussion, softdom Spence but borderlines to dom because hello this is breath play and reader being judgy judgy but don’t worry he��s here to teach you a lesson or two a/n: The initial plan was to make him a hard dom but breathplay is already overwhelming so I decided to go the educational route. I am, by all means, not as smart as him, so there might be some inaccuracy

You would think that after joining the BAU for two years, you’d start to understand the twisted logic of a criminal’s mind. But you don’t. Not really. You’ve dissected motives, uncovered patterns, and profiled suspects more times than you can count, and yet this case makes no sense. 

Your eyes go over the photographs pinned to the board again. And again. And again. It’s become almost a ritual now, like maybe if you look at it just one more time, the pieces might finally fall into place. But all you find staring back at you are three victims with the same marks on their necks. There was clearly a sign of struggle, but not one of fear. Not one that fits any pattern you know.

“I don’t get it,” you say. “The profile suggests the victims knew their attacker, but this doesn’t look like anything close to rage. Or brutality.”

Spencer shifts beside you, his shoulder brushing lightly against yours as he leans closer to the board. “It might not have been an act of violence,” he observes thoughtfully. “Not in the traditional sense, anyway.”

You furrow your brow. “If it wasn’t violent, then what was it?”

“The bruising pattern is too symmetrical, and there’s no sign of panic or defensive wounds on their hands. I think there’s a chance the victims might have willingly participated.”

“Willingly?” Your eyes snap at him. “What do you mean, ‘willingly participated’? No one willingly gets strangled.”

He meets your eyes for a second before looking back at the board. “I know it sounds unlikely,” he admits, “but not impossible. See how the bruises are evenly spaced? They wrap around in perfect circles. The pressure is distributed just enough to leave a mark but not to crush the windpipe.“

“Spencer, that’s exactly what happened. The windpipe was crushed.”

“Yes, but not immediately. That’s the point.” He turns towards you again. “The intention wasn’t to kill them outright. The unsub wanted to bring them to the point of unconsciousness but not over it. At least, not at first. He was counting on their trust before pushing it too far.”

You let out a huff. “That’s insane.”

“It might seem that way to you, but it’s not unheard of. Sexual asphyxiation is a consensual act for some people. The lack of oxygen when someone’s airflow is restricted can trigger a euphoric sensation which intensifies pleasure."

You stare at him like he’s just spoken a different language. “So, you're saying they get off on... not breathing?”

“More like they find excitement in giving up that control."

You cross your arms and study him, tilting your head with a skeptical frown. “How do you even know this?”

The corner of his mouth twitches in a half-smile. “I read,” he says simply, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

“You have a book on sexual asphyxiation?”

“It’s more comprehensive than that. The book covers a wide range of kinks, fetishes, and other forms of sexual exploration which are considered extreme by societal standards.”

"You’re telling me you read up on BDSM practices in your spare time?”

"I think of it as research,” he replies. “It’s part of understanding human behavior. You can’t afford to be ignorant about the complexities of people's desires."

"Huh." Your eyes travel back to the images again. "You know, I still don't understand. I mean, willingly letting someone cut off your breath? That’s not just trust that’s… I don’t know, crazy?”

His eyes narrow towards you as if he's carefully considering how much to say.

“It's not crazy,” he insists carefully. “For people who engage in it, it’s not only about losing control. It’s about reaching a heightened state of awareness, finding excitement in walking that line.”

"But what if that line gets crossed? What then? How could anyone think that sounds… fun?”

“Well, have you ever tried it?”

“Of course not!” you reply quickly, almost laughing at the absurdity. “Why would I?”

“Then you wouldn’t know,” he counters, his tone calm but pointed, like he’s presenting a fact rather than an opinion. “You can’t really understand the mindset until you’ve experienced it. It’s not something you can fully grasp from the outside.”

"I don’t think I could ever trust someone enough to do that to me."

“Maybe you just haven’t found the right person to trust.”

You scoff. “What? Are you offering?”

You laugh at your own joke, and you expected him to do the same. Or perhaps a quick “Of course not”, even some rambling about how he didn’t mean it that way. But when all you’re met with is silence, your laughter dies down, and your eyes dart back to him.

Spencer’s not looking at you, his eyes are fixed on the photographs pinned to the board. He’s studying the bruises, the faces, the details like he always does, but there’s a stillness in his expression, a tension in the set of his jaw that makes you think he’s considering something else entirely. And for a moment, you’re not sure if he’s really thinking about the victims or the case at all.

Maybe you shouldn’t joke about things like that. He is your boss, after all, and even though there isn’t exactly a strict superior-subordinate dynamic between the two of you—he’s always been more of a peer than an authority figure—you wonder if maybe this time you crossed a line.

Spencer’s eyes remain on the photos for a long, agonizing second, and you think maybe he’s not going to respond at all. But then, slowly, he turns his head and looks at you, and the room suddenly feels impossibly small.

“If I were to offer,” he says quietly, “Would you take it?”

His words knock the breath from your lungs, and all you can do is stare back at him. You don’t know what to make of the question. Was it a dare? A test? Or perhaps something more?

There’s a part of you that wants to laugh it off. The conversation was absurd to begin with, so brushing it away like it’s nothing would feel like the safest option. The easy way out. But there’s another part—one you don’t want to acknowledge—that can’t help but wonder what it would mean to say yes.

What if you did? you ponder.

What would it feel like to trust someone like that?

What would it feel like to trust him?

But before you can reply, the door to the meeting room creaks open, the noise echoing through the dimly lit space of the police precinct. A uniformed officer pokes his head inside.

“Dr. Reid, we found a new lead on the vehicle.”

Spencer’s eyes stay locked on yours for just a beat longer as your heart hammers in your chest. Then, without a word, he nods to the officer, and any trace of whatever passed between you dissolves like it never happened at all.

The next few days turn into a blur. The lead on the unsub’s vehicle takes you across town, a chase that ends with the suspect cornered in an abandoned old house. It’s almost anticlimactic how quickly it all happens—sirens blaring, doors kicked in, and in less than an hour, the unsub is in handcuffs. The case is finally closed, and it’s the kind of victory that usually brings a sigh of relief.

But today, you can’t find that peace.

Back at the precinct, the rest of the team has already moved on to debriefing. You’re left cleaning up the mess of photographs and notes scattered across the table. But your movements are slow, distracted, your fingers fumbling over the papers. There’s a prickling awareness that makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end, and you know exactly why.

It’s because Spencer is watching you. You don’t even need to look to feel the weight of his gaze. He’s leaning casually against the doorframe, hands tucked in his pockets, but there’s nothing casual about the way his eyes track your movements.

You pause, photos in hand, and finally address him. “What?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he pushes off the wall and starts walking toward you. He stops just short of arm’s length.

“Have you thought about what we discussed the other day?”

You feel a rush of embarrassment, and the awkwardness of the moment makes you shift uncomfortably. Clearing your throat, you turn your attention back to the table, hastily grabbing a stack of photographs and shuffling them into a folder.

“We didn’t discuss anything,” you mumble, avoiding his gaze. “It was just a joke.”

“Was it? You don’t joke about things like that unless you’ve thought about them at least a little.”

You let out a dry laugh, keeping your eyes firmly on the table. “I wasn’t being serious. We were in the middle of a case, and we were all exhausted. I just said whatever came to mind.”

Spencer tilts his head, the way he does when he’s analyzing something, his eyes flickering over your face as though he’s cataloging every twitch of your expression.

“Maybe,” he concedes, and takes another step forward. “But the offer wasn’t a joke, and you didn’t say no.”

Your fingers freeze over the photographs, the papers crinkling under your touch.

“I didn’t say yes either.”

You mentally wince at how weak that sounds, almost as if you’re trying to convince yourself. You slowly look up at him, searching his face for any sign of hesitation, but all you find are those intense brown eyes staring back at you.

It unnerves you how calm he is, how easily he’s holding this conversation when your mind is spinning in a million directions.

“You do realize what you’re offering?” you start to press, feeling the need to put it out in the open. “What this means?”

Spencer doesn’t flinch, doesn’t break eye contact for a second. “I do.”

“Do you? Because it seems to me like you might be taking this too lightly."

“I’m not taking it lightly. I’m acknowledging that there’s more to it than what you’re seeing on the surface.”

“And what makes you think I want to see beyond the surface?”

He leans in closer. Close enough to feel the warmth of his breath, but not enough to cross any boundaries. “I’m offering a perspective, not forcing you to accept it. Understanding doesn’t always come from reading about something. It comes from experience.”

You can’t quite decide if his words make sense or if they’re completely absurd. It’s like he’s challenging your logic, your assumptions, but at the same time, there’s a strange clarity to what he’s saying.

“Why does it matter so much to you?”

Because he’s your boss? Because someone in his position always tries to make sense of everything for everyone else?

“Because shaming people for their interests, for something they might find pleasure in… it isn’t fair, and it isn’t right.”

Now that was something you didn’t expect him to say.

“I wasn’t shaming,” you protest quickly, the words coming out defensive even to your own ears. “I was just…”

“Curious,” he finishes for you. “And curiosity isn’t a flaw. Neither is wanting to understand, and if you’re willing to explore that curiosity, then I’d rather you experience it in a way that’s safe. That you know is controlled.”

“So what?” you snap back. “You want to prove me wrong? Show me I’ve been looking at this the wrong way?”

A small smile tugs at the corner of his mouth, but it’s not playful. It’s gentle, almost thoughtful, as if he’s carefully weighing each word. “No,” he says softly. “I don’t want to prove you wrong. I want to teach you.”

You blink at him. You open your mouth, but nothing comes out at first, the words tangled somewhere between shock and disbelief. It takes a few seconds until you manage to find your voice.

“You… want to teach me?”

“A lesson, if you will,” he explains, and the way he says it—so calm, so certain—makes your heart stutter. “Not to prove you wrong, but to help you understand. You have your perceptions about… control and trust. I think the only way to really understand is to experience it yourself.”

You don’t know what to say, what to do, and all that comes out is a shaky, barely-there laugh.

“A lesson,” you repeat, trying to make sense of the concept.

He nods, and there’s no pressure in his voice, just an offer. Simple and clear. “But only if it’s what you want.”

You aren’t sure what to feel, much less what to say, and the uncertainty must show on your face. Sensing your hesitation, Spencer takes a step back, giving you space.

“It’s a lot to consider, and I’m not expecting an answer now. But the offer still stands… whenever you’re ready.”

And with that, he gives you one last smile and turns away, leaving you alone with your conflicted thoughts.

You’re pacing in your hotel room, your footsteps muffled by the worn carpet as you make the same path back and forth over and over again. Every time you try to sit down, your leg bounces with restless energy, so you’re back up again, moving without purpose but unable to stop.

You tell yourself it’s just stress. The case, the pressure, the weirdness of being in a small-town motel with creaky walls and awful lighting. But you know better. You know exactly what’s got your mind spinning and your stomach doing flips.

Spencer. And his damn offer.

You scoff to yourself, trying to laugh it off like you always do, but the joke doesn’t land when it’s just you, alone with your thoughts. And, really, what’s the harm in admitting the truth—to yourself, at least? That maybe the whole concept doesn’t seem as insane as it did a few days ago. That maybe you’ve found yourself wondering what it would feel like to trust someone that much.

You stop pacing, staring at your reflection in the mirror across the room. There it is, that nagging curiosity, that flicker of intrigue that Spencer saw before you even knew it was there. You let out a sigh, the weight of the realization hitting you.

God help you, but you’re actually curious.

And that might just be the scariest part of all.

You slip into your shoes and take a deep breath before stepping into the hallway. The motel’s quiet, most of the rooms dark as you walk past, and for a moment you hesitate, wondering if this is a mistake. The team’s staying one more night here, the last bit of downtime before flying back tomorrow. A chance to decompress, to shake off the adrenaline of the case. Yet here you are, anything but relaxed, heading out because you can’t stand one more second of pacing back and forth.

Your footsteps come to a stop outside Spencer’s room, and you stare at the numbers on the plaque for a moment. You could turn around right now. You could pretend you didn’t walk all the way down the corridor with his words echoing in your head. But as much as you try to convince yourself that walking away is the logical choice, your hand moves on its own, and you knock.

Spencer doesn’t look surprised when he opens the door. Without waiting for an invitation, you push past him, barging into the room before you change your mind.

“If we’re going to do this, I have some ground rules,” you blurt out, the words rushing out all at once. “I don’t know what you think this is going to be like, but I need control over some things. Non-negotiable.”

He closes the door with a soft click. “Of course,” he responds calmly. “I wouldn’t expect anything less.”

“First,” you say, spinning around to face him. “I’m in control of when this starts and when it stops. If I say no, then we stop. Immediately. No questions, no convincing, none of that.”

“Absolutely.”

“Second, I need to know exactly what we’re doing. No surprises. You explain everything to me before we do anything.”

He quickly nods.

“And third… this doesn’t leave this room. We don’t talk about it to anyone else. Not tomorrow, not next week, not ever.”

He takes a step forward towards you. “This stays between us.”

You let out a shaky breath, the adrenaline settling into a nervous, thrumming pulse beneath your skin. “Okay,” you mumble, more to yourself than to him, trying to process the reality of what you’ve just laid out. “Those are my rules.”

Spencer takes another step forward, close enough now that you can smell the faintest trace of him. A mix of something clean and warm, like soap and worn cotton, an understated scent that’s distinctly him.

“Then those are the rules we follow,” he reassures you. “Your terms. Your pace.”

“Thank you.”

He nods his head again. “Is there anything else you want to discuss?”

There is, actually. There’s a question that’s been hovering in the back of your mind. It feels awkward to say out loud, but the uncertainty gnaws at you, and finally, you force the words out.

“Are we… are we going to have sex?”

He holds your gaze. “Do you want to have sex?”

You go quiet again, letting the silence settle around you as you think about what you want, what you came here for. You slowly shake your head. “No,” you reply. “No, I don’t.”

“Then we won’t. There’s more to explore in this than just sex.”

“Right, that’s—good.” You clear your throat. “I have… one more question.”

He gestures for you to continue.

“You’re not going to fire me for this, are you?”

His soft chuckle fills your ear, and it’s the first time you’ve seen him genuinely smile tonight. “No,” he confirms, amusement flickering in his eyes. “I’m not going to fire you. Whatever happens between us won’t affect your work, I promise.”

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding, feeling a little of the weight lift off your shoulders.

“Okay, so… now what?”

“Now,” he says gently, “We take it slow.“

He guides you toward the edge of the bed, and you find yourself moving automatically, sitting down on the mattress. The bed creaks slightly as he settles beside you.

“If we’re going to do this,” he starts, turning slightly to face you. “I want you to be comfortable. And that means talking. You can start by telling me what you’re thinking. ”

“That’s… it? We’re just going to talk?”

Spencer’s mouth lifts into a soft smile. “Yes,” he confirms, “If that’s what you want. There’s no pressure to do anything else.”

The idea of just talking feels safe, but there’s also a flicker of curiosity that you can’t quite shake. You shift on the bed.

“What if I want to do something more?”

Spencer’s eyes search yours, and he doesn’t move closer, doesn’t do anything that could make the moment feel rushed. “If you want to, then we can. Something simple to start.”

Your fingers trace the fabric of the bedspread. “Like what?”

“Something small. It could be as simple as letting me guide your breathing. A way to practice trust without anything overwhelming.”

You swallow, the idea feeling both intimidating and oddly… reassuring. There’s comfort in the way he talks about it, the lack of pressure, and the way he makes it feel like there’s nothing to fear.

“Okay,” you agree softly. “Let’s try that.”

He moves a little closer to you. “We’ll take it slow,” he promises. “Try to focus on your breathing and follow my lead.”

You close your eyes, feeling your breath shallow and quick, your heart racing as you try to find a steady rhythm.

“Take a deep breath,” he instructs softly. You inhale deeply, feeling the air fill your lungs, and when you open your eyes for a moment, you find his face inches from yours.

“Good. Now let it out… slowly.”

You follow his lead, exhaling, and you can’t help but notice he’s mirroring your breathing—his chest rising and falling in time with yours. It’s oddly comforting, and a little unnerving, like he's syncing with the rhythm of your pulse.

“Again,” he guides. “Deep breath in… hold for a count of three… then let it go.”

You do as he says, feeling your nerves steady slightly with each breath. In, hold, out.

“You’re doing really well,” he murmurs, leaning just a fraction closer. His lips are so close that you can feel his breath brushing your skin. “I’m going to ask you something, but I need you to know you can say no. At any point.”

You nod, not trusting yourself to speak.

“Can I touch you?” he asks gently, his words so soft they almost melt into the air around you. “Just on your shoulder, or your hand. I want to see how you feel about being touched while you focus on your breathing.”

Your heartbeat thuds in your ears, but you manage another nod. His hand moves carefully to rest on your shoulder, but even with the light pressure, you feel your body stiffen. Spencer notices immediately.

“You’re tense,” he observes, his thumb brushing lightly against your shoulder.

You let out a small laugh, one that comes out more like a nervous exhale than anything close to amusement. “It’s kind of hard not to be,” you admit. “I guess I’m a little nervous.”

“That’s okay. It’s completely normal to feel nervous.” He pauses for a second before continuing, his tone thoughtful, like he’s considering what might actually help. "There are a few things that can help when you’re feeling this way. One of them is focusing on your breathing, which we’re already doing. But there’s also physical touch."

"Physical touch?”

"Kissing, for example," he explains, “can actually help regulate your nervous system. It releases oxytocin, lowers cortisol levels. Basically, it signals your body to relax."

Your eyes fall on his lips. "Really?"

A flicker of a smile plays at the corners of his mouth. “Yes, but it’s only helpful if it’s something you feel comfortable with.” He tilts his head slightly, studying you. “Would you like to try?”

You meet his gaze again and, before you can overthink it, find yourself nodding, swallowing the nervous lump in your throat. “Yeah… okay. We can try.”

Before you even finish the sentence, Spencer leans in, his lips brushing yours with the kind of gentleness that catches you off guard. It's soft at first, like he’s testing the waters, and you can feel the slight hesitation in his movements as if he’s making sure you’re comfortable. It’s sweet, almost too sweet, and for a second, you wonder if this is how he kisses—gentle, thoughtful, deliberate.

But as the kiss deepens, you feel the warmth of him pulling you in. Your heart’s doing this erratic thing where it skips every other beat, and your mind’s racing to catch up with what your body’s already starting to enjoy. And sure, maybe the science behind this kiss makes sense after all, because there’s a part of you that’s actually relaxing, even with the buzz of nerves still humming beneath the surface.

Then he pulls back, just enough for your lips to barely part, his breath warm against your skin. “How are you feeling?”

It takes three heartbeats to find your voice. “Uh... yeah, good,” you manage, a little breathless, a little more flustered than you’d like to admit.

“Do you want to keep going?”

You pause, thinking it over, and despite the swarm of nerves in your chest, curiosity wins out again. You nod, maybe a little too quickly. The moment you do, Spencer leans in again, and this time his kiss is deeper, more intent. The softness is still there, but there’s a quiet intensity in the way his lips move against yours, the way his hand lightly cups the back of your neck.

Then his tongue brushes lightly against your lower lip, and a ripple of goosebumps spreads across your skin. You part your lips for him, and the sensation of his tongue slipping past m has you gripping the fabric of his shirt a little tighter.

Just when you think you’re getting used to it, his hand shifts, sliding up to wrap gently around the front of your neck. Not tight, not restricting—just enough to make you aware of it. The warmth of his palm against your throat sends a jolt of something sharp right through you. He seems to notice instantly, and without pulling his hand away, he breaks the kiss.

“Are you okay?” His thumb gently strokes the side of your neck. “I don’t want to push you, if it’s too much—”

But before he can finish, you shake your head quickly, surprising even yourself with how fast the words leave your mouth. “No, I… trust you.”

His eyes soften at your words, and his grip on your neck stays gentle, almost protective. “Would it be okay if I touched you more?”

Your pulse beats rapidly beneath his fingers, a rhythm you’re sure he can feel, as if your heart is answering for you. “…yes.”

“Do you want to lie down? Would that be more comfortable?”

You feel the heat travel along your veins. “I think… that would be good.”

Spencer nods as he helps you shift back onto the pillow. He stays close but doesn’t crowd you, his hand returning to rest lightly on your neck, that same soft pressure that keeps your heartbeat thrumming in your ears.

“Remember, focus on your breathing,” he reminds you. “The way your body responds is tied to how much you let yourself feel. Trust that.”

His other hand begins to move. His hand trails up toward your shoulder, then lightly brushes over your breast. It’s barely a touch at first, like he’s testing the boundaries, waiting for your body to tell him how far to go. Your breath catches for a second, but when you don’t tense up, he takes that as a sign to continue.

“Is this alright?”

“Yeah,” you manage to whisper, your voice a little breathless than you expected. And, God, you mean it. It’s more than okay—it’s… unexpectedly good in a way that feels almost too intimate to think about.

His hand moves lower now, tracing a path down your side, before sliding gently across your leg. You don’t even realize you’re holding your breath until you feel his fingers brush against the inside of your thigh.

“How about this?”

You nod, biting your lip as you meet his gaze.

Spencer’s lips curls into the faintest smile. His hand inches higher, moving up your thigh with excruciating slowness until his fingers finally reach the heat between your legs.

Oh. Oh.

Your hips instinctively tilt toward him, your body responding before your mind can even catch up. The heat pooling low in your belly intensifies as his fingers press lightly against you.

“Still with me?”

You nod, but internally, your mind is spinning. He begins to move in slow, circular motions, his fingers dragging against the fabric in a way that makes you bite back a moan. The friction sends jolts of pleasure through you, and you can feel your arousal sticking uncomfortably to your panties. It doesn’t shock you—you know understand how being touched like this will make you wet—but what surprises you is how much more intense it feels when his grip around your neck tightens.

Your breath hitches, and before you can stop yourself, a moan escapes your lips.

He pauses for a moment, his grip relaxing just enough for you to catch your breath. “I want you to feel the difference,” he explains. “The pressure changes everything. It makes you more aware of every sensation, more focused on how your body responds. But if it’s too much, you tell me, okay?”

You nod, your breath still coming in uneven gasps. “I’m good.”

His thumb traces the outline of your jaw. “Do you want me to continue?”

“…yeah.”

His hand travels towards your hips, fingers toying with the waistband of your pants. “Should we get rid of these?”

You don’t have to think about it for long. The answer is already there.

“You can take them off.”

Spencer’s fingers slip beneath the waistband of your pants before tugging it down. But as the fabric pools around your ankles, you hesitate for a second before your hand instinctively reaches for your shirt. You fumble with the hem, glancing at him as you pull it halfway up, your breath coming out in a small, awkward laugh.

“I mean, it’d feel weird to be naked from the waist down and still… you know, fully dressed on top.”

His eyes linger on you, and his reaction is subtly amusing. “Whatever makes you comfortable.”

Without thinking too much about it, you tug the shirt over your head, tossing it aside. Your bra follows, quickly joined by your panties, and before you know it, you’re lying naked on your boss’s bed.

Or, technically, the bed he’s been sleeping on these past couple of days.

Spencer’s eyes move over you slowly, lingering on the curve of your perky breasts, your smooth skin, and the unmistakable wetness between your thighs. His gaze is careful, appreciative but never lingering too long in one place, like he’s taking you in while still giving you space to breathe.

“You’re so pretty.”

Pretty? The word feels almost quaint given the situation, but the way he says it makes it feel like it’s more than that. Like he’s seeing all of you, the parts you don’t often reveal, and he still thinks you’re beautiful.

And somehow, that simple compliment leaves you more exposed than the fact that you’re lying naked in front of him.

“I can’t believe we're doing this,” you admit, the words slipping out before you can stop them.

His hand brushes along your arm. “You don’t have to overthink it. You’re in control here. We can stop whenever you want.”

“I know.”

He tilts your head with his hand. “Is this okay so far?”

You offer him a smile. “It’s okay.”

His other hand lands on your knee. “Can you spread your legs for me?”

You feel the nerves buzzing beneath your skin, but there’s also a warmth, a curiosity, a pull toward him. You inhale deeply, letting the breath steady your nerves, and then, without letting your mind spiral any further, you slowly part your legs.

His palm glides along your inner thigh, and then he touches you again, only this time, there’s no barrier between you. You can feel the rough pad of his fingertips as they gently caress your folds that it pulls a sharp breath from your lips.

“Does this feel good?”

You nod. It’s more than just good—it’s everything. The way he’s paying attention to every inch of your body is overwhelming in the best way. His fingers trace a slow path along your skin, finally pausing as they brush against you between your folds. Without hesitation, Spencer slides a finger inside you. The sudden stretch pulls a gasp from your lips.

The slick wetness between your thighs coats his fingers almost instantly, and you feel yourself responding to him, opening up in ways you didn’t even know you could. He studies the way his finger moves in and out of your cunt, and the more he touches you, the more your hips begin to move on their own.

He takes your response as a sign to continue.

"I'm going to wrap my hand around your neck again," he tells you, without waiting for more than a slight nod of your head, his fingers curl around your throat.

"The pressure here," he begins, his thumb lightly pressing at the side of your neck. "Isn't just about cutting off your air, it also means restricting blood flow to your brain.”

He pushes another finger inside you, and the increased fullness draws a sharp intake of breath from you.

“By limiting the blood flow like this,” he continues, applying a bit more pressure around your throat. "It triggers your body to release adrenaline and dopamine. That rush you’re feeling? It’s your body chasing euphoria."

Euphoria. You never really thought about it like this before, how something so controlled could unlock a part of your body that felt so overwhelming. The feeling isn’t just pleasure, it’s a raw intensity that borders on something deeper as your cunt clenches around him. Your breath stutters, caught in a sharp contrast between the slow burn in your throat and the urgent heat flaring between your legs.

He’s unraveling you, pulling you apart thread by thread, yet leaving you desperate for the moment he puts you back together again.

You need more.

“You’re doing so well,” he murmurs soothingly. The words send a new wave of heat rushing through your body. Your hips move restlessly, and you can hear the soft whine escaping your throat, growing louder with each thrust.

Spencer notices immediately, his fingers slowing just for a moment. “Too much?”

You quickly shake your head, almost frantic, the last thing you want is for him to stop. The moment you do, his grip on your throat tightens slightly and your eyes flutter closed as a wave of euphoria washes over you. Head falling back against the pillows, your vision starts to blur. You feel the air restrict in your throat.

“I need you to breathe for me, sweetheart.” His thumb strokes lightly against your neck. “The more you control your breathing, the better it’ll feel.”

That word alone almost undoes you. It rolls off his tongue like it’s meant to be soft and soothing, but instead, it sends a bolt of pleasure straight through you. Your chest rises and falls as you do exactly what he says, because apparently, being called sweetheart with his fingers wrapped around your neck makes you want to obey him, more than you’d care to admit.

"That’s it, keep focusing on your breathing."

You force your eyes open, but everything feels hazy, unfocused. You’re not sure if it's from the lack of air or the way he’s looking at you, but you can feel yourself losing control. Your eyes flutter half-closed again, lips parting in a breathless moan, and before you realize it, your tongue slips out, barely grazing your lower lip.

Spencer knows you’re close. His thumb presses just a little harder against your throat, not enough to stop you from breathing, but enough for your inner walls to grip his fingers tightly.

“I know, I know, I've got you,” he whispers. “You’re doing so good, sweetheart. Just let go whenever you’re ready."

You can’t decide if the sound of his voice is making it easier or harder to hold on. There’s a brief moment where you think you might hold it together, but then your body betrays you. Your muscles tense, your breath catches in your throat, and all the control you had slips away in an instant. It’s as if your brain is giving in to exactly what he said it would—a surge of chemicals that makes your limbs feel heavy and light all at once.

Your orgasm slams right into you, the most intense thing you’ve ever felt. It floods your senses so completely that your lungs struggle to catch up. The tremors rack your body, and it’s only when your legs give a final, uncontrollable shake that he finally releases your neck, allowing the air to rush back into your lungs in a dizzying, breathless moment of relief.

Before you can fully recover, his lips are on yours in an instant. He moves against your neck, kissing the very spot where his hand had held you. “Shhh, it’s okay, you’re okay.”

When you manage to catch your breath and blink through the lingering haze, he lies down on the bed and pulls you into his arms. It takes a whole minute before your breathing fully steadies, his hand stroking your hair the entire time.

“How are you feeling?”

You don’t know what to make of it all, so you laugh breathlessly instead, the only response you can muster.

“Like I’m about to pass out.”

“What?” He looks at you in alarm. “You are?”

You shake your head quickly, offering him a small smile. “No, no, I’m fine. It’s just… it was really intense.” But the worry doesn’t completely leave his face, so you try again, placing your hand on his chest. “Good intense. I’m okay, I promise.”

He lets out a slow breath and tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. “So I take it you liked it?”

A flush of embarrassment washes over you, and you can’t quite meet his eyes as you nod. “Yeah… I did,” you admit, your voice soft, almost sheepish. “Go ahead, you can gloat. Tell me I was wrong.”

Instead of taking the bait, he gently traces his fingers along your neck. “It was never about proving you wrong. The judgment you made that day, about not getting why someone would like this… it’s hard to fully grasp until you feel it yourself.”

“I wasn’t judging,” you murmur, feeling a need to defend yourself.

“Maybe not intentionally,” he says thoughtfully. “When it comes to BDSM, there’s a lot of misunderstanding or assumptions people make from the outside, it’s really more than just control or pain. There’s trust, communication, boundaries. And I think, in a way, that’s what happened tonight. You trusted me enough to let go.”

You’re quiet for a moment, processing what he’s saying. “Are you suggesting I could be into all of this?”

“Not necessarily,” he replies carefully. “But I think it’s possible that there’s more to it than you realize. You trusted me tonight, and that’s the most important part. That’s where it all starts.”

You chew on his words for a second. It’s not something you’d ever considered before, but now that he’s brought it up, you can’t deny that the thought has sparked something.

“So you think I might want to explore this further?”

His lips curl into a soft smile. “It’s not about what I think. It’s about what you want. If you’re curious, then we can explore it together.” He leans in slightly. “Is that you want?”

The spark you felt moments ago? It flickers stronger now. The idea is both thrilling and terrifying, but with him, it feels… possible. Safe, even.

You feel a tightness in your chest.

“I think… maybe, yeah.”

His smile deepens just a fraction. “We’ll take our time,” he reassures you, his thumb brushing lightly over your throat. “We can talk about this when we get back. You need to rest for now.”

You shift closer to him, feeling the rustle of his clothes against your bare skin. “Can I stay here tonight?”

His chin lands on top of your head. “You can stay with me as long as you want.”

What a dangerous offer, you think as you sink further into his arms. But not as dangerous as the way your heart flutters at the thought.

[healpimp]

In case anyone isn't up to date with #FixTF2 and the issues the protest is focusing on, here is a comprehensive document you can read.

It has the personal testimony of one of the bothosters' victims who was swatted, MegaScatterBomb, a guy who is working on an anticheat to use in casual mode.

The bothosters and their lackeys have committed and condoned crimes that hurt people IRL, while scamming desperate players with "bot immunity" and spamming links that they brag about containing CP. They customize their Objectors to have gore on them. They have tried to funnel the anger of the playerbase on innocent, uninvolved parties and impersonated a number of TF2 players to divert attention away from the real bothosters. Recently they tried to take down the save.tf site by unlawfully impersonating Valve in order to file a DMCA.

They are allowed to conduct this sort of behavior with no consequences while Valve is still making money off the game.

#FixTF2 is not asking for more content, they are asking for security measures. People are getting doxxed just for critiquing bothosters. TF2 isn't the only game on Steam which suffers from lack of proper regulation, either. If people are supposed to spend money on your product, this product should work properly and you shouldn't be risking your personal information just from using it!

Please sign the petition on save.tf (they are aiming for 300k signatures) and spread word of #FixTF2. As a regular player and a big fan of the game, I think this is worth trying rather than just rolling over. Valve profits from this mess, refusing to openly communicate with the playerbase, fix their game nor simply shut it down. Let them know this is unacceptable.

To keep up with the developments and to know more, a good account to follow on twitter is the guy who called the fandom to action in the first place this year, Weezy. He has a youtube too, with informative videos on the matter. Shork is likewise updating on the situation.

[theother-victoria]

Mr reca word vomit bc the brain worms won’t leave my brain!!! I promise I’m Very Sane abt this man

TAGS: not proofread, written before his release so potentially ooc and I’m too lazy to rewrite it post-release, secret relationship trope, reader wears lipstick, making out eheheheheh, reader is smaller/shorter than him, this is my propaganda and sign for u to become a reca kisser too

TAGLIST: @akutasoda, @https-sourlimes, @tragedy-of-commons, @mitsvriii (putting you on the reca kisser agenda >:3), @harque, @hazyue, @gabile18, @khoncore, @moineauz

Ok so imagine being in a secret relationship with the man himself…

Like the two of you HATE each other’s guts in public. As a rival film producer, the public loves to pit your films against each other, and the two of you as well apparently. There have been so many instances of you making small digs and sly remarks toward each other during interviews that it’s become somewhat expected by now. You have a gripe with the pacing of his films and his fame. He has a bone to pick with your cinematography.

“That manic director’s most recent film? I would give my thoughts, but unfortunately I fell asleep not even halfway through.”

“That uninspired, dreadfully dull and artistically lacking director? All their films look the same. I couldn’t differentiate them even if I wanted to.”

No matter how critically acclaimed your work is, he always has something to say about it.

Even if it was in the back of an alley with his hands gripping your hips tightly and teeth nipping at your neck.

"It took until a quarter of the way through the movie before- hah- your cinematography finally showed some signs of thought put into the shots. I know you can do better than this. So why- mmph- did it take you so long?"

You angrily nip on his bottom lip. A flash of satisfaction runs through you when you hear him hiss and taste blood on the tip of your tongue.

“Like you’re one to talk with the horrendous pacing of your newest film! Tell me, what was the plot of it again? Because I- mmm!?- already forgot the direction it was supposed to be taking twenty minutes in!”

"Well, you just simply lack reading comprehension. Not my fault, of course.”

“Oh, you little piece of-!”

He shuts you up with a rough and messy kiss. Your legs immediately go jelly and were it not for his leg slotted between yours and pushing you up against the wall, you think you would’ve collapsed right there and then.

When he pulls away, your lips are glossy and swollen. There’s a dazed look in your eyes that makes him smirk in satisfaction and without any hesitation, he pulls out his camera to take a few shots.

“Yes, yes, wonderful! That expression really suits you!”

Anger looks good on you, but he much rather prefers this expression.

He leans in for another kiss and because you can’t say no to him, you indulge him- until you hear footsteps nearby. You hurriedly clamp your hand over his mouth and wait until they’re gone before glaring at him.

“Stop running your mouth so much in public! You’ll give us away at this point!”

“Then stop being so loud,” he hisses back, though he’s in no better state than you, his-already-disheveled hair an absolute mess now from you gripping it. His flushed face is littered with lipstick marks and you can’t resist the temptation to add a few more.

“Cheeky, aren’t you?” he huffs out as you place a lingering kiss to the corner of his mouth. A soft kiss to his eyelid makes his eyes flutter shut and an affectionate sigh escape him. He smells of the chemicals used to develop film and strong coffee…

Then there’s a gasp and the undeniable sound of a camera shutter going off. Caught red handed.

You pull apart from him with a surprised gasp and expression. Strangely, he doesn’t look fazed at all. Still as smug as ever.

You whirl around to see an equally-shocked photographer standing there. Paparazzi, from the looks of it. He was probably going around and looking for some potential shots before accidentally stumbling upon something that would make front-page headlines. When you look back at him, then at the photographer, there’s even more people now snapping away at the two of you in a compromising position.

With the damage already done, you try to leave before he stops you. His jacket resting on your shoulders dwarfs your smaller frame and he yanks on the film strip belt to reel you back in. The crowd of photographers has doubled now, murmuring excitedly to themselves.

“Wh- let go! The paparazzi are having a field day-!”

He silences you with a swift kiss and a pinch to the inner thigh. The cameras flash even more rapidly now.

“Let them see for all I care.”

enjoyed this? my taglist is open!

@ theother-victoria, do not copy, repost, modify, translate, or feed to ai

[verinarin]

First time requesting 😭 but anw sleepy cuddles with veritas? not yet officially an item but reader is always very very very clingy to him whenever they’re sleepy and he just finds it ridiculously endearing and realizes he has a thing for them a lot against all odds

this!!, since we all know Veritas has an interesting way to show how he cares about others (lovingly criticise them), he definitely is the type to show that he cares rather than just blatantly say it

fluff | Veritas’ sleepy TA that keeps sleeping on the job; he doesn’t mind the occasional rest though-

You have always been the type of person who likes to do practically everything on the floor or lying down, even though Veritas has given you your desk in his vast office you can’t help but end up scattering the countless mathematical questions and formulas on the floor

You’re his current and only TA, he entrusted you to help him grade his students and sometimes cover for him if he’s needed elsewhere so it is no secret to anyone that your daily activities mostly consist of working in his office, today was no different

Even though Veritas is currently needed to delegate for the IPC, his job as a scholar can’t be postponed, so here are you late at night preparing the materials for tomorrow in case he asks you to cover for him again, his students don’t mind his absence anyways, they even rejoice every time you’re covering for him

Feeling restless on the floor you decide to close your eyes, perhaps taking a simple power nap before resuming your work would energise you, so you simply lay on the floor with papers scattered around you, using your arms as a makeshift pillow, forgetting the fact that you hadn’t set your 30 minutes alarm-

Hours pass by as you sleep blissfully unaware that you have just arrived back at his office, his face paints a picture of a distraught expression. His faithful assistant sleeping soundlessly on the floor, he took mental notes to put carpet on the floor tomorrow so you could comfortably work in the position you like the most

He simply sighed as he sat down beside you, carefully lifting your head and placing it on his thigh, his eyes scanned the papers around you, seemingly impressed by your preparation. He took multiple papers and carefully reviewed them, while doing so he can’t help but play with your hair, it seems that you have overworked yourself since you aren’t aware of your current position

After approximately 45 minutes you slowly regain your consciousness, the first thing you feel his fingers running through your hair, you flutter your eyes open to reveal Veritas idly reading the materials you prepared, “Oh someone decides to wake up,” he scoffs

You quickly straighten your body feeling rather embarrassed at the position you are in, “How long did I fall asleep on your lap ?” you ask, your hand holding the back of your neck as you meekly smile

“Approximately 45 minutes, I’m the one who situated your head on my lap. Hope you’re not uncomfortable by my gesture,” he replies, putting your papers back on the floor as his eyes turn towards you

“Of course not it’s just embarrassing,” you laugh, suddenly you feel his hand grasping your wrist, pulling you in. Your head lands straight to his chest, while his other hand swiftly lift you to his lap via your waist, “You can continue to rest, while I review your work,” he candidly replies

Your face turns into an indescribable hue of red, he finds this to be endearing. You may not realise it but you have this tendency to accidentally fall asleep against him while waiting for his assessment of your work, you like to mumble things like how warm he is or how comfortable he is.

He deems this as you being half asleep and lacking the comprehension to know what’s real and what’s not, so he never bothered to tell you this. He likes to act dumb when you wake up in a daze, not knowing you were cuddling his arm earlier, “Is something the matter ? speak if there is something on your mind,”

You can’t help but stumble upon your words not knowing what to say, “You overstimulated that brain of yours, best for you to rest and to stop wasting my time by uttering inaudible words,” he scoffs as he pats your head, his eyes still trained on your work

[spectral-phases]

A non-comprehensive guide to my cooking headcanons for the Batfam

I'll add comic panels to support myself when I feel like I'm going very much against the grain of fanon and have to defend my position a little.

Alfred: Master of the craft, learned to cook from French chefs and has been a professional chef as a cover while serving as a spy. He can make you croissants and puff pastry from scratch, but the waffle iron (every waffle iron, yes even that brand new fancy one that is supposed to be so easy to use) was designed in hell to torment him specifically. This may be because even God himself is jealous of Alfred's ability to master a recipe after only reading it once (never refers to it again while working), or watching the video once and so he was given an Achilles heal by the divine. He has a cookbook and personal recipes written down, but very rarely looks at them. He is not the best teacher, and he did not care for children or anyone else in the kitchen, but Martha Wayne was not having any of that, especially for Jewish holidays, and to date, the way he handles kids in the kitchen is his best approximation of how Martha taught Bruce how to cook, but he lacks the requisite patience because he learned how to cook from old school French chefs (Gordon Ramsey without the soft kids mode, but he's never screaming or yelling or cussing people out because he's refined).

He is allowed to cook in the kitchen by himself

The kitchen is his domain and he maintains the right to supervise as needed, with some exceptions

Select people can assist him, but he prefers to do the cooking by himself as its the only thing he adds to the family that they enjoy that isn't cutting off years of his life like medical treatment or running the comms is. He's also stupid fucking fast at it and good at cleaning as he goes, and its hard to have someone else in his very regulated and honed system without mucking it up

Bruce: Contrary to popular belief, the man can cook. Unfortunately, he can only do so if there is a written recipe to follow and it is written in the way that makes sense to his brain. Will read the recipe ahead of time for prep, but will miraculously forget that there is a 3 hour resting period if it is not at the top with the prep time and cook time. Please do not ask him to cook anything after watching a video, it does not stick. Has no sense of what spices do what, so if the recipe says we're using 2 tablespoons of ground cloves, then that's what we're doing. With a good recipe, he can make any food from around the world no matter how complex, however, even something as simple as a tuna salad, ham and cheese, or a PB&J sandwich needs a written recipe with exact amounts and instructions for him to get it done or he will mess it up in ways not even the devil himself could imagine. Look, he has an eidetic memory, but his brain just does not compute that way and he's alway second guessing himself without a written recipe. The only thing he can make from scratch without a recipe are his mother's latkes, but that is, of course, rarely made because of all the emotions, but sometimes he goes through it because he remembers how she had him make them and it feels like she's still there with him, whispering in his ear.

He and Alfred have both agreed to tell anyone who asks that he's not allowed to cook by himself in the kitchen because he will find a way to use three pots and every bowl to make hot chocolate (he will, as a matter of fact), but it's really because when he was younger, he was making a pan sauce that the recipe simply said to “reduce” and managed to burn it so badly it ruined a pan Alfred had inherited from his grandmother and Bruce cannot stomach the possibility of doing that again

Dick: Despite what his kitchen cabinets may suggest, he makes phenomenal food. He's just putting all his emotional energy into keeping his people alive so if he's on his own then odds are he's having take-out, eating a mix of cereal/granola bars/trail-mix/cartons of protein shakes, or maybe a frozen meal prepped thing from the last time he had the wherewithal and time to do so and is thusly freezer burned to shit. If he is making food for other people? Amazing. Delicious. His repertoire is mainly dishes from Eastern Europe or Southwest Asia, but he has to know what the soul of the meal is if he's making something new. Rarely consults written recipes (unless they're online and have the whole novel of where the recipe came from and what it means and all the pictures of how it's supposed to look at various stages, and he will read that and the ingredient list only), prefers videos, but only from grandmas and grandpas or POC, not the rich white frat boys.

He winds up cooking for real these days only if Alfred is injured, but can sit in the kitchen to help supervise (“No, Master Bruce, you'll need a much bigger pot for that”) and explain vague steps in the recipes ("Coat the back of a spoon means that...")(Alexa or other virtual assistants do not help)

He's also a bitch and a boss and a babe and he is? So tired. Most days he would probably wish for the sweet release of death over making one more decision about what to eat and how to get it on the table.

He cooks in any kitchen where Alfred is not and will not be present. You would be forgiven for thinking that he and Alfred could cook in the kitchen at the same time, especially since they can make the same dish with a reasonably similar flavor profile. The fact of the matter is, they both are very much type A personalities (even if Dick likes to pretend he's a type B) and if they are both present during the cooking process they will be at each other's throats constantly about their different methods, even if they are getting to the same destination in the end

Cass: Subsists mostly off of what she can find or what others feed her. She can cook a few simple dishes but they’re not mind blowing. She does make a phenomenal assistant, but she had zero working knowledge of what does what coming into the picture and has been gradually learning. Has learned how to work the waffle iron from Steph, and so is in charge of waffles for breakfast. Waffles has become her thing and everyone lets her have it. She can even make stuffed waffles these days.

Alfred is happy to leave all waffle breakfast adventures in the manor to Cass, she's very polite in the kitchen and doesn't make a huge mess, she'll even clean as she goes so it doesn't interfere with whatever else he is making

She is Alfred's favorite assistant (the rare times that he actually wants one) because she doesn't take his irritation personally because she can see how its meant to be directed at himself and will do exactly as he says

Jason: It's important you know I headcanon his paternal grandmother as Italian (so she cannot be Ma Gunn) and his step-mother as Latina going into this. He can fucking cook like no one's business. He can taste something and recreate it nearly flawlessly. However, he was taught by his nonna and mamita to measure with his heart, so he was presented with measuring cups once and broke out into hives. Only God knows how much of any one ingredient makes it into anything he makes, this includes cakes and breads. The only recipes he's interested in learning are strictly videos from the grandmas and grandpas or POC (Jason has a rule, the shittier the camera quality, the better the food will be, usually). He watched one popular white frat boy cooking video exactly once and was screaming about why they have to dirty approximately sixteen thousand little bowls to measure out each spice by themselves (and that wasn't nearly enough garlic!). He technically has recipes written down by hand from his nonna and mamita, and a few he wrote himself to try and help Alfred understand some meals, they're just hidden away in a drawer that he rarely references for cooking guidance over looking at their handwriting (The set from his family was in the box of stuff the neighbor saved for him that had his birth certificate in it, and he is forever grateful to still have that stuff. He thought for sure it was gone for good). Approximately 80% of all his meals are cooked by him or someone else, even if it's just a quick scrambled eggs and toast.

Jason and Alfred do not coexist happily in a kitchen together. However, they do coexist because Alfred asked him once why he was doing things “that way” as a child and he said his Nonna did it that way and that shut Alfred the fuck up immediately

Jason does not accept help in the kitchen from anyone unless he's making dumplings of any variety or tamales and then everyone's helping put them together

Tim: He only started learning how to cook at the age of 15, so he doesn't have a wide base of experience to draw from or pre-existing knowledge. Tim has a few staple dishes he has learned how to make. It's good, but not winning any awards. However, his hang up is he needs to know exactly how and why things work the way they work in a recipe before he can actually be trusted to cook it on his own. He likes recipes from food scientists, hobbyists or professionals, because they are more likely to explain all the things he needs to know before he can go ahead and cook something more complex. He measures everything in grams, and had to get a scale with 10ths of a gram for spices, once made coffee with lab equipment just for the science of it. Someone got him The Food Lab by J. Kenji Lopez-Alt and it was a game-changer. There is no deity out there that can explain to you the recipes he writes down himself, because their ever changing shorthand only make sense in his brain. Like Dick, Tim does not often have the wherewithal to make complex foods for himself, and so has a bunch of jars of sauces/curries/soups or vacuum sealed pre-seasoned meals ready to go in a sous vide or pot in the freezer to break out as needed. Often freezer-burned because of how little he is at his own place.

Tim is only allowed to cook in the manor's kitchen with supervision because he is likely to make disastrous experiments if left curious and unattended ("I know it's usually done this way, but…" is either going to lead to some delicious food, or an explosion. No way to know for sure unless you're there watching it happen live). What happens in his home kitchen is between him and God

He can make himself useful as an assistant if needed, but usually only for Dick because only he has the patience to put up with Tim in the kitchen

Damian: Has forced himself to learn to cook competently. Will not let himself be outdone by the others, but has learned from all of them. When he's older, he could whip up a Michelin star quality dinner with plating, but doesn't find it worth the effort unless he is trying to impress someone or prove he can. Opts for simple and nutritious meals on the rare occasion he is responsible for his own meals and has the time/desire to cook. Does he measure? Only exactly for baked goods, he will never admit it, but he has no idea how Jason can make baked goods without measuring. There are two things he knows how to make on his own as easy as breathing beyond eggs: Martha Wayne's latkes and Talia's karak chai.

Damian will only cook in the manor if it is more prudent to do so and everyone else there cannot (It's the middle of a blizzard and Bruce and Alfred are sick). Regardless, he is allowed to cook unsupervised in the manor when he's old enough for that to be reasonable.

Will help Alfred but complain the whole time, despite obviously enjoying the time spent with Alfred

Look, he's either helping someone else make something, or he's on his own. Does not care for assistants as he feels like he is constantly being judged.

Barbara: Can cook, will cook, and does cook. She uses slow-cookers and sous vide usually, because she needs something she can throw into a pot and then have to run away from for hours at a time at a moments notice without having to juggle it too. Otherwise it's a microwaved meal. Everything in her kitchen has been fit to accommodate her cooking in her wheelchair and when she's got the time and is really feeling up to it, she can cook a very amazing meal on the stove just for herself or anyone else she's having over.

Will only accept help in the kitchen from Cass or Steph because they are laid back enough to put up with

Steph: Can she cook? Yes. Does she love cooking? No. Cooking is a chore to her and it does not have the payoff she needs to engage with it more than absolutely necessary. She'll look through her pantry and declare that she doesn't have anything good because everything she has was bought when she had more ambition to cook than she currently possesses and then order door dash. The easiest way to get her to cook is to tell her that she's not allowed to. That said, she really loves to bake. She's not winning any awards for her presentation, but it tastes amazing.

Would rather clean dishes than help cook because she does not have the energy to put up with the way the others are while cooking

I haven't read much with Kate, Duke, Helena, or Harper in it, so I don't have anything for them.

[themellowminx]

After the Fire Dies ᯓᡣ𐭩.ᐟ ⊹ MDNI

———-> fyodor x reader x dazai

You made a mistake, how will you repent?

< After the actual smut, but still suggestive content, not proof read >

“S-seven…” You could hardly feel anymore, sweat clung to your body and your breaths came in panting gasps, all you could think about was how bad you had fucked up, was that really only a few hours ago? When Dazai was holding you so tightly, gripping you in all the right places. But now, your blood dripped from the slim slashes across your thighs and stained the white bedsheets, you struggled against your restraints, straining your arm to push the silky, black, blindfold off your eyes.

“So, malishka,” You could hear the grin in his smooth voice as he teased you with that special pet name, baby, not slut, or whore, but baby. He knew you’d get it wrong. You were almost certain that even if you did guess right, they wouldn't stop. “Who was touching you just now? Who made you cum?” Sucking in as much air as possible, limbs heavy, nose stuffed and tears streaked your poor, flushed face.

“You–Fedya.” A self-satisfied hmm came from one of them, you guess Dazai by the tone. Instantly you regretted your decision. ‘Wait–actually–”

“Too late, you already made a choice.” Dazai was speaking now, his voice lacked the accent that you loved so much, but still carried such a lustful melody. Suddenly the blindfold was slowly peeled off and you squinted your tear-filled eyes to the destroyed bedroom. Frantically looking at your lover, Fyodor, for approval, you were met with both men smirking down at you. So pretty. They were both so beautiful, where Fedya was slim angles and sharp bones, pale skin and striking, sharp eyes, Dazai was stronger, softer, still lean but bigger, not as deathly-pale and a mop of curly brown hair with matching honey eyes. They made a lovely pair, and had ruined you beyond comprehension.

“Ding ding ding!” Dazai sang out, hopping on the bed next to you.

“Good job malishka, how’d you know?” You guessed correctly? Finally! Honestly part of it was dumb luck but…

“You get…when you get tired you get softer, and you also kept licking the blood from my thighs, I figured Dazai would do that too but he’s inclined to be more–well–rough.” You looked down sheepishly. Fyodor pat your head and undid the restraints on your wrists and ankles, now you realized just how exposed you had been. A puddle of liquid, cum and spit and sweat and blood, was layered on every inch of your skin. Both of them started peppering kisses along your flesh, prickled with chills yet still overheated, a kiss to the collarbone by one man, a peck in between your breasts from another, they continued and Fyodor eventually went to fetch a warm cloth.

“What did we learn malishka?” Fyodor asked you later that night, Dazai in deep-sleep on the other side of the bed, still in the aftershock of their tortuous play-time, you trembled slightly against Fyodor's bare chest.

“I’m never going to sleep with another person–”

“No, say it exactly.”

“I-I am never going to cheat on you…” You looked back up at him for guidance.

“With Dazai,” He guided your words.

“Cheat on you with Dazai, or anyone else, ever again. I only want–need–you, Fedya.” He hummed at your confession. “I love you.”

“I love you too, Y/n.” He replied simply, and you drifted off into sleep, body aching and face tear-stained and salty, still naked, but warm and so, so full

ᯓᡣ𐭩.ᐟ ⊹ thx for reading! :)

[kyu-kurariin]

its been over a month since mizu5 and ppl are STILL calling mizuki a boy, and as a trans person, im frustrated about it.

so, i put together a post detailing why she absolutely IS NOT a boy!!

in this post, im going to address some of the common "arguments" these people present to justify their blatant transphobia.

(cont. under cut)

-

"She's just a femboy!!"

femboys are relatively accepted in japan. if she were simply a femboy, she wouldnt be bullied as much as she is and she would have no reason to worry about her friends accepting her. she also would NOT react that way to simply being outed as a femboy, because like i said, being a femboy isnt a big deal over in japan.

Also, the point of being a femboy is that you are openly identifying as a man whilst dressing femininely. if she was a femboy, she would have no reason to hide the fact that she is "a man."

"She uses boku, thats a male pronoun!!"

almost all japanese pronouns can be gender neutral. this includes boku. while it is traditionally used in a more masculine context, its not uncommon for women to use it on themselves.

in japanese media, this trope is known as bokukko, and its actually pretty common in anime or games like prsk. some well known examples of this trope are Zero Two from Darling in the Franxx, and Furina de Fontaine from Genshin Impact, who are both cisgender woman that use boku.

"Her bullies said she was a boy!!"

yes, because theyre her BULLIES. OF COURSE they would call her a man. theyre TRANSPHOBIC. thats the POINT. if youre seriously considering her bullies as a valid and reliable source for info ab her, then i dont even know what to tell you.

"Sega wouldnt make a queer character bc of jp censorship!!"

sega is VERY openly pro-lgbtq. i wouldnt put it past them to put an openly queer character in prsk. in fact, they already have. of course, the main example other than mizuki would be minori, who is canonically wlw and has a crush on haruka, but there are more characters who can be read as queer-coded as well, such as rui, an, and kohane.

"She never explicitly said she was a girl!!"

she never said she was a boy either!

she doesnt have to look directly at the screen and say in perfect english "i am a trans woman" for her to be a trans woman. it lies in the subtext, the implications, everything about her backstory. everything in mizu5. everything ive listed in this post and more. if you still choose to call her a boy despite everything about her telling you she isnt, then you either severely lack reading comprehension or youre just intentionally transphobic.

-

Thank you so much if you took the time to read through all of this!! i hope this post can be used to help educate at least someone out there, although yall can be really stubborn with your beliefs. if you still believe mizuki is a boy after reading this, i genuinely dont know what to tell you. just please dont comment on this post trying to convince me that shes a man. there is no point. i will not listen. i will simply block you, and i suggest you block me as well.

thats all, thanks again for reading!! ♡

[fantaxzia]

Who figured out that nothing was wrong with Elain? That she was actually having visions of a seer?

Azriel

Who offered Elain peace and quiet when her mind was a storm of visions and depression?

Azriel

Who noticed that Elain was missing from her camp during the war?

Azriel

Who declared (and went through with it) that he was getting her back from the Hybern camp, where just one misstep would cost him his life?

Azriel

To say that the connection between them is simply lust is to completely miss the intent of the author. If you miss the narrative logic in this, it just shows that you lack reading comprehension.

[yourheart-inmyhands]

Hii! May I request how would Venti, Aether and Diluc(separarely) react to reader going on a hunger strike? Like- reader refuses to eat no matter what, untill they get back their freedom? (Lets just say that reader has been kidnapped)

i've actually decided i'm not going to write for any mc's anymore, so Lumine, Aether, Stelle, and Caelus will no longer be requestable, sorry :[

Warning: this post contains yandere-themes, including forced feeding, delusional behavior, being held against will, and other potential topics. Please read at your own risk!

Yandere!Venti would pout about it, making all your favorite meals to try and entice you to eat. He knows humans need food and think you’re behaving ridiculously. He’ll even go as far as retraining you and forcing you to eat, using the tactic of pinching your nose so you can't breathe and have to open your mouth. And while he doesn’t prefer it, he can always use his archon strength to pry your mouth open, even without his gnosis he’s still incredibly stronger beyond human comprehension.

“Don’t be like that Brise, you know you have to eat. Now you can either open up, or I’ll make you.” His sickeningly sweet doesn’t make the situation any easier, the soup he had scooped up in the spoon looking as vomit-inducing as his face right now. It had been days since you had last eaten and yet you haven’t felt less hungry in your life than you did now. No matter how tempting, you’d stay starving to prove a point. You were determined to not be the first one to break, pushing Venti to resort to the extremes he had previously only threatened.

Yandere!Diluc would simply let you starve, you aren’t getting freedom so if you don’t want to eat then suffer the consequences of that choice. He does eventually get worried and makes sure you’re at least drinking water to stay alive. When you finally succumb to the weakness and collapse, unable to move due to lack of food, your body going into panic mode and slowly breaking down your muscle. That’s when he strikes.

Diluc smirked to himself as you lay on the bed, barely conscious and unable to resist now. You had fought so hard to keep up your hunger strike, but it could only last for so long. Walking over to the bedside with a bowl of cold soup, he couldn’t be bothered to warm it up for you, he gently props you up against the headboard. You had lost a significant amount of weight but he didn’t mind, you were still as stunning as the moment he first laid his eyes on you. “Don’t fight me now my Traubensaft, there’s no use.” His smile is condescending, letting you know that even if you tried to fight he could still easily overpower you. With gentle hands, he brings the bowl of soup up to your lips, forcing you to drink every bit. He repeats this process once a day until you can stomach more than that, recognizing that your stomach has shrunk in the weeks you spent denying sustenance.

Brise - Breeze

Traubensaft - Grape Juice

[acourtofwhatthefuck]

Ive seen alot of posts recently about rhys cassian and azriel being into bigger women or plus size women and ngl I just don’t get it or see it. Those men train like hell all about fitness and discipline, have 8packs and killer muscles and the woman they are paired with are just as fit and train just as much and it mentions multiple of times in the books they find their bodies attractive. So I just personally don’t see that they would have any interest in a bigger girl who isn’t into those things, can’t see them finding that attractive

I…sorry, but I can’t even begin to express the amount of ignorant and wrong things about this. It seems like this is coming from a place of prejudice more than a genuine opinion. I could pick this apart and give you a comprehensive list of why this isn’t a great take, but I don’t have the time right now, so just a few points:

1. Plus size does not automatically mean “lazy and unfit”. Who’s to say that if they had a plus size mate, they wouldn’t enjoy joining them for training just as much?

2. The characters they’re mated to are all of a similar body type simply because there’s a severe lack of body diversity in the ACOTAR books. This is annoying and, in my opinion, wrong, but we at least have the freedom as a fandom to create fics where that is not the case.

3. Everyone has different types and things that appeal to them. Your body being a certain way doesn’t mean you desire an identical body type in your partner. Not to mention that looks are only at the surface level of a person and nowhere near as important when it comes to the heart, but to suggest that someone wouldn’t find a plus-size person attractive because they themselves train rigorously and maintain their body in a way that’s necessary for the work they do is just…not it. We’re talking about males that have lived for centuries — do we really expect them to have only been interested in a certain body type that entire time?

I normally wouldn’t get so defensive over a fictional scenario, but this is actually quite a harmful take, whether you mean for it to be or not. It’s also important to note that all bodies are different and there are a whole litany of reasons as to why somebody might be bigger. It doesn’t automatically mean they lead an unhealthy lifestyle. I used to be a lot smaller before I had the medical condition I do, and that paired with the medication I have no choice but to take, I gained some weight. I happen to really like how my body is now, but some people might not feel the same about theirs and read an opinion like this and come away feeling less worthy. It’s just worth broadening your understanding.

Anyway all in all, I think the bat boys would fucking looove a plus-size girlie and worship every inch of her glorious body. Happy Sunday! 💕

[porkcutletbowl44]

Simon Riley/Reader and Keegan/Reader

Hi. I have come out of a almost 6 year writing hiatus and decided to start posting works again. (Yippie😅) I woke up in cold sweat one day about this particular story line and just started writing it down until I gathered the courage to share it... This is a snippet from the 2nd chapter I have on AO3 (I have no clue how to use AO3 in terms of writing OR Tumblr for that fact pls help 😭) but, I'd like to hear some thoughts about how it is, (yay or nay?) aaaannnnddd first ever post on Tumblr whoop! (Apologies for spelling and grammar I still haven't completely edited the chapters fully)

After a few weeks, the divorce was finalized. And those weeks quickly grew into just shy of two months. you didn't even notice, you didn't have the time to even keep up with your own body living in the present. Your daughter didn't deserve to see her mother in shambles like this. Didn't deserve to watch her parents divorce simply because of the lack of communication you hammered into her little head from a young age to express when she was frustrated her sippy cup lid wasn't screwed on all the way and spilled a sticky mess of apple juice all over her chest. Communication, that's an important ingredient. Remember. Communication cannot exist without comprehension. You can bring the horse to water but you cannot force it to drink. You thought you had it all, a loving husband, a beautiful child, a safe home, it was temporary. Ripped from your fingers like a purse stolen by a thief. You will only helplessly watch as your things are being taken from you. 

You will continue to claw at your chest and whimper like a wounded animal.

It does not get easier, even right now when it's time for Simon to take Fawn for the weekend again. You can bear the awkward tension, that silence that makes your throat close up and forces your voice to a weak frail squeak. You kept your attention somewhat busy with your work laptop, there are only four emails and you take the time to thoroughly read them, typing calmly to avoid confrontation. 

He stood in the kitchen quietly, watching your back. He had a strange lump forming in his throat, his expression hardening as he pushed down all of his emotions, trying not to focus on the guilt and hurt churning inside his chest.

You signed the papers, just like he asked you to.

Simon forced himself to speak, clearing his throat loudly, "Shouldn't you be packing Fawn's stuff?"

"Fawn insisted on packing herself," you gave a half-shrug, "I said why not? It's good for her to learn it and have the harmless joy."

He couldn't help but give a rough scoff at that. You would spoil her too easily. Simon took a few steps, setting his hands down on the kitchen counter, his gaze fixed on your form.

"She'll end up forgetting somethin'. I better go help 'er." He spoke casually, intending to go to check on Fawn and help her pack But something made him hesitate, his gaze snapping back on you. It only made his chest and lungs squeeze tighter as he looked at your closed-off demeanor. His eyes zeroed in on your fingers typing lazily, a strange suffocating feeling overcame him as he tried to figure out how he should address the lack of the wedding band on your finger.

Should he pretend like everything is fine? Would you want to talk?

There was an unnatural suffocating silence that felt like an elephant in the room, a strange tension between the two of you that only made him want to hold his breath. The air was so thick and tense- so unlike the normal energy in the kitchen that was once filled with the smell of your delicious cooking and the squealing laughter of Fawn whenever Simon would occasionally rough house with you while the both of you shared the foot space to cook. 

"...You took your ring off," Simon observed in a quiet, defeated tone.

what did he expect?

you stop your typing, your fingers ghosting over typing basic Python codes to your coworker, and you look down on instinct before clearing your throat. Your finger is empty. You will not admit that you took it off once you heard the news.

"Yeah, I did. It's next to the coffee maker if you want it back—oh, congratulations on your engagement." You hesitated before even saying those words. You never thought you would have to say to Simon. Your throat was dry, and your tongue burned at each syllable. 

His heart dropped the instant your words registered in his head, his expression darkening even more than before as a harsh scoff escaped him, his hands clenching tightly into fists as he tried to ignore the sharp pain in his chest.

"What…" His jaw hardened, and a look of disbelief crossed his features, "Who the hell told you that?"

"Johnny already told me," You replied, twisting on the stool to look at him, still in your work blouse and office pants. 

"Of course he did.." He muttered beneath his breath, shaking his head as he pinched the bridge of his nose in irritation. "Bloody Soap.."

Simon took a deep breath and turned to look at you, his expression cold and hard, his gaze dark and icy. The mention of his engagement only made his fingers clench on the counter, and his gaze darkened as he heard your cold, dry tone. His eyes shifted towards the band next to the coffee maker, his mouth twisting into a frown at the lone ring he bought you all those years ago. 

That ring had been on your finger for 7 years.

Now it lay lifeless on the counter.

How the tables have turned.

"...thanks." He muttered out quietly, before looking back down at the floor. 

"yeah well, I would have found out even if Johnny didn't tell me. I would have seen the ring on you either way." You crossed your arms loosely with a small frown. You also won't mention you saw his fiancée's post about it.

He has an unreadable expression on his face as his shoulders straightened. "It would've been a hell of a lot more polite if I was the one who told you." He muttered lowly, his jaw clenching as he tried to keep his emotions in check. But the sight of you without the ring on your finger was eating away at him, like acid seeping into his skin. The mother of his child, divorced.

"You wouldn't tell me, I think that's why Johnny mentioned it...Fawn don't forget your toothbrush!" You called out, hearing her near the kitchen before bolting back down the hallway into the bathroom. You silently thank the universe for that interference. 

A humorless scoff escaped him, shaking his head as he pinched the bridge of his nose. Johnny knew you, he knew that you were the type to get pissed off at secrets and such. So he told you, thinking it would be easier to swallow for you. 'It's not.; Simon muttered in his head, gritting his teeth tightly as he tried to hold back his emotions.

"for the best, right?" You mumbled under your breath, looking up at him.

He could feel the pain and hurt in your gaze as you looked up at him, making his heart clench painfully the longer he looked at you.

Of course it's not for the best.

He wanted more than anything to pull you into his arms, to kiss you, tell you how he regrets ever saying something so stupid, how he wanted to take everything back.

But he didn't.

He couldn't. So all he said was a cold: "You tell me."

You didn't reply, just humming quietly in acknowledgment before Fawn's happy self came into the kitchen practically bouncing with excitement to spend time with her dad. Simon watched quietly as Fawn barreled into the room with her bag in one hand, her excitement radiating.

He tried not to let his emotions show on his face, masking it with a neutral expression as he looked over at his daughter. It was impossible to tell her parents were going through a divorce. She was still young of course, so it wasn't that surprising.

Simon just couldn't help but envy her innocence.

A bitter thought in his head made him hate himself even more.

He couldn't help but try to hold that small smile that formed at his eyes as he saw her excitement, "You 'ave everythin' you need?" The question was mainly directed at you, since you were the one that knew what she needed.

You beckoned Fawn over, kneeling before her. You softly grabbed her shoulders with an assuring smile. 

"Hairbrush? Socks and shoes? Jacket? And toothbrush?"

He hovered in the kitchen, leaning against the counter with his arms crossed over his chest as he watched you check over Fawn, watching how gentle you were with her. Simon scoffed at this, shaking his head. "She's a mini version of you."

A pang of longing hit him, watching how you cared for her, his heart feeling heavy.

"Check, got all that," Fawn confirmed, nodding her head excitedly as her bright eyes lit up.

"Good, you did a good job packing all by yourself." You forced a smile Fawn would believe, smoothing her hair back. You were proud of her after all, doing big girl things all by herself. 

A wave of dread washed over him, he couldn't fucking stand this; that he was the reason. "Monster." something meanly cackled in the back of his head. He felt like a bastard for even having you sign those papers without fighting for it, watching everything he once had slip out of his fingers.

Watching how you forced a smile instead of truly showing it to your own fucking daughter.

God, he was a jackass.

"Remember your manners, be good, and you can call me for anything at all, okay? Anything you need, hun." You murmured, giving her little cheek a kiss.

He watched the two of you interact, his chest feeling heavy and tight. Fawn nodded her head quickly with a bright smile, giving you a big hug before waving a little.

"Bye, momma." She said cutely before rushing over to her father and grabbing his hand, waving her free one out.

His expression hardened, his gaze snapping on you as you looked away, keeping up the happy mom façade for the sake of Fawn.

He hated seeing you like this, forced to pretend like everything was okay when it was far from that. How was it fair for you to be forced to pretend to be happy? It didn't sit right with him, it just didn't feel fair. He held his eyes on you a moment longer before looking down to hold Fawn's hand in his. 

"C'mon now, let's get goin'." He murmured gruffly, trying to muster a small smile for his daughter.

The walk to the car was silent, Fawn skipping her way to the car, Simon walking beside with her little handheld in his, his expression unreadable and cold. He stopped by the backseat of the car, opening the door to let Fawn in as he looked to the passenger seat. Where you would sit. Where you will probably never sit again.

His mind warred with it, a scowl crossing his face. He wanted you in the passenger seat, just like you used to always sit in. He wanted the same routine every time he picked up Fawn from school.

But he couldn't have that.

Simon gritted his teeth, shoving those thoughts aside as he forced his expression back to a stoic one, watching as Fawn climbed into the backseat and buckled herself in. He slowly shut the door with a quiet click, looking to the front and climbed into the driver's seat. The car started, and Fawn waved happily behind the window as they drove off. Mentally, you cuss Simon out to drive safely for Fawn before turning back inside. 

[soapoet]

PJO pick-a-card reading

Luke Castellan; A message from above

Soapy scribbles: I opted to format this topic as generally as possible since we all hold various different beliefs. Whether this message comes from your spirit guides, angels, higher self, God, any deity, ancestor or passed loved ones, or anything beyond my comprehension, is for you alone to know based on how it resonates with you. I am just the messenger and it is no business of mine who your particular sender is.

01.

Shufflemancy: Travelling by James Spiteri

You're coming out of a period of stagnation. Either delays entirely out of your control, or the sheer lack of motivation has kept you at a stalemate unable to proceed with your plans. You have found comfort in distractions aplenty. A seemingly never-ending cycle of avoiding the next step because it appears so very daunting, then being overcome with guilt and shame, which you again run from, chasing anything and everything which would put these feelings at bay. Now the first step looks less frightening, and you may feel more motivated to journey onwards.

Growing pains may feature, but you are able to handle them well. You may feel inclined to keep secrets, especially regarding your endeavours. This will prove beneficial as it reduces pressure, you now have nobody to hold yourself accountable but you, and you avoid the urge to run away should anybody dare inquire about your progress. Push yourself forward, as unnerving as it may be. You will quickly notice how light you are on your feet and the distance you can go when harnessing the dopamine from simply overcoming this fear.

Do not be too hard on yourself or expect to run a marathon. A little progress is better than none, but do not use busy work as yet another distraction. You have great gifts and plenty to share with the world, and you are destined to inspire others with your achievements and your accolades. As much as you detest routine, try to keep even a small one. Do a little bit every day to inch yourself closer to your dreams. To avoid feelings of uncertainty and your fears of failure, set aside time to sit with yourself in silence and ask yourself why you want this, where it will lead, and why that is where you want to be and what you hope to achieve, the life you wish to lead and what legacy you wish you leave. Remind yourself of the answers to these questions whenever motivation begins to evade you on your journey.

Sometimes a writer can only muster a sentence, perhaps one they will later entirely eliminate, yet they did something. And sometimes all this writer can do is stare at the manuscript before them and give of themselves nothing. Yet they did something. They got up to look at it rather than wince across the room and refuse to rise to the occasion at all. Celebrate even your smallest victories and allow yourself a cheer when you muster even the slightest effort. Do not expect perfection of yourself and know that many before you had to go through trial and error, and learn and adapt along the way. That is perfectly okay and you do not need a doctorate straight out of the womb to be good enough.

02.

Shufflemancy: Kiss the rain by Yiruma

You must cease this pattern of giving up your energy so easily to so many who are not deserving of your time. When bad news arrive, it is fine to feel whichever way you feel, but anchoring your emotions to this negativity will suck you dry of the life force that you need to shine. You are allowed to have boundaries and you are encouraged to enforce them and guard them closely. Those who would trespass should know punishment swiftly. Do not tolerate things you do not tolerate truly. Do not quietly hope unfortunate things go away and that people notice your discomfort and stop what they're doing that is harming you.

Stand up for yourself and make your thoughts and feelings heard. It is also not your duty or responsibility to translate a simple no or a stop to people wilfully ignorant and always finding a justification for their words and actions. No is a full sentence. Anybody who fails to internalize this fact and look in the mirror to reflect and to change any behaviour that's lead them to ignore this simple command is not a headache to take as yours. You should be unapologetic in your selfcare and demand space when you need it. Set aside your fears and shoo away any prowling feelings of shame and guilt. If you would be happier alone than in bad company, seek solitude and cut off what no longer serves you.

There are lessons some learn only upon a collapse. You may pray for a change of heart and hope for the sun to shine again, but you do not need to weather storms that are not yours to experience. You're not a bad person for stepping back and saying enough is enough in a situation that only causes you distress. Those who need help must want it and ask for it. You can promise to be there when they're ready and aid in their recovery, and still express to them the grief that they have caused you. Sometimes people need to be faced with the harsh truth. The pain and the agony and sleepless nights which they have brought upon you and others and be shown they could truly lose it all lest they stop and strive to do and be better.

If somebody truly needs help and you do not have the heart to abandon them, seek assistance. You need not be alone in a quest which requires more than you alone have to give. There are many sources of help and even more solutions once more hands are there to help, and you only have two and are allowed to seek extra pairs to aid you in this task. You are commended for your resilience and your kind heart. It may break and bleed often, and you must know that things will get better. These rough waters will calm soon enough and you will find peace.

03.

Shufflemancy: Ballerina by Yehezkel Raz

You don't need to run so fast. You have all the time in the world to make the changes that you want and need. Slow down and allow yourself to breathe. You have been much too hard on yourself and allowed everything outside of you to weigh you down. Shelf some burdens that were never yours to carry and make the choice to serve yourself for a change. Be gentle with yourself and listen to your own body and soul, and act according to that which is truly in your best interest. You are your own worst enemy when you let the beasts feed upon your negative self talk and your fixations on perceived failures.

Know that you have no more need for tips and tricks and new methods to your madness. You already have everything that you need, and no tool beyond your own consciousness is required. You could paint cathedral ceilings with just your imagination, so cease your struggle and let yourself be carried by the stream. Do not waver in your convictions, and do not let doubt lead you astray. Stick to what you know in your heart to be true and cast away every inkling of worry and fear.

You need to learn to let life happen to you rather than holding the reins so tightly you vitiate the opportunity to experience the present moment altogether. The present is all we really have, so try your best to cling neither to the past or the future. We all have regrets behind us, and wishes for the future, but it is the present moment which we truly have control over and get to experience.

Let go of any unhealthy dependencies you may have allowed to take root in your garden. Whether this is a person, a habit, or a situation, if it isn't doing you any good in the long-term, do your best to weed it out so that more energy may be received by the things you do wish to grow and nurture. If you feel unqualified to tackle some of this gardening, do not hesitate to ask for help and guidance from gentle people who will understand how delicate some situations may be. You do not need to tolerate fear mongering or unnecessary pressure, time constraints or misplaced ultimatums. Be direct with what you need and the tone and feel you wish to engage in so that you do not end up feeling cornered and threatened so much that you refuse any help at all in favour of protecting yourself from harsh criticism and judgement.

[vickyvicarious]

There lay Lucy, seemingly just as we had seen her the night before her funeral. She was, if possible, more radiantly beautiful than ever; and I could not believe that she was dead. The lips were red, nay redder than before; and on the cheeks was a delicate bloom. "She was bitten by the vampire when she was in a trance, sleep-walking—oh, you start; you do not know that, friend John, but you shall know it all later—and in trance could he best come to take more blood. In trance she died, and in trance she is Un-Dead, too. So it is that she differ from all other. Usually when the Un-Dead sleep at home"—as he spoke he made a comprehensive sweep of his arm to designate what to a vampire was "home"—"their face show what they are, but this so sweet that was when she not Un-Dead she go back to the nothings of the common dead. There is no malign there, see, and so it make hard that I must kill her in her sleep."

Hm... Van Helsing believes that Lucy dying in a trance/sleep is why she looks so beautiful and peaceful in her coffin. Others, he thinks, would look dead and evil. But we actually do have accounts of other vampires 'sleeping', so let's compare.

There, in one of the great boxes, of which there were fifty in all, on a pile of newly dug earth, lay the Count! He was either dead or asleep, I could not say which—for the eyes were open and stony, but without the glassiness of death—and the cheeks had the warmth of life through all their pallor; the lips were as red as ever. But there was no sign of movement, no pulse, no breath, no beating of the heart.

Dracula, 25 June

There lay the Count, but looking as if his youth had been half renewed, for the white hair and moustache were changed to dark iron-grey; the cheeks were fuller, and the white skin seemed ruby-red underneath; the mouth was redder than ever, for on the lips were gouts of fresh blood, which trickled from the corners of the mouth and ran over the chin and neck. Even the deep, burning eyes seemed set amongst swollen flesh, for the lids and pouches underneath were bloated. It seemed as if the whole awful creature were simply gorged with blood. He lay like a filthy leech, exhausted with his repletion. [...] There was a mocking smile on the bloated face which seemed to drive me mad.

Dracula, 30 June

These are the descriptions of vampires at rest which Van Helsing has already read. And Dracula certainly presents an evil appearance in this state... but how much of the horror is really him 'showing his nature', and how much is from Jonathan reacting to it? If we look at the first example, Dracula apparently looks like he might be asleep or dead. He has flushed cheeks and red lips. These are actually completely consistent with Lucy's own appearance. The second time around, he's drunk heavily and is bloated, and that is horrifying to look at, but he also looks much healthier and younger. If not for the bloating and messy eating leaving him covered in blood, his appearance would not necessarily be super alarming. Look again at Lucy:

There lay Lucy, seemingly just as we had seen her the night before her funeral. She was, if possible, more radiantly beautiful than ever; and I could not believe that she was dead. The lips were red, nay redder than before; and on the cheeks was a delicate bloom.

Lucy, 27 September

There are two big differences between her and Dracula on the 25th. First, she has her eyes shut. This helps it look more like sleep than death, and tips the scales towards her not seeming dead. Also, she was very recently dying. She looked pale and thin, exhausted and worn when alive; at least some of the beauty emphasized here may well be in contrast to how she's looked in the last few weeks.

But otherwise, Lucy and Dracula both have flushed cheeks, red lips. They both look almost as though they're sleeping, except for the lack of breathing.

It seems to me that Van Helsing's theory about Lucy's appearance being different in death than other vampires is wrong. It's more just the contrast between eyes open/shut, healthy/ill just before, and of course the viewer's bias (Jonathan already hated and feared Dracula, everyone loved Lucy dearly).

Another spoiler comparison below the cut:

She lay in her Vampire sleep, so full of life and voluptuous beauty that I shudder as though I have come to do murder. Ah, I doubt not that in old time, when such things were, many a man who set forth to do such a task as mine, found at the last his heart fail him, and then his nerve. [...] Then I braced myself again to my horrid task, and found by wrenching away tomb-tops one other of the sisters, the other dark one. I dared not pause to look on her as I had on her sister, lest once more I should begin to be enthrall; but I go on searching until, presently, I find in a high great tomb as if made to one much beloved that other fair sister which, like Jonathan I had seen to gather herself out of the atoms of the mist. She was so fair to look on, so radiantly beautiful, so exquisitely voluptuous, that the very instinct of man in me, which calls some of my sex to love and to protect one of hers, made my head whirl with new emotion.

We get a less thorough description of the other vampire women, but it sounds as though they too looked both asleep rather than dead, and very beautiful. We can presume the same reddened cheeks/lips as being likely. Now, there is the caveat that they appear to have been able to exercise their hypnotic powers over Van Helsing even in this state. Perhaps that is increasing the perception of beauty. But he certainly does not seem to have been able to just tell that they're evil vampires by looking. It's only because he already knows the truth that he is able to act.

I think I personally conclude that:

Dracula's just a freak who likes to sleep with his eyes open, while most have their eyes shut

All vampires look beautiful (or at least better) when asleep, especially if they've recently fed

I also believe that the bigger difference between Lucy and the others lies not in appearance but ability. Dracula could paralyze Jonathan with his stare and was able to magically influence the wind to slam the door shut behind him when he fled. The vampire ladies were able to hypnotize Van Helsing more the longer he looked at them. Lucy, meanwhile, couldn't do anything even as Van Helsing was poking at her teeth and opening her eyelids.

You can either put this down to her being different because of her death in sleep/trance (as VH does), or discard that theory entirely and say this was simply due to her being such a young vampire (or, rather, thanks to them being so much older and more experienced). I tend toward the latter, myself. I also tend to think that very young vampires are likely to be a little more feral at the start, and so any weirdness with Lucy is more because she's brand new. But mileage can vary there.