#what was he expecting when he wrote those essays

[fursasaida]

This article is from 2022, but it came up in the context of Palestine:

Here are some striking passages, relevant to all colonial aftermaths but certainly also to the forms we see Zionist reaction taking at the moment:

Over the decade I lived in South Africa, I became fascinated by this white minority [i.e. the whole white population post-apartheid as a minority in the country], particularly its members who considered themselves progressive. They reminded me of my liberal peers in America, who had an apparently self-assured enthusiasm about the coming of a so-called majority-minority nation. As with white South Africans who had celebrated the end of apartheid, their enthusiasm often belied, just beneath the surface, a striking degree of fear, bewilderment, disillusionment, and dread.

[...]

Yet these progressives’ response to the end of apartheid was ambivalent. Contemplating South Africa after apartheid, an Economist correspondent observed that “the lives of many whites exude sadness.” The phenomenon perplexed him. In so many ways, white life remained more or less untouched, or had even improved. Despite apartheid’s horrors—and the regime’s violence against those who worked to dismantle it—the ANC encouraged an attitude of forgiveness. It left statues of Afrikaner heroes standing and helped institute the Truth and Reconciliation Commission, which granted amnesty to some perpetrators of apartheid-era political crimes.

But as time wore on, even wealthy white South Africans began to radiate a degree of fear and frustration that did not match any simple economic analysis of their situation. A startling number of formerly anti-apartheid white people began to voice bitter criticisms of post-apartheid society. An Afrikaner poet who did prison time under apartheid for aiding the Black-liberation cause wrote an essay denouncing the new Black-led country as “a sewer of betrayed expectations and thievery, fear and unbridled greed.”

What accounted for this disillusionment? Many white South Africans told me that Black forgiveness felt like a slap on the face. By not acting toward you as you acted toward us, we’re showing you up, white South Africans seemed to hear. You’ll owe us a debt of gratitude forever.

The article goes on to discuss:

"Mau Mau anxiety," or the fear among whites of violent repercussions, and how this shows up in reported vs confirmed crime stats - possibly to the point of false memories of home invasion

A sense of irrelevance and alienation among this white population, leading to another anxiety: "do we still belong here?"

The sublimation of this anxiety into self-identification as a marginalized minority group, featuring such incredible statements as "I wanted to fight for Afrikaners, but I came to think of myself as a ‘liberal internationalist,’ not a white racist...I found such inspiration from the struggles of the Catalonians and the Basques. Even Tibet" and "[Martin Luther] King [Jr.] also fought for a people without much political representation … That’s why I consider him one of my most important forebears and heroes,” from a self-declared liberal environmentalist who also thinks Afrikaaners should take back government control because they are "naturally good" at governance

Some discussion of the dynamics underlying these reactions, particularly the fact that "admitting past sins seem[ed] to become harder even as they receded into history," and US parallels

And finally, in closing:

The Afrikaner journalist Rian Malan, who opposed apartheid, has written that, by most measures, its aftermath went better than almost any white person could have imagined. But, as with most white progressives, his experience of post-1994 South Africa has been complicated. [...]

He just couldn’t forgive Black people for forgiving him. Paradoxically, being left undisturbed served as an ever-present reminder of his guilt, of how wrongly he had treated his maid and other Black people under apartheid. “The Bible was right about a thing or two,” he wrote. “It is infinitely worse to receive than to give, especially if … the gift is mercy.”

[gotham-adrenaline]

Let’s be real though, for the longest time Kon truly had no idea how normal humans are supposed to act.

Like logically he’s aware of how the average human body should function, but he was just not in an environment that allowed him to properly grasp what the limits of this are.

Tim is by far the worst for Kon when it comes to learning about people’s standard restrictions, especially those who aren’t metas.

Because why was someone on the bus complaining about only sleeping 6 hours a night this week? That’s ridiculous! Tim can go a week with only 6 hours total (and then fall into what is essentially a coma while all cuddled up under the blankets during a team movie night, but that’s irrelevant).

Last month a girl from one of his classes attempted to chat with him after class, joking that their professor was trying to kill them after he assigned a 10-page essay due in less than a next week, which is kind of weird since Tim wrote a 20-page essay with additional references and citations titled “Why Bart is Being Stupid and Needs to Listen to Tim’s Plans or Else”, and that only took a few hours (and then he started giving Bart these little cartoon stickers after missions if he listened and didn’t recklessly endanger himself, which was honestly really cute of Tim and made Kon slightly upset when Tim didn’t give him one too, but that’s also irrelevant).

And seriously, why is this man screaming so loudly after he only sprained his ankle? If he couldn’t handle a little pain, he shouldn’t try and mug people in Metropolis during broad daylight and within shouting distance of a Super. Besides, Tim got shot by an arrow in the thigh last week on a mission and just sighed in annoyance before continuing to download the data off the hidden lab’s computer (and then flushed bright red and didn’t complain once when Kon insisted on flying him back to the jet but that’s extra irrelevant and not something he can dwell on right now).

Kon brings this up one day to Clark, not expecting much of a conversation beyond “Hey, humans are weird, huh?” but Clark looks genuinely confused for all of 5 minutes until stuttering his way through an explanation that Tim (and the team as a whole) are the exceptions, and that the civilians he’s seen behaving “oddly” are actually very normal.

Which, in retrospect, maybe he shouldn’t have blurted out how amazing he found Tim and then fly away out of embarrassment the moment he saw Robin next, but also… well he IS amazing, and he could stand to hear it more often. Way more often… Kon would have to help with that.

[hysteria-things]

can you do a teacher!chris and a college student pleasee. (With smut. And if you want to!!)

PROFESSOR STURNIOLO

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: dom!teacher!chris x student!reader

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: this isn’t your first problem with this specific professor, but at this moment you’re fed up and want to put your foot down.

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: SMUTTY SMUT, p in v, degradation, spanking, masturbation (female), making out, stomach bulge, overstimulation, dumbification, squirting, cream pie

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧��: 1,535

𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: we are locked in🫡

your professor dismissed class mere seconds ago, and everybody either has already left the lecture hall or is still packing up. “are you meeting us for lunch?” your friend says, zippering her bag and putting it on her shoulder.

you scoff, shaking your head. “can’t.” you say, ripping out the essay you wrote for this class that was due a few days ago. “professor sturniolo gave me an F on the essay.”

“again?” she questions genuinely shocked. “he’s got a bone to pick with you.”

this isn’t the first encounter like this you had with your professor. this class — your argument and persuasion class — is the only one you’re failing this semester.

not in your three years have you ever had this type of problem, and after many F’s, you’ve finally had enough.

“well, good luck.” your friend sighs, leaving the classroom with the remaining group.

now, that leaves you and him.

it would be a different story if you didn’t do the assignment right or didn’t try on the essay, but you’re one hell of a writer and you’re sure he knows it. you’ve always been good in school, ever since a young age.

normally you wouldn’t pick up fights with teachers, but your blood has been boiling for this dude for weeks.

“what’s your problem with me?” you say sternly, wiggling the paper in your hand as you step down to where he is.

he stops erasing the board and turns to you. “class is over, ms. l/n.”

yeah, no shit.

you roll your eyes. “so? i want to speak with you about my recent essay. you always give me F’s and never explain why. i would understand if it happened once before at the beginning of the year, but for every. single. one? it’s ridiculous.

he’s emotionless as he listens to your rambling, then he shrugs. “it wasn’t good enough.”

you crinkle the paper in your fist and slam it down on the desk in front of you. “wasn’t good enough my fucking ass, professor sturniolo. is it a favoritism thing? or are you fucking the other chicks in your class so they can have good grades? is that what i need to do? do i need to fuck you?”

the moment those words left your mouth, you knew that was a huge mistake.

you wouldn’t be surprised if he does, though. he’s not much older than you, and he is attractive.

he licks his lips, tilting his head toward himself. “bring it over.”

you gulp, feeling slightly intimidated. you uncrinkle the page and hand it to him, who is now sitting in the chair.

not even reading it, he stares at it and looks back up at you. “sorry. your paper didn’t meet the expectations.”

your pinch your lips together to keep you from screaming at him. “you didn’t even read it.” you shake your head. “i should’ve dropped this class when i had the chance. you’re cocky, and a waste of my time. i’m failing probably because your teaching sucks.”

as you start to storm out, he speaks up. “i’m going to have to clean that filthy mouth of yours.” he smirks. “teach you a much-deserved lesson, then afterward you can see if my teaching still sucks.”

you pause in your tracks, face turning beat red as you slowly turn back around. “w-what?”

he motions you to come over with his finger, and for some reason, you listen.

grabbing your wrist, he pulls you over his lap so you’re straddling him. again, you let it happen. you can’t help the wetness that starts to pool between your legs.

“you can admit it, you know,” he whispers, dragging his hand from your waistband to your mouth. he grazes his thumb over your bottom lip.

“a-admit what?” you stammer, shuffling in his lap which causes him to groan and hold your hips.

he chuckles. “deep down you want me to fuck you. i bet you touch yourself to the thought of me like a desperate little thing.”

you look away, face turning even redder than before if possible. “nuh-uh.”

“your face says otherwise.” his whisper shoots a chill up your spine as he starts to unbutton your shorts.

the way your fingers move quickly inside of you have your eyes shut with your mouth dangled open.

you were lucky enough to get a single dorm, so you can do whatever you want without being sneaky about it.

the way your legs are spread makes your fingers dig deeper, curling to hit the right spot. you grip onto your sheets tight, moans and other loud noises leaving your lips.

your previous orgasms make a mess below you or the back of your thighs, but you don’t stop. you’ve been at this for almost an hour because your mind is only focused on one thing.

your lecturer.

professor sturniolo.

“shit.” you pant, your orgasm building for the nth time. you let go of the sheets to massage your breast, pinching at your nipple from time to time.

you whine. “just like that.”

legs shaking, your fingers get coated with yet another orgasm, but you wish it wasn’t your fingers.

you wish it were his.

your shorts are now on the floor, along with your shirt, underwear, and bra. chris still has his clothes on except for his pants.

hovering just above his tip, your lips move in sync with each other. his tongue fights yours, and the erotic sounds of you two kissing fill your ears.

his hands rub along your back before spanking you hard, ruining the intimate moment. you pull away to gasp.

“sit,” he demands, mouth agape as he looks down to watch you try to sink onto his dick.

you grunt from the pleasurable pain, stopping just about midway. he’s probably the biggest you’ve ever seen. “it’s not gonna fit.” you whine.

“i’ll make it fit.”

with that, he grips onto your ass, hammering up into you without being able to adjust first.

you grab onto his shoulders for dear life. you moan uncontrollably, the feeling of him raw inside of you making you grin like a fool.

you’ve been wanting him to do this for a very long time.

“look at you.” he starts, smacking your ass to have you jolt. “having the professor you allegedly hate balls deep in you.”

“i-i do— ha-ate you.” you struggle to get out, a hand landing on your asscheek again.

“is that so?” he mocks, waiting for you to talk back but instead you moan even louder. he nods. “that’s what i thought.”

he bites his lip, looking at the way your tits bounce rapidly and at the bulge in your belly, eyes widening slightly. he’d never seen something like that before.

“i should keep you around more often after class.” he groans, seeing your face of pleasure.

eyes rolled back, mouth hung open, hair disheveled and sticking to your forehead from sweating.

“you make a pretty little cocksleeve.”

that sentence makes you clench around him, your body starting to quiver from the overwhelming feeling. “ngh— feels so go-od. y-you make me feel s-so good.” you whimper. “wanna cum!”

“not until you apologize.” he tuts, grabbing and then spanking your ass. “say you’re sorry, and i might let you cum.”

you whine, his cock now kissing your g-spot more than it did before. “i’m s-sorry.”

“for?”

“for— mm!” you squeal. “for being b-bad.”

“and?”

“and-and—” you can’t finish because of the sudden clear liquid squirting out of you, now making your pussy squelch more than it was before. your back arches even harder, your brain all dazed and dumb from the overstimulation.

you start to lose stability from being too weak, so chris has to hold you by your arms.

he groans, shaking his head at the terrible mess you are making. “come on. you can do it.”

tears spill from your eyes, sobs running past your lips. “a-and for t-talking back. fuck!”

his dick twitches inside, his thrusts getting sloppy. “i hope you’re on the pill because i’m going to fill you deep, baby.”

you can only make sounds, so a high-pitched moan echoes throughout. you’re seeing stars the closer your orgasm approaches before it finally snaps and you’re smearing the ring of white around his dick.

he doesn’t stop, causing your body to twitch in his grasp as another orgasm builds since he’s still fucking deep to your g-spot.

“close again?” he laughs fake. “scream for me. let people know how much of a slut you are; letting your teacher use you to get a better grade.”

your body slowly starts becoming limp, eyes fluttering closed as you moan.

he spanks you for the last time, not caring that his job is on the line.

“louder. they can’t hear you.”

screaming this time, you cum once again when he holds you down on his shaft. you collapse onto his chest, quiet sobs leaving your lips as you feel his cum start to fill you.

he peppers kisses on your shoulders, peeking over them to grab a pen and clicking it open. he scribbles over the previous grade on your essay to write a new one.

A+

𝐭𝐚𝐠 𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭!

@bunbunbl0gs @lexisecretaccx @thy-mission @angelic-sturniolos111 @sophssturn @mattsneezing @janiellasblog @blahbel668 @meg-sturniolo @hearts4chris @mattslolita @sturnbaby @imwetforyourmom @tillies33ssss @sturnifyed @mayhem-72 @ripmattitude @p1xieswrld @alorsxsturn @txssvx @sttzee @multiluvr @delilahprentiss @matthewsspecial @sturnolio-luvs @sturniolho @suga-daddy-69 @tworosesblackthorn @luckistar-posts @gnxosblog @junnniiieee07 @sturnioloslurps @tylerthecreatorsrealwife @flowerxbunnie @imaslut4kehlani @sturniolosandmoree @hertvgirl @whoreforchrissturniolo @r4iyaa @sturniolotriplettoplover @mattybswife @freshsturns @loverrsposts @sturnlcvr @elliesturniolo1 @tpvmz @user283926392 @lalalands86 @sukiipjs @sturniologirl813 @leahrab @chrissturniolosslut @h3arts4harry @sturnioloblogs @creamoncreamoncream2 @luv4kozume @ivyyyyyysposts @mirxcle1 @iluvm4ttsturni0l0 @sturniol0s @catalina-island @mbsbaby @pinkfarts @slut4mattsturn @thesturniolos @vickeyzloserz @nononopeno1

[cbeargyu]

what if a professor yeonjun, like your tryingnto pass his subject but things took a turn for the worse(?)

TEACHER'S PET

summary: you're halfway through your sixth semester of korean literature when professor yeonjun becomes something you never expected. strict, disciplined, and impossibly attractive, he always keeps his distance — until you start finding ways to get his attention. your chemistry is undeniable, and one night, the tension between you finally breaks. now, you're caught in a dangerous game where his praise and control are all you crave.

pairing: teacher!yeonjun x student!reader

genre: smut, dom/sub, teacher/student, praise, worship, slow burn, dark romance.

warnings: explicit content, power dynamics, age gap, manipulation, consent issues, rough sex, dirty talk, possessiveness, adult themes, dominance, and submission.

wc: 6,4k

notes: i’ll just say one word: HORNY

you’re halfway through your sixth semester of korean literature when professor choi starts becoming something else.

not that he wasn’t already magnetic in his own cold, untouchable way — no one misses his entrance when he steps into the lecture hall. tall, composed, his posture always impossibly straight, sharp jaw clean-shaven, hair perfectly styled. he doesn’t rush, doesn’t stumble, never second-guesses his words. and he’s always in those immaculate suits, dark and crisp, tailored within an inch of their life, like they were cut specifically for his body. the kind of man who doesn’t need to raise his voice to be heard.

a single glance from him carries more weight than a paragraph of scolding from any other professor. he rarely smiles. never laughs.

his voice is low, deliberate, and terrifyingly calm — the sort of calm that unsettles, that keeps people on edge. everything about him radiates discipline, control, a restrained sort of dominance that makes students sit straighter in their chairs without realizing, makes them go silent before he’s even said a word.

he’s always been that way — precise, unapproachable — but lately, something’s changed. maybe it’s the heat creeping into the city, the way spring’s begun to press against the windows and sneak into the folds of everyday routine. or maybe it’s the way he’s adjusted to it: losing the jacket sometime between office hours and lecture, rolling up the sleeves of his pristine white shirt as if it’s nothing, revealing strong forearms, veins barely visible beneath smooth skin, the subtle flex of muscle as he writes across the board. his watch — black leather band, silver face — rests snugly against his wrist, catching the light.

it’s a small change, but it wrecks the room. girls who used to barely make it to class on time now arrive early, hair done, lip gloss shining, pretending to read while stealing glances every time he turns.

and still, he never gives them anything. he doesn’t flirt. he doesn’t linger. he doesn’t even make eye contact unless he hasto. he finishes his lectures right on time, closes his laptop, gathers his things, and vanishes down the hallway like a shadow that doesn’t belong to this world. some students have joked that he sleeps in the faculty office. others say he doesn’t sleep at all.

but for some reason — you’re different.

you’re not sure when it started, but it’s clear. he knows your name, your handwriting, the way you think. he returns your essays with his signature red annotations, always concise, always insightful — and once, once, he underlined a sentence and wrote just one word beside it: brilliant. and that one word sat in your chest for days. he asks you to help him distribute materials, to collect papers, to make extra copies when needed. he trusts you. you’re always the one he calls to the front when there’s something more technical to handle. nothing inappropriate. never even borderline. but it’s always you.

you’re the top of the class, and he treats you like it — but sometimes, you wonder if it’s more than just academic. sometimes, you want it to be.

that afternoon, the air is unusually heavy, the kind of warm that sticks to your skin and makes everyone slightly irritable, slightly sluggish. the windows are open, but they do nothing. the fans click lazily overhead. you’re wearing one of your usual skirts — neat, within code, but undeniably short — and he’s in his shirtsleeves again, collar open just enough to make your eyes catch there. he’s halfway through a lecture on mid-century poetry, voice smooth as ink over paper, when he gestures for you without breaking his rhythm.

“copies for the next class,” he murmurs, pen still sliding across the attendance sheet, head down.

you nod, standing from your seat with the casual ease of someone used to being called. the rest of the class barely glances up. you walk to his desk, hips swaying slightly, fingers brushing the edge as you reach for the stack of printed pages.

and that’s when it happens.

he looks.

not in passing — not the impersonal sweep of a professor monitoring a student’s approach — but really looks. his gaze drops, and it doesn’t move. it lands just above your knee, where your skirt lifts slightly as you lean forward. you can feel the heat of his stare like sunlight against bare skin. there’s a flicker of something raw and real in that second — not restrained, not filtered through professionalism, but human. male.

you don’t say anything. you don’t have to.

his breath catches, ever so faintly. his adam’s apple moves.

and then, like he’s realized too late that he’s given himself away, his eyes shoot up — fast, sharp — locking with yours.

for a split second, there’s nothing between you but tension. not the kind that can be laughed off or misread. it’s the kind that coils low in your stomach, that makes your fingers twitch and your heart pound and your thighs press together on instinct.

his expression doesn’t change. he doesn’t speak. but something in the set of his jaw, the flicker in his eyes, tells you everything.

you straighten slowly, the papers clutched in your hand, and your fingertips brush the wood of his desk — a silent connection, brief and electric. he doesn’t move. neither do you.

then he clears his throat, a quiet sound, but rough — hoarse in a way you’ve never heard before.

“thank you.”

the words are simple. but the way he says them... you feel them. low in your belly.

and as you return to your seat, every step feels heavier. like something has shifted. like a line has been crossed — not fully, not yet, but enough that it’s there, smoldering just beneath the surface.

and you know — so does he — that it’s only a matter of time.

you leave the lecture hall with the rest of the students, but your steps are slower, deliberate, your mind replaying that single second — the way his gaze lingered, the flicker of tension, the sound of his voice when he said thank you like it wasn’t just about the papers. outside, the air is sticky with spring, warm enough that your thighs cling faintly with each step. you can feel your pulse where it shouldn’t be, in places no professor should ever reach — and he hasn’t, not yet, not even with his hands or his mouth, but his eyes touched you today. and it’s not something you can forget.

you don’t get far before you hear your name behind you. calm. commanding.

“can you stay for a moment?”

your body answers before your mouth does. you turn back around, nodding, eyes wide, heart stammering like you didn’t spend the entire walk out hoping he’d stop you. he holds the door open, just slightly, enough to let you pass back into the lecture hall once the corridor clears.

inside, the room is quieter now. emptier. there’s still heat, clinging to the walls, to the seats, to your skin. he doesn’t say anything at first, just gathers the remaining papers from his desk and gestures toward the back door — the one that leads to the inner corridor, the private hallway professors use to access their offices.

he doesn’t wait for you to follow. he knows you will.

you walk behind him, eyes drawn to the curve of his back, the strong, clean lines of his body even beneath something as simple as a white dress shirt. he moves with a purpose that makes you nervous. when he unlocks his office, the sound of the key turning echoes too loud in your ears.

it’s cooler inside. the light softer. the door closes behind you with a dull, final click, and suddenly it’s just the two of you, the air between you charged and private and wrong in all the ways that make your skin tingle.

he doesn’t sit behind his desk this time. he leans against it, arms crossed, sleeves still rolled, watch still gleaming on his wrist. he watches you. quietly. intently.

“i wanted to talk about your last essay,” he starts, and his voice is back to that measured, even tone you’ve come to crave. “it was... different.”

you stand a few feet from him, bag still slung over your shoulder, fingers curled tight around the strap.

“different?” you echo, your voice softer than you mean it to be.

he nods. “you went beyond the assigned reading. contextualized the text through secondary sources, philosophical frameworks. you didn’t have to.”

you shrug a little, trying to sound casual. “i thought it would... strengthen my argument.”

he looks at you, his gaze steady, unreadable. “did you?”

you hesitate.

and then, you say the thing you’ve been swallowing for weeks. maybe longer.

“i did it so you’d notice.”

his posture doesn’t shift, but something in the air does — a sharp crackle, invisible but unmistakable. you breathe out slowly, your chest tight, like you’ve crossed some threshold you can’t walk back from.

“i do everything right,” you continue, voice barely above a whisper, “i hand in everything early. i study more than i have to. i volunteer. i do the extra work. i — i watch you. i listen so carefully. and you never...” your throat tightens. “you never give anything away.”

he’s quiet for a moment. then he straightens.

walks around his desk slowly.

each step feels deliberate, measured, heavy in a way that makes your spine tingle.

he stops in front of you.

too close.

close enough that you can smell him — the faint scent of something clean and warm, like cedar and laundry soap and static heat.

“you think i haven’t noticed?” he says softly.

you look up at him, your breath caught between your ribs. his eyes burn into yours — not angry, not cold, but sharp with something else. something older. deeper. restrained.

“every essay,” he murmurs. “every time you raise your hand. the way you sit at the front, the way you’re always two steps ahead. you’re not just good. you’re brilliant. and you know what that does to a man who’s used to mediocrity.”

your breath shudders out of you. your knees feel a little weak.

he takes one step closer.

his voice dips lower. more dangerous.

“you crave praise,” he says. “don’t you?”

your lips part, but no sound comes out.

“you want more than a grade,” he says, and this time, there’s something else in his voice — reverence, almost. something like awe. “you want to be seen. worshipped.”

you nod before you realize you’ve moved. “yes.”

his eyes darken.

“you don’t just want approval,” he murmurs. “you want to be mine.”

the words hang there, suspended in the space between you, electric and terrifying and perfect.

you feel your thighs press together, your fingers twitch at your sides. your breathing is shallow. it feels like the world has narrowed down to this exact moment — this man, this room, the way he’s looking at you like you’re the most dangerous thing he’s ever let get this close.

and then his eyes drop.

slow.

scorching.

they rake down your body — over your lips, your throat, the swell of your chest, the hem of your skirt — until they settle on your legs. bare. still slightly flushed from the heat.

“you wear these,” he says, voice low and tight, “and you act like it’s nothing. like you’re innocent. but you want me to look. you’ve wanted it every time.”

you can’t speak. you’re trembling — not with fear, but with the unbearable ache of being understood.

his fingers move — just slightly — brushing a paper off his desk, his knuckles grazing the edge, so close to your waist you stop breathing.

“you don’t want discipline,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “you want devotion.”

his eyes meet yours again, and this time, the mask is gone.

and what’s beneath it is dangerous. hungry.

but he hasn’t touched you. not yet.

and somehow, that’s worse than if he had.

his gaze doesn’t move from yours — heavy, reverent, consuming — but his hand lifts, slow and sure, brushing the air like it’s just discovered the right to touch.

“look at you,” he murmurs, like a confession. “so fucking perfect.”

your breath catches, and he sees it. sees the way your thighs shift just slightly, your lips part like you’re about to speak but can’t quite find the shape of the words. his hand lowers, lands gently on your hip, firm but not rough. fingers spreading, slow as sin, as if to measure how much of you he can claim with one palm.

“do you even realize,” he whispers, leaning in just enough that his breath grazes your ear, “what you do to me?”

you shiver.

he lets the silence stretch, deliberate, letting the weight of his touch anchor you in the heat building between your skin and his. his hand slides down over the curve of your ass — nothing rushed, just exploring, mapping it like it’s sacred. he squeezes softly, almost experimentally, and hums.

“god,” he mutters. “you feel even better than i imagined.”

you whimper at that — softly, involuntarily — and the sound makes something shift in him.

both hands are on you now, large and warm, kneading your ass in slow, indulgent motions, as if he’s been waiting a lifetime just to touch you like this. he groans under his breath, the sound rough, low in his chest.

“you like this,” he says, not asking. stating. owning it. “you like being touched. praised. adored.”

you nod, breathless. “yes—”

the sound barely escapes before it’s ripped apart by the crack that fills the room.

his palms land hard — both hands slapping the flesh of your ass with a force that makes your body jolt forward, eyes wide, mouth falling open in a sharp gasp that turns into a helpless moan.

“ah—!”

his hands immediately return to you, rougher now, gripping hard, dragging you back into his hold like he dares the air to take you from him.

“that’s it,” he growls, voice tight, burning. “so fucking good for me. i’ve been watching you — every little skirt, every smart little answer, the way you look at me like you know i’d ruin you if i ever touched you.”

his fingers dig into the flesh, thumbs pressing deep, kneading you with a hunger that borders on reverence.

“and you want it, don’t you?” he whispers, voice thick, sinful. “you want to be handled. worshipped. broken the right way.”

your head nods before your mouth even catches up. “yes— please—”

his fingers find the hem of your skirt then — finally — and push it up. not fast. not impatient.

he does it slow, like he’s unwrapping a gift he’s waited too long to open. like your skin is something sacred he’s waited to uncover.

the fabric lifts inch by inch, and you feel the air hit the backs of your thighs, feel the way his breath stutters the moment he sees the curve of your ass fully revealed beneath the soft fabric of your panties.

“fuck,” he breathes, low and reverent. “look at you.”

he palms your ass again, skin to skin now, the heat of him burning into you. he slides his hand between your thighs — not yet touching where you ache, but close enough that your knees threaten to buckle. he pulls you back against him, slow and hard, until you can feel the thick press of him behind his slacks, hot and heavy and so fucking there.

“do you feel that?” he growls into your ear. “that’s what you do to me. every class. every time you walk in like you don’t know how fucking perfect you are.”

his hand glides up your back, smooth, then down again — slower this time, more deliberate. he caresses, explores, worships.

“and you want more,” he murmurs, kissing the words into the space just behind your ear. “don’t you?”

you moan — softly, needily — and nod again.

“say it.”

“i want more,” you breathe, barely able to stand. “i want everything.”

he groans, deep and guttural, and his fingers curl into the waistband of your panties.

but he doesn’t pull them down. not yet.

instead, he presses a kiss just beneath your jaw, slow and firm.

“then beg for it.”

his words are low, steady, edged with something feral — but laced with so much control it makes your knees weak. you’re already trembling, your thighs pressing together, trying to find friction where there is none, but he waits. unmoving. unreadable. his hands rest heavy on your hips, grounding you.

you turn your head slightly, enough to look over your shoulder. your voice comes out breathy, desperate, soft like silk but soaked in need.

“please... please, i need your mouth—”

his grip tightens.

you gasp.

“look at you,” he murmurs, like he’s marveling at something rare, precious. “already begging. already soaking through these little panties.”

his fingers trace along the edge of them, teasing, brushing the damp fabric between your thighs.

“you’re so good for me,” he breathes. “so ready. so perfect.”

then, slowly — achingly slow — he sinks to his knees behind you.

you feel the heat of his breath before you feel his mouth. his hands push your cheeks apart gently, reverently, spreading you open just enough, and he kisses the curve of your ass first, soft, trailing, worshipful kisses that make you moan already. then lower. the tip of his nose brushes against the back of your thigh as he inhales.

“you smell like heaven,” he groans.

and then — finally — his mouth meets the damp cotton of your panties. not even skin yet, and still, your body jolts.

he presses his lips right where you need him most, and kisses, slow and deep, like he’s tasting something sacred through the fabric.

“so sweet,” he murmurs against you. “so good for me, baby.”

you whimper, fingers clutching the edge of his desk, hips rolling back instinctively.

he chuckles low, a dark sound that vibrates straight into you.

“needy little thing,” he purrs. “you want my mouth? you want to come on my tongue?”

“yes— fuck, yes, please—”

“then ask again.”

your breath hitches. “please... use your mouth on me, professor. i want it— i want you.”

there’s a beat of silence.

and then he pulls your panties to the side.

you gasp as cool air hits your wet heat — and then his mouth is there.

no teasing this time.

just tongue, lips, heat.

he licks you slowly — a long, torturous stroke from bottom to top — before wrapping his lips around your clit and sucking gently.

you cry out, legs nearly giving in.

“oh my god—”

his grip holds you steady, and he hums in approval, tongue circling, flicking, devouring like he’s starving. he praises you between licks, voice muffled and wrecked.

“so perfect.”

kiss.

“so fucking good.”

lick.

“you taste like a dream, baby.”

you whine, hips rocking, chasing every flick of his tongue, every stroke, every moan he breathes against you. he knows exactly what he’s doing — keeps it slow, keeps you on the edge, keeps whispering filthy praise between each wet, reverent kiss.

“that’s it,” he groans, “grind on my mouth. take what you need. come for me, smart girl.”

your fingers dig into the wood. your thighs tremble. and when his tongue flicks just right — slow, firm, curling — the pleasure crashes through you like a wave. your cry echoes off the walls, broken and raw.

“professor—!”

he groans, gripping your ass tighter as you fall apart, licking you through it, tongue relentless, hungry, tender. he doesn’t stop until your legs are shaking and your breathing turns to whimpers.

he pulls back slowly, breath warm against your skin. and then, he presses a kiss — soft, reverent — to your soaked, sensitive cunt.

“that’s my good girl.”

you whimper.

still trembling, you turn slowly to face him. he stands again, tall and dark-eyed, lips glistening with your arousal, chest rising and falling beneath his shirt.

your voice comes out hoarse.

“please... don’t stop. keep praising me. keep touching me.”

his gaze deepens.

and then, without a word, he reaches for the leather belt around his waist.

the clink of the buckle sliding open feels like thunder.

his eyes never leave yours.

he pulls it off — slow, practiced — then moves to unbutton his slacks.

you watch, spellbound, as he lowers the zipper and slides them down just enough to free himself.

and when he does — you see it.

long, thick, flushed with need, his cock stands hard and heavy in his hand, the head glistening with precum, veins prominent, and so big it makes your breath stutter.

he strokes it once — slowly — and groans deep.

“you did this,” he growls. “with your voice. with your body. with that perfect, needy little mind of yours.”

he steps closer, tilting your chin up with two fingers.

“now tell me how much you want it.”

“i need it— i need you, professor,” you gasp, body still trembling from your last orgasm, your thighs sticky, weak, mind already unraveling. “please, i want to feel you inside— please—”

he growls, a dark, low sound that rips from his throat as he steps behind you again. you feel the heat of him press against your ass, thick and heavy, his cock sliding slowly between your cheeks, teasing you, smearing precum against your skin.

“fuck, listen to yourself,” he rasps, one hand gripping your hip while the other slides around to your front, up your stomach, until it cups your breast over your blouse. “so fucking desperate. begging your professor like a filthy little slut.”

his thumb rolls over your nipple through the fabric, slow and deliberate, and you arch into him, moaning when his mouth finds the side of your neck. he sucks softly, then bites, then soothes with his tongue, all while kneading your breast harder now, fingers gripping the soft flesh like he owns it.

“you wear these little skirts for me, don’t you?” he growls, his cock rutting slowly between your ass cheeks. “sit in the front. raise your hand. act like a good girl, but all you want is this cock in your pussy.”

you whimper, nodding helplessly, eyes fluttering.

“say it.”

“yes, professor,” you cry, breath hitched. “i wear them for you. i want to be your good girl. i want your cock inside— please—”

his hand slides under your blouse now, yanking down your bra with no hesitation. he groans when his palm meets bare skin, fingers pinching your nipple hard enough to make you cry out, the sting sharp and electric.

“fuck, these tits— soft little things made for my hands,” he grunts, massaging both now, his body flush to yours, breath hot against your ear. “you’re made for me, aren’t you? this body... this pussy... all mine.”

you nod again, panting. “yes— yes, all yours, professor—”

“good girl.”

his hand drops suddenly, dragging between your thighs again. two fingers find your soaked folds and slip inside without resistance.

“jesus— you’re dripping,” he groans, pushing deep, curling. “already stretched for me. i haven’t even fucked you yet.”

you cry out, body rocking back on his fingers, chasing the pressure. he scissors you open slowly, fingers fucking you at a steady rhythm, your slick sounds obscene in the quiet room.

schlick, schlick, schlick.

“listen to that,” he whispers, lips brushing your jaw. “you hear how wet you are for your professor? so fucking needy. so ready.”

and then— he pulls out.

you whine at the loss, but he’s already moving— grabbing your waist, spinning you around to face him. his mouth crashes against yours, deep and filthy, tongue claiming yours as his cock presses against your core. you moan into his mouth, grinding against him shamelessly.

he breaks the kiss with a growl, pupils blown wide, chest heaving.

“turn around,” he orders, voice sharp. “against the wall. now.”

you scramble to obey, heart racing. the cold surface of the wall meets your palms, your cheek pressed to the plaster, back arched, skirt still hiked over your ass.

he steps in close — impossibly close — and grabs one of your legs, lifting it and bracing it on the edge of the wall ledge, opening you further.

you gasp at the stretch, at the exposure, but then you feel it — the blunt head of his cock, hot and heavy, nudging your entrance.

“this pussy,” he murmurs, dragging the head through your folds. “mine now.”

and then — slowly, so fucking slow — he pushes in.

inch by inch, your body stretches around him. your moan breaks into something wrecked and needy as he fills you, thick and perfect and so deep.

“fuck— professor—”

“that’s it,” he grits, bottoming out with a groan, his forehead resting against the back of your shoulder. “take it. take all of me. just like that, smart girl.”

he doesn’t move yet.

just stays, buried inside, letting your walls flutter around him, letting you feel just how deep he reaches.

his hand slides around your ribs again, back to your breasts, massaging them slowly as he begins to thrust — shallow, grinding strokes that drag against every nerve ending.

“feel that?” he whispers, voice thick. “that’s how much i wanted you. how long i’ve needed this. your tight little cunt wrapped around my cock. moaning my name.”

his pace picks up, fucking you slow and deep, filthy wet sounds echoing with each thrust, your slick coating him with every roll of his hips.

your body melts into the wall, your hands flat against the surface, your cries muffled until you turn your head and gasp, “harder, professor— please—”

his grip tightens.

“you want more?”

“yes— please— ruin me—”

he slams into you, once, hard.

your scream echoes off the walls.

and he starts fucking you.

he slams into you again — rough, deep, precise — and your whole body jolts against the wall, fingers scrambling for something to hold on to as the air punches out of your lungs.

“fuck, professor—!”

“that’s it,” he growls behind you, voice ragged, his cock dragging out and slamming back in, relentless now. “take it. take every fucking inch.”

the sound of skin on skin echoes through the room — wet, brutal, merciless. your cunt is soaked, slick squelching every time he buries himself to the hilt. the position only makes it filthier — one leg raised, your skirt bunched up around your waist, his cock slamming up into you at the perfect angle.

slap, slap, slap.

his hands roam everywhere — gripping your waist, then sliding up to your breasts, squeezing them roughly, thumbs circling your nipples until they ache. you sob, overwhelmed by how full you feel, how worshipped and ruined you are at once.

“you love this, don’t you?” he pants, teeth grazing your ear. “my cock fucking you stupid. your tits bouncing in my hands. you’re so fucking perfect.”

“yes— yes, i love it— please don’t stop—”

“you wanna come again?”

“please, professor, please—!”

he growls, one hand snaking down between your thighs again, finding your clit and rubbing tight circles, fast, cruel, while he fucks you through it.

“then come for me, smart girl,” he hisses. “make a mess all over my cock. now.”

your scream breaks, ragged and desperate, as your orgasm hits — violent and raw, your body clenching down around him so tight he nearly chokes on his next breath.

“oh fuck— yes, that’s it— fuck, look at you,” he groans, hips stuttering as your walls spasm around him, milking him. “cumming so hard, just from my cock, my voice. my praise.”

tears sting your eyes, your body trembling uncontrollably, and you sob against the wall, still pinned by him, your leg burning with the stretch, cunt throbbing from the force of it.

“please— don’t stop— i can take it, i swear— professor—!”

he doesn’t stop.

he grabs your hips harder, slamming into you faster, his thrusts brutal now, chasing his own release. his breath is hot and filthy in your ear.

“you’re fucking perfect,” he groans. “tightest, wettest little pussy i’ve ever felt. my good girl. my fuckin’ favorite.”

you cry out again, overstimulated and shaking, but it only makes you wetter. the filthy sound of your cunt being wrecked echoes louder, and he loves it.

“you were made for this,” he grits. “made for me. you feel that, baby? how deep i am? how your body takes it?”

you whimper, barely able to form words. “yes—yes, professor—”

“open your mouth.”

you obey without question, tongue out, eyes dazed, tears on your cheeks.

he leans forward, thumb dragging across your bottom lip.

“that’s it,” he whispers. “so fucking pretty when you’re ruined.”

then he spits into your mouth.

and you moan — filthy, wrecked, submissive — swallowing without hesitation.

“good girl.”

he fucks you harder now, both hands on your waist, lifting your body slightly to angle you just right. every thrust punches a moan out of you. every drag of his cock has you seeing stars.

then he groans loud, teeth gritted.

“fuck— i’m gonna cum—”

you nod frantically. “inside— please— fill me up— i want it, professor, i want it so bad—”

he slams into you one last time, hips locking, cock throbbing as hot, thick cum spills deep inside you. he holds you there, buried, groaning against your shoulder, your name falling from his lips like a prayer.

you’re both panting, soaked in sweat and sex, bodies trembling against each other.

his hands stroke down your sides now — slow again, tender. reverent.

“you’re so fucking good,” he whispers. “the best. my best girl. took me so perfectly.”

you hum softly, still twitching, body limp, held up only by his arms.

you turn your head to him, eyes half-lidded, lips parted.

“again,” you whisper.

he smirks.

“on the desk this time.”

after he fucks you against the wall, leaving you trembling and gasping for air, he doesn’t give you a moment to rest. his hands are on you immediately, lifting you effortlessly, like you weigh nothing, and pulling you toward the desk. you’re barely able to catch your breath before he’s bending you over it, your palms flat against the cold wood, your ass raised for him.

you whimper as his hands grip your hips, keeping you in place as he positions himself behind you again. but this time — this time it’s different. he doesn’t immediately dive into you. instead, he’s teasing, pressing his hard cock against your folds, dragging it through your slickness, making you shiver with every slow pass.

“still so fucking wet for me,” he mutters, voice dark, low, full of satisfaction. “can’t get enough, huh? need me to fuck you again?”

“yes,” you whisper, voice broken, body still trembling from the aftermath of your last orgasm. “please… don’t stop, professor… fuck me.”

he chuckles darkly, hands trailing up your spine, then gripping your neck with a firm, possessive hold. “you’re mine now. you’ve always been mine, haven’t you?”

you nod, swallowing hard as his fingers tighten around your neck, just enough to make you dizzy, to make your head spin with the overwhelming dominance he exudes. “yes, professor… only yours.”

he pulls you up, your back against his chest, his breath hot against your ear. then, with a swift motion, he spins you around, making you face him. your legs are still shaky, but he holds you steady, one arm around your waist, the other trailing down to unzip his pants. you can already feel the heat of his body, the hardness of his cock pressing against your stomach.

he grins down at you, eyes dark with lust. “you’re gonna ride me now,” he says, voice commanding. “show me how much you need me.”

you don’t hesitate. your body moves on its own, like it’s been trained to follow his commands. your hands slide down his chest as you straddle him, guiding his cock to your entrance. he watches, eyes locked on you, his grip tightening on your waist as you slowly sink down onto him, inch by inch.

you gasp as he fills you completely, stretching you, your walls clenching around him as you take all of him in. you can’t help but moan, the sensation of being filled so completely, so thoroughly, making your head spin.

“god, professor— you’re so big,” you whisper, voice shaky.

he chuckles, a low, dark sound. “you love it. you love every fucking inch of me inside you.”

he’s right. you do. you love the way he fills you, the way his cock hits the deepest part of you with every slow roll of your hips. but it’s not enough. you need more.

you begin to move, slowly at first, lifting yourself up, then sinking back down, over and over, your body trembling with every thrust. his hands grip your waist, guiding you, his thumb brushing against your clit, making you moan louder.

“that’s it,” he breathes, watching you carefully. “ride me like you mean it.”

you pick up the pace, hips grinding against his, the sound of skin slapping against skin filling the room. you’re so wet, so desperate for him, the pleasure building inside of you, tight and unrelenting.

and then he stops you, his hands gripping your shoulders, forcing you to look at him. his eyes are dark, filled with desire, but there’s something else there too — something possessive, hungry, as he stares into your eyes.

“don’t forget,” he says, his voice low, commanding. “you’re nothing but my toy. my good girl. don’t you forget that.”

you nod quickly, breathless. “yes, professor— I’m your toy. only yours.”

“good girl,” he whispers, his hands sliding up your back, pulling you closer to him, his lips capturing yours in a kiss that’s just as desperate as the rest of it. “now, look at me. I want to see your eyes when you come for me.”

you can barely hold onto your composure as you ride him harder, faster, the pressure building inside you until it feels like you’re about to explode. his hands move to your neck again, gripping gently, controlling your every movement, his eyes never leaving yours, locking you in a gaze that feels like ownership.

“come for me,” he commands, his voice rough, the praise dripping from his words. “now.”

the orgasm hits you like a wave, crashing over you, your body shaking uncontrollably as you cry out, “professor— fuck— i’m coming—!”

he growls, his hips slamming up into you, taking you through the orgasm, the feeling of him buried deep inside you making everything more intense, more overwhelming.

when you finally come down, he doesn’t let you rest. instead, he spins you around, pushing you up against the chair beside the desk, lifting your leg and guiding you back down onto him, your eyes locked on his the entire time.

he places his hands on your neck, fingers trailing down your spine, pulling you closer, guiding your movements.

“look at me,” he murmurs, his lips brushing against your ear, his voice thick with lust. “I want you to remember this. you belong to me. now and forever.”

you nod, barely able to breathe, as your body moves in time with his, desperate for more, addicted to the feel of him inside you.

the next day, the classroom feels different — suffocating, heavy with an unspoken promise. the air is thick with the memory of what happened last night, but neither of you speaks a word of it. you sit in your usual spot, your fingers nervously tracing the edge of your notebook, a burning heat in your stomach, your thoughts still spinning.

and then, he walks in. professor choi. tall, composed, his sharp eyes sweeping over the room, but they linger for a split second longer on you. a moment — just a moment — but it’s enough. the intensity in his gaze is unmistakable. he knows, you know he does. and it makes your pulse quicken, your breath catch in your throat.

you lower your gaze, trying to hide the smirk pulling at your lips, the heat rising to your cheeks as you remember every single thing he did to you, the way his hands, his lips, his body controlled you, made you his.

but you can’t escape it. every look, every glance he sends your way, makes you feel exposed, like he’s taking you all over again with just his eyes. his usual stern demeanor cracks every time his gaze slides back to you. it's as if he's savoring the moment, the memory, the power.

“please take out your notes,” he says, his voice cutting through the silence, but there's something different about it. a rasp, a barely contained tension that makes you shiver in your seat.

you do as he says, but you can feel his eyes on you as you reach for your things. his eyes, watching you closely, and when your hand brushes against the edge of your desk, you hear a small, approving hum from his direction. you can almost feelthe weight of his gaze on your skin, the heat crawling over you, making your heart race.

your body is still aching from last night — sore in all the right places, a constant reminder of everything you gave him, everything he made you feel. and now, in front of the class, it’s like a secret, a dangerous game you’re both playing.

the lecture goes on, but you can’t focus. not when every time you glance at him, you see the way his eyes flicker down to your legs, to your chest, to the way your fingers tap against the desk. you wonder if he remembers the exact moment he pushed you against that wall, if he can still taste the sweetness of your mouth on his, the way you felt when you begged for more.

it’s maddening, knowing he’s holding back just as much as you are. but then, as if he can’t resist any longer, he lets his gaze linger just a little too long. you catch it, his pupils dilated, his lips pressed together in a barely contained smirk. he’s remembering too.

and that’s when he says it — softly, just for you to hear, barely above a whisper, but the words sink into you like fire.

“you did well last night. so well.”

your breath hitches, and you glance at him, locking eyes for just a moment. there’s no one else around you, no one who can see what’s happening between you two. but you feel the charge in the air — the silent agreement, the unspoken promise that this isn’t over. that it’s just begun.

you can’t help but smile, just a little. you know he sees it. and you know he’s already thinking of the next time

[shiny-kaibernyte]

Arven Headcannons (Romantic)

No warnings: Just pure fluff

There are a few general headcannons in here and a couple of how i think him and Nemona's friendship would be. But its 90% fluff. I actually wrote WAYYYY more than what's in this post but i didn't think people would want to read an entire Essay. So here are a selection!

This man cannot bake for anything. Give him a grill and bread, he will give you a 5 star meal. Give him a whisk and a cake tray, he will burn the house down. So don’t expect a homemade cake on your birthday. Or at least don’t expect one from him.

He was Smitten with you the moment you agreed to help him on his Titan Quest. Reluctantly or joyfully, hearing you agreeing made him fall head over heels for you and he didn’t even know it. Maybe that's why he tried extra hard on those Sandwiches. 

Arven and Nemona used to fight over the best friend position, You’d usually have to stand in the middle of them to prevent their Pokémon battles from spilling into personal ones. Arven would later claim the Boyfriend card once Area Zero was dealt with, Nemona was very pleased to cement the best friend spot.

You are the only other person who's allowed to take Mabosstiff out on walks. You're his person, so you get the puppy. Nemona and Penny both tried, it resulted in Arven throwing a tomato at Nemona and Penny slowly backing out of the room. He did mourn the tomato though… he wanted that tomato.

Arven isn’t necessarily Protective, but he is observant. He will defend your honour and voice with every ounce of his being. But he also isn’t a violent person, that's what Pokémon battles are for. 

That being said, if something did happen to you, especially if you fell ill. He would go to hell and back to find some way of helping you. He already proved that much, just don’t bail on him if he needs you most.

Love Language: Gift Giving + Quality time.

If he can, he will SPOIL you. He never had someone love him the way you do. Show him the kindness and compassion that makes his heart sore. If he could give you the world. He’d hand you the Galaxy on a silver plate. But until he can find a Cosmo. A plushie will have to be done for now.

He is not a morning person at all. The only reason you will ever find him up before midday is for one of two reasons: A teacher told him off for being late and he’s only got 1 more warning before another suspension OR Mabosstiff dragged him out of bed by the ankle and forced him to go outside. There is no other reason.

Terrible at video games, absolutely horrendous. Dude can’t even play Minecraft without throwing the controller. Penny tried to teach him how to play Stardew Valley, he got angry at Pierre for the backpack price and hasn’t picked up the game again. Though he’s happy to watch you play and will hold down a button if you get tired. Never ask him to play though… unless you need to laugh, then ask. 

One time you tried to put a bow on Mabosstiff ‘s head. With no recollection how or why, it somehow ended up in Arven’s hair. You have now learnt Arven can rock a manbun and a sparkling pastel pink bow. 

When you first stayed the night, dude slept like a board. He did not move a single cell in his body. It wasn’t until you were resting your head on his chest that he actually moved. He has since loosened up, but it took a while for him to trust himself enough to even touch you when you slept. 

He cannot Flirt. You cannot tell me otherwise.

He bought you both onesies to wear on movie nights. Yes he has to have a Saturday movie night with you or he gets grumpy. 

Sometimes Arven will bring you lunch or make you breakfast so he knows you have eaten at least something during the day. Plus he also uses it as an excuse to see you smile but he will never say that to your face. Only Mabosstiff.

Dude is terrified of Cetitan. Ever since the "mountain incident" Cetitan is his greatest enemy. Arven tries to act tough and unafraid to impress you but, Grusha has and will continue to use this fear to his Advantage any time Nemona drags Arven to the Mountains. You totally didn’t make a deal with Grusha and Nemona, that isn’t something you did… Wink wink.

You don’t borrow his clothes, he donates them. There have been numerous occasions you have opened a drawer or wardrobe to find one of his numbers, jackets, vests, anything! Just something new of his somewhere for you to have. He will even buy different sizes if you prefer baggy shirts or snug shirts.

He remembers everything and yet nothing at the same time. You ask him what day it is, he’ll look at you like you just asked him to explain calculus to a class of year 1’s. Ask him your favourite movie!? Arven will go into excruciating detail about everything to the point you’d think he directed it. Nemona and Giacomo once held a quiz night on Arven just to test how much he did remember. Dude remembered nothing about anyone else, except birthdays… he’s good at that. But you dude could write your autobiography. 

Dude has zero fear of heights, once Miridon learnt how to fly, anytime Arven would join you, he’d always sit behind you so he could hold your waist. It’s been a little thing of his ever since Area Zero, he can’t not do it. Even if he’s the better driver; Dude will sit behind you as an excuse to just hold you.

Almost No PDA he is a private person. He does lean on you though or will stand behind you almost like a bodyguard. If he does touch you in public it's usually a reassuring hand on the shoulder, on the small of your back to guide you somewhere or your arm locked into his. He isn’t a hand holder, he usually is carrying something or needs his hands free so he does subtle stuff instead.

[bananapeeeeellssss]

I was reading a bunch of DPXDC stuff on here and AO3 with Ghost King Danny, and thinking about how people wrote when he spoke if it wasn’t hear-able to human ears or a different languages and that got me thinking - what would that sound like? Then my brain did some braining and thought - wouldn’t it be cool if it was just all languages overlapping? Like “Who goes there” in English, but at the same time every known and unknown language (or just the dead ones, since he *is* the Ghost King) at the exact same time with the translation. That would support the whole ‘super hard/impossible to translate’ because it could change every time depending on what languages or sounds are enunciated more.

Add in the fact that logically, the vast majority of gods would not just speak the language you know or maybe even the most commonly used, this kinda makes sense? Well, not really, but who cares. As a wise author once stated, “canon is a sandbox and I am the lightning which will shape it to glass” or smth like that. Also, anyone who dies instinctively knows how to understand the language(s) so they can understand their king (as Ghosts). So now I’m just imagining a situation like this (forgive me, I don’t know how to bold or italics or anything on tumblr I’m new-edit, some gracious soul taught me in the comments, may their pillow be the perfect temperature):

Constantine, furiously flipping through translations book after translation book of paranormal languages and not finding anything on God speak: “Bloody hell, where is it!”

Danny, who just got summoned by some cult/to save the world/for some other reason and has crazy social anxiety but needs some kind of ‘sacrifice’ to make the summoning legal or else do a bunch of paperwork, thinking: Can I just ask for a sacrifice? Would that be rude?

Danny, Awkwardly: “I need a sacrifice before I can leave. Just like a rock will do. I don’t like paperwork.”

Constantine, attempting to translate, gesturing vaguely and panicked as he continue to flip through book after book: “It’s saying that it needs a sacrifice in Kevlar**, something about a crystal, and Korea?*** I think it wants Black Bat as a sacrifice?

Jason, cackling: “How did you translate that so badly?”

**Sacrifice in Hmong is Kev txi

***Paperwork in Acoli is “Karatac”, also I know Cass is Chinese not Korean but for the sake of this Constantine does not and/or assumes that the Ghost King can’t tell

Or, Jason randomly discovering that he can understand any language now. Just not speak it.

In conclusion, I have now decided that whenever a god speaks it is representative of all those who have ever entered their domain or presence, and because mortals are not capable of understanding the complexities and beauties of language, they will never understand.

…crap, now I want to write a tragedy or essay or poem or something about the symbolism

TLDR: God language is just all languages overlapping at once, scenario, and author having a mental breakdown over ELA and this being much longer than expected

[yourlocalsmutwriter]

Lovers to coworkers - Jenson Button x reader

cw: mentions of fingering, creampies, actual spanking and cockwarming, age gap (reader is in her 20s, jenson is in his 40s)

"I have a job for you." Jenson says to you when walking into your shared apartment.

"I am employed, honey. Even though I wish this deadline from my publisher wasn't real, it is. Just like the fact that your lovely girlfriend is a romance writer.". You knew how he felt about what you do for a living. It was an icebreaker during your first date, and when you made him laugh so hard, he did a spit take at your first commissions, you knew he was the one. Thankfully for you, the writing you did had evolved much since your "man gets turned into underwear for his ex-girlfriend" days in college. It was insane how you rationalized that 10 bucks was 10 bucks.

Ever since then, you wrote like a machine. You were versatile, pitching different things to your agent. Poetry books, essay collections, general fiction, all of those were your favorites, Jenson's too. But what skyrocketed you to fame was the romance book you started writing after a drunken night with your boyfriend. You teased him about his "grid slut" days of the past. Asked him to tell you about it, warts and all. And he did, loving the way you crossed your legs as his stories of the past. He kept his hand between your legs as he told you about menages a trois in Monaco and public indecency in Italy.

Jenson fucked you raw that night for the first time and he'd been obsessed with you begging to be filled with his cum. He called you needy, greedy, desperately horny, his little slut. And as much as he tried to deny it, it wears him out. He likes slow things now. Eating you out for hours, orgasm after orgasm melting the time together. Having you stroke him as he's doing research. So when you whine and cum around him, he can't help it. Two more pumps and he's out like a light.

He wakes up hours later, thirst making his throat almost painfully sore. And you're still naked, aside from a pair of glasses, typing furiously on a laptop. He doesn't question it anymore but still tries to coax you into bed. You shoo him off, claiming something about "being in the zone" and continued writing.

You're particularly cagey about that one, but he can guess it has to do with F1 and specifically him. You ask about whether certain events would be accurate in a race. Learn all about his girlfriends passed and how they coped with his stardom. Finally, after months of pestering him, he gets an advanced reader's copy. It's a romance, and it's obvious that it's based on him. The female lead also has some similarities to you, which Jenson loves to tease you about. Both of you expect it to be normal. But social media gets wind of it.

The Booktok girlies were a force to be reckoned with. You should've known that, considering Mark and his controversially young girlfriend. Their "internet meetcute" was as cliche as one of your new plots. But the couple sure made good company on secret double dates. Nothing like beating the assumptions that you're sugar babies with a friend. So when she and the rest of the F1 romance community found your book, it was chaos. Thank God for pen names, because being Jenson's girlfriend on top of writing smut about him would be too much. But after your steamy work, everything shifted. Thanks to the feedback and sales, the book had become a sequel. Then a trilogy. Now, with a fourth one in the works, your partner was getting tired.

That's why, at the mention of your romance writing, he quickly bends you over his lap. He wastes no time in pulling your pants down, making your skin prickle.

"You know, you're bad for my PR, sweets. Do you think your fans have any respect for me?" He asks as he traces shapes on your bare ass. He's waiting to strike.

"Of course they do." You reply. You know the people reading your smut could be a little too into it. And you embrace it. Liking fanart, aesthetic moodboards, playlist. You have your own community and you love engaging with them. That's what sets you apart and partially gets the bills paid. More realistically, it's what helps you buy more books and also spoil Jenson's dog.

"Yeah, then why are they in my Instagram comments, all horny? Thought they weren't supposed to know that your protagonist is based on me." He wonders and smack, comes the first slap to your ass.

"I've built this image, you know." Another hit and he doesn't miss your moan at it.

"A book, almost 400 pages of my deepest, darkest secrets, so many hours of labor." Spanked again.

"17 years, that's almost a two decade career in F1, not to mention karting before and endurance after." Another strike, this time harder. Jenson ignores your pleas, just like he ignores the wetness of your cunt. That would have to wait.

"Took me years to shed the playboy image, so much effort to be serious and reliable on Sky Sports now. And you could potentially ruin it. We can't have that, now can we, sweets?" He asks and smacks you one last time. He drags his nails against the redness of your ass, making you feel the sting of his punishment. Which wasn't finished.

Jenson tells you to be a good girl and mount him, facing the other way. You love how he positions his mouth right against your ear.

"Let me tell you about the opening. It's an open kept secret, but they're letting go of Danica. Backlash from the fans and all that. So I figured, why not get a costar I actually get along with?"

"Jenson, I have no credentials. The public knows me as your girlfriend, it's gonna give nepo sugar baby." You say, trying to ignore your partner's hands on the cotton of your panties. You hate bringing up the age gap as well, but maybe it will remind him why this is a bad idea.

"First of all, everyone knows you're dating me for my looks and sex appeal, not my money. Second, you've been learning while researching your little smutty romances. You've seen every race this season and actually made some interesting points. Why not try it out?" He asks. He's stripping you, leaving your pussy completely exposed atop his jean covered crotch. You try to argue that you'd be a terrible pundit, purposefully using that word to piss him off.

"You'd be a fucking stellar commentator, love. And also a very pretty one, not that it matters." He says, gripping your waist.

"Let me prove it." He turns on the TV and opens the Sky Sports app. He puts on a random quali from this year and mutes it.

"Tell me what's happening and you get a reward." Jenson says and you can feel him unbutton his pants under you. You start with a general overview of the season, and when a camera pans to a certain driver you try to give a little tidbit of information. Your boyfriend adlibs with you, his tender voice becoming more clear and "TV like". Surprisingly, you can follow what he's saying. Even when he slaps the tip of his cock against your clit.

"Keep going, you're on air after all. Don't expect me to carry all of the conversation now." He whispers in your ear as you go silent. You try, providing some more fluff about the country and cheating by asking Jenson about his experience there. He responds by spreading you open and slamming into you in one thrust. Then he actually goes into detail about the track and some challenges.

"Talk the fans through Q1 and I'll move." He says as you squirm in his lap. Jenson's hands grip your hips, making you go still.

In order to "motivate" you, he places one hand on your nipple and the other on your clit. You try your best. You comment on tire choices, and purple sectors. You prompt him to fill your gaps. You even get heated as the time runs out, unsure who'd make it. As soon as you announce the 5 drivers that are out, Jenson moves. The short break between Q1 and Q2 is hell, with your boyfriend absolutely going feral.

"Aren't you so good to me, huh sweets. Taking me so well when I fuck into you. Being the perfect little cock sleeve. Don't get too excited now, we're just starting out." He says, just about as Q2 is about to begin. Then TV Jenson is back, he's talking like you two have an audience. You're too busy trying to get off, pussy clenching over him. As soon as he feels you do that, he pulls out, stopping right at the tip.

"Behave or we're stopping right now." He says and you delve into your observation about the qualifying session. Jense is a full on tease now, sinking you down on him slowly, giving it to you inch by inch. Then he's buried to the hilt and he stops. You relax into your commentator role, despite him throbbing inside of you. He won't let up, purposefully moving his body forward to see a technicality.

"Need glasses, Mr. Button? I know eyesight goes with age, but you're only 44. " You tease and are met with him spreading your legs even more and landing a slap square on your clit. You half moan, half announce the drivers who are out and your "career" is cut short. Jenson presses you flat against the glass coffee table, loving how your breasts are smushed against it. He wraps an arm against your waist and fucks you in earnest. Tip brushing your cervix earnest. Thighs shaking, toe curling earnest. Moans so loud they drown out the fact that he's still commentating earnest. As somebody takes pole position, Jenson makes you come and when the interviews come to a close, he's spilling his seed inside of you.

"You know, if you don't want me writing you like a whore, you should stop acting like one." You say. And even though he's getting soft, you're pulled to Jenson's thigh, smearing his cum over both of you. Round 2 is more predictable than the fact that you did not try for that open Sky Sports position. Because your slot with your boyfriend would have to be moved to after midnight.

[chezmad]

Opposites attract

Pairing: Pre-borderlands Suguru Niragi x Female reader

Summary: Niragi and Ayumi exchange cautious, yet meaningful messages, each trying to navigate their growing connection with uncertainty and vulnerability.

Warnings: Indications of bullying. Mention of sex.

Part 4 One step closer ✰

-

As much as Ayumi's message meant to him, he didn’t answer until he got home. He didn’t want to make the same mistake of coming off as rude. So when he got home and was able to sit down and relax, he finally answered her.

He stared at the message, the light from his phone reflecting off his glasses. He typed, then deleted whatever he’d started. This went on for a while.

He wanted his message to sound cool and chill, but every cringy thing he wrote felt so unlike him. And he knew it would sound even worse to Ayumi because she knew that wouldn’t be his typical response.

Finally, he decided that a short but kind message was better than oversharing or trying to play it cool.

Thank you a lot, Ayumi.

He put his phone down, cringing at his blunt response. She was the first to message him—someone as beautiful as her—and he was the one who gave such a dry reply.

He started to think about the lack of exposure he had growing up. He’d never had a girlfriend, never had a girl show even the slightest interest in him. He wished he could go back to when he was younger, during that time when everyone was having their first kiss or first relationship, and just done something—anything. Even if it was useless sex or flirting with a stranger at a club. It would’ve made a difference, especially when he had a pretty girl sitting with him every day, practically giving him the option to flirt with her.

He didn’t like to think about it too much. You can’t go back and change things. That’s life, and those mistakes are what you reflect on now, focusing on how to change for the future.

He kept his phone turned off, too scared to see if she had responded. The stress of thinking of another response after that was even scarier. But it was a thrilling experience.

He changed out of his school clothes into a white t-shirt and black joggers—his everyday workout outfit. He lifted heavy weights, weights that were unbearable. It was his form of discipline.

He did it to make up for everything he had endured. It was his way out, his chance to feel strong, like he finally had something to stand on. He’d think about his bullies, how they weren’t really strong—they just banded together to tear him down. Their confidence was a fragile kind of strength, one that could crush a person. He didn’t want to be like that. He’d rather be physically strong and humble. So that one day, when the boys tried to lay their hands on him again, he could turn around and punch one so hard in the face that the rest would get the memo.

Ayumi stepped out of the shower. It was late now. She’d been in a bit of a daze since she’d come home, not really checking her phone. Niragi lingered in the back of her mind, wondering if he was still hanging around in the library finishing his essay. Finally, she picked up her phone.

Thank you a lot, Ayumi.

She felt her heart warm. Being kind was so important to her.

She sat, staring down at the message. She could leave the conversation as it was, but he was giving her so much leeway to respond. She knew it wasn’t the time to shoot her shot, but maybe subtly?

She thought of ways to ask him to meet up outside of their study session.

I’ll cheer you up with a coffee on the weekend. You in? On me, of course, you’ve bought me one too many coffees.

She knew Niragi wasn’t a creep, she doubted he’d think her attention meant she fancied him. Like most boys, you give them one ounce of attention, and suddenly, you owe them something.

She was being a hypocrite, though. She obviously thought he was cute and attractive. But it was refreshing to flirt with a boy who didn’t expect anything.

Niragi had just showered, it was now 9:50 p.m. He picked up his phone, and Ayumi’s message popped up.

He looked at himself in the mirror, trying to imagine he was someone else. What would they respond? How would they react?

“Shit,” he mumbled to himself, not able to piece together any sentence in his head.

That would be nice_

He began typing.

That would be nice. But if we do go, it’s on me. You know I won’t let you pay.

He read it over a million times, double-checking to make sure he’d written it right and didn’t have any typos that would ruin the playful tone.

Once Ayumi received the message, she laid in bed, rereading it. She imagined herself being in a relationship with him, how chivalry was, in fact, not dead.

You’re so cute

To her, these words didn’t mean much. They were little pet names she’d throw around.

But to Niragi, he felt his face go red, his heart beating faster from the special attention.

The room was shrouded in darkness, the only source of light the flickering glow of the TV. A sense of wrongdoing lingered, but it felt oddly exhilarating—like rebellion. He was still awake, texting the girl he’d only known in the confines of school. It was past hours now, and they were both back in their separate lives, yet secretly communicating in the quiet of the night.

However, it was late, and Niragi wouldn’t have been able to figure out a response. So, he decided to leave it until tomorrow. Plus, he was going to be seeing her the next day anyway.

Friday morning, though, he soon regretted it. He spent the entire day at university texting her. It wasn’t that he regretted the messages themselves—he enjoyed talking to her—but if he had wrapped up their conversation the night before, he wouldn’t have been so distracted all day.

They exchanged sweet messages. Niragi asked her how her morning was going, and somehow, they got caught up in a conversation about their subjects and teachers.

He found himself putting his phone down, but every time there was a buzz, he quickly picked it up to see what Ayumi had thought of next.

During their study session, Ayumi noticed Niragi was a lot more sociable now that they had gotten to know each other better over text.

She enjoyed watching him smile—not that she assumed he was a miserable person, but before she’d spoken to him, she never saw an expression on his face.

She was glad to be someone’s happiness, even if it was only for a short time. Kindness was her strong suit.

That night, Niragi walked her home. He noticed how far their dorms were from each other. It was going to take him 15–20 minutes to walk back from where he was. He didn’t mind, though. He was glad she was safe and that he got to spend that little extra time with her.

“Thank you for walking me home, Niragi.” She subtly took his hand in hers.

“I want to make sure you’re safe.” He gripped her hand slightly harder.

She reclined her hand, weaving her fingers together shyly.

“I’m excited for our date tomorrow,” she said, blushing. Quickly, her face dropped when she realized it wasn’t actually a date. That was what she had been daydreaming about, it was just two friends going for coffee.

Before the blood could rush to her face, Niragi responded.

“Me too.”

Authors note: Only just clocked I left this chapter on a bit of a cliff but I feel like their little date needs a whole separate chapter😩

[idontliekmondays]

excerpts from a daily mail article released shortly after her arrest

When members of the Geneva High School role playing club asked 16-year-old Lindsay Souvannarath to choose a character they were expecting an elf, a sorceress or perhaps a female warrior.

But the shy, clean-cut teenager opted for a rather more unsettling choice, presenting them with a detailed pencil drawing of her chosen persona - the 'Nightmare Nazi'.

The trench coat, jackboots and gas mask were unmistakably those of an SS soldier; the skeletal hands clutching a vast dagger more akin to dark fantasy art.

Former classmates at Geneva High recall Lindsay Souvannarath as a shy, withdrawn youngster, who had few friends and instead sought out after-school groups and writing clubs to express her creative side.

But she was also prone to bouts of anger and violence - allegedly stabbing another student with a pencil in one outburst and occasionally letting slip an alarming infatuation with the Third Reich.

'On first impressions I didn't think there was anything too strange about her,' he told Daily Mail Online.

'She could be funny and intelligent but most of the time she was quiet and not very warm or outgoing.

'One year her character was a sort of Wonder Woman-type heroine, then all of sudden she tells the group she wants to be a Nazi ghost.

'You choose your species and come up with a back story. Hers was that her character was a guest from a crazy, dark Nazi universe.

'It's supposed to be a game in a medieval, fantasy setting but she would just argue if she didn't get her way.

'So we went on our quest with a robot, a couple of elves, wizards and this weird Nazi.

'Aside from the character's background he didn't do anything racist or too alarming. We didn't know about her interests at that time so we just got on with it.

Ms Szigeti recalled how Souvannarath began to idolize black-death metal bands in her mid-teens.

She became particularly infatuated with Varg Vikernes, a white supremacist musician convicted in 1994 of killing a rival guitarist and burning down three churches in Norway, describing him as 'cute' and writing essays about him.

'Her work was always dark and full of violence, there were soldiers and Nazis and all this weird stuff,' Sabrina said.

'She acted normal on the surface. She was never physically violent but she would get aggressive and upset if you criticized her.

'Everyone was uncomfortable but we just avoided trying to start a fight with her. 'If you asked her straight up 'are you a Nazi?' she would argue that she wasn't.

As far back as 2007 - when she was just 15 - she allegedly wrote 'free speech is dead' in one forum, adding: 'That's why we need people like David Duke to bring it to life again.'

In another warped entry, writing that same year under the pseudonym Snoopyfemme she wrote: 'They use sex in commercials all the time to sell products. Why don't they ever use violence?

'Wouldn't you love to see a bunch of guys tearing each other apart with machine guns to get a bowl of Cheerios?

'Sure, it might traumatize our children, but in my opinion, children aren't being traumatized enough.

'The only reason for Americans to breed is to create more soldiers to fight for freedom. We need to weed out the weaklings early on. Survival of the fittest, man.'

'She was very odd to the point among a lot of our classmates that no-one was surprised by her arrest.

'She was a very lonely person - but she isolated herself. 'From what I remember she was even suspended for stabbing someone with a pencil in middle school.'

'She was known for putting spells on people. She would do it by saying weird things and then putting on a curse - obviously we did not take her seriously.

'She would break out into laughter in the middle of class for absolutely no reason.

'When we saw that Lindsay did something like this, nobody was surprised. She was the one most likely.'

source

[drdemonprince]

Can you offer any (academic) writing advice for Autistics and ADHDers? You clearly write a lot and write very well and very clearly, so some insight into your process would be great. Personally, I tend to struggle with over explaining or over citing (cause I am always getting misunderstood) and that I get very fixated on not misrepresenting what my sources are saying to avoid feeling like I'm lying. All this is time consuming and makes it hard to say what I really want to say. Thanks!

Hi there! I've written an essay about a lot of this, here is the free link to read it on Medium:

Much of my writing process is inspired by the book How to Write a Lot by Paul Silvia, and it is specifically tailored to academics. The advice applies to people who write popular nonfiction or fiction just as easily, however. And he does have advice relevant to the self-editing and self-doubt you describe feeling.

The full piece gets into this more, but here are some of the stand-out tips:

Schedule a regular time to write every week and show up no matter whether you are feeling it or not.

Throw out all your magical thinking about what you "need" to be able to write. You don't need the perfect workspace, divine inspiration, the right pen, the right playlist. You just need to show up to write regularly, and do it

Editing, outlining, working with research notes, and drafting all count as "writing." Don't expect your initial drafts to be perfect or to equate writing only with getting new words on the page.

Try writing in public spaces to help get yourself in the mindset of explaining a concept to someone with a different frame of reference and type of expertise than you. Writing in a cafe or a public library can force you think and write in a more accessible way. (alternatively, you can pretend you are explaining the concept to a specific person in your life who you respect but who doesnt have all the same reference points as you -- sometimes this is called the "Grandma Test". Explain something like you are talking to your grandma.)

In addition to all this, I would add that you should read a lot of writing, both good and bad, especially work that isn't dry and academic. If all you read is journal articles, you'll write a journal article -- and most of those are hell to read, even for academics. read fiction. read bad wattsapp shipping. read substacks. read newspapers. read indulgent personal nonfiction in the cut or whatever. read reddit posts. notice what works and what doesn't. develop an ear.

and then write a lot! it took me 15 years to get good enough for anything i wrote to get noticed. you can expect to take many years to get comfortable developing your own voice, too. i dont know how far along you are, but even when you've made tremendous progress you'll only notice your flaws and feel the most turgid brain foggy moments. that doesn't mean you're failing.

also, to some extent you can embrace your citation-dense, precise manner of self-expression. we are living in a moment of maximalism and indulgent, long creative works. it's the decade of the 5 hour youtube essay and the 2 hour album. my 5,000 word essays do better than my 2,000 word ones. you should strip down unnecessary tangents and trust yourself and your reader a little more probably, but ive found that the more blatantly autistic and indulgent my writing gets the more the right people like it. a writer's flaws and their distinctive voice are kinda hard to separate. you're not for everyone!

good luck!

[thaltro]

Hey, I analyze your bad guys design on TikTok awhile ago, so I really want to analyze the new design of Atrophy mostly on the color scheme you picked and little bit things I said before but add too it. The color looks so good! The white is really nice with the color green slime/goop that Atrophy is made out of, it makes him stand out. Which I believe that what he would want because he definitely has a complex on not being enough so a white suit will make him pop out from others. Also the base symbol of white is purity,innocence, and goodness everything Atrophy isn’t but something he was as a child(if we go by the canon were passive was the kindest person in the multiverse in his story). The mask thing is definitely stuck to his face no doubt about it.how you add the moon and sun theme is so genius, it a subtle detail were it reminds the audience that Atrophy will always be connected to dream and theirs au, even if he doesn’t want to be. Because the mask is stuck on there but I don’t think the tie is so even if Atrophy say he doesn’t want to be connected to dream deep down he does he always has/will/be connected to his brother whether he recognized it or not. The way you made the green more bright on him is great, the base green symbolism is New beginnings, peace, nature, harmony, jealousy, greed which only some those really apply here the New beginnings, jealousy, greed and nature (only a little bit on the nature because it connect him to his mother who became a tree). The new beginnings (him changing looks entirely, his name and like you can say his personality him now and when he was child)(also what goes to happen to him in this story) jealousy ( boy has been jealous since day one) and greed (and this might be a lot of a stretch but believed he deserves so much better so he make sure he has the most lavish things,items,clothes,food, he collections things he didn’t even like,hoarding it because he believe he deserves to have them, he was denied so much as a child so now he has the privilege to make sure no one get more than he had as a kid) even though he secretly hate himself so deeply. (I talk about this before but I promise I adding something new!) He named himself Atrophy because he sees himself as a waste/effectiveness but he rename himself even though nightmare have more villain definition being a frightening, unpleasant because he needs control over himself he needs to feel better about himself so he rename himself because it gives him control, he can’t be hurt when people call him Atrophy because he himself calls himself Atrophy. No one can hurt you as badly as you can yourself. That how I believe why Atrophy name himself Atrophy. Anyway I think this get long enough, I will be back! I can promise you that I’m so excited for your story and everything you have planned! Also I should add psychology has a lot matching colors as Atrophy so it says a lot about these two, maybe I’ll get psych (rubbing my hands evilly to gather) anyway bye bye have a good day or night wherever you’re at!sorry about how long this is and if my writing isn’t the best.

How the hell did you interpret all that accurately? /not mad

I haven’t even posted the webcomic and I have a lot of people send me really accurate interpretations of Atrophy, this one is really good.

Yk in nightwatch I wrote for atrophy not to be shown nuanced or sympathetic light until like mid act 2. Like he does HORRIBLE shit for the majority of the comic, I have to make a chart of content warnings just for his actions. If I ever garnered a small fandom around it I expected little to no analysis of him but I post one picture of him lol and I have like character design theory essays in my ask box.

You are very right on why he named himself, I love how you worded it too.

Atrophy is a hoarder for the exact reasons you mention, Atrophy tries to embody what he never had- power, wealth, and masculinity. Having trinkets and a large home are included in that. He hoards food too, he has an entire basement that he dedicates to non perishable food that he will never eat, as he can’t eat food. He doesn’t know why but it feels safe with it there.

You also noticed how psych and atrophy have color schemes similar, which is 100 percent intentional. All of the characters i directly parallel have similar color schemes. Atrophy and psych are Enemies but also the closest and most familiar to one another. To atrophy psych is just a mirror of himself, which creates a oddly hateful, dependent, and egotistical relationship with him.

The color symbolism especially the green symbolism is intentional. Atrophy is greedy, gluttonous, and jealous and I always associated that with green. He’s also supposed to resemble a wine bottle with his color palette- as a reference to his lavish lifestyle. The moon and sun motifs are in reference to his brother. It’s the only thing atrophy genuinely feels bad about.

I don’t know if I said this already but dream thinks his brother is dead, not in a metaphorical way in a genuine way where he hasn’t seen him in hundreds of years and was told he was murdered. Atrophy is aware his brother probably believes this, but thinks it’s best for them to never meet as he’s changed so much that him dying is not too far off from what he is now. But dream is always at the back of his mind, which is why he has a lot of motifs.

I love this analysis aughsh

Thank you

[str4ngergirlw0rld]

eddies never considered himself lucky, not with anything, not with girls not with guys not with his family not with anything.

not when his dad beat him and his mom to a pulp and walked out only to come back 2 years later with bloodshot eyes , red nostrils and a baby on his hip.

not when harley jones asked him on a date only to take his virginity in the back of his van and never talk to him again.

not when billy hargrove asked him to do his homework and he purposely wrote an essay on his behalf about how much he hated mrs. o’donell.

not when you showed up on his doorstep , asking him out on a date and he declined thinking he was some butt of a joke , making you walk home in the rain after walking an hour as a grand gesture for him in your cheer uniform carrying droopy flowers you had picked for him.

eddie wasn’t lucky not at all.

the clock on eddies side table reads 7:00 am in bright blaring numbers. eddies rubs his eyes to rid himself of sleepies and sits up , throwing on his favorite garfield boxers and an old ratted metallica shirt.

the knocking on his trailer grows rapid hence why hes up so early.

“i’m comin , i’m comin fuck hold on” he yells

throwing the door open eddies jaw drops , you’re the last person he expected at the door , if he knew it was you he would have made himself presentable.

you look so pretty , clad in your cheer uniform, rain droplets dripping off your eyelashes , knee high socks he can only assume are doing nothing to keep you warm. a pony tail holding your curled hair and flowers he can only assume you just picked from the side of the road , he can tell because he picks those for his mommas grave , purples amongst yellows amongst pinks and oranges, shining brightly in contrast to the gray sky.

“he-heyy what the fuck are you doing here?”

is the first thing that slips out of his mouth , your eyes blow wide.

“no no i didnt mean it like that i’m just shocked you’re here , did you walk here ? at 7 in the morning? in the rain?” he rambles “yeah i did , is that okay?” you ask , hesitance heavy in your voice “more than okay sweetheart, why are you here?” his voice filled with sweetness , making you hopeful of his answer to your question.

“i just wanted to know if you’d wanna go on a date with me , we can watch a movie , i know they’re showing some horror movies , i planned it out, i’ll pay for your ticket , i uh also thought we could get burgers and shakes at bennys , hes my uncle i’ll convince him to give the meal to us for free , he usually does he has a soft spot for me, i see you around alot , i think you’re handsome , i know my brother loves you and i know theres gotta be lots of reasons why” your head starts bopping , excitement laced in your voice. awaiting his answer.

eddies heart plummets to his feet , he wanted to believe this , to be hopeful that this wasn’t some cruel joke but he can’t not after holly. he cant help but roll his eyes.

you catch it , smile and arms dropping , your nails pressing into your hand where you’re holding the flowers you picked for him.

“why the fuck are you here y/n ?” the sweetness from his voice long gone , replaced with bitterness and venom “i-i just told you why eddie what do you mean” your voice trembles “no the real fucking reason , i don’t want you to stand there and lie to me what the fuck y/n i thought you were different but you’re just like them , you will not make a joke out of me , thats a dick move, go home. my answer is no , tell your friends that this didn’t work and maybe go prank someone else” he slams the door shut , palms opening and closing , sweating, he wants to look out, see the angry look on your face when you realize your plan didn’t work, instead hes faced with something much worse.

the flowers that once stood high we’re drooping in your hand , your back shaking hard with despair and a distraught look on your face as rock your head in a back and forth no motion tears dripping down your face , one hand pressed to your chest he can assume for comfort and the other holding waynes wrist where hes cupping your face lightly, cooing at you as you recount what just aspired to him, his heart burns with pain when he sees waynes eyes tearing up aswell. both of you soaked with rainwater.

he watches as you calm down , watches as wayne grabs a jacket from his car and covers your shaking frame with it , watches as wayne drops a kiss on your forehead and lets you walk away. watches as you walk further down the road disappearing from his sight. watches as wayne stomps to the door. but hes too afraid to go out and speak to you , too afraid to apologize because he already fucked up.

“what is wrong with you boy? i know i raised you , why you actin like ya father ? making a girl cry and having her walk home in the rain, you find out a way to apologize, i don’t care that ya think she pranked ya , she and her brother been coming here every morning asking for you , she built up the courage to ask you out and you turn her down so easily, fix this, don’t make me tell you again.” wayne tells eddie , wiping the tears on his face “fix this”

eddie doesn’t waste a second throwing his shoes on and grabbing two jackets. he’ll do whatever it takes.

[thisbrilliantsky]

When I was ten and visiting my abuelo in Utuado, he took my sisters and I to a recreated Taíno village. He had Taíno ancestry through his mother, and he wanted us to know something about his heritage. Papi Papi’s dark brown skin looked golden under the sun, and the tour guide gave me eucalyptus leaves to chew for my car sickness. They tasted bitter, green and medicinal. At some point my sisters and I were given necklaces. Each was a simple black cord upon which a clay pendant of a sun was clasped, a calm smile carved into its face. Theirs were each deep blue; mine was a pale, yellowy green. The tour guide told us the huts’ doorways were built low not because the Taíno were short, but so that any enemy entering the home would be at a momentary disadvantage. He mimed hitting someone on the head with a frying pan and we all laughed.  I wore my necklace every day for almost two years. I liked how its smooth face and rounded edges felt between my fingers. I liked its peaceful smile. Then somehow without my noticing it, the clasp broke. It’s gone. In college, I learned that Columbus wrote to the Spanish King and Queen that the Taíno were “wondrously timorous,” “artless and generous.” He noted that they had no weapons at all and would give the Spanish anything they asked for without expecting payment; therefore, he promised the Spanish Crown “slaves as many as they shall order to be shipped.” The day we discussed the massacres and the rapes and the tortures in class, I felt ill. Of particular interest to the class was how the Spanish had demanded a gold tax from each Taíno person, and if they failed to bring it, their hands were cut off. Thousands died slow, painful deaths this way. I couldn’t get a word out. I sat there like a stone as my classmates tsked over the issue of the statues of Columbus all over the country. I knew what had happened. I had known beforehand. But this was the first time I realized that was my family. I left the classroom shaking. For centuries, everyone assumed the ten million Taíno who were alive in 1493 were completely wiped out. Now we know that is not the case. Sixty years after the murderer arrived, there were five hundred Taíno left. Today, thousands of people from the Caribbean can trace their ancestry to those last five hundred souls. I wish I still had my clay sun.

—excerpt from my lyric essay, Clay Sun: A Collection

[apoloadonisandnarcissus]

No, “Evil” doesn’t “loves only Itself” in Tolkien lore

One quote in particular that gets thrown around a lot when discussing Sauron x Galadriel is “evil loves only itself” because Charlie Vickers mentioned it in one of his interviews. The “Rings of Power” fandom atributes this to Tolkien. But is it really?

This quote is not from Tolkien. Nor Charlie ever said it was, he refers the correct author on his interview, so I don’t know why folks keep taking his words out of context.

He [Sauron] offers to make her [Galadriel] his queen. Is that a marriage proposal?

That’s something I thought about a lot, but I don’t think so. W.H. Auden wrote an essay on Tolkien, and he said something along the lines of, “Evil loves only itself.” [“Evil, defiantly chosen, can no longer imagine anything but itself.”] So I think in his pitch to Galadriel, it cannot mean that he loves her or that there’s any kind of romantic relationship. There should be no ambiguity around the fact that Sauron is evil — he’s terrible, and he’s using Galadriel to enhance his power.

Now, what Charlie is doing here is trolling. Because he knows Tolkien letters, and has studied them as preparation for his role as Sauron. This fact is mentioned in this very interview: you once mentioned that you found useful things in Tolkien’s letters, although you didn’t specify which ones.

And so, Charlie is perfectly aware that “evil loves only itself” was written by W.H. Auden on his essay about the nature of Good and Evil, when reviewing “Return of the Ring”, in 1956. And he’s also perfectly aware that Tolkien didn’t subscribe to this way of thinking, at all.

Tolkien Letter 183 is the reply to Auden’s essay and his wild takes of “evil loves only itself”. In this letter, Tolkien not only disagrees with Auden’s views of his work, but denies them, entirely:

There are also conflicts about important things or ideas. In such cases I am more impressed by the extreme importance of being on the right side, than I am disturbed by the revelation of the jungle of confused motives, private purposes, and individual actions (noble or base) in which the right and the wrong in actual human conflicts are commonly involved. If the conflict really is about things properly called right and wrong, or good and evil, then the rightness or goodness of one side is not proved or established by the claims of either side; it must depend on values and beliefs above and independent of the particular conflict.

A judge must assign right and wrong according to principles which he holds valid in all cases. That being so, the right will remain an inalienable possession of the right side and Justify its cause throughout. (I speak of causes, not of individuals. Of course to a judge whose moral ideas have a religious or philosophical basis, or indeed to anyone not blinded by partisan fanaticism, the rightness of the cause will not justify the actions of its supporters, as individuals, that are morally wicked. But though 'propaganda' may seize on them as proofs that their cause was not in fact 'right', that is not valid. The aggressors are themselves primarily to blame for the evil deeds that proceed from their original violation of justice and the passions that their own wickedness must naturally (by their standards) have been expected to arouse. They at any rate have no right to demand that their victims when assaulted should not demand an eye for an eye or a tooth for a tooth.)

Similarly, good actions by those on the wrong side will not justify their cause. There may be deeds on the wrong side of heroic courage, or some of a higher moral level: deeds of mercy and forbearance. A judge may accord them honour and rejoice to see how some men can rise above the hate and anger of a conflict; even as he may deplore the evil deeds on the right side and be grieved to see how hatred once provoked can drag them down. But this will not alter his judgement as to which side was in the right, nor his assignment of the primary blame for all the evil that followed to the other side.

In my story I do not deal in Absolute Evil. I do not think there is such a thing, since that is Zero. I do not think that at any rate any 'rational being' is wholly evil.

This is Tolkien, very eloquently, telling Auden to f*ck off with his basic and narrow views of Good vs. Evil, because he’s misunderstanding what Tolkien actually wrote on his books. And this was a grievance Tolkien, himself, had:

Some reviewers have called the whole thing simple-minded, just a plain fight between Good and Evil, with all the good just good, and the bad just bad. Pardonable, perhaps (though at least Boromir has been overlooked) in people in a hurry, and with only a fragment to read, and, of course, without the earlier written but unpublished Elvish histories. But the Elves are not wholly good or in the right.

Tolkien Letter 154

Some critics seem determined to represent me as a simple-minded adolescent, inspired with, say, a With-a-Flag-to-Pretoria spirit, and willfully distort what I say in my tale. I have not that spirit, and it does not appear in the story.

Notes on Letter 183 (still about Auden’s essay)

Charlie is very much aware of Tolkien response, and he knows that, in Tolkien legendarium, evil can love and it doesn’t make any less evil, because Tolkien doesn’t deal with absolute evil in his world, nor is Sauron pure evil; as I already talked about in this post.

Why did Charlie say these things, then? Probably to avoid spoiling the story of the show, where Sauron is in love with Galadriel.

[sunkeji]

Heyyy can i ask for tsukishima and sakasu were them and the reader try those periods simulation things! The reader is all fine and chill while the boys are screaming bloody murder and asking how the reader deals with these on a monthly basis! Separately please! Thank you!!!!

Period simulator ft. Tsukishima & Sakusa

a/n: I'm sorry I got to this late!! I didn't like how I wrote it originally so I scrapped the whole thing and redid it. Hopefully you like this (⁠^⁠^⁠)

Warnings: curse word used in sakusa's part, not proofread, if taken out of context it sounds pretty weird,it feels like i wrote a descriptive essay.

Imagine you make a bet against your boyfriend that if he was a girl, he wouldn't be able to bear the pain of period cramps but he says otherwise. So after that conversation with him, you purchase a period simulator to try during the weekend with him. Sitting on the couch side by side with the period simulator between you two, he steels himself for what's about to come while you are brimming with anticipation.

Tsukishima Kei

He was super confident at first that he would be able to withstand the pain. Not because he undermines the pain of period cramps but because he thinks he has a high pain tolerance. But little does he know...

At the first setting, it was still alright. It was uncomfortable, but still bearable. He brushed off your teasing comments, telling him that it's okay to back out now if it was too painful. He merely rolled his eyes and quipped back, saying he could go to sleep at this setting.

You crank the pain to level 3 and you see Tsukishima jolt. You give him a teasing smile and he quickly says that it was just very sudden and how he didn't expect it and blah blah blah.

You don't even give him a minute to get use to it when a mischievous smile makes its way to your face and you switch it to the highest setting.

Just as quickly as you switched its setting to the highest, you hear a quiet whimper come out of him. The both of you freeze and time seems to have stopped save for the ticking of the clock in the living room.

You hit him with the:

You open your mouth and are about to say something but he quickly interjects in a quiet voice; "no, keep it to yourself, I don't want to hear it" all while avoiding eye contact. You know he's not being mean, just a bit embarrassed or sulky maybe 🤔 so you don't take it to heart.

After that whole fiasco, he made you promise to not utter a single word to anyone about this. And one more time you bring up the fact that the great Tsukishima Kei had actually whimpered, he might actually strangle you for real this time.

Jokes aside, He's left speechless that you actually have to deal with this each time you get your period. He's much nicer to you now when you're on your period, You get less sass from him when on your period and he's more understanding of your situation now.

Sakusa Kiyoomi

Can’t believe you actually bought it. Scolds you for wasting your money but since you’ve already bought it, might as well try it. He pretends like this whole thing is a nuisance but he is actually very curious.

He’s kinda nervous because from what he’s seen with you on days where your period cramps are really bad, it looks like you’re suffering from an unknown stomach disease that’s plagued the entire female population in the world and you are just another one of its victims.

Some very tiny part of him wants to be tough and show you that he’s strong but in actuality, he’s in for a rude awakening. He takes level 1 and 2 like a breeze but when you turn it up to level 3, beads of sweat are rolling down his forehead and he’s gripping the armrest of the couch and the veins in his arm are visible.

You glance at him, waiting for another reaction but when nothing else happens, you feel a tad bit disappointed and tell him you’ll put it to the highest setting now. He’s about to protest and reaches out to grab your arm but the intensity of the period simulator takes him by surprise and instead he ends up grabbing your thigh and squeezes it hard.

Now the both of you are screaming profanities and are thrashing around. If he doesn’t let go, you can’t adjust the setting of the period simulator. And if you don’t adjust the settings of the period simulator, he can’t let go because it hurts like a bitch. It’s a whole never ending cycle.

So its a few seconds of the two of you thrashing around before you reach under his shirt and yank the wires and simulator off of him. Then, it’s just the sounds of the two of you heavily breathing and trying to catch your breaths. You turn to him and your eyes go wide when you see he actually has a few tears rolling down his cheeks as he stares at you blankly.

Now you’re left wondering what’s the appropriate course of action. Do you start cackling like a maniac because you never thought he’d start crying then console your boyfriend or do it the other way around? Well you didn’t have to think about it for long because a few seconds later, his head fell ontop of your lap with his arm covering his eyes.

You ask him if he’s feeling okay with a goofy smile plastered on your face from the event that had previously unfolded. You hoped your boyfriend wouldn’t move his arm now otherwise he’d pinch you for smiling at his misery. He mumbles softly about how he just needs a few minutes to recollect himself and then he’ll be good to go. So in the meantime, you brush your fingers through his hair. After a few minutes or so he asks you with a sigh; “You’ll never let this go will you?”. You laugh and plant a kiss on his head “Nope!”

You remind him how it feels even worse by adding the nausea, dizziness and low blood pressure you may get. So now he takes extra good care of you 🫶 he feeds you lots of red meat, refills your water bottle and even gives you massages anywhere you're feeling sore.

[dnfity]

they were so silly in your fic thank you so much :(( question. how do you write such realistic dialogue? your dialogue is seriously some of the best i've seen in this fandom

sorry it took me so long to get to this i wanted to try and give a good answer. i think the biggest thing that helps me is to just try to imagine them say whatever piece of dialogue i just wrote in my head. if it sounds weird, then i change it and i'll keep changing and changing it until it sounds real.

i wrote some general notes below and its long so dont open unless u want an essay on your dash:

george:

i think i find george's the easiest only bc i watch his videos/streams the most. some notes for him is that he says dreams name when talking to him A LOT. if u notice, he'll usually say it after shorter commanding phrases. for example, "it's fine, dream" or "stop, dream" or "i dont know, dream". he'll also use his name at the beginning of phrases whenever hes about to complain about something lmao. let's say george wants to go out or something. instead of straight up saying he wants to go out, he might say something like "dream, im bored. this vicinity that we're in, it's boring" expecting dream to fix the problem for him.

adding onto that, he loves his little vocab words. words like befuddled seem to be favorites for him. i think he just likes the way certain words feel to say if that makes sense. (dream is one of those words). he also tends to speak in shorter phrases sometimes, especially when hes trying to joke around. his way of speaking in general doesnt typically involve long-winded explanations. in fact, in the past, when dream or sapnap dont understand what hes saying, he usually gets annoyed. "how do you not know what i'm talking about? you're an idiot."

dream:

the thing that stands out the most to me with dreams way of speaking is that hes usually very honest with everything he says. if he suddenly gets this surge of appreciation or gratitude towards someone, he'll most likely vocalize it. he also - contrary to george - tends to draw out his sentences. i think he is definitely a saying before speaking kind of person, and that usually involves him cutting sentences off to start new ones, run on sentences, etc. he has that adhd way of speaking lmao. stuttering, saying "like" a lot, feeling like he cant get the sentence out as fast as his mind is going, switching between topics while telling a story.

dream also sees the world through a technicalities a little lmao. what i mean by that is that he tends to want to be very specific when it comes to his actions / the things he observes. for example, he can't just say, "i slept so much last night." it'll go more like, "i slept so much last night. i slept for like, twenty hours. ok, well, maybe not twenty hours but it was like - okay, it was maybe like, sixteen hours." this i think also manifests into terms he used to use a lot such as recency bias (and george kinda does too, but i think he does it mostly when talking to dream, a way of mirroring him during a conversation).

tldr just really pay attention to the way they speak to each other and spin them around in your head.

im sure there are things im missing but i hope that was at least somewhat helpful. i also didnt read over this after typing it so if there are errors im sorry.