#which my history teachers did not see fit to mention

[summonthebats]

Venice was a self governing democracy for over a thousand years and no one told me

[celestie0]

gojo satoru x reader | oneshot angst [18+]

title. let me be free of you

He would live in this lifetime of hell over and over again if it meant that in some other one, there exists a world where he never hurts you.

ᰔ pairing. friends to strangers au - best friend!gojo x reader (f)

ᰔ summary. gojo satoru, your love of a lifetime, tells you he’s engaged to another woman. inspired by the novel & netflix series “one day” created by david nicholls

ᰔ warnings/tags. 18+, fem!reader, angst, mentions of sex/explicit content, coming of age themes, reader & gojo are in their 30s, mentions of pregnancy, mentions of alcohol, cheating, lots of mutual pining & longing, bittersweet ending

ᰔ word count. 4.8k

a/n. hellooo! i've had this finished in my wips folder for a long time but never got around to posting it sooo just wanted to let it see the light of day haha. hope you enjoyyy <33

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“I’m engaged.”

The words leave Gojo’s lips as much less of a confession and more like a blabber, like a toddler desperate to keep conversation going in the face of a disinterested adult. Wasn’t how he expected to share the news of a lifetime to the love of his lifetime, but he hopes it breaks your heart to hear it. 

He watches your eyebrows flatten from the crease that was bothering them before, and then slowly raise into soft arches above your eyes–those damn beautiful eyes that, even when they twinkle with hurt, still make his heart skip a beat in his chest.

He recalls for a moment the night the two of you met, drunk and dizzy from drinking out of a shared bottle of Prosecco, which only had half of the liquor left in it to start when he had first found it bleeding out to dry on the grassy lawn at the front of your university. It was graduation night, the last day to celebrate finishing four years of hell, and he had nothing to his name other than a rolled up diploma shoved in the pocket of his suit pants and the charm left in the youth of his smile. He wanted to spend the night with Aiko Rei, which was not a unique desire as most men on campus did, and he had a fair shot of getting into bed with her just like all those times before. But instead he was sitting at the top of a staircase inside the campus’s English literature building, making history in the crisp year of 1986 by being the first man of the robust age of twenty-three to pass up sex with the school’s lady heartthrob for–well, conversation with a sort of ditsy girl that he just met a half hour ago.

“What do you plan to do with your life?” he heard you ask him, a hard enough question to stomach when one is sober, and an impossible question to stomach when one is already trying not to puke flat Prosecco.

“Pardon?” he asked, in hopes to dissuade you from the question. In hopes that you’d get the hint. But you don’t. And he’d soon learn throughout the years of your friendship to come that you never did.

“Your life!” you exclaim, “we’re graduates now! What do you want to do with it?” You pat harshly at his thigh, closer to his groin than to his pocket, most likely because you’re tipsy too, but he realizes you’re referring to the rolled up paper protruding at the pocket. 

Truthfully, Gojo had never thought much about what he wanted to do after graduation. Hell, he didn’t even think he’d make it this far. Not once since he got here, not once since he flunked out of first-year history, not once since his father passed away during his third-year final examinations, and most certainly not after he got caught having “unethical affairs” with his communications professor just two months ago. And yet the esteemed board of scholars decided he was fit for a diploma anyway, and now he’s answering to, effectively, a stranger what he plans to do with said piece of paper.

“I don’t know,” he says to you, “I’ll do whatever.” 

Gojo Satoru could get by with doing whatever. He was good at everything he did. But his teachers and mentors and his own father would always warn him– son, it’s better to be an expert at one than a half-assed show-off in all. Well, they wouldn’t use the expletives, but that’s what it had sounded like in his head.

His dad would’ve liked you. He was always telling him to find a girl that challenges him, asks him the right questions, and pushes him to become a better man, the kind of woman his mother was to his father. Much opposed to the airheaded girls of Gojo’s college campus he would sneak into the house and forget to shoo off before sunrise, an occurrence that happened enough times for the respect in his father’s eyes to dwindle with each woman he’d watch his son dispel from their residence. Until eventually, Gojo started paying rent as punishment.

So, twenty-three year old Gojo, what do you plan to do with your life? Or do you have no idea of anything that extends beyond where you are right now, sitting across this strange girl you’ve just met on the death of your educational youth, at the top of a stairwell lined with passed out, drunk newly grads at nearly 4 in the morning? Right now, he’s eyeing the hem of your dress, the way it’s ridden up slightly but the mesh overskirt still tickles the skin of your thigh. He’s certainly able to picture what’s beyond that fabric, and maybe imagine the color of your panties, but what’s to come for his life? No. As previously mentioned, he never thought he’d get this far.

Gojo is thirty-four now, eleven years since that night the two of you met. And he sits next to you on a garden bench under a pitch black sky with stars speckled across, but only dimly visible. 

It’s been years since he’s seen you. You two had a “falling out” at the cusp of thirty, almost a decade of friendship fizzled away, because of his selfish actions. He couldn’t let you go, but he couldn’t want you the way you wanted him either. He didn’t feel like he deserved to have you. You were too good for him, and he knew it. So he wasted a decade chasing after other women, and in return, he lost the one he knew he was supposed to spend the rest of his life with.

It’s the night of your college roommate‘s wedding, all gathered here today to celebrate their love, and he knew he’d run into you here. You were the bride’s maiden of honor, and you looked beautiful. With your hair half tied up, a pretty clip twinkling with every movement of your head, and with strands falling down over the smooth curve of your neck, bare skin of your chest tightly covered by the nude fabric of your dress. He was fully lusting after you, and he has been all night, the picture of beauty and grace, and it was wrong. Because, again, he’s–

“You’re engaged?” you finally break through his thoughts, break through the trance that he was lost in by the sea of your eyes. Forever pulling him in like you were a wicked siren for his soul, when all you’ve ever wanted from him was his love.

He shifts a little, the thick fabric of his navy blue suit stretching with the movement as he fidgets with his hands in his lap. He’s sitting close to you, his shoulder brushing against yours, the contrast of his broad masculinity so evident against the feminine curve of your bare arm, the thin strap holding up your dress threatening to fall down the hill. His thumb twitches, because he wants to pull it back up into place for you like a gentleman, but he’s not sure if that’s what his hand would actually do. Because all he really wants to do is peel the dress off of you. 

“Yes,” he says, still tantalized by the glow of your skin under pale moonlight, “engaged.”

“To be married?”

“Well, what other kind of engaged is there?”

“You’re not allowed to get married.”

He snorts. “Says who?”

“Says me!” you exclaim, sitting up straighter, "I turn my back for one moment, and you've gone an got engaged? You're awful!" The strap of your dress falls down over your shoulder, his eyes immediately darting to it. He sees you pull the strap up back into place, and a flit of his eyes to your face reveals to him the slight dusting of an embarrassed pink to your cheeks. 

There’s a silence that settles between the two of you. Distant commotion is heard, likely from the wedding venue as people engage in reception activities and dances and cheers, while the two of you remain in this garden escape, the wall of primly trimmed bushes sheltering you two from having to pretend to be people you’re not amongst a crowd.

“Aiko…” he hears you say beside him, and although the name of the woman that has rolled off your tongue is the name of the woman he’s supposed to love, it only makes him feel sick to his stomach to hear you say her name. “She seems lovely.”

“She is,” is all he can manage to say. And he also knows this seemingly lovely woman is probably drunk off her face back at the reception hall, giggling at all the men that approach her from the sight of her flushed face, and he should feel some sort of jealousy or possessiveness over that, but he can’t seem to muster any. Unlike the grit he had to his jaw an hour ago when he saw you dancing with a man he heard you introduce to your friends as just an “old friend” of yours from college. He felt more anger in that moment than he’d ever felt watching his soon-to-be-wife getting talked up to by the sleazy men twice her age. 

“She must be very rich,” you say. “She looks it.”

“Oh. Yeah. Her family’s very well off,” Gojo says.

“So will you become rich too?” you ask him, “when you marry her.”

His eyes flit to the sky briefly. “Doubt it.”

“How come?”

“The old man doesn’t like me very much. I imagine he’ll cut ties after the wedding.”

“Her father?”

“Yes.”

“And why is that?”

“Well. I guess it’s not every father’s dream to find out his prim and proper daughter’s been knocked up by the good-for-nothing boyfriend he’s been threatening her to say good riddance to for months now.”

The silence finds the two of you again, but this time haunting and gutting. That was a blabber, if anything. So nonchalantly said, with no emotion or spirit, to the one person in this world who he’s always felt like he can be himself around.

“She’s pregnant?” you say beside him, voice breaking slightly at the end, and he can’t bear to look at you for some reason. Some sort of admission of guilt, but what for? What exactly was he repenting for?

He lets out a small laugh, like the absurdity of the situation finds him all the same. “Yeah.” 

“That–” you start, stiff next to him, before he feels the tension relax but only rigidly, “that’s wonderful, Satoru. I’m–...I’m really happy for you.” You turn your torso to wrap your arms around him, and his lips brush the sweet skin on your forehead as you bury your face in the crook of his neck. He wraps one arm around you, a sort of friendly hug as he rubs the skin of your arm soothingly, and his heart aches from the emptiness when you release him. 

“Wow…” you say, looking up at him with pretty eyes, eyelashes fluttering as you blink rapidly to process the information, and he wonders if you really are happy for him. He doesn’t want you to be. He wants you to be furious, to tell him off for getting another woman pregnant after leading you on for so many years, maybe he wants you to slap him, or grab him by the collar of his shirt and shake him until all he sees is a million of you through dizzy vision like some paradise. He wants you to be mad, because it’d mean that you still care. It’d mean that you still think there’s something here to salvage between the two of you. 

But he’s engaged. And he’s having a baby. What was more final than that?

“So…are you marrying her because of–”

“The wedding is in four weeks,” he cuts you off, but he knows the statement answers your question regardless.

“Satoru…”

He leans off to the side a little to reach into the pocket of his suit pants, and he pulls out what is now a slightly bent envelope and he hands it to you. You take it from him gently, holding it weakly like it was something beyond you. Like something distant and foreign and strange. When all it was, is a wedding invitation. 

“Listen…” he starts.

He sees your eyes dazed as you stare at the lettering on the outside of the envelope.

“We’ve been friends for a long time, y/n. And I know the last time we saw each other was–” Hostile. Angry. Disappointing. Ended with you cussing him out on the street and then saying you never want to see him again. “...not ideal, but I still care a lot about you, and, uh, so, it would mean a lot to me if you came to the wedding.” For fucks sake, even on the brink of losing you forever, he still can’t find the right words to say. “Aiko, she–” He tastes bitter in his mouth, “well, I’ve told her a lot about you, and she’d really love it if you came as well.”

You’re silent as you gently peel back the opening of the letter and then pull out the small card stock invitation. The gold printed letters shine as you inspect it, fingers tracing the patterns of words that profess the Rei family’s intent to wed their daughter to Gojo Satoru. Your Gojo Satoru. Your best friend in this whole wide world. He watches your eyes carefully, but he can’t discern what he finds in them.

“Gojo Satoru…” you drone off, “to be wed. And to be a father.” Years of late night talks of the future, of kids and Christmas and love, with reality seemingly sly on the horizon only to have crept up so abruptly. It was pinched between your fingers right now. That reality.

His shoulders sulk slightly. And when you look up at him again, there’s a sheen of tears in your eyes.

“I can’t come to this,” you whisper, “and you know that, Satoru.”

His heart breaks. A physical pain that twists in his chest so tight at just the sight of seeing you sad. Sad again over the actions of his own. They say you always hurt the one you love, and he had always wondered what sort of evil person would do such a thing, only to find out he’s only ever hurt you this entire time. 

He should’ve kissed you that night the two of you met at graduation. Should’ve shut you up and all your existential questions by pinning you to a wall and pressing his lips against yours. He should’ve taken you to bed and fucked you, and then held you in his arms until you woke up in the morning. Should’ve listened to you talk his ear off about how he’s just like all the other guys, who pretend to care, but only want to have sex and then never to speak to the girl ever again. And he should’ve laid there in bed, nose nuzzled in your hair, taking all the scolding despite having no intent to ever leave you.

Instead, he wasted so much time. Sure, he had your friendship. His best friend for years, but the two of you could’ve been something more. Could’ve spent the years together, instead of writing stained letters or leaving messages on answering machines while the two of you were miles away. He could’ve been waking up with you every morning with the scent of your shampoo on his sheets, instead of clinging to pillows in foreign motel rooms. He could’ve been engaged to you, and he could be whispering sweet nothings in your ear of how much he wishes the baby will have your eyes. 

But his thoughts are lost in fantasy. He is what he’s done, nothing more and nothing less. His eyes fall to your lap, the invitation still held loosely in your hand, and then a droplet of water falls onto it.

“I–” you stutter, wiping at the tears spilling down your cheeks with a hesitant swipe of your hand, “I need to go.”

You stand up off the bench and he quickly stands up with you, grabbing your wrist to keep you here with him, and you halt but only with you facing away from him. He yanks at your wrist harshly, pulling you into him so his chest is flush to your back, his arms wrapping strongly around you and his nose nuzzling into your hair, breathing you in greedily like it’s the last time he’ll ever get the chance.

“Satoru–” you gasp, your hands immediately grabbing at his forearms that are tightly crossed across your collarbone. “What are you doing–” 

“Say it,” he whispers, gruff and impatient, “tell me to do it, and I will.”

“T-Tell you to do what?” you stutter, struggling a little in his hold but he only holds you tighter.

“Tell me to leave her, and I will,” he says, his lips brushing at your ear now, the scent of your perfume maddening to his senses, and one of his hands slowly trails down and the knuckle of his thumb presses into the softness of your breast.

You squirm, a small and soft moan leaving your lips.

“T–” you breathe in harshly, “this is wrong.” 

“I don’t care,” he growls, arms sliding lower to hold you under your breasts, so tightly that your heels lift off the ground. “Just say the word, and I’ll leave everything behind for you. I promise,” he breathes in deep, the desperation making his head hazy, “that I’ll do things right this time. Just you and me–” 

“You’re going to be a father,” you remind him, and he shuts his eyes closed tightly, the responsibility of the word bearing on his shoulders but his desire for you overshadows every shred of sense or dignity or integrity he has left in him, because he felt like he was losing his mind after wanting you for years just to never have you. 

He turns you around in his hold so that you face him, and he crashes his lips to yours, muffling the surprised mmf! that dies in your throat in surprise as his hands hold your waist, relishing in the feeling of satin fabric pulled taut over your curves.

Forbidden, yet a taste that he’ll risk because there was no curse that was worse than the fate of having to pine after you for years.

Ah.

But.

But it was all fantasy, this moment in his head, where he takes you on the freshly cut grass of this garden. 

Something that only briefly flashes through his mind as his warm hand wraps around your wrist, from where he was still seated on the stone bench, and not on his feet holding you like he dreamed for. Like he longed for.

He feels the weight of his arm so heavily, as if it weren’t his own, and he slowly lets go of your wrist.

When he looks up at you, there’s longing in your eyes. A hurt that he didn’t even know he was capable of causing, just for him to realize that you’ve always looked at him that way, and he’s never been keen enough to know it until now. He grew up too late. He took too long.

His phone starts buzzing in his pocket, and he reaches in for it, then flips it open and sees his soon-to-be-wife’s name on it. He feels nothing at the sight.

“Hello?” he speaks into the device when he holds it to his ear, and he sees you take a couple steps away, rubbing anxiously at your elbow as you pretend to busy yourself with the study of the lamp. “Yes, I’ll be there soon. I, uh, I’m just with a friend. A couple of friends, actually. We’re having drinks by the pond. Mhm. Yes. I will. Okay, see you soon. I—…I love you too. Bye.” And then he snaps the phone shut. 

“Heading back?” he hears you ask.

He stands. “I’ve got to.”

“Okay.” 

You two walk down the shrubbery of the garden that was arranged like a maze, him a few paces behind you, and he watches the delicate line of your posture as your hand brushes against the green walls of foliage that encase the two of you, the feeling of wanting to touch you and hold you almost suffocating. 

“Hey,” he calls out to you, and he shoves his hands in his suit pockets. You turn around immediately to face him, like his voice was permission to do so.

“Yes?” you ask.

He blinks up at the starry sky, and then looks at you again. The soft cast of distant warm lighting falls over your face, making you appear like a renaissance painting, similar to those that you would point out to him at museums when you two would see each other on holiday back in your early twenties. He could never understand the charm of those paintings, no matter how many times you tried to explain it to him, but seeing you in this light right now, he finally understands the beauty that you saw. 

“I’m, uh,” he rubs at the back of his neck, and then scoffs out a small laugh, “I’m a little drunk right now, but–” He stops himself. What was he trying to say? And was it of conscious mind? “I just need to tell you that…I really regret…not speaking to you. I mean, for letting the silence drag on for years. You’re my–...my best friend. We’re a pair, you know? The two of us. For years, people would ask me where you were. And why they haven’t seen us together at all recently. And it was hard to admit that we hadn’t spoken in years.”

You take the smallest of steps towards him, and look up at him with empty eyes. 

“What I’m trying to say is, is that, well,” he finds himself tripping over his words, “I miss you. And I miss our friendship. And–...I miss having you around.” He glances down at his shoes, polished and reflecting off the moonlight directly above him. He rocks back and forth on his heels ever so slightly. “I know you said that I piss you off to lengths unimaginable to my tiny pea-sized brain, but I can’t help myself, y/n,” he admits, “I think you and I, we’re just meant to always be. In some how, or some way…”

You purse your lips together, gaze shifting lower to eye at the silk of his tie. 

“Can we be friends again?” he asks, the words feeling juvenile on his tongue. Like whispered apologies between children on a playground after shoving one another onto wooden chips, except the wounds he’s left on you run much deeper than a superficial scrape. 

You blink slowly, tilting your head up at him. “Friends?”

“Friends.”

You wipe your palm off on the satin of your dress. “I missed you too, you know.”

His eyes widened slightly.

Your hand finds its way up your arm, until you weakly cup your elbow with your palm and look off to the side, avoiding eye contact with him. “There were so many years where I thought that there was something between us. And maybe I was foolish for thinking that way, that you would ever see me that way–”

“y/n,” he tries to interrupt you. 

“But…the pain of not having you the way I wanted to was much less worse than the pain of not having you at all,” you say, your gaze finally shifting towards him. “But, the thing is, I needed to feel that pain to get over you. I had to.”

His heart stills at those words.

You glance down at the ground now. “I missed being able to tell you things. To laugh, and cry, and argue. I miss humbling your stupid ego. I miss being able to call you at any time, knowing you’d pick up when I needed you.”

His heart aches so much he wants to reach into his chest and hold it.

“The thing is,” you continue, “you would’ve been the first person I would’ve run to to tell them that I lost my best friend.” There were tears shining in your eyes. “But what could I do when you were the one that I had lost? Who could I have turned to then?”

He lets out a shaky breath, and in a swift motion, his arm wraps around your waist and he pulls you to him in an embrace.

You’re stiff in his hold, mechanical and rigid, so contrary to the soft tears you leave behind on the fabric of his sleeve, but slowly and surely, you warm and thaw. Your hands slide up past his shoulders, linking behind his neck. And his head drops to the curve of your neck, swaying you with him slowly as if it were a first dance.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, “for hurting you.”

You breathe out slowly. “Just let me go, Satoru. Let me be free. Let me be free of you.”

He feels the air knock out of his lungs, and the two of you slowly pull your heads away from the embrace to look at one another, although your hands still find a place on his shoulders, and he still holds you close to him by a delicate hold of your waist. 

He wonders if in another life, you two were happy. He wonders if he could ever take back all the decisions he made, and start all over again. On that day the two of you met on that staircase in the west wing of the literature building, he would make a different choice. If he could, he would live in this lifetime of hell over and over again if it meant that in some other one, there exists a world where he never hurts you. 

“It’s time for me to go,” you whisper, eyes darting across the features of his face, studying them but with a familiarity that only you know, because you held his entire life in your palm. Your gaze meets his again, faces just inches apart, and the sweet curl of your eyelashes makes him weak in the knees. “It’s time.”

He nods slowly, his own eyes studying your face as well, except it looks foreign to him now. 

It’s all been said and done. There was nothing he could do to right the wrongs, or undo all the pain. He was to be a father now, and his duties were now towards his wife and unborn child. And no longer to the woman he holds in his arms, one he’s sure he will never stop loving for as long as he lives. 

It’s a sweet moment, the two of you gazing at one another. You look so pretty from this angle, looking up at him with the smallest tilt to your head and round searching eyes. His head subconsciously dips down towards yours in the second that he glances at your lips, but he stops himself. And when you make no move to create distance, he finds himself closing it again, until his lips brush against yours ever so softly. And then he captures them in a kiss, firm and unmistaken, finding solace in the way your lips move against his too, unsure yet passionately at the same time. Your fingers ever so slightly dig into his shoulders while his thumbs soothe at the skin of your waist, the two of you savoring the last moments of a kiss that’ll be the sweetest one you’ll ever know.

You pull away first, a small puff of air leaving your lips as you glance downwards. He rests his forehead against yours, never once looking away from your face. And you both breathe slowly, the soul of the chaste kiss entirely vanishing into the air along with all the hope that the two of you had left to make anything of the way you feel about one another. It was a kiss that almost disqualified any level of sin or guilt or wrong, because it was like one you two owed each other, after years of familiarity and longing. It was the goodbye that the two of you deserved.

His hands slowly let go of your waist, and he takes a step back away from you, softly clearing his throat. The distance feels like a galaxy away, and he briefly runs his thumb along his bottom lip, because the ghostly feeling of your lips on his still remains. 

“Shall we head back?” you ask him, prim and proper in posture and eyes widened in a formal gaze.

His lips are parted, and he finds that he’s panting slightly. And then he slowly nods his head. “Yes.”

.

.

.

[the end] 

a/n. i am sooooo freaking obsessed w "one day" by david nicholls and really wanted to write something inspired by it!! the book literally ripped my heart out and stomped on it like there were so many scenes where i just longingly stared out the window because of how shattering it was but dear god i really enjoyed it, and the show was also so dfkjhsfkhs i had sm feels watching it. so yea this was fun to write!! i hope you enjoyedd n thanks so much for reading :)

➸ masterlist

[o0o0thorn0o0o]

I be back.

Images by themselves below the cut because I spent way too much time on them + text because I’ve been gone for a while—‘course I got a lotta say.

It’s certainly been a while, eh? I did this last cour, too, and I swear to God if I do this for the next cour… Worst part is, I haven’t even watched it yet this time, rip :,) Will definitely do sometime later today, for sure, for sure.

So, I meant to get this done for IchiHime week (and look at how that turned out, haha), but not only was July a month full of pleasure, but it was also full of pain work. I was bordering a D for Orgo, so I spent a good portion prioritizing that—and it wasn’t for naught! Not only did I pass, but I went from a C- to a B! A freaking B, not even a B-!!! I’m still so shocked… I also ended up with over a 100 for lab, but I honestly kinda expected that. I’m just so glad I graduated without failing Orgo 2. Was infinitely better than Orgo 1, but goodbye, will never see you again. If I ever do, it’ll be too soon… Had hella good professors, though. That, I will say.

I go from ranting about Orgo to raving, even though it’s almost been a month… Oops ^^” The grade just still makes me so giddy, haha. Anyway, been mainly prioritizing drawing this (plus a part two to this, which I do have done as well, but I will be posting that sometime later today), though I did spend a good portion of the first half of this month rebooting my personal writing club. Enough about where I’ve been—let’s talk about the piece, shall we?

So, this was originally just an art idea I knew I wanted to do later, and when I saw what the first prompt was, it automatically came to the forefront of my mind. That, plus with the idea I eventually got for the second prompt, I really just had to. I actually probably could’ve gotten this done in a more reasonable time, but, see, when things are just an idea, I don’t put too, too much thought into them—only enough to consider them neat or substantial or something.

When it actually came to it, I found myself at a dilemma of just how faithful I wanted to stick with Orihime’s confession. Originally, I thought about incorporating the five specific things she mentioned into different past lives, but then I realized the timelines wouldn’t really make sense with what I was going for, especially considering Soul Society and stuff, which I had not thought about. So I kinda had to choose between previous lives or parallel lives. I initially went with the latter, but… idk, last minute, like the week of, I decided after checking the prompt list one more time that, nah, I definitely wanted previous lives. So, uh… yeah… I might still end up making a parallel lives version of this in the future, ‘cause I did like those ideas, too. We’ll see.

Anyway, I did try to make them at least somewhat reminiscent of the five things: Orihime and Hikoboshi are related to the astronaut thing ‘cause of space and stars and stuff. Heian Period IchiHime, well, it’s a bit of stretch, but I couldn’t really fit donuts in here since the timeline between them and the introduction of ice cream and the current timeline would’ve made one/two of these lives tragically short without even factoring in Soul Society—nothing wrong with tragedy, but not for this post, haha. So I went with small Chinese cakes ‘cause they’re a sweet? And they’d definitely be a very rare and special treat, so… idk.

Shinigami IchiHime’s also a bit of a stretch? You’d think I’d have the easiest time with being a teacher sometime in history, but I ended up sticking it here, and I was adamant I wanted to draw them in their academy days. So, you’ve got Orihime teaching Ichigo some kido techniques or something, idk. Maybe there’s also a kido equivalent to the dummy Hollow thing? And Orihime has a similar/equivalent position to Shuuhei for that? Idk, am just spitballing here to justify myself even though I know I don’t have to.

Then finally, we got Edo Period IchiHime, with Ichigo introducing ice cream to Orihime for the first time ever. And then of course, I shouldn’t have to explain the last one, haha.

Oh, God, I have so much to catch up on… which I will do later. And hey, since my scheduled posts are all up, I guess I’ll just use my queue to reblog posts I’ve missed since Ik I definitely will be reblogging a lot—don’t wanna bombard you with a ton of posts, aha. I will be making them daily instead of weekly, though, so that I’m not stashing them for too long. Starting tomorrow.

[eternaltae7]

Hani’s Family History

Fox of BTS | BTS 8th Member

Interviewer: “Hani, can you tell us about your family background and how it has influenced you as an artist and performer?”

Hani: “Absolutely! I come from a unique blend of Irish and Korean cultures that has shaped who I am. My dad is from Ireland, a charming town just outside Dublin, and he has always had a deep passion for history. He would tell us captivating stories about ancient castles and Irish folklore. It’s funny because he actually moved to Chicago for college, where he met my mom.”

Interviewer: “What is your mom like?”

Hani: “My mom is amazing! She’s from South Korea and is a brilliant artist. She studied fine arts in Chicago and was really focused on painting and pottery. They bonded over their love for culture and creativity. It’s incredible how they both brought their dreams and aspirations together. After they graduated, they moved to Ireland for a few years, where my dad taught history. He was so dedicated that he even spent a lot of time learning Korean, just to connect with my mom’s heritage.”

Interviewer: “That must have been a significant transition for your family.”

Hani: “Definitely! My mom always dreamed of moving back to South Korea one day. My dad, realizing how important that was for her, secretly started applying for teaching jobs in Korea. When he got an offer from a university in Seoul, he told my mom, and she was surprised he hadn’t mentioned it before. She was really excited to return home, even though it came right after I was born. It wasn’t easy for them to move an infant across the world, but they were determined to make it work.”

Interviewer: “How did they adjust once they moved?”

Hani: “They thrived! My dad became an amazing history professor! He has a knack for making history come alive. My mom quickly established herself as an artist and teacher. Some of her work is in local galleries and teaches at a high school. They both found their place in Seoul, and it’s so inspiring to see how they integrated their backgrounds.”

Interviewer: “That’s wonderful to hear. How did your upbringing influence your own career?”

Hani: “My parents really encouraged me to embrace both sides of my heritage. We celebrated Korean holidays like Chuseok and Seollal, while also honoring Irish traditions like St. Patrick’s Day. They blended both cultures seamlessly at home. My mom would cook traditional Korean meals while my dad introduced us to Irish dishes, which created this beautiful fusion. It taught me to appreciate and celebrate diversity.”

Interviewer: “What about your brother, Owen? How does he fit into this dynamic?”

Hani: “Owen is three years younger than me, and he’s incredibly talented in music. We’ve always collaborated on creative projects, and he recently decided to attend the same college in America that our parents went to, which I think is really special. Growing up, we’d often visit our maternal grandparents in Iksan, where my mom would share stories of her childhood. Those visits were formative for both of us, and they instilled a strong sense of our family history.”

Interviewer: “It sounds like family is very important to you.”

Hani: “It really is! We maintain a close connection, often sharing traditions from both cultures during family gatherings. We would visit Ireland every summer, which was magical. My brother and I loved spending time with our grandparents and cousins, hiking and exploring castles. Those trips created lasting memories and strengthened our bond as a family.”

Interviewer: “And how did your parents support your artistic aspirations?”

Hani: “They were incredibly supportive. They always encouraged me to pursue my passions, whether it was music or dance. My mom took me to art galleries, while my dad engaged me in discussions about history, nurturing my love for learning. Their encouragement and the blending of our cultural backgrounds inspired my artistic journey. I think that’s why I strive to create music that reflects my unique heritage—it’s a part of who I am.”

Interviewer: “Thank you for sharing your beautiful family story, Hani! It’s inspiring to see how your heritage has shaped you as an artist.”

Hani: “Thank you! I’m really proud of my background and the values my family instilled in me. It all comes together in my music and art.”

[multiplicity-positivity]

Hello, i have been questioning if im a system (and if i am it seems to possibly be median/im front stuck) mainly due to my inability to remember events others stated happened or have a weird disconnect from memories i do have (more so grey-outs not black-outs) unless they’re really emotionally attached memories (seeing a movie i liked, going to a theme park, my own birthdays or Christmas) and even then some parts of those memories are ‘blurred’ or ‘missing’.

I cant tell if this could be just my ADHD (given i also forget to do chores I dislike but can easily remember when something im exited about is coming up) forgetting parts or entire memories that i just dislike or have disinterest in. Or….?

(mention of fictional infant death down below!)

I have brought this up with my therapist but i also didn’t have terminology for ‘grey-outs’ when I did, now that I do i feel ill be able to more accurately explain what’s going on in my head. [i also feel i should state I have no experiences of things that seem traumatizing. At worst I (a more sheltered than average person) read a book then watched the movie that contained a scene of a baby being euthanized (it was a book we were reading in school & the teacher showed us the movie, this was middle school) and afterwards had my first panick attack during an allergy shot. And that sent me into a fit of anxiety for about a year, but I’ve been over that for a while & dont know if that classifies as trauma?]

Im still learning about systems and such, and you seem far more educated than me. Please help. 😅

hey, so we’re not an expert at all - just a system trying to share what we know. that being said, having memory issues in and of itself doesn’t really point to plurality to us, necessarily. lots of folks have issues with short or long term memory. brains are really complex and intricate, and plurality/dissociative disorders aren’t the only ways that amnesia can manifest. maybe check out our post on dissociative amnesia for a bit of our experience with this kind of amnesia specifically along with a few resources:

if you’re curious about complex dissociative disorders specifically (which we assume you are due to your mention of trauma), we’d like to say that repeated trauma in childhood is what causes these disorders to form. so witnessing one scary event in and of itself probably wouldn’t cause someone to develop a disorder as serious as did or osdd. it’s the repetition of trauma without an opportunity for the child to escape, process, or be supported which causes something like did to happen.

that being said, it’s very possible to be a system without trauma. lots of folks find that they’re plural without an extensive trauma history. and while many folks are plural without a dissociative disorder, some of them do have a form of plurality that was influenced by trauma, even if they don’t have a dissociative disorder. we’ll link our resource post for questioning systems so you can learn more about a bunch of different kinds of plurality, including dissociative disorders like did:

overall, we’ll reiterate that poor memory alone doesn’t really sound like a dissociative disorder to us, or even plurality as a whole. dissociative disorders come with a host of other debilitating symptoms, and plurality in general involves being multiple, or more than one.

you might have headmates who you just don’t know about. or you might not. ultimately this isn’t something we can answer for you. but hopefully with enough research and self-exploration, you’ll be able to answer this yourself.

sorry if this answer is weird or not quite what you were hoping to hear. we’re wishing you the best of luck with everything though, regardless of whether or not you’re plural.

🐢 kip and 🦇 kandi

[semper-legens]

56. My Heart Is A Chainsaw, by Stephen Graham Jones

Owned?: No, library Page count: 439 My summary: Jade is not a troubled teen. Sure, she loves playing macabre pranks on her classmates, doesn't have any friends, and sees life through the lens of slasher movies - but with the life she's been given, who can blame her? The only Native girl in her little rural community, living with a deadbeat dad and a world that hates her, Jade has every disadvantage in life and nowhere to go. But when the signs line up that a real-life slasher is coming to Proofrock, suddenly Jade's life has a deeper meaning. She knows what this is. She's ready. And she's going to make sure that the right story plays out. My rating: 4/5 My commentary:

I kept picking this book up and putting it down and picking it up and putting it down, not sure if I wanted to read it. There was, in fact, one thing that ultimately clinched it for me - the author. I read The Only Good Indians a while back and fell in love with its dark outlook, its complex politics, and the deep trauma that oozes from every page. This looked to be similar in style and tone, a dark urban fantasy with a killer on the loose, and only one girl who can stop it. But she's all kinds of fucked up and nobody wants to listen to her, of course. That's the way these things go. So how did the story pan out? Deeply engaging, strange, lyrical, and bloody as one might expect from a slasher tale. I enjoyed it, though it was by no means an easy read.

(Warning for mention of suicide, sexual assault and abuse, child molestation and incest under the cut.)

Jade is the main character and the main draw of this novel. A lot is riding on her as a protagonist, and I'm glad to say that she very much carries the narrative by being a deeply interesting character. Jade starts out bruised, wounded, latching onto her slasher-movie ideas of how the world works and fitting everything into that framework. She becomes fixated on Letha, a new and rich girl at school moving into the newly-built community of Terra Nova, because she is convinced Letha will be the 'Final Girl'. It's to the point where she reads really strongly as being autistic, with a hyperfocus that overrides everything. At various points, she wonders if going to the police about her concerns is worth it - she knows Letha needs to have certain experiences to set her up as Final Girl, and the police are useless in slasher movies anyway. Everything she does, she brings back to slashers. Interspersed throughout the chapters are essays she wrote to her beloved History teacher about slashers in lieu of homework, bringing her interest into the school subject. She's flawed, of course. Mentally ill, aware of her own strangeness, wrapped up in her own head, and hopelessly avoidant. But all of those flaws just make her a stronger character, and a very engaging one to boot.

This book is, largely, about trauma - both the specific trauma experienced by the main character and a more generalised trauma specific to Indigenous people throughout the US. (The characters universally use 'Indian' to describe Jade and her father, but I'm a white English person, so I'm going to use 'Indigenous' and 'Native'.) Jade is a very troubled kid. It's teased early on that something might have happened with her father - she hates him, and partially wants her life to be a slasher movie so that he dies. Letha suspects her father molested her, which she refutes; this turns out to be the case towards the end of the book, however. Jones' afterword to the book mentions that Jade as a character didn't start to solidify to him until after he read an article about a Native girl who killed herself after being abused by her father, and how widespread an issue that was in Native communities.

Jade herself starts the book with a suicide attempt, and throughout displays a lack of care towards her own life that is at the very least passively suicidal, if not actively trying to get herself killed. She's in denial, she's fixated on slasher movies both as a coping mechanism and as a refuge. Applying their framework to her life is how she rationalises and copes with the world around her. There's an underlying tension in earlier parts of the book as to whether there actually is a slasher killer on the streets of Proofrock or if Jade is drawing conclusions where there are none, wanting to protect girls from their fathers in a show of misplaced revenge. A lot of the more obviously slasher-y things we see only happen when Jade is alone, bringing into question her narration. That, plus the hazy, stream of consciousness first person voice really brings a dark and uncertain tone to the whole book.

And, of course, I'd be remiss if I didn't mention how race and Indigeneity plays into the entire affair. Does Jade fixate on Letha because she's Black, the only other girl of colour in school? But more than that, race underpins everything. The lake the bulk of the action centres around is called Indian Lake, and one of the first signs a slasher is in town is the mass-killing of elk nearby, a motif that also appears in The Only Good Indians. Hell, the rich people building a new settlement in town call their home Terra Nova, literally 'New World'. And the slasher? A ghost, it turns out - a little Native girl whose mother was killed, who herself died in a cruel prank, and whose spirit cannot sink beneath the waters of Indian Lake because she is a 'heathen' in the eyes of the Church. It all comes back to the poisoning of Native land and Native lives by the settlers who would claim it as their own - no accident, then, that Jade is the only one who sees the truth. Trauma both personal and intergenerational, and all circling around Jade. Poor kid. But such a compelling character, and I'm so glad I finally picked this up and read it. It's harrowing, but it's a really good read.

Next up, from one horrible thing to another, as we take a look at a boy who drew Auschwitz.

[eli-t-spoon]

WIP preview

Since it's pride month, I wanted to highlight one of the characters in my current WIP. Briar is a demigirl, who uses she/they pronouns, and this is her introduction in the book.

“Mind if I sit here? Everyone else is paired up with a friend, except old Silas back there, and he likes to conjure up his own little buddies,” the latest arrival said, gesturing at the seat next to her.

Bethany looked around the small room at the others waiting. There were only seven of them here, including herself, and a wide range of ages. Oisin waved to her from the other side of the room, where she was sitting with another young girl. An older man, somewhere in his fifties from the look of it, had taken a seat in the back corner and buried his nose in a book called ‘The Beginners Guide to Conjuring’, while a pair of teenagers were giggling to themselves in the front row.

“Sure, go ahead. I wouldn’t mind some company myself,” Bethany said.

The person nodded. “First lesson? Don’t worry, Darian’s a really good teacher,” they said. “I’m Briar, twenty-eight, she/they. It’s nice to meet you…?”

“Bethany,” she said. “Have you been learning magic for long?”

“Only a couple of weeks, but I’m still stuck on the theory. There’s something blocking me from actually casting anything, we’re not sure if it’s a mental block or something else, but I can still learn the ideas behind it all.”

Bethany nodded. “Sounds like a good plan. I have no idea if I’m even going to be able to do that,” she said. “I was stuck in basic education the whole time, they never let me near a magic book."

Briar made a sympathetic noise. “Ooh, that had to suck. Which hold were you in?”

“Balacai, and it did suck. I was the only one in the class over the age of ten, everyone thought I was some kind of idiot,” Bethany said. “Where were you from?”

“I’m from Koranat, from what I’ve heard it’s one of the more relaxed holds. Since I couldn’t get the hang of magic, they offered to help me find somewhere out here that I might fit in better, and here I am.” Briar was quiet for a moment. “Balacai, that rings a bell. Has something happened there recently that might have been passed around other holds?”

Bethany thought back. “Not that I know of, but I don’t really know much about what goes on in other strongholds. I guess you might have heard us mentioned in history class or something.”

“That might be it. We’ll have to compare notes sometime, see what we’ve been missing,” Briar said. They pulled out a small mirror and fluffed at the short half of their hair. “Do you think this style suits me? I wasn’t sure whether to have it long or short, so I went with half of each.”

Bethany looked at them properly. The right side of Briar’s hair was long, dark and straight, with bright pink streaks all the way down, while the left half was bleached almost white and cropped short. “Both look good. It’s definitely a unique style,” she said.

Briar laughed. “Usually when someone says that it means they hate it.” They clicked the mirror shut and winked.

“Oh, no, I didn’t mean it like that, I just meant I’ve never seen that kind of style before and it’s different,” Bethany tried to explain.

[spookyscarydemonbabe]

Hello! I was wondering what your thoughts on what the Hellfire club member's last and/or middle names would be :D idk it's just something going across my mind recently

(Also ack I meant to request this yesterday for my birthday but unfortunately I'm sick rn and I didn't because I was sleeping all day lol)

hello my love!! happy late birthday 🫶 i’m sorry i’m getting to this so late but i’m glad you asked!!!

I know that we already know Eddie’s full name from the show, and Emerson is a fanon last name for Gareth but i never see people talking about the other boys names!

I’m someone who often likes the idea of characters middle names being the same as the first names of the actors that portray them, i’ve found that most of the time it usually fits them quite well.

Edward Joseph Munson definitely fits him, especially with how both names sound more ‘proper’ given his personality. I assume his parents wanted to give him names that made Eddie seem like he was going to be a sweet boy when he was young but unfortunately they knew that probably wasn’t going to happen given his family history.

Gareth Gwydion Emerson 100% works in his case, especially given how i’ve headcanoned his family. His parents were hippies and they wanted their children to have fun names while still being able to be addressed formally by people. They knew they were naming adults, not babies, so they made all of their children have ‘normal’ first names and unique middle names to still give them a sense of their own personal style. (And while i’m getting into it, Claire’s middle name is Opal and Macys is Tigerlily)

I’ve never thought too much about last names for Jeff and Grant, especially because they don’t really have their own sections of the fandom, but i feel like their actors names work fairly well for them as well. Though i wished that we were given an actual name for Grants character inward as of just ‘freak’, from the few minutes of screen time they had you could tell they had very interesting personalities that all work so well together.

Jeff Trey Fisher i feel would suit him for how i’ve headcanoned his family. They’re upper middle class, never really struggled much, his family are very well put together and his older sister was actually quite popular when she was in high school but since she’s left she can’t do much to stop the other popular kids from being mean to her brother and the rest of Hellfire. It’s nothing super extravagant, but when you hear the name it sounds very casual, very normal. Which is exactly what his parents were going for. They didn’t care what their children’s personalities would be, which is why they have them both fairly neutral names. (And since i did it for Gareth i’ll also mention that his older sisters name is Patricia Michelle)

I’ve never really thought much about a middle name for Grant but i do know he would have a hyphenated last name.

Grant Baker-Peterson. Him, his younger brother, and his dad all agreed to also take his stepmoms last name when they got married. His dad and his brother are all fairly similar to him, bigger guys who stick mainly to themselves and never really have much to say. His stepmom is quite the opposite. She’s a sweet little thing who is always very bubbly and happy about anything and everything. (And because i can, his little brothers name is Thomas, and his stepmom was his elementary school teacher which is how her and his dad met each other.)

[bubu-pharmacy-doctor]

hate to derail the entire blog

what are deadly 60 and operation ouch

Deadly 60 is a show hosted by Steve Backshall. He goes around the world to find a list of 60 deadly animals. These are not animals deadly to humans, no, no, no. These animals must be deadly to THEIR OWN PREY!

Contenders include the blue ringed octopus, our tetrodotoxin baby which spawned a phrase I still use to this day! "It's not pretty, it's deadly!"

In the first series, he fed sting rays, ackowledging that they were the cause of Steve Irwin's death, and iterating to a rather large audience given time, that he would be the last person wanting them to be hated, a quite significant reason why the UK does not see sting rays as deadly, because Backshall genuinely had this much effect on the UK. They did not go on the deadly 60 list.

But what does! IS THE BOTTLENOSE DOLPHIN!

Operation Ouch is a show where Dr. Chris and Dr. Xand (twins!) (and I believe now Dr. Ronx, but they weren't on the show when I watched it. I should probably check out the recent episodes.) show you the true aspets of the human body fit with all the gore! AND MODELS!

Horrible Histories is a comedy sketch show wherein every sketch is historical, whether that be Nigel and "treacle" (we never learn treacle's name, but he calls Nigel honey), the gay paramedics of various eras who only make things worse before RUNNING AWAY RUNNING AWAY as the real paramedics get there, or D.S. Bones, Historical Road Traffic Accident Squad, he got demoted, he doesn't want to talk about it, or Ra, ra, Cleopatra! / Famous beauty coming at ya! / Ra ra, patra Cleo!

These shows fundamentally changed me.

I learnt I'm disabled because of Operation Ouch.

When we covered the Power & Conflict poetry for GCSE Literature, (Checking Out Me History by John Agard) and our teacher was giving us the context, she told us what Mary Seacole did, only mentioning Florence Nightingale, and I had to be the awkward student to ask "I already knew about Mary Seacole, but who's Florence Nightingale?". Everyone looked at me weirdly, one guy (who was bigoted in many ways so we don't trust his judgement) laughed at me because they thought I was an idiot. I'm not an idiot! I just learnt about the whitewashing of history WHEN I WAS EIGHT!

If you saw the massive toxicology spiel on this blog, my interest in such a thing was spawned because of Deadly 60, and it still carries me through biology to this day! IRUKANDJI!!!

[heisfunkymonkey]

An Interview with Daryl Eisenhower

A large read but please do read in! It sums up most of Daryl completely and I believe you'll enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed creating this for you all. Thanks!

@dt-oc-tournament

Morning, sir. Thank you for accepting our invitation to an interview.

It’s my pleasure, thank you for asking me to come around!

Would you mind stating your full name, age, current phone head, and occupation?

Odd thing to ask when I first walk in.

It’s for the transcript of this interview, sir.

Oh, well then sure. I am Daryl Eisenhower. My age as of the date of my birth is 105 yet I am physically 27, or so my doctor says. I have a world war II Handie-Talkie for a head and I work as a history teacher in a neighboring town’s high school.

What do you mean with “my age as of the date of my birth?”

I was born April 6th, 1918.

How is your body still, if you don't mind me saying, young after all these years?

Well, first things first, I died way back when. When I was in the service n all. They froze my body and I guess they woke me back up and put a phone on my head. I think it fits me pretty well.

What did you do all those years ago pre-dial up? You mentioned a service?

Nothing before the war, really, but I enlisted in the US Army as a tanker and worked up to being a tank commander. Don't remember much past that, it's pretty fuzzy when getting specific.

So does that describe why your head is different in your past photos? Were those from before the dialup?

I don't think I ever thought about that. Must've just been changed I guess, made me forget about the old me. I do look handsome though!

I apologize for asking, do you want us to go on to the general questions?

No no, don’t apologize, it’s alright. Although that’s why I came here so please do continue.

Although this isn’t too serious, do you like your new vacuum?

Yes, it's nothing special but it works, thanks for asking.

What do you think about the tournament?

It's interesting! Some odd folks but I think they're alright people. Lots of younger people too. You don't always see people like me around anymore.

Why do you carry that backpack around?

I thought we finished with these personal questions but it isn't a backpack! It's my brain! This here radio head doesn't hold all the guts of letting me talk and live, I'm hooked up to this thing 24/7.

Does that pose any concerns?

Billy has put me in a coma before and ever since then I've been more cautious but yes, yes it does. I have also slipped on chocolate milk in my school’s cafeteria which made me break something back there. I don’t think Gabby has found out what just yet, nor has my doctor but Gabby is less expensive so I refer to her more.

Lastly, what’s your overall plan towards getting through this tournament?

If I had to pick one thing I’d say it’s my charm! I’m a stand up guy, aren’t I?

That will be all for this interview. Again, thank you for coming!

It was great coming out here, thank you for the invite. Have a good day!

[zoela23]

Trusting Wikipedia

Anyone who had computers around while they were in school likely heard a teacher say “Wikipedia is not a trustworthy source,”. Wikipedia isn’t any less trustworthy than the average source and does the best it can to spread information.

There are three different types of sources, primary, secondary, and tertiary. Primary sources are sources generated by the events being discussed directly. Primary sources can include original paintings and poems, reports, letters, diaries, and more. Secondary sources look at the primary sources and explain them. Textbooks are a form of secondary sources. They also include reviews, analysis, and commentaries. Finally we have tertiary sources. Out of all three types of sources tertiary stands farthest away from first hand information. Tertiary sources digest other sources and organize them, turn them into abstracts, or just compile them. Some types of writing, like encyclopedias and biographies, can fit under both secondary and tertiary sources. Wikipedia on the other hand is clearly a tertiary source. 

Teacher’s dislike for Wikipedia might stem from the fact that it’s a tertiary source. When researching people are advised to stick to primary and secondary sources. Without tertiary sources research would be much more difficult. People use tertiary sources to better understand the information in other sources. Dictionaries get used to define unfamiliar words. Encyclopedias provide background information on events. Factbooks fill in gaps left by what some assumed was common knowledge. Research would become much more time consuming if we couldn’t use tertiary sources.

The nature of Wikipedia also lends to the common belief it can not be trusted. Wikipedia is a wiki. Wiki is a website format where the users create the content. The audience of the wiki creates and edits pages. Often the page prioritizes making it easier to correct mistakes made on a page than preventing the mistakes in the first place. On top of that users can add links that lead to malware infested websites to infect other computers.

There have been times when someone edited a Wikipedia page with false information. A story appeared on social media where someone claimed to change a page to win an argument. Off the top of my head I can think of one specific time. The users of Tumblr banded together to create a fake film. “Goncharov”, tumblr’s fake film, had it all, a year of release, a general theme, in depth reviews, a plot, charters, and an unwilling director. At the time tumblr users frequently went to the Wikipedia page of Martin Scorsese to add “Goncharov '' to the list of films he worked on. Each time an editor quickly corrected the page.

Wikipedia does it’s best to remain transparent to combat these problems. To see how the editing process works for myself. I went to Wikipedia’s page on the novel. The novel page defines the genre and discusses the history surrounding it from as early as the medieval era to the twenty-first century. 

Under the line under the title of the page and on the right hand side of the pages sits a blue link titled view history. Opening this link brings you to a page featuring a list of the changes made on the page. The list includes the date the change happened, who created a change, a summary of why the change was made, the username of the person who made the change, and more. 

The entries on the history page don’t list what changes are made. Half of the entries on the history for the novel page don’t have a change summary. The entries that do have a summary don’t really tell the user what changed. Some entries list which subheading the change occurred under. Others mention that they changed spelling, added punctuation, or removed an unnecessary word but don’t say where they did that. Wikipedia does have a feature that lets a user see exactly what changed. Selecting the bubble next to an entry can open up a new page comparing the most recent version of the page. There’s also a link that compares each version to the previous version. The comparison shows the sections with differences side by side. The line number of the sections appears next to the sections and the actual changes are highlighted.

The history page can seem confusing. Each entry looks like a string of numbers and words. There’s another link on the history page, “Help:Page History”. “Help:Page History” explains how the history page works. It also breaks the entries down and explains the separate part. On the “Help:Page History” page there’s another link that boils the string of words and numbers to their meanings. These pages make the history page accessible to those who don’t use Wikipedia often. Wikipedia is collaborative and it wouldn’t make sense for even amateurs to have difficulty navigating the site.

The history page also mentions if the changes made are minor changes. If an edit is minor it means that the change doesn't affect the meaning of the article. Things like fixing the reference section and clarifying a sentence count as minor edits. All non-minor edits should get reviewed by all editors concerned with that specific page. About fifty percent of the edits made on Wikipedia’s novel page got marked as minor.

The history page informs the viewer which user made the changes. Often tertiary sources aren’t credited to an author but the history page credits each editor with their individual contributions. Even if the author uses an anonymous user name they’re not anonymous the way that most fear when talking about the dangers of relying on Wikipedia. Clicking on a user name brings the user to the page of the editor in question. The page can show badges awarded by Wikipedia that show how long a person has worked with the organization. Some users also give brief descriptions of their interests and their professions. Clicking over to talk brings up conversations the editor has had over the website in the past. Most editors who worked on the novel page have a page like this. On the novel page roughly 34 editors responsible for the last 500 changes didn’t have  Even when the editor does not have the page the users can still see what they’ve contributed to Wikipedia ove user er the years by clicking “contribs” shortly after the user name. All of this gives users the ability to assess the credibility of those who wrote the article.

Looking at the contributors’ pages also offers a better understanding of how Wikipedia itself works. Editors who have worked on Wikipedia for a significant amount of time have awarded badges pinned to their page. Not all the badges proclaim the individuals to be editors, some claim different positions. There are also communications directly from Wikipedia. One one user the first communication with Wikipedia to show up thanks that particular user for significant contributions to a literature page. Other users received warnings from Wikipedia. One warning was for engaging in an editing war. Editing war refers to when editors undo the same change more than once.  The warning clarified what an editing war ment, provided the appropriate steps for a user to engage in if someone edited over something incorrectly, starting with communicating directly with the individual. The fact that each article is the result of multiple people banding together matters to Wikipedia. The step after working directly with the other person in the disagreement had been to reach out to other members for assistance. The warning finished by mentioning that if it becomes necessary the page can temporarily be locked, making it clear that the organization is willing to intervene for the sake of accurate information. 

Another user received a warning about links they had added to a Wikipedia page in the past. It goes over what is acceptable for a Wikipedia page. Links can’t lead to personal pages or advertisers. Wikipedia exists to inform people, meaning they don’t want anyone trying to use the site to sell people things.

Wikipedia didn’t just offer warnings or thanks, it also offered advice. One editor tried something that ended up not working well. Wikipedia suggested that the user tries out an idea on a separate page next time and not the main page. They provided links for the user to look at for tips on how to format articles. There was no interest in discouraging this user from posting again, just providing resources for them to do so better in the future and suggestions on how to try something without interfering with the average person looking for information. The point of using a wiki format for the website is to get multiple people to participate in the final product. It makes sense for Wikipedia to do what they can to improve writing.

Two tabs sit right under the title of the article. Article sits on the left and is already selected. The other tab is “Talk”. This tab features a space to talk about improvements that editors can make towards the article. At the very top of the page Wikipedia establishes the behavior they expect participants to have towards other participants. It also explains that any information offered must come with a source.

There are some noticeable trends in the conversations that occur when looking through the talk page for the novel page. Multiple discussions occur about creating separate pages for topics addressed in the article. Sometimes action is taken, sometimes it is not. The oldest discussion on the novel page discusses adding a separate page featuring a bibliography of the history of the novel to help students who want to research the topic. No one ever replied to the original poster. As far as I can tell the separate bibliography did not get created. Later on some suggested that the history of the novel should be given its own section. In this discussion we saw some back and forth on the issue. Some thought the parts of the article focused on history had become too long and needed a page of its own. Others claimed that the only thing the history section needs is more structure. The discussion eventually reached the conclusion that while separating the history section would make sense for some articles it was a necessary part of this article. The third mention of a separate article came about the amount that the fiction novel by Snoopy from Peanuts came up in the article. The participants agreed that Snoopy’s fiction novel had little to do with the rest of the article. Now there is not a single mention of Snoopy in the novel article.

Participants discuss whether or not something would be considered a novel in a few different conversations. This makes sense considering that novel is a loosely defined classification. The article defines novels as fiction narratives that are relatively long or include incidents that are uncommon or marvelous. That definition leaves a lot open to interpretation. People bring in their understanding of novels and what constitutes a novel. This is the point of a wiki, different people bringing in and compiling ideas. There are viewpoints that aren’t readily available to us due to the way we’ve been taught, or raised. Problems occur when people not only bring their interpretations, but their rigid understanding. Novels are a wide topic but some people narrow it down, unknowingly excluding parts. With multiple people doing this, or even just one person adding a narrow definition, the article can end up contradicting itself. This does happen more than once as indicated by the talk page. Each time users discussed and resolved the issue.

Different problems that boiled down to making the article easier to understand came up often. The participants talked about whether something fit in the place it currently was. Problems with organization came up. They talked about overuse of images distracting from the article contents. Even the mention of adding sections to another page would be considered attempts to make the article simpler to understand. Many of the people working to edit Wikipedia pages are just passionate about what they’re discussing and want to share what they know. They understand they need to say it in a way that other people can understand. The edit history reflects the desire to make things more comprehensible. There are edits that have a summary claiming clarification, adding missing words and spaces, and fixing grammar all for the sake of being understood.

People act as if Wikipedia can not be trusted under any circumstance. Others act as if Wikipedia is the end all be all of sources. Neither group is correct. People can add things that are incorrect to a page either out of misinformation or on purpose. Different editors could get into fights on the page itself. Wikipedia does the best it can to avoid these fights but they do still happen from time to time.

Wikipedia has many strong points. The site's flexibility means outdated information won’t plague it the same way it fills old encyclopedias. Multiple people take responsibility, meaning two things. First off, multiple points of view are taken into consideration. This provides better information on subjective categories like the novel. Multiple voices can be very useful in learning, that’s why in class discussions are frequently utilized by teachers. In less subjective topics it provides the ability to spot sentences and phrases that don’t transfer well culturally. The second part is that multiple eyes go over the facts. These eyes can confirm facts, fix incorrect common knowledge, and add sources for facts that were mistakenly considered common knowledge. Wikipedia also requires sources to be listed. 

Wikipedia can be utilized for projects but readers need to be critical of what they’re reading. People should always be critical of what they’re reading, whether they’re reading a primary source or Wikipedia. Wikipedia provides everything a person needs to critically examine what they are reading.

[bilbobagginsomebabez]

oh this is fun. i'd been avoiding any mention of it for years too because of the Discourse Hell surrounding it and at this point I'm mostly convinced that Vvienne Mdrano is a Messy Person on the Discourse Website with a cringey artistic fixation. it's all tumblr drama.

watched the show myself first, didn't find it objectionable, and then went looking for what everybody was so mad about. I found this Mary Sue article about it then cruised around the hzbin hate tags. the primary issues floating around with hzbin htel are:

all the gay characters are in hell which they say implies gay people deserve to be in hell. [dismissed based on the premise of the show, which is that heaven's rules for paradise are arbitrary and people in hell are still good/redeemable]

Angel and p much everything about them. most of these complaints are about good/bad representation (off to a great start lmao) and whether it's offensive that Angel is an addict who likes sex but is still exploited. just every ounce of sex work discourse possible transposed onto a fictional character. [from what i've seen, actual sex workers seem to like Angel Dust just fine, so again whatever imo.]

Medran0 has had a tumblr blog for the entire development history and on that blog did a few major things that really pissed people off.

[1] origin of the sexual predator stuff. she drew one of her own characters in a SFW but sexy pose with a snake. bad because the character was a minor. apparently the fan wiki says the character is 18. also drew a student/teacher relationship. [personally i just do not give a fuck about any of it.]

[2] origin of transphobia. she drew fanart of blair white after trump was elected. that whole bit is genuinely batshit. said she had a mental breakdown and convinced herself she didn't understand politics and needed to hear other perspectives. started watching blair white, thought she was pretty, and drew her. [i don't like this and think it's deeply bizarre but i also find it hilarious and existentially fitting that she describes her temporary appreciation of blair white as a serious mental breakdown and the worst time of her life. she has apologized and hasn't done anything like it since. mostly i see why her creative fixation is a show about redeeming people who are genuinely fucked in the head and do bad things in that headspace. and i also see why this did not end her career as many people on the webbed site seem to wish it did.]

[3] plagiarism stuff.

(a) she traced designs from larger projects and posted them. didn't make money off them and the things that appear in any Produced Work are pretty boilerplate animation homages. [imo this complaint is mostly the lingering effect of 15 yr olds not knowing how anything works]

(b) bought some character designs off of an artist/ex-friend and then the relationship soured. contract didn't require credit after she bought them so she removed the name of the ex-friend from her stuff. ex-friend tried to launch a lawsuit about it which was summarily dismissed and she stopped using the character design. medran0 alleges the friend was abusive. [i dont have an opinion on this and won't be forming one.]

4. pure cringe.

this is something my friend said and it's the epitome of it. most accurate comment on the show i've seen so far. it's a show that's directed STRAIGHT at those exact same depressed teens except they're adults now with different, bigger problems and still hoping it will get better. the humor and the themes are aged up, but not the emotional core or aesthetic. and i think that's fair. it hasn't gotten better for everyone and while I'm not in that place anymore and it doesn't Hit Me In My Feels, i get why it does for others.

Okay I don’t know anything about h*zbin h*tel but hasn’t it been in the works for like 8 years? Isn’t the creator like some kind of sexual predator apologist or something? Literally what’s going on?

[shesjustanothergeek]

Rapture

|Professor Jack Gladney x Fem!Reader|

One Shot

Summary: You are a History major at The-College-On-The-Hill and must take a Hitler studies class as part of the curriculum. You get distracted during the two-hour lecture and can't pay attention which Professor Jack Gladney takes notice of, forcing you to stay after class to have a word.

Warnings: age gap, blowjobs, literally face fucking, cum swallowing, hairy pussy (it's the 80s, what can I say), power imbalance, mentions of WW2 and Nazis, teacher-student relationship, dubcon, you are a super girly queen who likes to take pictures, Jack wears his glasses as he rails you from behind, cock the size of a soda can, degradation.

Author's Note: Welcome to the 80s! It's totally tubular, yo! Anyways, welcome to another Jack Gladney fic. This story has no plot, just some good ol' hanky panky. I wanted to create a raunchy, corny, 80s porno-esque, sheet gripping story with horny old man Jack. A song called Rapture by Blondie was playing over and over in my head while writing this and I was defiantly inspired by it. I want to say that since we're in the 80s, you have hair long enough to be in a ponytail and permed. If you have trouble picturing that, just look up "80s side pony," and you'll see what I mean. Well, I hope you guys like it and don't get turned off by some of the things I wrote.

The autumn air was sharp as you walked the concrete pathway to your Hitler Studies Class, cutting your cheeks raw as you huddled in your bright windbreaker. Crispy orange oak leaves crunched under your white sneakers, accenting each step as you huffed up the hill, skinny jeans clinging tight to your body.

You paused for a moment, shrugging your backpack off and taking out a compact black case, unzipping it to reveal your Polaroid camera and snap a picture. You smiled as the beautiful autumn landscape was printed on the paper and the photo slowly appeared.

Fall was always your favorite time of year. The short space between summer and winter filled your bones with the excitement for new beginnings. You never understood why people used spring as the figurehead for growth and rebirth when autumn made more sense. People were starting school, returning from vacations, and thinking about the holidays. Things were dying, melting into the ground and decaying, creating room for new life to grow. Wouldn't that be the first step in the cycle?

You opened the heavy metal door to the historic building, grunting and using all your weight to fling it so you could run inside before it slammed behind you.

The halls were always quiet and bare, as it was mainly used for only the history majors. The smell of cigarettes lingered in the wooden floorboards and carpets of the lecture halls, even with the "no smoking" signs plastered everywhere. It was the 80s. For Christ's sake, people should know better by now. You were confident it was mainly just the teachers anyways. Old habits die hard.

You entered the lecture hall. Rows and rows of wooden desks and old, creaky chairs with small lamps lined the entire room. A few students had already taken their seats, dotting the space. Your Professor, Mr. Gladney, looked up from his podium in the front of the class, noticing the noise. You smiled and gave a little wave in greeting, but he didn't respond. Only staring at you blankly with his deep brown eyes and slightly aged face until you made it to your respective seat in the second row. His eyes snapped back to whatever he was doing, clearing his throat and scratching the top of his receding Chesnut hair once you did.

You shrugged the awkward exchange off, ignoring the butterflies that formed from his attention.

He was always like this, quirky, almost with his obsession for his job. You would never be able to understand why or how someone could devote their entire life to learning about a literal genocidal maniac, but in a way, it fits him. He was so focused on his studies and teaching he never really made time to develop the ability to have actual conversations with students. It was almost endearing. You supposed he didn't need to, anyways. He didn't need to befriend his students; he had his own family and problems to deal with. All he was required to do in that aspect was be able to answer any questions they had and, on occasion, discuss an assignment.

More students began to file in, taking up the empty spaces and filling the room with the smell of the outdoors. You rummaged through your backpack, pulled out the spiral notebook dedicated to your Hitler Studies Class, and settled in for the two-hour-long lecture.

You were an hour and a half into the class when you felt your stomach begin to ache, empty. You silently cursed the feeling, realizing you should have eaten before arriving. Taking gulps of your water was not enough to satiate your hunger, and you became irritable, bouncing your leg impatiently while glancing at the clock. You only had to endure another twenty minutes of gut-wrenching agony. You draped your arm over your abdomen, trying to comfort yourself inconspicuously.

Professor Gladney caught your hunched-over form as he descended the stairs leading to the chalkboard in long strides. His eyes traveled up and down your figure with a slight scowl, his pink lips pouting. You blush, embarrassed that he saw you looking weak like a child. You scrunched your face in disappointment. You began rummaging through your bag, looking for anything, a granola bar, an opened package of Fig Newtons, anything that could satiate your hunger, but finding nothing besides a pack of bubblegum. This would have to do.

You looked around as you pried the sealed bag, trying not to make a sound and draw attention. It mostly worked, except for the fact that the direction of the sound waves went straight to your Professor, sighing with his hand on his hips. He glared at you before going back to talking about the tactics the Nazis used to dehumanize the groups Hitler deemed the cause for Germany's hardships.

You should have been paying attention, especially since this was a required course for you to graduate, but the constant gnawing in your stomach wouldn't let you. Trying to distract yourself, you twisted your hair around your index finger, pulling on it, inflicting a different pain on your body as you popped the baby pink gum. You glanced at the black and white clock again, the constant ticking antagonizing you, knowing how much discomfort you were in. You couldn't help it when a groan of annoyance bubbled up, seeing there were still ten minutes left.

"Miss..." Professor Gladney said your last name sharply, face sour. "Is this not interesting enough for you?" Your face burned as you sunk into the creaky chair, anxiety growing from being the center of everyone's attention.

"Uh, no, Mr. Gladney. I-I mean yes, Mr. Gladney." You couldn't form a coherent sentence with his eyes staring intensely into you, your thighs squeezing shut. He paused on your squirming form, expression being overshadowed by something... different.

Professor Gladney huffed, shaking his head and running a hand through his wavy light brown hair before continuing his lecture, flipping the projector on for the documentary he was ending the class with. You were thankful Professor Gladney turned the lights off. It made it easier to hide the shame heating your skin, the ache in your gut.

You felt like an idiot for being so careless with your thoughts and actions, finding the plastic-coated pack and shoving another piece to distract you.

Finally, the clock struck the hour, and Mr. Gladney flipped the lights on and switched the film off.

You bunched your things together, not caring to organize them as you shoved them in your bright pink backpack, practically sprinting down the stairs until you heard your name called. Dread filled your bones, weighing you down in your spot.

"Yes, Mr. Gladney," you responded with gritted teeth, plastering on a fake smile as you turned to face him. He pushed his blue-tinted glasses up as he scowled.

"I need you to stay after class." His request was simple enough and wouldn't have bothered you any other day, but you really needed to leave this time.

"Can I do that another time, please? I'm starving," you whined. You were becoming nauseous from the lack of food. You sighed, shrugging your bag closer.

"No, Miss," he said, your last name, annoyed with your antics and crossing his arms, "I need to speak with you in private."

You were starting to get angry now. All you wanted was a little snack. You smacked the gum in your mouth, purposefully trying to be loud as an act of defiance when the last few students filed out. You groaned and walked to an extra desk by his podium, dropping your book bag with more force than usual.

Professor Gladney sat at the complex plastic table next to you, puffing hair through his mouth as he bent his knees. His age was catching up to him. You rolled your eyes, irked with every second not spent shoving your face full of food. He placed his hands on the rectangular table, lacing his fingers together as his eyebrows scrunched in thought, lips pursing. You blew a bubble, crossing your legs.

"Do you know why I asked you to stay behind today?" He interrogated, finally initiating the conversation, making you one step closer to leaving.

You sucked the expanded gum back in, tilting your head. It cracked and popped as you went back to chewing it abhorrently.

"No. I don't think I do, sir. Could you please tell me?" Your voice was snippy as Mr. Gladney whipped his gaze up, as you blew another bubble, popping even louder.

"I asked you to stay because you didn't retain a single piece of information the entire lecture," he answered.

You scoffed, throwing your head back as you sneered. "Did not." You continued gnawing on the pink bubblegum. His sigh came out as a growl as he slammed his fists on the table.

"Will you stop chewing that god-damned gum!"

You jumped in your seat, the rubber candy nearly falling out of your mouth at his sudden outburst. The surprise wore off quickly as your belly made a grumble, anger finally coming to the surface.

"Oh, yeah? What are you gonna do about it, huh? Make me spit it out?" You hugged your abdomen tightly as another wave of hunger struck you.

Professor Gladney didn't reply, only giving you a heated stare. You stood up, pushing your seat back with a screech. "Yeah. That's what I thought."

You picked up your backpack, not bothering to put it on as you stormed out. You were halfway to the door as you felt a sharp yank nearly make you fall backward. You spun around, ready to fight your teacher that stopped your escape.

"What the fu-"

A kiss caught your words as Mr. Gladney's mouth crashed onto yours, forcing you to backpedal and slam into the classroom door, shutting it.

His tongue was skilled, the soft sensation of it eliciting a moan from you as his hand went to your throat.

"You're such a fucking nuisance. Distracting me with those juicy lips, stuffing that gum in your mouth. I'll give you something to stuff it," he rambled against your lips.

Your eyes were wide as he continued kissing you, shocked but not upset by the intrusion, gradually gaining the confidence to run your fingers through his short wavy brown hair. He wouldn't leave your mouth even when he locked the door and pulled the small curtain covering the small porthole. You struggled to breathe with his face smashed against yours, and you attempted to pull back, only getting enough as your foreheads pressed together.

"You said you were fucking hungry," he hummed through his nose. "I'll give you something to eat."

He brought his wide fingers into your hair, tangling them. You squinted in confusion, unsure of what he meant as he brought you to your knees, face level with his crotch, a prominent bulge poking through the tan fabric. Your eyes darted up to his as you realized what he meant but were still uncertain about moving.

"Go on. Suck my cock." He motioned with his head.

You wet your lips, unzipping his kakis with two fingers as you found purchase on his sturdy thighs. As you brought them down, you palmed the bulge, glancing at him for reassurance. His eyes were closed, brows pinched in pleasure, glasses sliding down his aquiline nose, lost in your touch. Taking that as a sign to continue, you hooked your fingers into the hem of his white underwear, spotting the tuft of black hair, a few greys strands hiding here and there. You brought them down, revealing his full, unobscured length. Your mouth hung open at the sight. You couldn't help the quiet gasp that slipped.

Mr. Gladney looked down at you, chuckling at your reaction, proud to have won it. He nudged you forward with his hand.

"Take it. Use those pretty lips you were so keen on annoying me with earlier." His voice was low and thick, directed down to you, laced with desire.

You went to feel the gum in your mouth, wanting to spit it out to make room for him but couldn't find it. Mr. Gladney noticed your bewildered expression and laughed again, jaw moving as he rolled the missing piece, showing it to you. You shook your head slightly as you opened your mouth, wrapping your hand around his thick cock, fingers barely touching.

You licked a stripe up the side, exploring the ridges and veins as he hissed from above, pulling your hair tighter and tasting the salty precum dripping out. You worked him with your wrist as you slowly wrapped your lips around the tip, having to open your jaw as far as possible to take even a little as you felt his knees buckle. You pulled your head back with a pop, gasping for air as your hand moved faster. You smiled inwardly, proud to have nearly crippled your stone-cold Professor.

You could hear Mr. Gladney cursing under his breath, losing control as he felt the tension in his gut tighten. He was in a constant state of arousal around you, it was a continuous hum underneath his skin, but his mind was more vigorous. He had held back for quite some time, and even though he knew he could handle this forever, as long as he got off at the end of the day, seeing you in that bright windbreaker, your hair permed and pulled up to the side made him furious. How could you sit there, twirling your ponytail and smacking your lips, oblivious to how he yearned for your soft flesh, and not be punished for it somehow?

He gripped the back of your hair tighter at the thought, pushing your head further down his fat cock until you were a gagging mess below him.

Your lips twitched as you struggled to adjust to his side; you couldn't take all of him. He was too broad. You tried pulling back for air, dry heaving and squirming against him as he ignored you, pushing you down until it bulged in your throat.

"Fuck, yes." He sighed, tipping his head back in ecstasy. "Choke on my fucking cock, you disgusting little slut. You're gonna take my fucking load down your throat. You're gonna eat it when I'm done."

Mr. Gladney finally pulled your head back, not wanting you to retch on him before slamming your face repeatedly, nose smooshing against his pelvis with each thrust.

"You're a fucking nymph. Waltzing in here every day with those stupid fucking clothes that make you look twelve and then ignoring my lecture like a brat. You're disgusting." He degraded you as if you repulsed him, but you knew better. He loved it.

Jack Gladney was a dirty, perverted old man, but only for you. He loved how you acted like a schoolgirl, bright-eyed and ignorant but still mature for someone your age. It drove him wild, the iniquity of it all—only his little nymphet of a student.

You could tell he was close to the edge. His legs shook beside you as his thrusts became sloppy. Bringing your free hand up, you began playing with his balls, the skin delicate and smooth underneath his curly hair as you felt him jolt, the pleasure too intense to hold back from as he shoved your face into him, grunting and spraying load after load down you throat, filling your empty stomach. Your breathing was ragged as you waited for Professor Gladney to pull out, your nails digging into his hairy thighs.

He couldn't support his weight and leaned into the classroom door as you looked up at him. You maintained eye contact as he slowly slid out of your mouth, jaw aching and gasping for air once free. You took a moment to collect yourself, wiping the drool and smeared mascara on your face, glancing at him nervously a few times. He pushed himself off the door and kicked his pants from his ankles, crouching down quickly to drag you to the nearest desk.

Confusion struck as he guided you. How could he be ready for round two? Most boys around your age would cum and need to fall asleep afterward, but here he was, dragging you across the room to fuck you. 

You were too stunned to speak as he bent you over it, breasts resting on the cool top, ass in the air. You heard Mr. Gladney mumble something behind you, and you turned your head to see as a crack echoed in the lecture hall. You squealed, back arching and shifting forward at the unexpected impact.

"Don't chew gum in my class again," he said, your last name, scolding you and smacking your ass again, "unless you want to experience something worse than a spanking."

Your mind was mush as he hit your other cheek, bringing his hand to soothe the hot skin.

"Mr. Gladney!" You cried out, clenching your fingers, nails biting crescents into your palms.

"Say that again," you heard him groan behind you. You yelped it again as he smacked you before reaching his hand around and unbuttoning your jeans.

He rolled them down your supple thighs along with your panties and revealed the sore skin from his punishments. He bent down, knees cracking as he mouthed at the sensitive area, licking and sucking comfort marks. You reached your arm behind you, moaning and pushing his face closer into you. You sighed his name again as he groped your other cheek.

He ran his meaty fingers along your cunt, moaning as he felt the unshaven area. Just the way he liked it.

His thumb brushed over your clit, making you gasp as he pulled away to look at you, eyes rolling back at the beautiful sight of your hairy pussy. He didn't think this day could get any better. He pressed his thumb further and drew circles, making your eyes roll back in rapture as he glided two digits through your wet folds.

"Look at that. Look at how wet you are for your Professor." Mr. Gladney's voice was thick, the warmth of it fanning on your skin, sending goosebumps throughout your body.

You craned your neck back, attempting to get a view of his fingers, and sure enough, they were soaked. His digits shined with your juices, coating the tips as he licked his lips, shoving them into his mouth with a moan. You dropped your head and closed your eyes, feeling another wave of heat swell your cunt as you rubbed your thighs together, wanting to have your neglected hole filled.

Threads of pleasure began to disperse from your clit as Professor Gladney continued to rub circles. You clenched around nothing and began to whine, wanting to be filled with anything. His fingers, his cock, hell, even the film roll from the projector would be fine so long as you were stuffed.

Mr. Gladney's fingers left his mouth with a pop, satisfied with your taste as he saw you becoming impatient.

"Please," you whimpered, "I need you inside me."

You didn't have to look to see his smirk, arrogance, and cockiness replacing his usual indifference.

"Aww, look at you, so needy. Begging for your Professor's cock to fill you up." He crooned, his face inches away from your cunt, his breath tickling the wire hair.

"Please. I-I can't take it anymore." Your eyes started to water, the desire too much to keep inside.

He ignored you again, shoving his face between your legs and slurping your flesh. The relief was mild as he lapped at your clit, nose buried deep inside your cunt. You were almost on edge, teetering over the cliff side just needing the final push he refused to give. You knew he was punishing you for being such a brat earlier, ignoring his lecture and popping the gum loudly in disrespect. Part of you felt it was deserved and that you needed to endure it, but the other one, the selfish part, wanted to cum so badly.

"Please, Mr. Gladney." He ignored you and continued to lap your clit. "Please, Jack."

He stopped his movements, exposing your cunt to the cold air of the classroom.

You knew that would get his attention and began apologizing for the informal title, but you needed him to listen or else you would die.

"I can't take it anymore," you said with tears. "I need your cock, Jack. I need you-"

Your words were cut short with the slam of your head onto the wooden table as Mr. Gladney positioned himself behind you. You gasped in pain as he leaned over your body, his hanging stomach brushing over your windbreaker, swishing.

"Don't call me that," his voice growled in your ear. "I'm your professor, and you will address me as such when you're in this classroom."

Your lip quivered as you nodded. He pulled away, only sliding his hand down to the base of your neck, not squeezing but reminding you who was in charge.

You could feel him moving behind you, shuffling closer as he guided his cock through your folds, wetting it. He slowly put the tip in, having to push harder than average from how tight you were. You cried out, fingers gripping the table as you felt him splitting you open. He hesitated for a moment, worried about hurting you. You weren't sure if you could take him inside after never having anyone as girthy before, but the relief of having your Professor an inch inside you was overwhelming.

"No, don't stop. I need you deeper," you begged. He obliged, the thin skin around your hole breaking as he went in further.

Mr. Gladney groaned as he felt the end of his cock brush your cervix, providing a pleasurable pain. You could feel him stretching your insides to their maximum as he seated inside wholly. You were a panting and blubbering mess under him, feeling so impossibly complete with only half of his cock inside you, sweat collecting on your forehead.

"I'm all the way in," he mumbled, releasing a breath he didn't realize he was holding.

Your walls strangled his cock, sending gratifying thumps with the blood flowing through the shaft. It was difficult for him to begin thrusting, your pussy creating a vacuum and sucking him back in like when you attempted to shove your foot into a shoe that was too small.

It felt amazing.

Professor Gladney hadn't had sex this great in a long time since his college years, actually, and he couldn't get enough. He squished your face further into the table, the flesh inside your mouth pinching between your teeth while he used his other hand to grip your hips for leverage. Your loud cries mixed with the erotic scent in the air had him acting berserk, fucking you from behind like an ape, grunting with every smack of his hips and speeding up.

You were sure students straggling from other classes could hear you from the halls as he landed an arduous thrust into your cervix. He slapped the hand that was pushing you down across your mouth to prevent arousing any more attention.

"Don't make a fucking sound," he seethed into your ear, "unless you want everyone to know what a disgusting whore you are. Fucking your forty-year-old Professor." Your eyes rolled back into your head, silently screaming as his fingers found your clit.

The pain mixing with the pleasure was immaculate as you drooled against his palm, breathing heavily through your nose. Mr. Gladney's grunts were strained through his lips as he pursed them tightly; you wished you could hear them in their entirety. Hear how he would suck air in when you clenched around his cock; listen to how he would growl dirty words into your ear as he fucked you from behind.

The pads of his fingers rubbing your overworked bud sent you tumbling down into ecstasy, spasming around him as you gripped the hand covering your mouth, thighs shaking. Your movements nearly caused the same for him, but he held back, stalling his thrusts to a slower rhythm, just as powerful. 

"Where do you want me?" He asked breathlessly, trying to hold back his impending orgasm as he removed his hand, gripping your shoulder. "Fuck." He smacked your ass when you didn't answer, still coming down from the high.

"I-I don't care. Anywhere."

He made no moves to stop his torture, stubbornly waiting for your answer as he began to overstimulate you.

"Mr. Gladney," you drew out, whining.

"Where the fuck do you want me to cum? You want my jizz inside of you then? You want your Professor's load dripping out of that hairy cunt? You wanna walk to your next class like that?" He antagonized you, shaming your state of being without saying so.

You shook your head. He refused to let up the force on your clit as you tried to move away, shoving you into the creaky wooden table and forcing your mind to focus on his question.

"My ass," you finally whimpered. "I want you to cum on my ass."

Mr. Gladney didn't hesitate to pull himself out, pumping his cock as he did, his spend shooting on your skin. You jumped slightly as the warm liquid splattered over and over, never seeming to stop as he drew out long moans of satisfaction. You couldn't believe he had so much left in him after cuming already. It was crazy how much he still had left.

You slumped down onto the desk, resting your tired body as he got the remnants of his orgasm out, exhausted. You felt him move, his body heat gone as he went get the box of tissues hidden on a shelf inside his podium, wiping his cum away. He let you rest there for a moment as he went to find his discarded pants and underwear by the door, putting them on.

You sighed as you slid into a sitting position, not caring how your bare skin was reclining on the dirty floor. You didn't have the energy to move, tired from the thorough fucking. Your stomach growled, reminding you of the other reason you were tired, and you pulled up the scrunched clothes at your ankles, struggling to steady yourself as you gripped the edge of the table next to you, knocking over a lamp. You turned around, hoping that Professor Gladney didn't see the embarrassing bag of bones you were as you put it back, but he seemed too preoccupied with looking through the uncovered window, checking for people outside.

You took a deep breath as you walked to where your bookbag was, ignoring the burn in between your legs. He turned, happy that no one was around, at least for the time being, and watched you.

It was comical how such a quiet, seemingly innocent student could be such a heathen when alone. Mr. Gladney never thought much of you other than a pretty face that sat in his class, but there was more to you. You had character, different sides to your personality as a student and a woman that he wanted to see and explore more in class or out. You were like a worksheet he passed out to his students, one where they only looked at the front, blissfully unaware that there was more on the back.

His eyes were concentrated as you walked towards him, stopping only a few feet away, silent. Professor Gladney looked at you curiously, wondering why you didn't use a snarky remark like before.

"You're blocking the door." You motioned behind him as he stepped out of the way, apologizing.

You turned the knob and went to pull away, but Mr. Gladney's hand placed itself upon yours, stopping you once again from leaving. You weren't upset this time as he asked you to wait.

"You're going to get something to eat after this, yeah?" You nodded, unsure of where he was going. "Let me take you out? It'll be my treat for keeping you so long." His words were just like anything else he had said, but you could see the anxiety behind his eyes.

Was he afraid you were going to tell someone?

You removed his hand from yours, placing it by your side as you looked up at him, noticing his glasses sliding down too far on his nose. You pushed them up.

"Professor, you don't have to worry about me telling anyone. Everything was consensual." You tried to reassure him. "Besides, I liked it," you joked, nudging him with your side.

Mr. Gladney hadn't even thought of the possibility that you could tell someone; that thought hadn't even crossed his mind. He felt foolish; typically, it was so sharp, priding himself on his strong intellect. Perhaps he wasn't as bright as he thought.

He continued to stare, rolling his lips in thought before he spoke.

"It's not that. I trust you."

Trust you? Did he trust you? He barely knew you. Honestly, you did keep to yourself during his lectures, and you didn't seem like the type of person to gossip, but he still wasn't sure. He regretted not taking the time to know his students now.

"I want to be polite for pulling you from your plans. It's the least I can do," he confessed, anxiously putting his hand into his pockets.

You mulled over the offer, wondering what it could mean to other people seeing the middle-aged Professor hanging out with a student on campus grounds. Your stomach decided for you as it let out a growl loud enough that even Mr. Gladney could hear.

You looked down, cursing the stupid thing that was the source of all your problems today as he laughed. You had never heard him actually laugh before. It was adorable. It was booming, filling the room and echoing in your chest.

"Yeah." You nodded. "Yeah, I think I would like to have a bite with you." You nodded more enthusiastically now as he opened the door, gesturing for you to leave first. "As long as you're paying," you jested, glancing back to him with a cheeky smile.

Of course, Mr. Gladney would pay. You didn't even have to specify that. He slightly shook his head, eyes crinkling at your humor. There were those snarky remarks. He was wondering where they went.

You skipped down the hall excitedly, him trailing behind as a thought came to you. Sliding your pink backpack down your shoulder, you unzipped it and found the familiar black camera case.

"Smile!" You shouted as the camera flashed before he could react. The picture printed as he questioned you.

"What was that for?"

You shrugged, brushing it off as you got a black sharpie, writing a little blurb for a title and putting the date.

"No reason. I just wanted to take a picture," you grinned. 

Mr. Gladney looked you up and down, confusion etched on his freckled features, trying to suppress a smile as you put everything away and continued walking to lunch. You exited the building as the sun blinded you, the photo flapping in the autumn wind as it formed. 

[altamont498]

So the BBC are shutting down CBBC (their kids channel) on TV and are moving it all online (because "people like Netflix/Disney+/YouTube")

And I must say how big a loss this is for British television.

For starters:

Not every household has "stable" broadband or mobile data access for streaming/watching stuff online—especially people who live in rural areas or people on low incomes.

The other platforms mentioned aren't 100% safe for kids (see the countless stories of kids getting hit with blood and gore videos that abuse the algorithms of YouTube or the Perfect Parent Brigade letting kids watch Squid Game and getting traumatised by the violence featured).

Plus it seems that every kids channel/platform aimed at kids these days is either something you have to pay for (like Netflix or Disney+) which, again, cost of living crisis, people might not necessarily be able to afford.

And not only that, but the ones that are free/available through terrestrial TV are often loaded with product placements and advertisements trying to get kids to buy (or nag their parents to buy) the Next Big Toy™.

CBBC doesn't have any of that. It's all 100% ad-free.

And not only that, but the programs that it does (and did) have are good for kids. Not just kid-friendly, but actually good for kids.

For example:

Newsround

It's news for kids, and quite popular with both kids and adults alike. It allows kids to learn about current affairs and learn about what's going on in the world now (and has done for 50 years) without dumbing it down too much or acting patronising.

Fact: It was through a Newsround bulletin that the news broke in the UK of the attack on the Twin Towers on September 11th 2001.

And they've kept it up throughout Brexit, Covid, the Russian invasion of Ukraine and then some.

But at the same time, not forgetting that the news can be, as it often is, upsetting, and encouraging kids to talk about stuff in the news that upsets them and facilitating a lot of that.

Horrible Histories

🎵Gory, ghastly, mean and cruel; stuff they don't teach you at school!🎵

Teaching history to kids in a way that's fun and goes surprisingly in-depth for a kids' show. Even in earlier series it was brave enough to say (though not depict fully; remember it's a kid's show) that the British Empire was Not A Good Thing and that a lot of Britain's "greatness"—and the stuff it basically runs on like tea, sugar, etc.—was all derived from slavery and the products/goods of other countries around the world.

Plus I think everyone either knows the Charles the Second rap or the Kings & Queens song by now.

And CBBC took on the act of broadcasting a TONNE of educational content suitable for kids of all ages during the Covid-19 lockdown like Horrible Histories and Operation Ouch, which loads of parents, kids and teachers genuinely did find to be helpful.

The Story of Tracy Beaker/The Dumping Ground

This one holds a very special place in my heart.

It depicts children, living in foster care (in a children's home non-affectionately nicknamed "The Dumping Ground" by its residents) and being actual kids.

Yes, it does show them (or at least strongly implies) they came from bad backgrounds—like Tracy herself being a child of neglect, kids like Jackie or Justine having parents/carers that weren't fit to look after them, or kids like Crash coming from abusive backgrounds and toxic environments—but shows that they are tough and they survive and they go through all the stuff that other kids go through and going on to do great things in their lives.

Like Tracy (spoilers!) later being adopted by her foster mother Cam (who, in later seasons, comes out as Lesbian and marries another woman) and countless kids going into good homes with good foster parents/adoptive parents.

As far as I'm aware,

This is the ONLY show on British TV that depicts foster kids in such a positive light.

Opposed to the stereotype of "Baby ASBO" running drugs on an estate somewhere or getting into fights and being up to no good 24/7/365.

Plus even back when it started in the early 2000s, it was very diverse for a program, and still is—with main characters who have learning disabilities, main characters of colour, main characters with physical disabilities (played by actual disabled actors).

So yes:

CBBC is special.

And it's something that absolutely deserves protection from being all transferred online and leaving kids (and adults who are kids at heart) to miss out.

[mperik]

"Yes, I get it. I don’t know where you grew up but I loved to study the old names and clans of Ireland. It was always so interesting !" He smiled, looking at his young host. He liked to be able to share such interests with him, people often dismissing such things, past stories of times long gone and legends as ancient as the world. Which was quite fitting for children of gods. "Thank you ! My parents said I looked like a little sprite when they first saw me, hence the name." Ailill chuckled. "I think it’s a kingly name. I mean, Erik the Red is quite the reference !" The musician felt happy, at ease. Erik was agreeable and he felt welcome and warm in the presence of the other. Like with Sundrop and especially his half-brother Elias, he could sense a possible friendship and he truly hoped that it would become real. They have the passion for music in common, this was a very good start in his eyes. "Don’t give me too much credit yet. After all, maybe I suck as a teacher ?" He grinned, winking. He knew that he was a good teacher and had quite a good amount of students when he still lived in Dublin. But he hadn’t tutored anyone since Oona’s birth, he wasn’t sure if he was still skilled enough for that. And Erik seemed like an eager disciple. "Let’s not worry about the details for now. I’m still organizing my schedule about my daughter but I’m sure we’ll find something working for the both of us." Seeing Erik so enthusiastic was endearing and Ailill leant back against the sofa’s back, observing the young man with an amused smile. In some aspect, he reminded him of Sook, of her love for music. "Mm… I have a piano, albeit a small one. I have a grand piano back at my parents. I miss it but it would cost so much to bring it here." He added with a defeated sigh. Ailill didn’t notice the other’s eyes on him, his thoughts turned back to the past, even if it lasted just for an instant. "Thank you. I will do my best to please everyone who will be coming to listen to me." However, Erik’s next remark made him laugh. It was quite an amusing image. "Why not ? I wouldn’t want to be teared apart even before the second song of my set !" The musician nodded. Anything to have a good reason to stay there longer, to enjoy Erik’s presence for a few more minutes. He enjoyed their talk, how easily it shifted from professional to more personal things. "I guess some coffee would be welcome » he answered, standing and pushing his hair back, away from his eyes. « Please, I follow you."

“It’s interesting, indeed! So I spent half of my life in Canada, and the later half in the UK, so we definitely tapped into the monarchy of Ireland at school. I just suddenly got curious about the clans and families mentioned in history classes, so I read quite a lot about them, but I doubt I can remember it well now,” Erik grinned sheepishly at the last sentence he said, choosing to be honest rather than giving Ailill an impression that he was some sort of a genealogist-wannabe.

A soft laughter escaped him as the elder explained the origin of his name, his eyes opened slightly wider at the remark about his own name. He joked. “Oh? Then I should go with Erik the Guitar Guy or something like that for my next stage name. Gonna make it memorable, you know.” 

It already started to feel like having a chat with a friend rather than a first meeting between business partners. That was exactly what Erik aimed to do, helping others relax so that it may take less time for him to peek into their world, to get to know who they really were. Ailill seemed to be open with little to hide, someone that had been through it, but did not eschew the thrills of living. There was potential, and Erik smiled. 

“Perhaps your students will have more objective feedback about your prowess as a teacher, but I’m confident that all feedback you’ve got is positive. If there’s any negative comments about your teaching, I bet the problem is them.” Erik had spent time swimming in the vast Internet to gather information about Ailill’s career, contributing to his decision to reach out and invite the elder to perform at PAC. 

To Ailill’s suggestion to leave the details for the guitar class later, Erik nodded in agreement. “Sure thing! Just update me with your available schedule when you are ready, and we will figure it out.” He unknowingly titled his head slightly as he listened to the elder demigod, his eyes momentarily drifting into a daydream look as he sighed softly. “Such a pity that you can’t bring it here. There’s just something so…magical about the piano, I think. I don’t know about you, but I always find people tenfold more charming when they play the piano, especially the grand one.”  

That daydream look lasted just a few seconds, as the focus of the conversation was still on Ailill and his shows. The way his eyebrows came slightly closer to each other indicated a hint of seriousness. “There surely will be more guards around the stage and exit for your performances, and perhaps earplugs for those who are more sensitive to your voice power. We can’t let your show be ruined because your voice is too damn good!”

 As soon as Ailill agreed to some coffee, Erik stood up from the couch, and politely invited him to follow. “This way, please.” 

They walked through to the end of the grand hallway, and the door to the staff zone was right on the left, safely tucked away from the public's eyes. It was a moderately large room, filled with sunlight and coffee aroma. Erik invited Ailill to take a seat at one of the vacant tables, while he went to fetch them two cups of hot coffee from the kitchen corner.

“So, how are you and your daughter liking Mount Phoenix so far?” Erik resumed their conversation after the first sip of coffee. As if remembering something, he added. “Oh and, what’s your daughter’s name?”

[robinofgothamcity]

♡ starting prompt: “Everything changed for me when I met her... My Beloved.”

♡ pairing: yandere! damian wayne (Robin) & fem reader

♡ lyric inspiration: “imagine me and you? I do. I think about day and night, it’s only right, to think about the girl you love and hold her tight. so happy together.” 

♡ note: not checked for grammar or spelling mistakes / in this AU everyone in the batfamily is a yandere and probably has a darling so yeah.

Gotham Academy, for the wealthy and elite one might say. you were one of the lucky ones who got accepted through their scholarship programs and busted your ass off to keep your grades up all years. 

you had very few friends considering most Academy students hardly interacted those who they deemed poor. one friend you did have though was the Wayne heir himself. Damian was one of the first to introduce himself to you when you first arrived to Gotham Academy and really remained your friend throughout the years. 

the fresh morning air blew in the wind, making you pull your jacket closer to you as you tried to find warmth in it. the jackets they provided for your uniform were extremely thin and hardly held in any kind of heat. 

“hey! I think the Wayne kid is looking for you!” you heard your friend, Reagan tell you, “he’s waiting for you at the central garden!” you gave him a smile, thanking him for letting you know before running to where Damian usually was in the morning. 

your mornings with Damian, when he would attend school, would start with him bringing you your favorite coffee and switching homework assignments. 

unlike Damian, you were usually better in courses that had to do with humanities, such as history and english courses and you lacked the smarts that Damian had with science and math courses so the two of you would swap homework first thing in the morning. 

“good morning Wayne,” you said, sitting down on the bench. he handed you his coffee, blowing it to make sure it wasn’t too hot, “good morning, beloved. how did you sleep?” he asked, making sure your eye bags weren’t too harsh. 

you shrugged, “I’m okay. just stressed because of midterms and all of that. how did you sleep?” you asked, taking a sip of coffee. “great considering we fell asleep on Facetime together,” he mentioned, “I did the ap calc homework that you can finally copy!” he added on. 

Damian handed you the calc homework as he watched you scribble down the answers. he noticed that you had painted your nails a new color and touched the polish with his finger, “baby blue? that’s new,” he murmured. you nodded happily, “I love this color on me. I even brought color with me in case it chipped throughout the day!” you exclaimed. 

you showed him the bottle and he grabbed it, “put it on me,” you were taken back by the request. you didn’t take Damian was the kind of guy to dabble in wearing polish but nevertheless complied and put the polish on it before grabbing his hand and blowing on it to make it dry quicker, “I didn’t know you wore nail polish!” you mentioned. 

Damian thought for a moment. 

“I don’t but that way people will know we’re matching,” he murmured as the warning bell rang off. 

you and Damian walked slowly to your first period class. the summer going into your Senior year, Damian made it a duty of his to make sure that the two of you shared the same classes. so without you knowing, he had Tim hack into the Gotham Academy school system and pull Damian onto the rosters where you were enrolled in. 

you found the similarities to be funny, however; some of the teachers wondered how the hell they put the two of you in every class together. some didn’t care considering you were able to keep Damian from saying smart shit to someone in class and others were just weirded out by the coincidence. 

“god, I hate this class. you know Matt who sits in front of the class? I have to swear some gross comment about how great my legs look in the uniform by him at least twice every day.” 

Damian’s eye twitched at what you had said, “does it bother you?” he asked, his fist clenched. you nodded annoyingly, “more than anything in the world. I can’t go one day without hearing the comments,” you groaned. 

the two of you got to class but as you walked in, you had saw that Matt wasn’t in class and sighed in relief. Damian had told you he was running off to the bathroom before class started and just to write down whatever he missed while he was gone. 

you sat down, immediately writing what was already on the board but as the class started, Damian still hadn’t shown up. you were beginning to think that maybe the coffee had upset his stomach but about half way through the class, Damian came and plopped down at his desk. 

“where were you? Jackson nearly had a fit because you were late!” you muttered to him. he shrugged, taking out his pen and notebook before leaning over to copy what you had on yours.

it took about another twenty minutes when another teacher ran into the class frantically, “Matthew Harrison was just found in the garden, unconscious and is barely hanging onto his life!” the teacher told your teacher, making all of you gasp in surprise, “call an ambulance!” 

you stared to Damian wide eyed, “my God, that’s insane! we were just there. I wonder who did it,” you told Damian, chewing your lip nervously, “I hope whoever did it doesn’t come for any of us.”

Damian could tell you were scared from the news and he quickly grabbed your hand, “I think you’re safe, beloved. you shouldn’t worry about it,” he assured you. you nodded, going back to writing down the notes, “hey, he finally got what he deserved for harassing you, right?” Damian mentioned. 

you laughed shaking your head, “I guess but I mean, I hope he doesn’t die or anything,” that was the last thing you said before the both of you got to working on the work the teacher assigned for the class while she was gone.

Damian could tell you were shaken by the news but at the end of the day, he did what he had to do. someone was harassing his beloved and he’d be damned if they got away with it. it took every ounce of self restriction to stop himself from actually killing the idiot but the beating he actually gave him did more than enough to satisfy him for the time being.

two broken legs, a broken nose, and making him go blind in one eye was more than enough. the great thing about Gotham Academy was that because of how old the building was, cameras weren’t installed anywhere outside and any cameras that were inside were just in the upgraded part of the school which happened to be the front of the school and the gym. 

the end of the day came as Damian had offered to take you home. you denied the request, telling him you wanted to walk to get some fresh air before you trapped yourself in your room for the rest of the night. 

Damian was hesitant on letting you but at the end of the day, you weren’t his...yet. he knew his feelings for you weren’t exactly normal. far from it, actually. 

when his feelings for you boiled over to damn near obsession, he confided in the one person he trusted the most and that was Dick. he practically confessed how he needed to be near or around you every day or else he would go insane. even if it was just seeing you from afar made his day a 100x better. 

Dick laughed at his brothers confession because he knew it was about time it happened to him. he had gone through the same feelings when he met his now wife and so did Bruce, Tim, Duke, and Jason. 

when Damian was finally confident enough to tell everyone else, they finally let him in on the family secret. these feelings were nothing to be afraid of. he should embrace them and hell, make his feelings get even ‘worse’. it was his job as your protector to feel that way and act on his instincts for you. 

Damian got home, seeing his father and brother watching the news. they were covering what happened at school and a part of him laughed seeing the coverage. 

“did you see what happened?” Dick asked his brother. Damian nodded, kicking off his shoes and laying on the other couch, “of course I did because I was the one who did it,” he said nonchalantly. 

Bruce and Dick stared at him, wide eyed and shocked, “the scum was messing with my beloved. he was making disgusting comments about her and degrading her in a way she and I didn’t like. the piece of shit deserved more than what he got,” he stated, not even bothering to look at them to see their reaction.

“so it’s best we don’t investigate this, I assume?” Bruce asked, “you would assume right,” Damian replied. 

Dick got off the couch and went on one knee to look at his brother, “Damian, you know the implications that comes with how you left him. you know that, right?” he stated. Damian stared at Dick with no fear in his eyes, “everything changed for me when I met her... my beloved. I would kill for her if I had too.” 

Bruce sat in his seat, proudly smirking at what his son said. Dick nodded, walking back to the couch as Damian stood up to go to his bedroom, “it’s only a matter of what before I make her mine so expect her to be around soon enough,” he told them.

+

a few weeks had passed since the incident with your classmate. since then, you had gotten clingier to Damian, not wanting to be at the end of the beating. Daimian had no issue in it, he was practically basking in the touches and side hugs you were giving him. 

you and Damian had decided to head back to his place after school to get some studying done. Friday nights were usually reserved to studying at your place but Damian had offered to make you dinner at his place and study before watching a few movies. 

you had never been over the Wayne manor before and frankly, you were kind of scared to run into his father. THE Bruce Wayne would most likely be in attendance and meeting the most powerful man in Gotham would probably scare anyone. 

Damian unlocked the gate, quickly taking your backpack as you snuggled into his jacket. you were immediately welcomed by his butler, Alfred who offered to put both of you bags in the hallway so no one would step over them. you thanked him profusely, making Damian mutter to you that that’s why he was here. to serve you. 

“so, what would you like to eat, beloved? I can make you anything you desire,” he boasted. you looked at the cookbook that was laid next to you and flipped through the first few pages, “this sounds nice,” you pointed to the plant based steak with veggies.

Damian quickly got to work, making the veggies first as he offered for you taste them every now and again. you would usually relay a kiss on his cheek as he finally got to cooking the steak. you couldn’t help but wonder how he got to be such a great cook, however; as he was finishing plating the food, you saw his father as well as you assumed were his brothers. 

“uh Damian?” you mentioned, pointing to the three men who walked in. Damian sighed knowing that of course his brothers were going to come and annoy him, “who’s your friend?” Dick asked, putting his chin on his hand. 

“this is ( your name ), my beloved,” he told them proudly. you were a bit taken back by the nickname he so easily used on you, “ahh, we’ve heard so much about you,” Tim continued, “she’s so pretty....she’s not like other girls,” Dick mocked. 

your face felt a burning sensation as Bruce told his sons to be quiet, “nice to meet you ( your name ),” Bruce introduced, “welcome to the family,” you barely caught what he said as Damian excused the two of you to go up to his bedroom. 

“your family is...nice,” you tried to say without sounding nervous. Damian rolled his eyes, “they’re bunch of idiots. that’s what they are,” he muttered, not bothering to look back at them. 

once you got to his room, your mouth dropped a bit. you had never seen such a luxurious bedroom before. satin sheets, the coldest pillows, his bedroom could probably house a family if he really wanted too and the fact that this was his bedroom, you were taken back. 

“wow, so this is how the rich and famous live?” you joked, sitting down on his bed. he shook his head, “all this means nothing to me...as long as you’re with me, I’d be the happiest person alive,” you stared at Damian, wondering if what he said was really true. 

the two of you ate, mostly in silence as you tried to take what Damian had said. there had been rumors floating around Gotham Academy that Damian might’ve liked you. you tried to dispel the rumors, claiming that someone like you was no where near Damian’s type but now that you were hearing the words he was telling you, you were more keen on acting on his feelings. 

after finishing dinner, he offered for you to join him on his bed to watch a movie. you had never actually gotten to hang out with Damian outside of school. since you were always so busy doing schoolwork and Damian always had things to take care of, as he put it, you two never relaxed together. 

the aura in the room was cozy as he offered you a very expensive looking blanket to cover you up from the chilly air coming from his window. the movie the two of you picked was some random rom-com, it felt kind of stupid to be watching this kind of movie with Damian but at some point, you stopped paying attention to the movie and looked up to him. 

“did you really mean what you said earlier?” you whispered to him. he gave you a confused look, “of course I did. would I ever lie to you?” he said back, kind of offended that you would even accuse him of lying. 

you sat back up on the bed and turned to fix yourself as you finally gave him a kiss. Damian’s eyes widened, not expecting you to do that to him. regardless, he immediately pulled you on top of him and deepened the kiss by pushing you up against him. 

Damian slid his hands in the back pocket of your skirt, finding it a bit confusing why the uniforms even had pockets on the skirts. he gripped your ass a bit, making you moan in surprise as Damian tried his hardest to contain himself but failing as he slipped his tongue into yours. 

the two of you remained kissing for what felt like hours. you knew your lips were bound get bruised from the amount of tugging Damian was doing but by the time you pulled away, you could see the faintest of blushes appearing on Damian’s brown skin. 

“wow, didn’t know you felt like that for me,” you muttered shyly. Damian chuckled, giving you a quick peck, “I have feelings you wouldn’t even begin to understand but one day....one day you will,” he replied. 

you didn’t pay no mind to his reply as he had brought you down for another kiss. what you didn’t catch was the smirk playing on his face. he knew that once graduation came, there would already be a ring on that left ring finger and soon enough, you’d be baring his heirs. 

the Wayne’s got what they wanted. it didn’t matter what they had to do to get it but what the Wayne’s wanted, they got.