#and cite to THOSE instead

[kaurwreck]

def recommend expanding beyond Wikipedia for learning more about the bsd authors. and for most other things. but here especially.

[communistkenobi]

also I know I’m strolling in seven years late to Horizon’s representation problems but I feel like these games are an instructive example in how the liberal imagination understands “good representation.” the game seems to take a lot of care in demonstrating (what the developers understand to be) a fully post-racial society by way of universal racial integration - every society or ‘tribe’ or group of people you encounter is almost uniformly racially diverse. Being generous, I think this is an attempt to avoid any possible racist implications in the fanciful costumes and outfits that Horizon is known for; there is a lot of focus in representing the different people of Horizon’s world through what they wear. You can immediately tell an Oseram from a Carja, not by their racial makeup, but by their clothing. This means that, if you meet a particularly ‘savage people’ (a term characters in the game use semi-frequently) who wear ‘exotic clothing’ and face-paint, the diverse racial makeup of the group prevents (or is intended to prevent) a racist conclusion about that group. 

Likewise, the game presents a world free from systemic homophobic prejudice - Aloy is notably gay, but also her asking people about their partners, or assuming other people around her are gay, generally passes without comment. Horizon is presenting a fully ‘integrated’ social world, one whose conflicts are not meant to map onto ‘modern-day’ racism and homophobia.

But the underlying logic and structure of racism and homophobia (and binaristic, oppositional gender) are left intact. Humanity in Horizon is still presented as fundamentally separate from nature, moving overtop of it, extracting what they need from it, but never part of it as such. And this construction of nature as separate from “man” is not problematised, “man” just gets universalised into “human,” and “human” gets universalised into a non-racial category. This is completely side-stepping the history of this construction of nature as a white supremacist, colonial, capitalist construction, an understanding of nature as something colonial Europe is meant to hold dominion over through the dehumanisation of non-white, non-European people, converting them into non-human labourers and pests who live atop the land Europe is attempting to colonise and enclose. “Nature” in the modern western understanding is a fundamentally racial concept; nature is a ‘scientific, rational, biological’ container meant to house everything non-human about the world, an object to be studied and exploited by the one true subject of history, Mankind - and who is considered part of mankind is a question of whether you belong to the white European ruling class.

I think Aloy in particular represents this problem well - her access to and understanding of pre-apocalypse technology makes her universally suspicious and dismissive of any religious or ‘spiritual’ beliefs she encounters in other groups, frequently getting into reddit-atheist-adjacent quibbles with the ‘unenlightened,’ ‘primitive’ people of the world about the fact that the machines that harvest food for them and take care of the land are not gods, silly, they’re just machines! Her only real counterpart in terms of technological understanding is Sylens (a Black man), who is an antagonist. Like despite the game’s attempts at neutralising race as a coherent category, it is kind of unavoidable to notice that the protagonist is a white woman who’s only equal is a Black man engaging in constant deception for his own benefit lol

And Aloy’s anti-religious sentiments are deeply funny, because the game’s narrative itself has a theological relationship to technology - humans destroyed the world with technology, yes, but salvation of humanity is only possible through technology, specifically a globe-spanning technological system meant to be an environmental steward to the planet, repairing the damage caused by previous technological catastrophes and human wars. Human beings themselves are insufficient to the task of taking care of the planet, and “nature” itself is incapable of self-governance or regulation. And the way this technological system is made to function properly again is, hilariously, unlocked through the genetic code of a white woman, a perfect clone of the technological system’s original creator. the solution to Horizon’s central conflict and threat is, ultimately, a white saviour 

And so the appropriative elements of Horizon - calling the Nora ‘braves,’ the abstracting of hundreds of north american Indigenous cultures into mere aesthetics and symbols, the invocation of words like savage and primitive, and so on - are not surface-level problematic elements of an otherwise anti-racist game, they are indicative of a liberal anti-racist imaginary, a place where we’re all equal human beings whose main problem are vague sectarian grudges, without looking at or dealing with any of the underlying ideological frameworks that produced race or gender in the first place.

So I think Horizon is, despite attempts to imagine a post-racist world, nonetheless very limited in how it represents this post-racial world because it understands racism as prejudice against particular phenotypic characteristics, not an underlying logic that renders “nature” and “human” as fundamentally racial concepts in history

[natjennie]

i think mostly we as a culture need to stop pretending media is for us and instead recognize that it's for the people making it. "the show didn't do the thing I wanted it to" is so not the point. did it do what the people making it wanted it to do? did it tell the story they were trying to tell? than it was successful. if that doesn't align with what you wanted to happen, don't get up in arms about it. don't badmouth the creators and throw a tantrum. that's what fan works are for. the text is the text, and it told the story it was telling. you wouldn't be like "ugh shakespeare is insane for act v btw like there was no reason for juliet to kill herself she should've just waited and then her and romeo could have been together wtf this ruined the whole play" like no!!! the themes were there the set-up was there the foreshadowing was there shakespeare did what he intended to. just because it wasn't a happy ending and just because you thought it should've went differently doesn't mean it was bad. read a fic where juliet lives and move on.

[e-louise-bates]

I will admit that it never occurred to me that I would need to check the history book that claimed to be scholarly to see if it used references and footnotes, because how could a book be a scholarly work on history without such things, BUT NOW I KNOW BETTER.

[stirdrawsandreblaws]

trying to gently explain to someone that you do not make an oc for a decades-old thing that has one of the most autistic and lore-entrenched fanbases without being willing to do either 1) a cursory wiki skim beforehand about the extensively well-established canon you're supposedly building your character off of, or 2) prepare for people to Not Like Or Understand What You're Going For, Here

tl;dr if you wanna do an alternate interpretation of a d&d god (and llolth??? being a sad misunderstood and distant power who didn't want any murdering done in her name????? and Personally treats a *male* cleric well???? is Definitely an alternate interpretation) then...make your own setting and write or DM for it?? instead of being mad that other people would share lore with you bc what you've come up with directly contradicts the canon that everyone else is going by???

[legrange-5]

One must imagine the penguin aligner happy

[genderkoolaid]

Frustrated that people continued to consume so much alcohol even after it was banned, federal officials had decided to try a different kind of enforcement. They ordered the poisoning of industrial alcohols manufactured in the United States, products regularly stolen by bootleggers and resold as drinkable spirits. The idea was to scare people into giving up illicit drinking. Instead, by the time Prohibition ended in 1933, the federal poisoning program, by some estimates, had killed at least 10,000 people. [...] By mid-1927, the new denaturing formulas included some notable poisons—kerosene and brucine (a plant alkaloid closely related to strychnine), gasoline, benzene, cadmium, iodine, zinc, mercury salts, nicotine, ether, formaldehyde, chloroform, camphor, carbolic acid, quinine, and acetone. The Treasury Department also demanded more methyl alcohol be added—up to 10 percent of total product. It was the last that proved most deadly. The results were immediate, starting with that horrific holiday body count in the closing days of 1926. Public health officials responded with shock. “The government knows it is not stopping drinking by putting poison in alcohol,” New York City medical examiner Charles Norris said at a hastily organized press conference. “[Y]et it continues its poisoning processes, heedless of the fact that people determined to drink are daily absorbing that poison. Knowing this to be true, the United States government must be charged with the moral responsibility for the deaths that poisoned liquor causes, although it cannot be held legally responsible.” His department issued warnings to citizens, detailing the dangers in whiskey circulating in the city: “[P]ractically all the liquor that is sold in New York today is toxic,” read one 1928 alert. He publicized every death by alcohol poisoning. He assigned his toxicologist, Alexander Gettler, to analyze confiscated whiskey for poisons—that long list of toxic materials I cited came in part from studies done by the New York City medical examiner’s office. Norris also condemned the federal program for its disproportionate effect on the country’s poorest residents. Wealthy people, he pointed out, could afford the best whiskey available. Most of those sickened and dying were those “who cannot afford expensive protection and deal in low grade stuff.” And the numbers were not trivial. In 1926, in New York City, 1,200 were sickened by poisonous alcohol; 400 died. The following year, deaths climbed to 700. These numbers were repeated in cities around the country as public-health officials nationwide joined in the angry clamor. Furious anti-Prohibition legislators pushed for a halt in the use of lethal chemistry. “Only one possessing the instincts of a wild beast would desire to kill or make blind the man who takes a drink of liquor, even if he purchased it from one violating the Prohibition statutes,” proclaimed Sen. James Reed of Missouri.

This isn't particularly relevant to anything specific. I just wanted to remind everyone this is something the US government did.

[highfantasy-soul]

I get the overall message OP took from that, but... this type of attitude is like looking at someone with dyslexia and saying "you're just not good at reading because you just decided reading is hard. Reading came easily for me, so if it didn't for you, then YOU'RE doing something wrong" which feeds the cycle of 'my experience with the world is the only experience'.

Dune falls very squarely into showing Paul as a 'Gary Stu' and attempting to critique that (I feel it didn't do a good job at it, but that's beside the point) so I'm not certain people taking that line and looking at others who might not be in the same educational place they are and saying "they've decided to be a helpless baby, good thing I'm just so super smart and actually decided to learn while their educational gaps are 100% their fault and i should look down in them for it" is like, good.

I know every post doesn't have to address every nuance of something but hey, OP said they're just the best at learning because learning is sooooo easy, so here's something that should be easy for them to learn: framing that quote in personal terms ("Whenever I'm having trouble learning something, thinking about this quote really helps me keep going") can be much more beneficial to yourself and society than framing this quote externally on others ("Learning is actually super easy and anyone who says something I think shows a lack of education is being a helpless baby on purpose due to just not wanting to learn").

Framing your understanding of that quote on yourself doesn't punch down at anyone or exclude anyone who might not have the advantages you do. Framing it externally as a judgement upon others indicates that you think everyone in the world experiences it the same way you do, and if they don't, it's wholly their own choice, therefore they have chosen to be 'lesser' than you. Which leads to terrible laws, policies, and social expectations put in place that reinforce the 'bootstrap' narrative and ignores systemic issues and differences between people.

You are not choosing to be a 'helpless baby' if you don't learn everything from every academic path super easily. Some things DO come easier for certain people from all across the spectrum from reading to math to music to coding to public speaking to sports. Does that mean that if you struggle at first, it means you'll never be able to do it? No. But this quote and OP seem to think it does as the quote is literally saying 'learning is never actually difficult, you just choose to not want to learn'.

Idk, maybe we should also think about how it's a rich, powerful, white savior that's been genetically engineered to be the best at everything that's thinking about how learning 'isn't actually difficult'. Just a thought.... about media literacy... and critical thinking... just a thought.

there's a part in Dune where it talks about how quickly Paul Atreides learned and how intelligent he was etc, and it goes something like "he simply trusted that he could learn. it was shocking to him how many people believe themselves incapable of learning, or believed learning itself to be difficult" and boy, am i glad i read that as young as i did. it really helped me not become a helpless baby like some people i see posting out here in front of god and everybody

[tonycries]

The Way You Kiss Me - G.S.

Synopsis. The four times Satoru tries really hard not to kiss you - his best friend’s pretty younger sister. And the one time he doesn’t.

Pairing. Gojo Satoru x Reader

Content. MDNI, fem! Suguru’s sister! reader, childhood enemies to lovers, PINING Satoru, like really really disgustingly down bad, creampíe, oral (fem receiving), pússytalking, needy JEALOUS! Satoru, running away from it, spítting, punching is Suguru’s love language, mentions of aIcohol, pet names, swearing.

Word count. 7.4k (That’s wild)

A/N. BOO! Surprise upload. This was so fun to write omg.

“You sure this is how the grown-ups get married?”

“Duh, I know everything.”

“Nuh uh, Toru.”

“Yuh uh!”

The first time Gojo Satoru kissed you was underneath that dingy playground slide that the two of you always raced to after elementary school. 

Usually, your older brother, Suguru, would walk home alongside you two - but this time, he’d just so happened to have been held back for throwing paper planes at the teacher that day.

A sign from the universe, Satoru internally celebrated, something he’d learned from those sappy romance novels his mother left lying around the house. No matter that he was the one that made those planes.

You were six back then, standing in front of a determined Satoru - reaching up on his tip-toes, face pink, smelling of those cheap strawberry lollipops he’d sneak into class and taunt you with. At the much older and wiser age of seven, he’d insisted on being the first one to lean in.

Just barely even grazing your dramatically puckered lips before-

Satoru learned two things that fateful afternoon:

Even as a seven-year-old, Suguru’s punches really hurt. 

Never mess with you. Anyone but you. 

Life only seemed to go downhill from there - because that last lesson was proving to be hard along the years. Really. Fucking. Hard.

Little did Satoru know that this would be the start of some strange, unpredictable little dance of push and pull. No, you definitely weren’t his wife. Nor were you exactly best friends - not really, that spot was reserved for your brother. But you didn’t think you could ever be just that either.

And the punch that’d knocked his wobbly tooth out onto the playground floor that day was a painful reminder that whatever that was - whatever weird thoughts he had later in middle school about how you’d tasted like candy - didn’t matter. No matter how part some tucked-away little part of him wanted it to.

Hell, eleven years later and Satoru still can’t walk around that familiar block without feeling slightly queasy. Which is why, after that failed first kiss, he knew there wouldn’t be a second. 

Instead, he settles back to teasing your pouty self, pushing all your buttons, tugging on those cute dresses you wore. Face burning so strangely with- humiliation? when you bickered right back, calling his haircut a “tragic attempt at modern art.”

“So you’re saying I look like art?” A gangly, now-seventeen Satoru blocks the bustling high school hallway, ignoring the bell. Grin only growing at your frustrated huff, he half-jokes, “Aww, if you’re that soft on me, sweetheart, maybe we should go to prom tog-”

You slam your locker, effectively shutting both it and Satoru at the same time. “I’d rather go with Yaga.”

“...you would not.”

“Would to.”

“Would not.”

“Would to.”

“Would- Sugu–!”

And all Suguru can do is wrap two hands around his neck, mock-choking himself, wondering if it was really too late to embrace a quiet life as a monk. “You’ll both be MLA cited in my farewell note.”

He was used to it, though, forced to watch all this chaos since quickly mending his friendship with Satoru over ice cream the day after the punch. Convinced that this was some punishment for a past life’s misdeed.

With a squawk of protest, Satoru’s turning back to you, eyes crinkling with a hint of mischief you knew too well, “Would not.”

Your face burns, “Would to, Toru.”

You didn’t go with Yaga. but Satoru didn’t exactly count that as a win in his books, either, because you did show up that night hanging off the arm of some jerk from the football team. 

And there you were, all dolled up - which he very objectively noted - way too prettily for some bastard like him. Stars in your eyes, and everything he couldn’t have in that smile. 

Everything. 

Way too gorgeous, even when he finds you sitting outside the gymnasium later on in the night. Too busy bawling your mascara off to even throw out your usual greeting insult his way. Murmuring out wetly about “that asshole” and how he humiliated you by stranding you in the middle of the dance floor for someone else. 

“Well, he was a jerk anyway. Even Yaga would’ve been better, hell, I-” Satoru stops short to his horror at the way you only cry harder.

Way too irresistible, especially as his body moves before his mind - holding out an open hand before he knows it. “I’m a much better dancer than him and you.” And oh Satoru will forever remember the way his heart lurches as you blink your teary eyes up in confusion, “Well, aren’t ya gonna take up the challenge?”

Weirdly, it wasn’t weird at all. 

If anything, you had to hold back your laughter the entire time at the way the great “campus sweetheart” Gojo Satoru was so on edge.

Just a friend comforting a friend, right?

So why was he avoiding your gaze with the subtlety of a sledgehammer, summer blue eyes pointedly trained right over your head. That pretty pink blush dusting his cheeks reflecting the hands hovering in midair over your waist. So close - and yet, fear in each and every turn and swirl.

Yours were searing into his broad shoulders as you tried to guide him to the muffled music from inside. And shit.

That night ended with a second kiss. 

You don’t know who leaned in first, just that Satoru’s soft lips were just fleeting on your glossy ones - barely even a touch. And that shit shit shit- this was Satoru. This was you. 

Everything. 

But it seems that every time Satoru was about to kiss you dangerously close to the way some tiny, forbidden part of his heart wanted to - the universe throws an obstacle at him. An obstacle that was six feet and named “Suguru”, currently running at break-neck speed out of the gym.

“MOVE YOUR ASSES!” he cackles, “THE FOOTBALL TEAM ISN’T TOO HAPPY ABOUT ME BREAKING THEIR STAR PLAYER’S NOSE.”

And not a word is uttered about the kiss as the three of you speed out of the school parking lot in Suguru’s busted-up black hellcat, the wind mussing up the hairstyle that took Satoru over two hours to perfect. Sneaking in glances at the sight of you singing along at the top of your lungs to some overplayed pop song on the radio. 

He learns another two things that night:

Apparently, Suguru’s right hook still really fucking hurt. And thank god for tonight’s casualties of noses, because it was a wonder that he didn’t look too hard at how close Satoru was with you. 

He didn’t…dislike the feeling of your lips on his. And judging by the way you meet his eyes in the rearview mirror - you didn’t either.

It’s mainly that last one that makes him gulp.

Neither of you remember the third kiss - though, Satoru’s sure that at least 80% of Shoko’s instagram followers did.

According to a very hungover Shoko, and the many, many forms of documentation, it had happened on the New Year’s eve during your third year in university. In which you were much more used to the raging parties that would be hosted at Suguru’s apartment, and only slightly less intimidated by them.

“And you’re a lightweight too, dumbass. You were gone.” Shoko sighs from across the café table, eye bags deeper than the last time he’d seen her. “Like gone gone.”

God, what a way to start the year.

Satoru bites back a remark about how “gone” Shoko herself had been. Sitting up straight in his seat, regret immediately hitting his senses faster than the guilty throbbing at his temples. He winces, managing out a semi-disbelieving groan of, “Gone gone?”

And she’s only nodding wearily, subconsciously tapping out the rest of her cigarette ashes onto his untouched plate of sweet pastries. 

“I’m talking dancing on expensive coffee tables and fighting to stop you from giving everyone there a strip show.” She cracks a smirk through a waft of smoke, “Though, she would’ve loved that I’m sure.”

“Har har har, you’d make even Nanami laugh with that one.”

“Eugh, gross.” Shoko taps through her phone briefly, swirling it around to show Satoru a few pictures that definitely gave him a mini-heart attack at 8:57 in the morning. “You look like you’re about to pen really bad poetry.”

And perhaps this was Shoko’s plan all along - to shock Satoru to the core hard enough that she can note it down as one of her sketchy psychological experiments. 

But he knew. Could feel it in the hazy fragments of memories - or, at the very least, in that entire highlight that Nanamin had oh-so-conveniently put up on Instagram titled, “Blackmail.”

You knew. 

You’d kissed him back. 

“I don’t have a-.” you slur, stumbling ever-so-slightly as you try to meet Satoru’s glassy eyes. Because shit the years have had him shooting up faster than you could look up. “-a New Year’s kiss, y’know.”

You were older - more gorgeous, if that was even possible now. That tight dress hugging your body so unfairly in a way that had him forgetting you were his best friend’s sister. 

The one person in this whole world that he couldn’t have.

But Satoru leans in closer, more because he wants to than anything - he could pick out your voice anywhere let alone over the thumping music currently filling his crowded living room. Lips loose as he tries to play up the cool-guy facade he’s been dubbed with since freshman year, “Hah, loser. Because I do.”

“Where?”

At this, Satoru is stumped - damn, you were good. 

“Not- uh here?” If he was in any clearer state of mind, he’d have been embarrassed at the way his voice cracks so traitorously as your unsteady hands pull him in closer by his overpriced button-up. 

Your body was flush against his now, so addictive. Gaze half-lidded and flickering between the sliver of milky skin exposed on his chest - from that impromptu striptease he’d almost started earlier - and the blue eyes that were currently locked you. You whisper a strained, “Liar.”

Close - too close. So dangerously close.

He breathes out against your lips, the smell of booze and you so heady in his mind. And the heavy words falling from his lips sound like lies, even to him. “Not.”

“Toru?” you hum, a sound that has him gasping. “Shut up.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

And there went your New Year’s kisses. At exactly 11:37PM, if the photos were anything to go by. 

And holy shit were there many. All of which showed your arms looped around Satoru’s neck, crashing his lips to yours. His own, resting against your waist, a scandalously red blush - whether from the alcohol or you - adorning his cheeks. Looking more blissed out than he ever remembers feeling. 

“I’m a dead man, Shoko.” 

There’s a lengthy silence, leaving Satoru stewing in thoughts of how Suguru would react once he finds out. And whether or not he’d be able to rise from the dead just to see how pretty you’d look at his funeral.

Morbid thoughts broken only by Shoko’s cough, “Hey, can I keep your eyes for experimentation if he actually catches you?”

Subtly, he sends himself those photos from last night.  

Luckily for Satoru’s eyes, they never ended up being donated towards Shoko’s questionable contributions to the world of medicine. 

And by some grace of the gods above, Suguru never mentioned a word about the kiss that would’ve inevitably made its way to him. Or maybe it was because Satoru stole his phone until he managed to pester Nanami just enough to take down that highlight. But, semantics. 

His heart, however, might as well have been part of some experiment.

Because it’s been working overdrive since that night - mind reliving that moment over and over and over and- shit, he’s fucked. So, so fucked. 

Fucked enough that it took Satoru months just to muster up to even look in your pretty eyes once more, unless he wanted to get lost in them forever. Fucked enough that he dared to wonder again and again when there might be a fourth kiss - if there would be a fourth kiss. 

He just never thought it would happen the way it did - with you, standing outside his front door. 

“I’m sorry, Toru.” you mumble, “It’s just- I think we both need to grow up.”

You’ve freshly graduated now, looking more and more irresistible each time he sees you - even when you’re looking at him like that. 

Rolling his eyes, “Ha, is this another way of saying you want my secret to getting taller? Because the first thing is to-”

“I’m serious, Satoru.”

And oh how he wished you’d say something - anything - else right now. Call him anything but that. Maybe even throw an insult his way, tell him those new sunglasses look ugly, or about how you got that internship he would’ve died for. 

Satoru manages to choke out a heavy, “I don’t understand.” But that uncomfortable coil of something curling at the pit of his stomach said otherwise. And it causes him to finally breathe out a hesitant, “Maybe you’re right.”

As if that was all the answer you needed, you’re stepping out of the front door. Slow, and deliberate like you were giving him another chance - a thousand more. Sighing out a defeated, “It’s been years.” It has. “And we’re just running in circles.” You have. “I’m starting to think this is just some game to you.” It wasn’t.

“Wait!” he grasps your hand - soft. The look in your eyes even softer as you turn around to face his desperate face. “Please, sweetheart.”

Satoru doesn’t even know what words he wants to say - let alone whether they’d come out of his heavy mouth. 

So, instead, he’s crashing them into yours. 

Brief. Fleeting. Like each one before this. Too addictive, too short, that he thinks he’s almost imagining it as you pull away gently, until he sees that look in your eyes. 

“Toru, I have a date.”

The fourth kiss.

Satoru’s letting go of you like it burned - and, truly, it felt like some deep, dark part of him was burning down right now. “Great.” That should be hm that should be him that should be- “I’m…happy for you.”

And the last.

He fucked up.

He really, really fucked up.

That first date turned into a second. The second into a third. And unfortunately for Gojo, eventually, you were nearing your one-year anniversary with that asshat you’d met during the early days of your internship. 

He’d seen the man himself once, briefly at another one of Suguru’s famous parties. Ducking out of sight before he could be introduced, yet long enough to know that he wasn’t as tall, or as handsome, or as absolutely fucking hilarious. 

What did he have that Satoru didn’t? 

The answer to that, Satoru’s reminded of every time he’s causing ruckus over at Suguru’s apartment, and sees you walking out of your room, tittering on the phone to none other than your boyfriend. So gorgeous. So not his. 

You, that loser had you.

“If you sigh again I swear I’m shoving this popcorn up your a-”

“It’s a sad movie, Suguru!” he defends, draped across your couch at another one of those movie nights you loved to organize. As usual, there was the popcorn, the god-awful movie (if Satoru picks it), and the arguments. The only thing missing, however, was you. Ugh, something about an “anniversary” and a “seafood date”. Seriously, it’s not like you even enjoyed that new seafood restaurant in town, and he’s sure that bastard didn’t know-

“Satoru.” his best friend’s deadpan voice cuts through his little reverie. “We’re watching Mean Girls.”

And he’s barely even opening his mouth to snark back before-

SLAM!

Suguru pauses the movie almost immediately, turning to the direction of the front door. “Uh oh.” 

And lo and behold - there was you in all your pissed off, beautiful glory. Throwing your keys on the table, your fiery glare passes over the two men as you stomp to your bedroom. 

“Seafood wasn’t that good, sweetheart?” Satoru calls out behind you, eyes sweeping down your figure. Heart stuttering in his chest when you turn around with your fists clenched, lower lip wobbling in a way that Satoru would both kill whoever made you feel this way and die to be on the other side of those daggers in your eye. 

Sniffing out an icy, “Fuck off, loser and loserette.”

Then in a whirlwind of rage, you’re gone - your bedroom door slamming only slightly more gently than you’d done with the front door. Leaving a deafening silence, and Satoru whining, “Why am I the loserette?”

“Deserved.” Suguru shrugs. Warily eyeing your door, as if it was about to pounce at any given second, “Let her cool down before you give her an aneurysm at least.” Unpausing the television, propping his feet back up, “S’enough having to deal with you on top of a boyfriend like that.”

And that has Satoru perking up in interest - both figuratively, and literally as he snatches the remote and pauses the movie. “Wait wait wait what-” Holding it way out of Suguru’s reach, “What do you mean a ‘boyfriend like that’?”

Scoffing, “Funny. Now give me back the remote.”

A beat of silence passes. One. Two.

Only then does it dawn on Suguru that this might just not be some strange prank to stroke Satoru’s ego, and he was actually  more serious than he’d ever seen him. Damn. 

“Bro, have you really never met the guy or something? He’s a complete tool. I don’t know what happened, but this breakup was a long time coming.”

Satoru blinks, feeling a red hot surge of anger. “What? Seriously? Why didn’t you do anything about it?”

“You think I didn’t try?” he sighs, running a hand through his hair at the other’s uncharacteristic silence. “Hah, and just imagine, the man was talking about marriage, too. As if.”

And suddenly, Satoru’s hit with an image of you walking down the aisle. Not something he was a stranger to, but it still takes him aback. The sway of the fabric beneath his fingers, your lips against his. Hell, in that split-second he even dreams up how Nanamin would be crying very reluctant tears of joy. 

Everything. Everything that wasn’t his.

His fist tightens around the remote, until he could hear the cracking of plastic. Mind whirling with the thought of you and him and you. How he wished it was him and you. “I would’ve been better.”

Oh. 

Shit. 

“I- fuck this. Suguru, since elementary school I…”

And, well, Satoru’s so busy putting that extra physics seminar he took in university to work - trying to calculate the odds of surviving a jump out of this seven-storey window - that he almost misses Suguru’s low hum, a distant, almost barely-audible little interruption, “Well duh.”

“Hold on.” he’s snatching away the remote that had somehow slithered its way into the other’s hands once again. Ignoring his best friend’s croak of protests to pause in the middle of Regina George being hit by the bus - which, he felt was strangely enviable right now. “That was- what? YOU KNOW?”

“Huh? Even my parents know, the only one that doesn’t is her.”

“...”

Satoru didn’t know how Suguru seemed so calm, but he felt like he was about to spontaneously combust. Heart stuttering in his chest as he sideglances at your firmly shut door - like he was just waiting for you to jump out and tell him this was some elaborate prank. 

Begging for you to come - it would’ve hurt less.

But you don’t.

Fuck. 

And the only response he gets is a low whistle, before a phone is being shoved in his face - flashlight illuminating that crimson blush. “Damn, the great Gojo Satoru speechless? The groupchat is gonna love this, might even send it to my sister, y’know.” 

He didn’t care - didn’t give a shit if this video made rounds to Gakuganji himself. Only one thought racing through his mind right now. 

“But why aren’t you punching me like in elementary school?” 

And Satoru knows he’s smart - intelligent even. Hell, he was the valedictorian, the youngest employee to claw their way up to being on the board of directors. But he’s never felt more stupid when Suguru breathes out a bewildered, “Dude. That was for blaming me for the paper planes.” 

“Oh.”

Then the movie is unpaused. 

---

The last time you kissed Gojo Satoru was at the doorstep to that overpriced penthouse of his, exactly a year ago today. 

The last time you saw Gojo Satoru was just a few hours ago, lounging around your living room like he owned it. Honestly, he might as well have been part of the furniture at this point - like some expensive, fluffy couch. One that prattled on about your “dumbass boyfriend” and god-knows-what else to rile you up just for the fun of it.

Which is why it was odd to step out of your bedroom - eyes just a bit puffy, throat still tight - to a suspiciously quiet hallway. 

The lights were turned off, nothing but the pouring rain sounding from outside, television paused on some rerun of The Princess Diaries. Damn, you told those idiots not to start that one without you.

“Sugu?” you call, finding his bedroom empty. “Thought tonight was movie night?” Padding across the empty apartment, contemplating whether or not to get your phone and call him when-

Ding!

Ah, there. 

You roll your eyes as you head towards the front door, ready to give Suguru a piece of his mind for going out at this ungodly hour and forgetting his key. Seriously, what if you opened the door and he was hurt, or worse, or…

Satoru. 

Speaking a mile a minute.

Satoru.

“-florist was closed and the store clerk looked at me like I was crazy but I got this for-” he pauses abruptly, as if realizing something with a jolt. “-you.”

“You- what-” you don’t know where to look - at the drenched, disheveled Satoru filling your doorframe - rain in his hair, curtaining his frantic eyes, drenching his snug t-shirt. Or at the obscenely large bouquet of cheap strawberry lollipops being placed gently into your arms. 

What follows was an electric silence - and you have half the mind to tease Satoru for finally shutting the fuck up for once in his life. 

But, no. Instead, you eye the way he stands stubbornly at the doorway, fists clenched, blue eyes locked so intensely on yours that it was like they burned. 

Face flushed a familiar pretty pink that makes you realize that shit, he might be taller, voice deeper, broad shoulders tight against his t-shirt - but this was still the same boy that cried when you stole his favorite Digimon card in middle school. The same one that kissed you underneath a dingy slide, smelling of strawberry lollipops.

It’s the steady tap! tap! tap! of the water droplets from his hair that have you tearing your traitorous eyes from his see-through white t-shirt.

Guess you’ve both done some growing up since then.

“You loser.”

“Yes, sweetheart?”

The pink wrapping of the bouquet rustles as your grip tightens. “He proposed to me today, y’know.” and yet, your quiet, even voice was the only thing ringing in Satoru’s ears. He jolts, as if some visceral, primal part of himself had been poked awake. Breathing heavy, fists clenching until he could feel the neat indents of his fingernails on his palm. Of course. He’s late. He’s late he’s late he’s late-

That is, until you’re plowing on, “I said no.”

“Huh?”

You think back to the stuffy restaurant, the man sitting from across from you - how wrong it felt. And all it took were those four words for you to realize that. “I said no.” 

Satoru snaps his head up, stepping close - so close. Voice strained like he wasn’t asking - begging. Praying, “Why?”

“We…” you raise a brow at the way Satoru flinches as you trail off. So desperate. A smirk makes its way onto your face, “...we haven’t divorced yet, right?”

And then you’re kissing him - or maybe he’s kissing you. 

Fuck, you don’t know - nor do you really care right now. Not when Satoru’s got his lips crashing against yours for the fifth time in your life, kissing you like it would be the last. Big arms dipping down to your waist, pulling you so tight against his muscled frame that he had half the mind to wonder whether it hurt. 

“Love this. Love the way you kiss me- fuck-” he’s spitting against your lips, kicking the door shut behind him. “Oh- would ya get mad if I-” he tries to get out through kisses. Only to suck on your pretty lips with a pained grunt. “If I-” Again and again, like it killed him to part. “-hah- celebrated right now?”

“Yes.” You’re letting the bouquet fall to the foor, white-knuckling that useless, drenched excuse of a shirt. “Now kiss me properly, Toru.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Such a sloppy mix of teeth and hands and him. Shoving a knee between your legs, making up for years and years of late nights with nothing but his fist and the pretty thought of you. 

“Yeah, that’s it, sweetheart.” Satoru breathes out, as your urgent fingers that dispose of his shirt, feeling the gorgeous dips and curves of years of hard work to impress you. “Suck on m’tongue pretty- fuck-” His own fisting your shirt, pulling. Ripping.

“Toru!”

“I want you.” He’s letting the poor, tattered pieces drop in a pile on the floor, trailing a hand between your damp thighs before he can stop himself. “Oh how I’ve wanted you. And I don’t care if I have to buy fifty new outfits to make up for it.”

And it’s the feeling of his long index stroking up your sopping slit through your shorts that has you pulling away with a gasp. Delicate little strings of saliva snapping from Satoru’s kiss-bitten lips. “If we continue like this…” your voice wavers as he presses hot kisses along your collarbone. “-my brother’s gonna walk in.”

“...wouldn’t wanna relive that playground kiss, huh?”

It’s all he says before picking you up so easily, hands resting on your ass. Giving a playful spank ass you wrap your legs around his toned waist. 

And it’s sloppy.

Both his lips still hotly on yours and the way he’s stumbling urgently to your room through pure muscle memory. Pulling away only when you’re all splayed out so prettily for him on your mattress.

“Blue?” he breathes, pulling your shorts off. And it comes out strained - like the very sight of your panties - all soaked and flimsy with your slick - has whatever’s remaining of Satoru’s sanity flying out the window. “Blue? Oh, you’ve gotta have planned this, you little minx.” his hot breath hits your cunt as he shifts down the bed, tongue drawing languid, wet little circles on your inner thigh. “Because don’t tell me this was all for him?”

It was coincidence - or maybe fate - but that doesn’t stop you from giving Satoru a slow, teasing nod. Muttering out, “So what if it was?”

The only answer you get is thumb hooked around your shorts, pulling it just enough so that your brother’s best friend can spy your pretty pussy.

“Well then.” he chuckles at the way you jump when his fingertip just barely grazes your clit. “Guess I jus’ hafta prove m’better.”

A low groan is falling from his lips as soon as they meet your puffy ones, giving your pretty clit a chaste peck. Lingering long enough that he’s sure your sweet sweet juices cover his mouth.

And oh Satoru’s sure he’ll never forget the way your jaw falls slack, glassy eyes following his every move as he runs his tongue along his glossy lips. Savoring your candied taste, “Never kissed you like this before, huh?” 

Fuck, you’re sweeter than he’s imagined.

You whine desperately, something that has him smirking smugly, “Hah, what? Cat got your tongue?”

“You’re better when you shut up.” It’s all you can do to buck your hips into Satoru’s pretty face - not that you had to, because one taste of your dripping cunt and he was addicted. Surging forwards until he was nose-deep, locking your ankles around his head with a firm yank.

And you can’t lie - maybe you’ve imagined this exact scene a few times before on those lonely nights. But you just never expected Satoru to be so depraved. Desperate.

“Ngh- fuck, Toru-” you reach a hand down to thread your fingers through his hair, tugging his face up. But Satoru doesn’t stop - not even for a second. Tongue still dipping to spread your swollen folds with his tongue, looking you right in the eyes as he murmurs a strangled, “Mhm?” 

“Thought you were gonna prove you’re better, hm?”

So goading. So like you. 

At this, Satoru pulls back ever-so-slightly to laugh - laugh. His plump, glistening lips curling into a humorless little grin, “Oh I will.” Thumb circling your throbbing clit. Just dragging your twitching body across the silky sheets close to his, one hand pinning your hips down. Hard. “I will.”

Loving his new favorite place between your legs one hand toys with your clit, quick, messy little patterns. Tongue even more so. 

“Not just better.” he grunts, “Gonna make you cum so much harder, too.” Having your thighs shake with each word hissed out into your cunt, each turn of his deft fingers. “Till I’m the only thing on your mind. Me.”

And it’s all you can do to let out choked up groans of his name, back arching off the plush mattress to let him make out with your cunt deeper. Sloppier. So, so starved with the way he’s speeding up, tongue dragging across your walls. In and out in and out in and-

“Fuck! Hngh-” you angle his head - and he lets you. “There- Toru-”

Honestly, you didn’t even have to tell Satoru - he could feel it. Could feel it in the way your plushy walls are squeezing his hot tongue so harsh, until it was almost difficult to fuck your pussy so sloppily. In the way you’re letting out such delicious whines each time he grazes against those sweet spots. 

“There? Hah- I know.” he pulls away to muse, and your cute, disappointed whine goes straight to his already rock-hard cock. “Did he?”

He didn’t. And you’re shaking your head so pathetically - in a way you’d be embarrassed about usually. 

But that’s the last thing you’re thinking bout because you feel it - the cold, sinful feeling of Satoru spitting on your filthy cunt. Once. Twice. Blue eyes widening in delight at the way the mess of spit and slick drip down your slit. 

“Cute.” his tongue smoothes over the slutty pool, and the only thing your delirious brain can make out now is a low moan of, “So? Who’s better?”

It’s all you can do to choke out a broken little, “T-T-” Face burning at the way he was so clearly enjoying your struggle. And, well, no matter painfully hard it made his dick - he had to go just a bit easy on his girl, right?

“Shhhh, s’alright.” you flinch as he shoves two absolutely drenched fingers into your mouth, making so much more of a mess of it than necessary. Drinking in your cute gags, “I was asking her.” He’s making your head spin with the way he’s speeding up. “N’ she’s hah- very talkative.” Words muffled, and slurring together - like he was drunk off of you and your cunt. “Let’s hear what she has to ngh- say, huh?”

And with that, he’s alternating between lapping at your clit and squeezing into your sloppy entrance - like he couldn’t - didn’t - want to make up his mind. Oh, with your teary mewls strangled, the sound of Satoru making out with cunt is so loud. The squelches so obscene. 

“Fuuuuck.” he drawls. “Louder than I thought. I think she says I’m better, don’t you think?” 

You angle your head just right to catch the way his jaw grinds deeper into you, eating you out like his last meal. Your slick drooling down his chin so sinfully. 

“Ngh- fuck fuck fuck- ngh-” your yelps are dreamy, feeling like you were losing your mind with the way he was stretching you out. 

Like you were about to snap. Any second now. 

But Satoru’s only increasing his movements, drawing out your little moans. “And I think she’s saying…”  Getting sloppier. More erratic - and it didn’t matter if his fingers were cramping up now, cock aching with the need to be inside you. “-that she’s about to cum.”

You do - so hard and loud - both you and your cunt. 

You’re shaking, all but gushing all over Satoru’s mouth, tight pussy squeezing his tongue so hard. Barely even realizing the searing grip you’ve got on his hair as you drag your sloppy pussy all over his mouth.

But Satoru doesn’t mind - he gladly welcomes it, in fact. Tonguefucking your snug cunt senselessly, letting you chase your high as roughly as you wanted. Over and over.

Even when you’re vision isn’t as spotty as before, even when nothing’s coming out of your mouth but little whimpers. Your breathing dying down until all that rings in your barely-lucid mind were those obscene noises of Satoru’s lips all on yours. 

“T-Toru-” you whine, big fat tears pricking at your hazy eyes. “M’so sensitive.”

And of course this is Satoru, the same boy who’s been pushing your buttons for years just to giggle at your adorable reactions. Which is why he grins against your twitching cunt, “So?”

It takes everything in you to raise your head off the pillow that just seemed to be swallowing you whole, and even more to shoot Satoru a half-hearted glare. “So m’gonna ngh- assume you’re jus’ a pussy with a s-smaller dick than-”

You don’t get to finish your sentence - he doesn’t let you. Because Satoru’s fumbling with his belt, peeling off those still-drenched pants just enough for you to admire his clothed erection. 

And, shit, admittedly you expected him to have a big dick - having been subjected to way too much locker room talk with your brother - but this was ridiculous. 

“What? Too big?” He flashes you that infuriating grin. Palming his rock-hard cock through his boxers at the way your beautiful eyes trace the outline of his cock, all swollen and big. So intimidatingly big. “Damn, sweetheart, if I knew that this was how I’d get that feisty lil’ mouth of yours to shut up then I’d have done it a lot sooner.” 

And you don’t even know if you’re breathing, the pads of your fingers dancing along his bulge. Tracing those prominent veins. Thumbing that little damp spot at his fat head. “You wouldn’t have.” 

He hisses as your soft hands dip into the hem of his underwear. Voice cracking slightly, “I wouldn’t.”

Then you’re gasping - in sync with Satoru’s low moan - as you finally let him spring free. Thick cock hitting his sculpted abs, red tip smearing precum in a lewd little pool. Weeping and so so angry at the sight of you.

At the heavenly feeling of your thumb teasing under his sensitive slit, “Oh, shit.” 

He’s throwing his head back when you give an experimental pump, all the way from his pretty tip to the tufts fo white at his hilt. Fist gliding all over the thumping veins. Bucking his hips up like such a slut into your touch. 

“O-oh fuck.” he cracks an eye open at the way your hand looked so small compared to his dick, how well you were taking care of him. “Been ngh- dreaming of this since I learned what handjobs were, y’know? Hah- shit- ya gotta stop before I fuckin’ pass out.”

And Satoru thinks he could cum right then and there at the way you’re bringing your soaked index up to your mouth. Batting your lashes as you suck on them with a lewd pop! “From jus’ that?”

“You have no idea.”

That’s all it takes for Satoru to throw your still-quivering thighs over his shoulders, effectively shutting up whatever tease is on the tip of your sharp tongue by kissing your swollen folds with his fat head. Giving it one, long drag. 

Your mouth is sagging open at the slow, torturous teasing. The sheer anticipation that had your mouth running, “S-so much for ah- jus’ being ‘friends’, huh?”

“Oh, sweetheart.” And you’re flinching from Satoru’s deep, dark tone. The way he’s bracing his fingers so bruisingly on your hips, reeling all the way back till his tip was just kissing your hole. “We stopped being friends the day you married me on that playground.” 

And then he’s slamming in - pushing past that first, feeble ring of resistance, gummy walls stretching out so perfectly for him. As if he fit right in - and he tells you that. Pants it into your open mouth a little over fifteen times, in fact. 

“Shiiiit, look at you.” he can’t tear his eyes away from the side of your lips stretching so wide to try and milk him. Sloppy entrance stretching out like magic. “S’like you’re made for me, huh? This pussy is made f’me?”

“Ngh- fuck, Toru! S’too big-” you keen, feet flattening on the mattress. As if to escape. To maybe fucking breathe.  

Not even half-way in yet, but aleady torn between pushing away and sinking yourself down on his swollen cock for more more more-

“Don’t you dare run away.” he warns, looking up at you through his long lashes. “I’ve waited too long for this. N’ you’re not taking this pretty pussy away any time soon.” Inch by fucking inch. Grinding in short, sharps jabs - no rhythm of rhyme, like they were genuinely out of control. “Way too f-fuckin’-” All the way until your puffy folds was meeting his hilt. Finally. All the way in. “-long.”

And once Satoru had you split apart on his dick - had those tears rolling down your cheeks, cunt swallowing him so sluttily - it’s like something snaps. 

Because he doesn’t waste a second - he’s already wasted almost two decades, anyway - filling you up with his mean hips. Not fucking easing you into it because you always did bring out that part of him, the part that him looping two strong arms around your waist. Pulling. 

“Oh- f-fuck c’mere.” Satoru gasps, pressing your body so crushingly against his. Kissing your shaky shoulers, your sweaty forehead, the gentleness so contrasting to his hips.“God I’ve missed out- fuck fuck fuck-” 

You’ve never seen the great Gojo Satoru - campus sex symbol - so uncomposed. Eyes half-lidded, just boring into yours, mouth slack in a soft oh! as he drags his cock all over inside your gummy walls. And the sight is so heavenly that you make the mistake the mistake of cracking a minute smile.

Just barely curling your lips before - “Don’t smile at me like that.” He’s dipping down a hand to roll your ravaged clit between two bullying fingers. “Fuck, she’s gonna be the death of me. Right?”

You keen at the- stimulation? The strech? The sheer embarrassment as you realize that Satou’s still talking to your sloppy pussy? Nodding so mockingly up at you as he plows on, “Mhm, she says you needa be ngh- knocked down a god, you’re tight- peg or two. So- get- ready-” 

He’s using this as an excuse to sit up on his knees, dragging you onto his lap so easily like some ragdoll. 

“That’s more like it.”

You’re sliding deeper down his painfully hard cock - all the way till his heavy balls rest beneath your ass, clit rubbing against his pelvis every time he bounces you like some slut.  

Deep. Ruthless.

“Keep your eyes open, sweetheart.” He chuckles, and you’re screwing open your eyes that you don’t even remember shutting. Trying so hard to stop crying out at the feeling of the curve of his dick massaging your walls. “Ya gotta hngh- see the o-only one who’d fuckin’ you properly, right?”

You squeal when he’s taking your clit captive once more. Finger quick, deft. “Y-yes.”

But that wasn’t enough for Satoru - it might as well never be. Because he’s only ramming his hips up further. Like he’s pushing into your stomach, your lungs, all the way into your cockdrunk brain. Fat head alternating between kissing your poor, abused cervix and all those sweet spots he’d mapped out with his tongue.

“Sounded unsure to me.” he’s pouty against your hardened nipples bouncing enticingly in his face. Fingers quirking faster on your clit, “Maybe I should ngh- stop then?”

“No!” Your hips stutter against Satoru’s. Nails clawing down the sculpted panes of his shoulders, leaving red angry marks for him to take as a sign tomorrow morning that no, it wasn’t just one of his dreams this time. “No no no- m’sure. You’re the only one makin’ me feel this way.”

You can feel the way he’s twitching wildly at your words, dick thumping harder inside your sensitive cunt. 

He punctures each word with a heavy, calculated thrust. Hand stretching and squeezing open your cunt from behind to let him slide impossibly deeper. “Hmmm, I’m not convinced.” 

Your stupid mouth is only capable of letting out broken, choked-up little moans of his name, ankles locking around those dimples at the end of his spine. “S’you–”

“Still not convinced.”

But he’s still speeding up his movements, just dragging you up and down his cock. “Who else made you hah- feel this good?” Sure to claim you from the inside out - to leave marks everywhere. Heavy balls on your ass, weeping tip on your cervix, lips bruised as you whimper at his murmured, “That ex of yours?” Biting down your neck, “That barista that always flirts with you?” Pulling away only to breathe into your lips, “Who?”

“ I- fuck it’s only you, Toru.”

“Sound convincing to you?” Satoru hums down at your cunt, biting his lower lip at the way you were milking him so good. Your slick soaking him all the way down to his balls - so needy in a way he never thought he’d see. “Yeah-” be breathes, nosing at your neck. “She agrees- fuck does this tight lil’ pussy of yours agree.” A few tears, a few gorgeous marks down his back, and he was finally convinced. “You’re mine.”

You don’t even realize it when you’re cumming, and Satoru doesn’t either.

Both of you too caught up in each other to recognize that familiar, white-hot pleasure running down your spine - all the way down to where he was so mercilessly buried in your cunt.  

And you’re well into the blood roaring deafeningly in your ears, the sight of Satoru - all wrecked - blurring as he fucks his hips up. Harsh. Eyes rolling to the back of his head as he paints your quivering walls white. 

Cumming and cumming so hard that you can feel his seed dribbling down your thighs, making such a mess all over Satoru’s lap. Your poor, overfilled cunt soon bloated and unable to keep up with it.

“Toru–” you whine, like a prayer. Milking the fucking soul out of him while he gently paws at your messy hair.

“Shhh, I know I know, sweetheart.” Such a stark contrast to the way he was filling you up like his favorite sex toy. Not even bothering to move anymore, one hand on your hip, moving your limp body up and down his sensitive cock to fuck it deeper. The other still playing with your clit, “S’alright, my girl”

Satoru’s hands never leave you, and he prays that now that he got a taste - well, you better be alright with them not leaving you for as long as he lives.

“As long as you live, huh?” you chuckle groggily, a noise so dreamy that Satoru can’t even be mad that he said it out loud. “And all that riling me up these years. Do you have a degradation kink or something?”

“Well, only one way to find out~”

“Oh shut up you-”

SLAM!

“Yooo, I bought dinner from that- WHAT THE FUCK?”

There were only two more lessons to be learned:

Always lock the door. Always. And in case you don’t, a bouquet of lollipops will do the trick to a Suguru reeling from the newest addition to the family. 

Cheap takeout tastes better with an apologetic Suguru, and an ice pack to his cheek - and you to kiss it better.

A/N. Can you tell I kept listening to that one Artemas song while writing this?

Plagiarism not authorized.

[ohara-n-brown]

As a late diagnosed autist I will say one of the most damaging but transformative experiences I've ever had was being misdiagnosed with BPD.

Everyday my heart goes out to people with BPD.

The amount of stigma and silencing they face is astonishing and sickening.

I took DBT for years. Therapists use to turn me away because of my diagnosis.

I would be having full blown autistic meltdowns, crying for help literally - but because I was labeled as BPD ANY time I cried I was treated as manipulative and unstable.

As if the only reason I could be crying was if I was out to trick someone.

95% of the books out there with Borderline in the title are named shit like 'How to get away from a person with Borderline', 'How to stop walking on eggshells (with a person who has BPD)'

I was never allowed to feel true pain or panic or need.

That was 'attention seeking behavior', not me asking for help when a disability was literally inhibiting my ability to process emotions.

There were dozens of times where I had a full meltdown and was either threatened with institutionalization or told I was doing it for attention.

My failing relationships weren't due to a communication issue, or the inability to read social cues. No, because I was labeled borderline, my unstable relationships were my fault. Me beggong nuerotypicals to just be honest and blunt with what they meant was me pestering them for validation.

Borderline patients can't win.

And the funny thing is - I asked my therapist about autism. I told her I thought I was on the spectrum.

BPD is WILDLY misdiagnosed with those with autism and I had many clear signs.

Instead - she told me 'If you were autistic we wouldn't be able to have this conversation'. She made me go through a list of autistic traits made clearly for children, citing how I didn't fit each one.

And then she told me that me identifying with the autism community was the BPD making me search for identity to be accepted - and that I wasn't autistic, just desperate to fit in somewhere.

I didn't get diagnosed for another ten years. For ten years I avoided the autism community - feeling as if I were just a broken person who wanted to steal from people who 'really needed it'.

Because of my providers - I began to doubt my identity MORE, not less.

Ten years of thinking I was borderline and being emotionally neglected and demonized by a system meant to help me.

To this day, I still don't trust neurotypicals. Not fully.

I know I'm not borderline now - but my heart aches for them. Not for the usual stuff. But for the stigma. And the asshole doctors. And the dismissiveness and threatening and the idea of institutionalization hanging over their head.

I love Borderline people. I always will. I'm not Borderline but if you are I love you and I'm sorry.

You're not a bad person. You're not a therapists worst nightmare, you are a human with valid feelings and fears.

Borderline people I'm sorry.

[dostoyevsky-official]

The Elite College Students Who Can’t Read Books

Nicholas Dames has taught Literature Humanities, Columbia University’s required great-books course, since 1998. He loves the job, but it has changed. Over the past decade, students have become overwhelmed by the reading. College kids have never read everything they’re assigned, of course, but this feels different. Dames’s students now seem bewildered by the thought of finishing multiple books a semester. His colleagues have noticed the same problem. Many students no longer arrive at college—even at highly selective, elite colleges—prepared to read books.

This development puzzled Dames until one day during the fall 2022 semester, when a first-year student came to his office hours to share how challenging she had found the early assignments. Lit Hum often requires students to read a book, sometimes a very long and dense one, in just a week or two. But the student told Dames that, at her public high school, she had never been required to read an entire book. She had been assigned excerpts, poetry, and news articles, but not a single book cover to cover.

[...] Twenty years ago, Dames’s classes had no problem engaging in sophisticated discussions of Pride and Prejudice one week and Crime and Punishment the next. Now his students tell him up front that the reading load feels impossible. It’s not just the frenetic pace; they struggle to attend to small details while keeping track of the overall plot.

No comprehensive data exist on this trend, but the majority of the 33 professors I spoke with relayed similar experiences. Many had discussed the change at faculty meetings and in conversations with fellow instructors. [...] Daniel Shore, the chair of Georgetown’s English department, told me that his students have trouble staying focused on even a sonnet.

Failing to complete a 14-line poem without succumbing to distraction suggests one familiar explanation for the decline in reading aptitude: smartphones. Teenagers are constantly tempted by their devices, which inhibits their preparation for the rigors of college coursework—then they get to college, and the distractions keep flowing. “It’s changed expectations about what’s worthy of attention,” Daniel Willingham, a psychologist at UVA, told me. “Being bored has become unnatural.” Reading books, even for pleasure, can’t compete with TikTok, Instagram, YouTube. In 1976, about 40 percent of high-school seniors said they had read at least six books for fun in the previous year, compared with 11.5 percent who hadn’t read any. By 2022, those percentages had flipped.

[...] Mike Szkolka, a teacher and an administrator who has spent almost two decades in Boston and New York schools, told me that excerpts have replaced books across grade levels. “There’s no testing skill that can be related to … Can you sit down and read Tolstoy? ” he said. And if a skill is not easily measured, instructors and district leaders have little incentive to teach it. [...] The pandemic, which scrambled syllabi and moved coursework online, accelerated the shift away from teaching complete works.

[...] But it’s not clear that instructors can foster a love of reading by thinning out the syllabus. Some experts I spoke with attributed the decline of book reading to a shift in values rather than in skill sets. Students can still read books, they argue—they’re just choosing not to. Students today are far more concerned about their job prospects than they were in the past. Every year, they tell Howley that, despite enjoying what they learned in Lit Hum, they plan to instead get a degree in something more useful for their career.

[...] For years, Dames has asked his first-years about their favorite book. In the past, they cited books such as Wuthering Heights and Jane Eyre. Now, he says, almost half of them cite young-adult books. Rick Riordan’s Percy Jackson series seems to be a particular favorite.

[foldingfittedsheets]

When I was in third grade I got Weird with writing. It makes sense in hindsight. Oppressed people find their own ways of carving out space for themselves.

The first bit I did landed me in trouble more immediately. I was given, god knows by who, one of those enormous giant pencils. I loved it. My tiny nine year old body was consumed with love of this pencil that was roughly 1/3 of my height. I insisted that I would only use this pencil in school.

It was an unlucky year to be stricken with whimsy. My third grade teacher was a tyrannical Japanese woman fueled by her dislike of children. I suspect the cultural divide between how she expected children to behave and the reality of American children broke her.

She was three foot nothing and getting berated by her was the first time I’d ever looked down at an adult. I also saw her once standing next to her white 6’ behemoth of a husband and tried to conceptualize how two such disparate people had sex. I never could.

If you think I’m exaggerating her wrath it’s worth noting that my best friend at the time developed a stress disorder from this woman and I fell into a bizarre stutter that cleared up the moment I was out of class. In her classroom breaking down crying was a weekly occurrence.

But despite the frigid conditions, I persevered. I stayed silly. I brought my enormous novelty pencil to class every day. It was an act of rebellion that I sank my teeth into and refused to let go. I could barely sharpen it because its girth defied standard sharpeners the way I defied my teacher. This was my pencil.

When she attempted to confiscate my giant pencil I rose an unholy ruckus. This would not turn into the confiscated holographic Charizard, my tamagotchi, or my little pop frogs that she never returned to me. No. This was my goddamn pencil. There was no rules against enormous novelty pencils and after a heated week of debate she finally conceded I could use the hated thing.

It was stolen by my kleptomaniac friend a week or so after that a fact I’d only discover at the end of the year. But my tiny mind was convinced the evil teacher had stolen it.

In retaliation, instead of resuming normal behavior I decided that I would do all my writing upside down and backwards. No one, least of all myself, could explain why I felt this was necessary. Maybe I felt I’d be cool like a spy, maybe I just needed to buck the teachers hateful authority, or maybe I was just a little autistic kid.

When taking notes or writing essays I’d arrange the paper to be upside down. It may surprise you to know that my penmanship was actually quite decent, albeit I wrote a little more slowly than my classmates. That’s why it took the teacher a while to realize what was going on. There wasn’t a drop in the quality of my writing.

Unsurprisingly she hated it when she found out. She lambasted me both privately and in front of the class to write normally. I asked if my writing was illegible. She had to admit that no, it was not. I shrugged. I did not see a problem.

Like the pencil my new writing fixation was cited as being a distraction to the other children. But similarly she didn’t have an easy way to make me stop. She marked me down, gave me several talking tos, and generally bullied me into writing like everyone else.

All attempts at correcting me simply ran off my back. I had found a way to cope with how miserable she made all of us, by inflicting misery back upon her. I was unswayed for the rest of the year.

When I graduated up into fourth grade and had a teacher I adored it suddenly stopped. I looked at the paper and thought, Well that’s silly, and flipped it the right way round.

I can still write upside down, though, a testament to my worst year in public school.

[spaghettioverdose]

I think it is insane how people on this site even act like atheism as a whole is or was one coherent movement that developed in the US rather than the reality that people accross the world decided they no longer believed in gods and created various movements around/containing this position.

Atheism doesn't really require you to have any of the extra beliefs they had. You will have extra positions that you then potentially attach to atheism but that is unrelated to atheism itself. You don't need to believe in ancient aliens instead of gods or whatever. You don't really have to "reckon" with anything that one atheist movement in the US did unless you hold the other beliefs they had or were part of that movement.

People love to cite various reactionary beliefs of the NewAtheism movement to other random atheists like they inherited the faults of a movement they weren't even part of. Those people didn't invent the concept of not believing in God.

[vaginalvr]

Close Quarters, nsfw

spencer reid x reader

cw: rivals to lovers, degradation/praise kink, light dom/sub dynamics, rough sex, jealousy, hate sex vibe turning into affection, unprotected sex (p-in-v), name-calling, dirty talk, arguing, mutual obsession

a/n YAYAYAYAYAYA new post or wtv ik I already wrote a hotch one like this but I love my man spence ok leave me alone

You’d always admired Spencer Reid—brilliant, composed, infuriatingly correct Spencer Reid—right up until you joined the BAU and he made it his mission to prove just how much smarter he was than you.

From your very first case, it was clear he saw you as competition. Every quote you cited, he one-upped. Every theory you offered, he expanded, tweaked, made more “statistically accurate.” It wasn’t that he disliked you—if anything, that would’ve been easier. Instead, he hovered around you like a moth circling a flame, watching, pushing, challenging.

And you… you gave it right back. You matched him. Beat him, sometimes. The others found it amusing—Morgan even placed a bet once on which one of you would crack first.

No one expected it to happen the way it did.

It had been a rough case. Three children murdered in a small town outside Denver, the unsub a former teacher with a savior complex. You’d interviewed the parents, the victims’ classmates, the community.

You and Reid had argued in front of the team. You were convinced the unsub’s actions were ritualistic—symbolic. Reid disagreed. He cited statistical patterns, behavioral inconsistencies.

And then the unsub had targeted a fourth child. And you had been right.

The guilt was immediate, the grief even worse. No one blamed you—you had been right, after all—but it didn’t feel like a victory. Not when the little girl didn’t make it.

Hotch called it early that night. “We’ll head back tomorrow morning. Get some rest.”

The motel only had a few rooms left. You didn’t hear most of the conversation, only the part that mattered: “You’ll have to share.”

With Spencer.

Your stomach dropped. You opened your mouth to protest, but Hotch gave you a look. You closed it.

The motel room was silent.

You stood on one side, arms crossed, jaw tight. Spencer Reid stood on the other, pacing like a caged animal.

The team had wrapped the case hours ago, and now you were stuck. The motel overbooked. Two twin beds, one room. You and him.

Perfect.

You watched him with narrowed eyes, simmering. “You always do this.”

Spencer turned. “Do what, exactly?”

“Undermine me. Talk over me. Use those stupid statistics to make everyone second-guess my instincts. You think you’re better than me.”

“I am better than you,” he snapped before he could stop himself.

You blinked. “Wow.”

He ran a hand through his hair, frustrated. “No, I didn’t—That came out wrong.”

“No, it didn’t. You meant it.”

You stalked toward him, fury sharp in your throat. “God, you’re such a smug little know-it-all. You can memorize every fact in the world, but you can’t even read a room. We lost that girl because you couldn’t shut up and listen.”

His eyes darkened. “Don’t pin that on me. You knew the ritualistic signs. You should’ve fought harder.”

Your mouth dropped open.

“That’s not how this works,” you hissed.

“No,” he said, stepping into your space, “but maybe if you were less obsessed with trying to one-up me in front of everyone, you’d think more clearly.”

“Go to hell, Reid.”

“Already there,” he muttered. “Right here. With you.”

The air between you snapped like an electrical wire. Too close. Too angry. Too much.

“You really think I’m beneath you?” you bit out.

He looked down at you. “I know you want to be beneath me.”

That did it.

You slapped him.

It wasn’t hard—more of a sharp tap to the cheek—but it echoed in the tight room. His head turned slightly. Then he looked back at you with something dangerous in his eyes.

He surged forward and kissed you.

No, claimed you.

Teeth. Tongue. Frustration. Filth.

You kissed him back with equal fury, grabbing his collar, dragging him closer. His hands found your hips, slammed you back against the wall.

“Say it,” he growled into your mouth. “Say you want this.”

“I hate you,” you gasped.

“I don’t give a shit,” he snapped. “You’re still gonna beg.”

You didn’t make it to the bed right away.

He had your pants off before you could blink, spinning you toward the wall, one hand shoved between your thighs.

“Already wet,” he sneered. “Of course you are. You get off on fighting me, don’t you?”

You bit back a moan, refusing to give him the satisfaction.

“Come on,” he hissed in your ear. “Be honest for once. You’ve been dying for this. For me to ruin you.”

You pushed back against his hand despite yourself. He was too good—those brilliant fingers weren’t just good at tying case files together. They knew exactly where to touch, how to curl, how to wreck.

“Fuck you,” you gasped.

“Oh, you will,” he said darkly. “And you’ll thank me for it.”

He yanked you away from the wall just long enough to throw you onto the nearest bed, stripping you with efficient hands. Then he stood above you, shirt undone, pants unzipped, eyes hungry.

“Look at you,” he said, voice low and cruel. “So desperate you’d fuck your rival just to feel something.”

You glared. “At least I feel something. You’re just a machine with a PhD.”

His lip curled. “A machine that’s about to fuck you so hard you forget your own name.”

You didn’t even get a retort out before he was on top of you, sliding between your thighs, lining himself up.

“No condom,” he muttered.

“I’m on the pill,” you breathed. “Are you clean?”

“Yes,” he growled, then sank into you with a guttural moan. “Fucking hell, you’re tight.”

You cried out—half from the stretch, half from the sheer power of the moment.

He didn’t move at first. Just held himself inside you, watching your face with a cruel smirk.

“What’s wrong?” he mocked. “Finally speechless?”

“Keep talking,” you gasped. “I want to see if I can make you shut up for once.”

That broke him.

He started thrusting hard, fast, brutal. The bed creaked under the force. He pinned your wrists above your head with one hand and leaned close, breath hot against your cheek.

“You love this,” he hissed. “Being fucked like the little brat you are. Always mouthing off. Always trying to beat me.”

“Still could,” you choked, already close. “Even like this.”

“You can’t even think right now,” he said with a grin. “Can you feel how deep I am? You’re dripping. It’s pathetic.”

He let go of your wrists just to yank your leg over his shoulder and ram in deeper. You sobbed his name.

“That’s it,” he groaned. “Come on my cock. Right now.”

You did.

It hit you like a freight train, legs shaking, back arching, your cunt clenching around him like a vice.

“Fuck—fuck—you feel insane—”

He didn’t stop. He kept going, chasing his own release while you whimpered under him, overstimulated, clinging to him like a lifeline.

“Such a fucking mess,” he growled. “Look at you. So dumb on my cock. You gonna cry?”

You did. A little. From how good it was.

He moaned, full-throated and raw, and came inside you hard, hips stuttering, voice breaking with it.

For a moment, all you could hear was panting.

Spencer collapsed beside you, one arm thrown over his eyes, still breathless.

You stared at the ceiling, heart pounding, mind wiped clean.

“Wow,” you muttered.

He turned to look at you, his voice rough. “You okay?”

You blinked at him.

That was soft. Unexpected.

“Yeah,” you said slowly. “You?”

He nodded. “Didn’t mean to be that rough.”

You turned toward him, still flushed, still naked. “Didn’t hear me complaining.”

He gave you a smirk. A real one this time. No venom. No defense.

“I meant what I said,” he murmured. “I hate how much I want you.”

You reached over, brushed your fingers over his stomach. “Same.”

“I don’t want it to just be this.”

You looked up.

That was vulnerable.

“You want more?” you asked, voice soft.

“I want everything,” he said simply.

You smiled.

“Then you better keep up, Doctor Reid.”

[pomegranatelifethis]

A Crimson Dawn

The air in your chambers was heavy with the scent of lavender and old parchment, a fragile sanctuary woven from silk drapes and the soft glow of candlelight. You sat by the arched window, your fingers tracing the delicate embroidery of your gown, oblivious to the world beyond the stone walls of your kingdom. The distant clamor of steel and the cries of men were but faint echoes, dismissed as the clamor of routine drills. Your brothers, ever protective, had ensured your world remained untouched by the chaos that bled across the borders. They called it love, but the locked door at the end of the hall felt more like a cage.

You were the youngest, the cherished princess of Eryndor, raised on tales of chivalry and starlit balls, your heart a garden of dreams yet to bloom. War was a concept as foreign to you as the shadowed lands of Gotham, your enemy across the sea. Your brothers—Cassian, the eldest, with his stern brow, and Lysander, the scholar with ink-stained fingers—had shielded you from the whispers of bloodshed. Even now, as the sun dipped low, painting the sky in hues of fire, you hummed a soft melody, unaware of the storm that had already broken your kingdom.

---

In the heart of Gotham’s war camp, Prince Damian Wayne stood amidst a sea of crimson banners, his armor slick with the blood of Eryndor’s knights. The battlefield stretched before him, a tapestry of ruin—shattered shields, broken blades, and the lifeless forms of those who dared defy him. His men called him the Red Lord, a title born from the rivers of blood that followed his blade and the unrelenting fury in his emerald eyes. To them, he was a demon, a force of nature cloaked in obsidian steel.

But to Damian, this war was not for conquest or glory. It was for you.

He had seen you only once, at a diplomatic summit two summers past, when the air was sweet with peace and the halls of Eryndor rang with laughter. You had stood beneath a chandelier’s golden glow, your smile a beacon that pierced the shadows of his guarded heart. You were purity incarnate, a vision of grace in a world he knew only as cruel. He had watched you from afar, memorizing the way your eyes sparkled when you spoke, the way your laughter danced like music. He had been a prince of Gotham, heir to a throne forged in iron, but in that moment, he was merely a boy, struck silent by a longing he could not name.

When Eryndor’s king rejected Gotham’s alliance—rejected *you* as a bride for Damian, citing his blood-soaked lineage—the prince’s heart had turned to ash. The war that followed was a fire kindled by that rejection, a desperate bid to claim what his soul demanded. He would tear Eryndor apart if it meant you would be his.

The door to your chambers rattled, startling you from your reverie. You turned, expecting Lysander with his usual stack of books or Cassian with a lecture on court etiquette. Instead, the door remained shut, the lock unyielding. A faint shout echoed from the corridor, followed by the unmistakable clatter of armored boots. Your heart quickened, though you didn’t understand why.

“Cassian?” you called softly, rising from your seat. “Lysander?”

No answer came. The shouts grew louder, punctuated by the sharp ring of steel. You pressed a hand to your chest, your breath hitching. The world beyond your door was unraveling, and for the first time, the weight of your ignorance pressed against you like a physical force.

Your brothers had locked you away three days ago, their faces pale and drawn. “For your safety,” Cassian had said, his voice tight. “Stay here, little dove. Trust us.” You had nodded, ever obedient, believing their promises of protection. But now, as the castle trembled and the air grew thick with the acrid scent of smoke, doubt crept into your heart.

Damian carved his way through Eryndor’s stronghold, his sword a blur of death. The guards who stood between him and you were no match for his wrath. He had planned this assault for months, every move calculated, every sacrifice weighed. Gotham’s forces had crushed Eryndor’s armies, and now their castle was his. But victory meant nothing until he found you.

He stormed the upper towers, his heart a war drum in his chest. The rumors of your brothers’ desperation had reached him—how they had hidden you away, shielding you from the truth of their defeat. It only fueled his resolve. You deserved better than to be caged, better than a life of ignorance. He would free you, even if it meant staining his hands with more blood.

A final guard fell before him, and Damian kicked open the door to the royal wing. The corridor was lined with portraits of Eryndor’s kings, their eyes seeming to judge him as he passed. At the end of the hall, a heavy oak door stood barred, its iron lock gleaming in the torchlight. He knew you were behind it. He could feel it, as surely as he felt the ache in his bones.

You flinched as the door shuddered, a deafening crack splitting the air. The wood groaned, then splintered, and the lock gave way with a scream of metal. You stumbled back, your gown catching on the edge of a table, your eyes wide with fear. The figure that stepped through the wreckage was a nightmare made flesh—tall, clad in dark armor, his cape dripping with the crimson of battle. His face was half-hidden by a helm, but his eyes… his eyes burned with a fire that stole your breath.

“Princess,” he said, his voice low, almost reverent, as he removed his helm. Dark hair fell across his brow, and those eyes—green as jade, sharp as a blade—locked onto yours.

You didn’t know him, yet something in his gaze felt achingly familiar, like a dream you couldn’t recall. “Who… who are you?” you whispered, your voice trembling.

He took a step closer, and you instinctively retreated, your back pressing against the cold stone wall. He stopped, his expression softening, though the blood on his armor gleamed in the candlelight. “I am Damian Wayne, prince of Gotham,” he said. “And I have come for you.”

“For me?” Your mind spun, grasping for meaning. “Why? My brothers—”

“Your brothers are defeated,” he said, his tone gentle but unyielding. “Eryndor has fallen. But you… you are safe now. With me.”

The words made no sense. Fallen? Defeated? Your world, so carefully curated, shattered like glass. “I don’t understand,” you said, your voice breaking. “Why is this happening?”

Damian’s jaw tightened, a flicker of pain crossing his features. He wanted to tell you everything—how this war had been for you, how his heart had waged its own battle long before the first sword was drawn. But you were trembling, your innocence a fragile thing he feared he might break.

“Because I love you,” he said at last, the confession raw, unguarded. “And I would burn the world to keep you safe.”

You stared at him, your heart pounding. Love? This stranger, this blood-soaked prince, spoke of love as if it were a vow written in the stars. You should have been afraid, should have screamed for your brothers, for the life you knew. But something in his eyes held you captive—a truth that stirred the untouched corners of your soul.

The Red Lord had come for you, and the world you knew would never be the same.

[roydick]

While thinking about the times we see Dick and Bruce physically fight I started thinking about Dick's motivations in those fights. When does Dick fight back, and when does Dick just take the licks?

I noticed a trend.

Fighting Bruce For Others

Two of the more infamous comics involving physical altercations between Dick and Bruce fall into this category.

Dick's motivations for fighting Bruce in both Nightwing vol. 3 #30 & Batman vol. 3 #138 are based around other people. In Batman Dick confronts Bruce over what he has done to Jason. In Nightwing once he understands what Bruce is asking of him Dick begins to fight back, citing their family and the recent loss of Damian as reasons why he can't.

In both of these Dick is fighting Bruce in defense of someone else.

(Left: Batman vol. 3 #138 / Middle & Right: Nightwing vol. 3 #30)

Fighting Bruce for Bruce

There are three "fights" that fit this metric.

A much more minor altercation occurs in Officer Down. Dick stops Bruce from going too far against a goon by getting an arm around his neck, Bruce quickly throws him off and leaves.

In Bruce Wayne: Fugitive? Dick (along with Tim, Cass, and Babs) confronts Bruce over his recent escape from police custody, after explaining that there will no longer be a "Bruce Wayne" Dick attempts to fight him. Batman mostly evades Dick in this confrontation. Dick is again trying to appeal to Bruce, trying to get him to rethink a decision that is going to hurt himself. Later Bruce apologizes to Dick saying "… I deserved it."

(Left: Robin vol. 1 #86 / Middle & Right: Batman vol. 1 #600)

The final fight in this section is a fight between a Bruce who has recently come into Superman's powers. Bruce has gone power hungry and violently attacks Selina. Dick attempts to fight Bruce, he doesn't believe he can win, but hopes instead that he can get through to Bruce, make him see that what he's doing is wrong. This fight leaves Dick seriously injured.

(Superman/Batman #55)

Taking the Hits

This final category is for instances where Dick does not fight back.

Dick goes to visit Bruce when he learns of Jason's death. Bruce turns the discussion confrontational quickly, putting blame on Dick for making him believe he could work with a partner. The encounter ending when Bruce punches Dick and yells at him before leaving. Dick doesn't attempt to fight back and accepts Bruce's accusations.

During the Court of Owls storyline it is revealed that Dick comes from a line of Talons and Bruce backhands Dick to knock a tooth out of Dick's mouth. Dick expresses no surprise by this, again just accepting it.

(Left & Middle: The New Titans #55 / Right: Nightwing vol. 3 #7)

In the first 2 sections Dick's main motivations for fighting Bruce are for someone other than himself, either his family or Bruce himself. His own feelings on the matter are secondary (Nightwing 30 & Bruce Wayne: Fugitive) if given a thought at all. In comparison when Bruce is only targeting Dick, Dick takes the hit and doesn't advocate for himself at all.

In Dick's eyes if Bruce finds him guilty then he must be guilty of something and he deserves the punishment.