#more likely to be labeled a problem student

[unsolicited-opinions]

how long do you give it for the Free Palestine movement, as it stands right now, to self-implode?

I'm not going to make predictions about the Western "Free Palestine" movement, but I'll try to put it in some context.

How Long Until the Western "Free Palestine" Movement Implodes?

Pattern Recognition: Comrades Eat Comrades

Western leftist movements are uniquely good at destroying themselves from within. I don't mean in a vague "movements always change" kind of way. I mean they start off energized, decentralized, idealistic…and then flame out in spectacular fashion after turning on their own organizers for being insufficiently pure.

Students for a Democratic Society (SDS) collapsed in the 1970s when it split into warring factions…some of whom literally became terrorists.

Occupy Wall Street No hierarchy, no demands, no outcomes. Just a long, slow descent into incoherence as activists argued over process, language, identity, and whose trauma deserved the most microphone time.

The problem wasn't the cause.

It was the belief that moral clarity must always mean moral absolutism. Absolutism inevitably leads to internal purges. The only real suspense is how fast it happens. Ideological rigidity eventually leads to doom.

Say what you want about the political far right (and I do because they suck), but they do understand how to rally behind a single message and follow a demagogue without asking whether he centers each of their specific sub-groups and sub-interests.

We saw in the 2024 election how many leftist purists were willing to help sabotage an imperfect candidate generally aligned with their values...and help elect Trump.

Why? Because the candidate who agreed with 65%-70% of their positions was more offensive to them than someone who has openly expressed admiration for Hitler. (How's that been working out for you, leftist purists?) These parts of the far left have their heads firmly up their own pure asses. They can’t/won't see the forest for the trees.

They subvert the goals they claim to care about because they're too busy performing their purity and moral absolutism for each other and clout instead of trying to effect changes to policy.

An Aesthetic of Resistance

The Western "Free Palestine" movement, especially since October 7th, has exploded in scale and visibility.

While some people are genuinely driven by concern for Palestinian civilians, a whole lot of others are clearly in it for the aesthetic, the vibes, the social belonging, or the drama.

It's a chance to cosplay 1968 without reading anything published before 2010.

What the Western "Free Palestine" movement offers isn't a roadmap to peace, justice, or statehood. It offers an identity. It's a moral fashion statement. You wear the scarf, you learn the slogans, you change your bio, and…congratulations! You're part of something Righteous and you didn't have to sacrifice or even learn anything!

An aesthetic of resistance, however, is not a strategy. It doesn't change policy. It doesn't build power. It doesn't endure.

Worse, it doesn't tolerate any nuance. In a coalition built on branding, anyone who doesn't fit the brand becomes a threat.

It can't permit any introspection or growth, so while might grow in size, extremism, or tactics, it's intellectually sterile, and that can make it ineffective and/or brittle.

Pattern Recognition: Factions and Purges

Leftist movements which base their legitimacy on moral purity almost always eventually turn inward.

First they identify the oppressor, then then identify the collaborators, then they start purging anyone insufficiently zealous. Eventually, everyone's a collaborator.

That’s already happening.

Mainstream ceasefire activists have been smeared as traitors by more radical circles for not calling explicitly for the abolition of Israel. Members of groups like JVP or IfNotNow (who for years were considered the "edgy" left flank) are now sometimes labeled as gatekeepers, liberals, or even crypto-Zionists for refusing to call October 7 a legitimate form of resistance…and JVP and INN keep shifting with the overton window of their movement to greater degrees of extremism.

Arab and Palestinian organizers who speak about nonviolence, coexistence, or long-term political strategy are being pushed out of leadership roles and branded as traitors...by white cultural Christians who know far less about the matter than they do. If they suggest anything other than total victory for Hamas and the destruction of Israel "by any means necessary," they're branded a sellout or a Westernized Zionist. The movement increasingly rewards people who sound revolutionary...not people who organize effectively.

Jewish allies to their movement, even the extremely anti-Zionist ones, are walking on eggshells. Support is conditional. They're expected to show up, shut up, and definitely not talk about antisemitism unless they want to be accused of derailing and supporting genocide. The number of Jews who've been publicly smeared or privately frozen out by movements they supported is growing fast, and most of them aren't saying anything. They just walk away. I don't know what their numbers are, but I've spoken with a handful like this. In each case, it was the privately unrestrained antisemitism which broke the spell and helped them realize what was happening.

Internal discourse policing is relentless. Want to talk about the complexity of Hamas's role in Palestinian suffering? You're platforming Zionist narratives. Want to discuss how sexual violence on October 7 has been minimized? That's "white feminism." Want to clarify that Jewish self-determination doesn’t inherently mean colonialism? You've committed the cardinal sin of nuance and must be purged.

None of this is new. It’s the same bullshit which took down SDS, tore apart the anti-Iraq war movement, and gutted Occupy from the inside. When your movement decides internal deviation is a bigger threat than external opposition, it stops building anything and just chases ideological purity.

Social Media May Accelerate the Cannibalism

In the past, movements have sometimes eaten themselves slowly. SDS took years. The anti-globalization movement unraveled over the better part of a decade. 

That was all before social media. Now what used to take five years can happen in five weeks.

Every far left movement now has an online wing and an IRL wing. The online wing is where purity spirals metastasize because virality rewards outrage, not organization.

Calling someone a colonial apologist gets more engagement than helping to register voters.

But Engagement ≠ Change.

So what does that mean for the Free Palestine movement? It might just undergo a slow, chaotic unraveling. Callouts, splintering, people walking away in frustration or disgust because they're too tired of it to say much about it as they just…stop showing up.

"Free Palestine" means..?

One of the biggest warning signs here is that no one consistently agrees on what the endgame is. We know that to Hamas it means the end of Israel, but it's much more vague for many "Free Palestine" activists. It can mean:

End the occupation of the West Bank!

Ceasefire!

One-state solution!

Two-state solution!

Third intifada, globalized!

Dismantle the state of Israel!

Ask 10 of them, get 12 answers. In normal movements, that's no big deal, because people are allowed to disagree. In this movement, though, disagreement is treated like betrayal.

If you say you support a two-state solution, you're a filthy Zionist.

If you mention Hamas's role in civilian suffering, you're a genocide denier.

If you're Jewish and support Palestinian rights (that describes most Jews), you'd better not talk about antisemitism lest you be accused of centering yourself, weaponizing antisemitism/trauma, and supporting genocide.

And if you try to discuss actual policy? That's imperialist behavior!

This isn't just ideological incoherence, it's a refusal to tolerate difference...which can make organizing unsustainable.

So will it implode soon?

I very much doubt it.

Will it unravel soon? 

Almost certainly not. The slogans, at the very least, will stick around and the hashtags aren't going anywhere because they've become identity signifiers.

A lot of the disinformation fed to Gen Z has been sticky and I'm concerned what the US will be like when they reach the peak of their political power.

There will always be a core of people pushing for Palestinian liberation (whatever that means to them), and some of them will have good intentions and/or good strategy. Some of today's antizionist zealots will eventually come around and start hearing Ahmed Fouad Alkhatib.

The count of antizionist social media accounts and posts will continue to be high - much higher than the number of actual belly buttons in the movement IRL, due to bots and agents controlled by those seeking to destabilize the West. Those probably won't go away any time soon and are likely to get much more sophisticated, effective, and difficult to screen out...because AI.

But as a mass movement? As a unifying force with real impact on politics? Something which puts people on streets in huge numbers? I'm less sure about that. From here, it looks like it's already fraying around the edges. The internal fights, the factionalism, the paranoia about bad-faith actors, the purity tests, the bizarre rituals of performance...that looks to me like the start of a collapse by attrition.

What if it just hangs out in the ideological natural reservoir of academia?

It's already been absorbed into academic discourse and nonprofit branding, right? It may just live there in a natural reservoir while continuing to do nothing material to improve Palestinian lives.

I'm not sure if/how it can be dislodged from academia. I can't support Trump's methods, but the absence of ideological diversity is both alarming and predictable.

From graduate admissions to peer-reviewed publishing, career advancement in the humanities often depends not on the originality or rigor of an argument, but on how well it aligns with prevailing orthodoxies. Scholars are trained to cite the right theorists, frame questions within accepted ideological paradigms, and signal moral allegiance to dominant narratives, particularly around identity, power, and oppression.

You pass your dissertation defense if your committee LIKES YOUR VIEWS. If your dissertation shows excellent scholarship which disputes their preferred narrative, you've wasted years and tens of thousands of dollars...and there are already more degreed scholars than faculty positions in these disciplines. So they're highly motivated to conform.

So dissent is pathologized instead of being debated. The result isn’t a community seeking truth, but a faculty enforcing consensus. Challenging the orthodoxy ends friendships and careers.

That's how you end up with an entire Middle Eastern Studies department which only knows and only teaches one narrative. It's not just a political problem, it's an intellectual ans social problem.

(On a personal level, this makes me very sad. When I was an undergrad in the 90s, I learned so much from the disagreements between professors I respected. I also admired the civility and intellectual honesty they offered each other.)

So...it seems like academia is going to be an ideological natural reservoir for the movement until that's addressed somehow without resorting to fascist tactics.

Maybe it'll splinter out into competing groups with varying flavors and intensities of dogmatism.

There are groups and individuals within the movement who think Amnesty International is a Zionist PSYOP.

There are self-styled anarchists and communists who want violence. They want chaos. When these people chant "by any means necessary," I have no problem believing they're willing to resort to domestic political violence to globalize the intifada.

Maybe some violent factions will splinter off like the Weather Underground splintered from SDS.

The revolutionary left has been recycling these dynamics for over a century.

The rhetoric tends to be more lasting than the movements which use it, because movements built on purity or aesthetics rarely build lasting institutions or effect meaningful positive change.

The Party Dynamics

Forget "Free Palestine" for a moment and look at the bigger picture.

It may be hard to believe right now because the Free Palestine people are so loud, but most Congressional Democrats continue to support Israel's right to exist as a Jewish state. Party leadership has repeatedly affirmed this position, and recent bipartisan resolutions backing Israel's legitimacy passed overwhelmingly, with only a small group of "progressive" dissenters. While a vocal minority on the far left calls for conditions on aid and proposes condemnations of Israel, they don't represent today's Democratic party. Voting records, public statements, and primary outcomes all show that the Democratic caucus remains broadly pro-Israel, even as internal debates have grown louder.

But:

Since Clinton, Democrats have largely hugged the center, while polarization on the Right exploded...culminating in the MAGA takeover of the GOP.

Now the Left has its own hardliners, people whose politics are less democratic and more dogmatic. That's the very vocal minority. That's AOC/Tlaib/Omar.

...and they're driving moderates away from their party.

Trump didn’t surge in 2024 because Americans suddenly loved him. A lot of voters were running from a Democratic Party they see as increasingly dysfunctional and in which the loudest voices are often the most extreme.

The Democratic party's base keeps pulling left, but the candidates the "progressive" wing would nominate for a general election wouldn't do well.

AOC polls better than you might expect and may be beloved in Brooklyn or Berkeley, but she's still deep underwater nationally. If Kamala Harris was successfully cast as "too far left," AOC would be radioactive anywhere but the coasts. AOC may well take Schumer's senate seat in New York, but in a national election she'd likely crash and burn.

The far left isn't going to win the White House or a congressional majority any time soon because it alienates allies and energizes opponents...but a takeover of the Democratic party seems possible. Maybe not likely, but possible.

If you think that's silly, please note that nobody thought Trump would hijack the GOP and remake it in his image so quickly...until he did.

If you oppose the rising political power of the antizionist movement, get involved in Democratic party politics and help move them in more practical, policy-focused directions.

Final answer?

I'm less concerned about how/when the Free Palestine movement will end than I am about how many good people will be hurt by it before it does.

[copperbadge]

Where My September Babies At

There's a scene in the novel where Eddie mentions that studies show children born in the first three months of the year have distinct advantages over their later-born peers. A reader pointed out some issues with the thesis, so it's a good thing I remember where I picked that trivia up, because maybe I got it wrong!

I can go back and listen to the podcast where I heard it, but I thought I'd google around first in case I could find something faster to confirm/disprove the thesis. I didn't find what I was looking for but I did find a BUGFUCK INSANE breakdown of what is likely to a happen to a child depending on their birth month.

I make no claims to this being accurate; they absolutely do not cite their sources and the whole page reads like bad clickbait, but anyway tag yourself, I'm gonna live to be 100:

January – Higher risk of developing Crohn’s disease, epilepsy, and Alzheimer’s.

February – Increased risk for death from lung cancer.

March – Higher risk for certain kinds of heart disease.

April – Increase risk for becoming an alcoholic or developing an eating disorder.

May – Lower risk for developing chronic illness.

June – Higher risk of developing vision problems.

July – Increased risk for developing autism and asthma.

August – More likely to be labeled as a problem student.

September – More likely to live to see 100 years of age.

October – Higher risk for insect bites, chest infections, and STIs.

November – More likely to be left-handed, the risk for heart problems and lung cancer.

December – Lower risk for allergies and asthma.

[paint-music-with-me]

.

[22ayla21]

Harassment Part I

No matter how well-mannered the guys are, within the walls of Night Raven College, there are those who will start harassing guests from another world.

Warning: unpleasant content, mentions of harassment, if you are uncomfortable, do not read. Fem! Reader.

Third year Second year First year

Trey Clover

Trey would definitely not remain indifferent to what was happening to his crush, even if he was being discreet. He would most likely approach the situation wisely, so as not to attract unnecessary attention, but still act effectively. He could intervene by talking to those who were behaving inappropriately, and if that did not produce results, he would take more drastic measures.

He is very caring, providing her with safety and confidence that he is there and she can always count on him. He would tell her not to worry and always ask him for help when she needs it. Perhaps he would suggest safer routes around the college to avoid such situations.

Trey, as a person who values order, would probably also contact the other dorm leaders or teachers to resolve the problem on a more official level. He would carefully collect evidence and convey the information to the right people in order to protect his crush, while remaining calm and avoiding aggressive actions.

In moments of personal interaction with her, he would subtly but firmly show that he is concerned and that her safety is important to him. He can be very empathetic, trying to support her morally, especially in such a new situation for her. Trey is unlikely to be aggressive, rather he would use his intelligence and organization to protect his beloved and ensure that she does not become the object of further harassment.

Cater Diamond

Cater, despite his easy-going personality and obsession with social media, knew exactly how to protect his crush. He would probably try to resolve the situation with humor at first, making the harassers look ridiculous in front of other students, maybe even filming them for his Magicam followers. However, if the situation became more serious, he would not hesitate to step in, using his intuitive abilities to resolve the conflict without physical violence.

Despite his easy-going manner, Cater would not only be adept at social situations, but also empathetic enough to notice if his crush was uncomfortable. He would have a conversation with these guys, manipulating them with words, emphasizing that their behavior was not only inappropriate, but also uncool in the eyes of others. He would use his popularity and influence to create pressure on those who tried to violate her boundaries, even if it meant exposing their actions publicly. If the harassment continued, Cater would likely bring it to attention on the Magicam platform, not hesitating to share the situation with large numbers of people, which would result in considerable public shaming and punishment for the perpetrators.

Cater would likely use his charm and conversational skills to calm his lover down. He might start with a lighthearted and relaxing approach to make her feel safe. If jokes fail, he would quickly switch to a more serious tone. He might reassure her that she should not be bothered by such people, reminding her that she is the most important thing to him. Cater would be gentle in his approach, trying not to make her feel too vulnerable or helpless. He would quickly redirect her attention to something pleasant or positive, so that she does not remain in a stressed state.

Leona Kingscholar

Leona may seem lazy and apathetic, but if someone approaches his woman with inappropriate intentions, the predator in him awakens. He does not tolerate encroachment on what he considers his. He is not one to openly restrict the freedom of his beloved or hang a label on her "belongs to me", but in his presence, no one would dare even hint at something like that. One look is enough to scare off unwanted admirers.

If someone dares to cross the line, Leona will not take long to sort it out. The intruder can "accidentally" fall under the influence of his special magic, temporarily losing the ability to move, speak, or even be in school without fear. Leona is a master of strategy and knows how to eliminate the problem discreetly.

Outwardly, he may seem indifferent to the situation, but this is only an illusion. He watches everyone who tries to approach her inappropriately. If his beloved does not resist the attention, he can pretend that it is none of his business. But if she is not delighted, this is already his territory. And lions, as you know, are very territorial.

A warning without words - those who once made a mistake will not have to repeat it again. There is a feeling of hidden threat in the air next to Leona - like a lion lazily lying in the shade, but ready to bite her throat at any moment.

Although he is harsh to others, Leona can be surprisingly gentle next to his beloved. It is important to him that she feels safe, but not weak. He trusts her to deal with the situation while she can, but if the boundaries are crossed, he takes matters into his own hands. In a world where he is used to fighting for a place in the sun, she is his exception, his quiet corner. And he will not allow anyone to disturb her peace.

Vil Schoenheit

Vil, despite his arrogance and confidence, has a strong sense of responsibility for his loved ones. If one of the less well-mannered students allowed himself to harass his beloved, he would immediately intervene. However, he would prefer to do this discreetly, expressing his displeasure not through rudeness, but through confident but cold remarks. He could stare at the offender and dryly warn that such actions are unacceptable.

Vil, as a person with a sharp mind and a tendency to manipulate, could decide to use his connections and influence to get rid of such people. He would try to surround his beloved with care and support, but at the same time he would covertly eliminate the threat, without attracting attention. For example, he could secretly indicate to other more well-mannered students how to help in this situation.

Despite his outward coldness, Vil shows concern for the people he values. If his lover were to find himself in a difficult situation, he would use his actions to make her feel comfortable and safe, providing support whenever he felt she was in danger. He would console her in a discreet but gentle manner, perhaps saying something like, "You're under my protection, don't worry."

Overall, Vil would act discreetly but decisively in such a situation, using a combination of his confidence, manipulative abilities, and caring to protect his lover, while still maintaining his subtle style and manner.

Rook Hunt

Rook, as an experienced hunter, has a strong instinct to protect those he cares about. If he noticed someone making advances toward his lover, he would likely react immediately, but with a touch of grace. He might quietly observe the situation until he realized the situation was becoming threatening, and then intervene, displaying his protective nature.

He might not simply approach the aggressor with threats, but use his charisma and intellectual skills to manipulate the situation. He might feign conversation with the offender, while politely but firmly demonstrating that he will not tolerate such behavior, perhaps pretending that the situation is not so serious, but hiding a deep threat behind it.

Being very considerate of his lover's feelings, Rook would make sure that she does not feel guilty or ashamed about what is happening. He can reassure her, say something like: "You don't need to worry, I'll take care of it. You don't deserve to be treated like this."

In general, Rook in such a situation, being both a protector and an eccentric person, would try to act quickly, but with humor and chic, showing his affection and care for his beloved.

Idia Shroud

Idia will most likely try to pretend nothing is happening at first. He will panic and lock himself in a room, convincing himself that “it’s none of his business” or that “she can handle it herself.” But the more he thinks about it, the angrier he will get — primarily at himself for his indecisiveness.

If he finds out about it online (for example, through messages from Ortho or anonymous rumors), he will start writing emotionally in the chat, using caps lock and a lot of slang. But in real life, he will still be afraid to do anything in person.

At some point, his anger will overcome his fear, and he will use his engineering skills. For example, he will set a trap that will make the bullies look like idiots in front of everyone. Or he will create a device that will scare them with a holographic illusion of a scary monster. If the situation is too serious, he can send Ortho to sort it out.

If the harassment reaches a dangerous point, another side of Idia will turn on. He is used to the worst, but when it comes to HIS beloved, he cannot just sit back. He can appear in person (yes, by force), hiding his face with a hood, and in a sharp, but still stuttering tone, threaten the offenders. Perhaps he will back up his words with a demonstration of his magic. The blue flames hovering around are very frightening for ordinary students.

Afterwards, Idia will of course be super embarrassed. He will try to downplay his reaction. If the girl thanks him or says something cute, he will immediately wilt in embarrassment and run back to his room. If the incident was serious, Idia may set up a tracking system on her to always know where she is or even create a security drone to follow her around school (which will probably annoy her a little). He will get paranoid if she takes too long to respond to his messages and bombard her with memes like "If you're being held hostage, send this emoji."

Malleus Draconia

Malleus is not one to resort to aggression right away, but if he learns of inappropriate behavior, he will first try to resolve the situation with words. However, his words and presence alone inspire fear. Even the most self-confident boors will feel a chill run down their spine.

If someone dares to disobey or try again, Malleus will not stand on ceremony. His magical power is so great that he can easily create an atmosphere of intimidating pressure, from which the legs of those around him will begin to buckle. The electricity in the entire building will begin to flicker, and the air will be filled with discharges. Nature will simply begin to rage.

In the end, the most important thing for Malleus is the comfort and safety of his beloved. If she is upset or scared, he will surround her with care, try to console her - perhaps even offer her to spend the night in Diasomnia, where no one will dare to touch her. And, of course, he will be very happy if she asks for his protection herself.

Malleus is not someone who will scream and immediately rush into a fight, but he inspires such strong fear that his presence alone is enough to stop any attempts at harassment. However, if the offenders do not take the hint, they risk encountering the true power of the heir of dragon blood - and are unlikely to want to repeat their mistakes.

Lilia Vanrouge

Lilia always smiles, and even in potentially unpleasant situations, his first impulse is to turn everything into a joke. But as soon as someone crosses the line, his gaze becomes dangerously cold. He can be intimidating when he wants to be, because years spent in the court of the fairies have taught him that a true threat does not always scream - sometimes it just silently watches until you realize your mistake.

Lilia can be patient, but he has clear boundaries. He will take a warning step - a gentle reminder that he sees everything and knows everything. Perhaps his magic will manifest itself imperceptibly: strange but frightening things will begin to happen to the offender. Books will fall on their own, potions will suddenly give an unexpected effect, and at night they think that someone is watching them from the darkness.

If someone dares to continue, Lilia will show that the fairies can be much more dangerous than they seem. He won't resort to brute force - why would he, when he can make a person regret their actions in more sophisticated ways? Maybe their voice will suddenly disappear for a few days, or maybe their shadow will start moving on its own. In general, jokes are jokes, but the consequences will be quite tangible.

After any incident, the first thing he will do is make sure that his beloved is okay. Lilia will not just support her - he will make sure that she does not feel lonely for a second in this strange world. Perhaps he will invite her for a night walk, tell her another legend, just sit next to her until she feels better.

Lilia can be playful, cheerful and even frivolous at first glance, but when it comes to his loved ones - especially his beloved - he knows no mercy. Even if he himself does not take harsh measures, his magic and intellect will make sure that no one else dares to disturb her peace.

[serinic]

GRADES DO MATTER | JJK

ONESHOT

Summary: You were always the grade-conscious type—where others would brush off a single mistake, you couldn't. One wrong answer was enough to haunt you, let alone a low mark on something you poured your heart into, like your essay. You mustered the courage to raise your concern, but your approach to Professor Jeon wasn’t exactly the best. And unfortunately for you, he wasn’t the kind of teacher to let things slide either.

pairing: professor jungkook x college student reader

warnings: unprotected sex, professor jk slapping y/n with reality, y/n thinks highly of herself, cold and strict jk

word count: 3.8k+

When you were a child, people would often tell your parents that you were destined to become a bright young woman—all because of your endless curiosity.

You asked questions so relentlessly, it could wear out even the most patient adult. And they were right. By the time you were barely in your teens, you had already collected a string of academic awards.

The most unforgettable one? The math quiz bee you joined when you were just ten. Two boys had bumped your shoulder before the contest, sneering and telling you to get lost.

You remembered clenching your fists, resisting the urge to retaliate—because you knew your mind was sharper than your fists would ever need to be.

The memory of their faces twisting into disbelief still lingered, especially when your name was announced as the winner. Just two mistakes—while the rest of them struggled.

You made sure to lock eyes with them as you walked up to the stage, proudly receiving your certificate and holding your trophy high. And, of course, you flipped your hair with just enough flair to make sure they never forgot who beat them.

Back in high school, you were practically at war with everyone—for the top spot. If it meant studying eight hours a day just to ace every exam, quiz, assignment, and seatwork, you didn’t hesitate.

You graduated as valedictorian, but even that didn’t satisfy you. It wasn’t enough—you craved more. You wanted recognition, not just from your classmates or teachers, but from the whole world.

You see, you didn’t study just because your parents expected it. You studied because you were obsessed. It consumed you. Your life revolved around grades, rankings, perfection. You didn’t care if people called you a nerd—honestly, you wore the label like a badge of honor.

There are two types of people in college: the brainy and the beauty. But thanks to your parents' blessed genes—and your relentless discipline—you had both. That’s what made you stand out.

They called you the Campus Queen and the Book Queen all at once. Boys (and even a few girls) tried to ask you out, but you always declined with a polite smile. You didn’t want distractions. Your mind was reserved solely for studying.

College was hell, and you couldn’t even argue with that. It was hell—especially when professors seemed to have a pact to assign every paper, project, and quiz all at once, sending every student into panic mode. But while others struggled to breathe, you thrived in the pressure.

No boyfriend? No problem. Your trusty dildo kept you company during those rare moments of need. That’s how far you were willing to go—grades came first, always. You would sacrifice anything, everything, just to chase those golden numbers.

You walked into the room with unwavering confidence, wearing a proud smile meant for no one in particular. As usual, you were the first to arrive. Punctuality was one of your many strengths—just like in academics, you were disciplined with time.

Every second, every minute, every hour mattered to you. You slid into your usual seat and pulled out a book from your bag. Without wasting a moment, you flipped to the page of today’s lesson and began reading ahead.

Advanced reading was one of your favorite habits. There was something deeply satisfying about answering every question before anyone else had the chance.

And on days when a classmate stumbled—palms sweaty, eyes darting in panic—you were more than happy to take the spotlight and answer in their place. It wasn’t arrogance; it was what you called ‘helping’.

Some admired you, but others despised you—and you were well aware of both. You assumed it was envy. After all, why wouldn’t they be?

You were intelligent and beautiful, the rare combination most could only dream of. But the truth was, your attitude was far from admirable.

You were the type of student who only cared about herself and her grades. If a classmate struggled to answer, you didn’t hesitate to snatch the opportunity—and the attention—for yourself.

When you did, disapproving stares followed you, and your instructors could only offer awkward scoffs, unsure whether to be impressed or uncomfortable. It wasn’t just your classmates who noticed your self-centered drive—your professors did too. Especially Mr. Jeon.

Your mind drifted into dreamland, lost in the fantasy of what was about to happen. You pictured Professor Jeon standing at the front of the class, calling your name to praise your outstanding essay.

Your classmates would erupt into applause as you stood and walked confidently toward him. You’d take your paper from his hand and beam with pride, eyes sparkling at the sight of a perfect mark scrawled in red ink.

But reality snapped back the moment students started to file into the room. Within minutes, the classroom was full—tense and silent, all awaiting the arrival of the cold, strict instructor.

The atmosphere shifted the second he stepped in. Even from across the room, you could feel the weight of his presence—sharp, disciplined, and commanding.

Every pair of eyes locked onto him, tracking his movements with caution. He strode to the desk, placed his leather bag down, and began pulling out his laptop and a thick stack of papers. Your heart skipped a beat when you spotted the red ink marking the pages.

This was it.

Professor Jeon grabbed the stack of papers and began flipping through them, eyes scanning each one with purpose—until he found that paper. With the rest in hand, he returned to the table and placed them down neatly.

He stepped into the center of the room, his gaze sweeping across every corner, surveying the students one by one. Then, his eyes locked with yours.

Your breath hitched. Was he looking at you? You glanced behind you to check if his focus might be on someone else—but your seat was the last in that row. No one was behind you.

You turned your attention back to the front—only to find that his eyes were no longer on you.

"Out of all the works submitted," he began, voice calm but firm, "one stood out the most. The choice of words was exceptional. The way the writer conveyed their imagination—they captured not just the mind, but the heart of the reader. This essay was astonishing.”

Each word sank deeper into your thoughts. Your heart pounded in anticipation, every beat louder than the last.

He was talking about yours. He had to be.

“Ms. Jang Arin, please come up to the front.”

Everyone, including you, turned toward the young woman whose mouth hung open in shock—and so did yours. You couldn’t believe what you just heard. That was supposed to be you.

Arin hesitantly made her way to the front, and to your surprise, Mr. Jeon offered her a slight smile—one of the rare times anyone had seen the strict professor display anything close to warmth.

You furrowed your brows. ‘No… that should’ve been me.’ That was one of the best essays you’d ever written. There was no way some random girl could’ve stolen the recognition that belonged to you.

You could feel the weight of the stares directed at you—your classmates waiting for your usual outburst, expecting the predictable moment when you would storm up and demand an explanation. But you didn’t give them that satisfaction.

Instead, you forced a smile and glanced back down at the book in front of you. Still, you could feel Mr. Jeon’s eyes lingering on you. You gulped and tightened your grip on the pages.

You weren’t going to make a scene—not yet. You’ll speak to him in his office later.

He began the lesson, but you couldn’t focus—not after what just happened. A mixture of humiliation and anger simmered inside you.

Your grip on the pen tightened, and your thoughts spiraled even further when you caught sight of Arin grinning to herself.

What the hell? Something’s not right.

Before you knew it, class was over in a snap. The room emptied out, but you remained in your seat, stunned. You slapped your forehead in frustration.

You hadn’t absorbed a single word of today’s lecture—your thoughts were too clouded by what had just been taken from you. Your recognition. Your moment.

No, you weren’t going to let this slide—especially if you were rigged.

You hastily grabbed your things and rushed out into the hallway. It had been buzzing with students earlier, but now it was nearly deserted—eerily quiet. That was until you heard soft giggles echoing from near the stairwell.

You stopped. Slowly and silently, you crept forward and peeked around the corner.

Your breath hitched.

There, just a few steps down, was Arin—giggling at something Professor Jeon had said. And him? He was smiling. Softly. Genuinely.

Your stomach twisted.

Your palm instantly flew to your mouth. ‘Aha! My gut was right—something is definitely off… or rather, something’s definitely going on between those two!’

Anger surged through your veins, quickly followed by the sting of betrayal.

Your moment—your dream—was stolen, all because someone decided to be a slut.

A sharp clatter made your heart stop. You looked down—your pen had slipped from your hand and hit the floor.

Your eyes widened. Shit. They must not see you!

“Who’s there?”

Mr. Jeon’s deep, commanding voice echoed through the corridor, sending chills down your spine. You heard footsteps approaching. Panic surged. Without thinking, you squeezed your eyes shut… and meowed.

Yes, meowed—like one of the college cats that roamed the campus.

A pause. Then—

“Oh, Professor. It’s just a cat!” Arin's voice chimed in, light and airy, before fading along with the footsteps. They were probably heading downstairs together.

Once you were sure the coast was clear, you stepped out of hiding and walked toward the spot where they had just been. You peered down the stairwell, jaw tight and fists clenched.

‘So the game’s on.’

They could play their little flirtations all they wanted—but you weren’t about to let either of them mess with your grades. Not now. Not ever.

After discovering what could be something more than just a student-teacher relationship between your shy classmate and the ever-strict Professor Jeon, you couldn't let it go.

Instead, you turned your attention toward them—observing from afar, collecting what evidence you could.

A week went by, and now, your study table was covered with printed photos you’d taken in secret. You sat in silence, eyes scanning each one, piecing together the story like a puzzle.

Photo 1: The two sat at a quiet café—Arin appeared to be reading something, while Professor Jeon casually sipped his coffee across from her.

Photo 2: In an empty corridor, just the two of them—laughing. Laughing. A rare expression from a man known for being cold and unreadable.

Photo 3: Arin, entering his office alone.

You only added the third photo because your so-called evidence was lacking—you needed something to fill the gaps, even if it wasn’t damning enough on its own. Still, you couldn’t help but smile proudly at the photos spread before you.

You weren’t planning to use them—at least, not unless things took a turn. You were only going to Professor Jeon’s office to raise your concern about the mark he gave you on the essay you poured your soul into.

But if he dared to brush you off or humiliate you again… well, you’d have no choice.

Now, you sat in your seat, silently counting the seconds for this period to end. These past few days, your mind was never where it should be.

It wandered aimlessly during lessons, tuning out every voice that tried to teach you. Even your classmates noticed—how your usual spark had dulled, how you weren't as relentless, as sharp, as insufferably perfect as before.

And you hated it. You hated how this situation affected you. You hated Arin’s quiet smile. You hated Professor Jeon’s unreadable face. Most of all, you hated that they were the reason you felt so... off.

If it weren’t for them, you wouldn’t be distracted. You’d still be at the top—undeniable, untouchable.

Class was over, and before you knew it, you were already walking toward his office. Each step felt heavier than the last, the confidence you had earlier slowly unraveling with every inch closer to the door.

After all, you were about to face the Mr. Jeon Jungkook—the cold, strict, respected, and damn near perfect professor.

You raised your fist and knocked.

"Come in."

His voice, low and commanding, sent a shiver down your spine. You slowly pushed the door open and stepped inside. There he was—sitting at his desk, eyes fixed on his laptop, fingers dancing effortlessly across the keys.

You hesitated for a moment, the door clicking shut behind you a little louder than you'd intended. Still, he didn’t look up.

The only sounds in the room were the rhythmic tapping of the keyboard and the steady ticking of the clock above his shelf.

It felt like the silence was a test.

And you weren’t sure if you were passing or failing.

“I assume this isn’t about attendance,” he finally said, voice flat and devoid of emotion.

You cleared your throat. “It’s… about my essay grade.”

He stopped typing. His eyes slowly lifted to meet yours—sharp, unreadable. “Your essay,” he repeated, leaning back against his chair. “Right. The one that barely tapped into the prompt and read like a recycled daydream with no real depth.”

You flinched. “I worked hard on it. I just thought—”

“Thinking and writing are two different things,” he cut you off. “Effort doesn’t equal quality, Miss Y/N. You’re in college. Not kindergarten.”

Your fists clenched at your sides, the heat in your face rising. You tried to keep calm. “I know the grade is final, but I just wanted to understand why—”

“I’ve already told you why,” Jungkook said. “If you're looking for sympathy, try your classmates. I deal in facts. And the fact is, your work was mediocre.”

You paused, debating whether to say the next line.

“I just find it odd,” you said slowly, eyes narrowing, “how my classmate—who barely participates—somehow got a higher mark. A classmate I happened to see laughing with you in the hallway... quite comfortably.”

That finally got a reaction.

Jungkook’s jaw clenched, and his eyes darkened as he stood up, walking around his desk. “Are you implying something, Miss Y/N?”

You held his gaze, fingers brushing the edge of your bag—where your phone, and the photos, waited.

“No, Professor. I’m just… asking questions.” He stopped in front of you, the space between you chilling. “Be very careful with the kind of questions you ask. Because once they’re out, there’s no taking them back.”

You swallowed hard but didn’t back down. The weight of the photos in your bag gave you a false sense of power—but even then, standing this close to Jungkook felt like walking a thin line over fire.

“I just think it’s… unfair,” you said, voice trembling slightly, “how someone who barely talks in class ends up with a near-perfect score. You may not realize how that looks to others.”

Jungkook's eyes stayed locked on yours, unblinking. “Arin,” he said coldly. “You’re talking about Arin.”

You didn’t answer.

He exhaled through his nose. “Her essay stood out the most, which is why I chose it and she’s on academic probation. That ‘laughing in the hallway’ was me explaining her midterm options before she fails the course entirely. But I suppose when you’re obsessed with perfection, everything looks like a conspiracy, doesn’t it?”

His words hit harder than you expected. Still, you didn’t look away.

“I just want fairness,” you whispered.

“No,” Jungkook replied, stepping even closer, voice low and sharp. “You want control. That’s why you’re standing here instead of revising your work like a real student. Because deep down, you don’t care about learning. You care about appearances. Grades. Pride.” He walked back to his desk.

You felt your pride twist into something sharper—resentment.

“And what if I showed you something?” you said, slowly reaching into your bag. “Something that might make you reconsider.”

Jungkook’s expression didn’t change. “Are you really about to blackmail a professor?”

The air in the room dropped. You paused—his tone wasn’t angry, or surprised. It was calm. Calculated. Dangerous.

“I wouldn’t call it that…” you said carefully. “Just… offering context. For your judgment.”

Jungkook crossed his arms and leaned slightly against the desk. “Then show me. Let’s see what you think is enough to challenge my integrity.”

You hesitated.

“I don’t tolerate threats,” he added coldly.

Your hand hovered inside your bag. This was it.

Jungkook didn’t say a word right away. He simply stood there, eyes unreadable as they bore into yours. The silence stretched, thick and suffocating. Then, he slowly walked toward you, each step unhurried, measured—predatory.

You didn’t know what shifted. Maybe it was the heavy silence in the room. Maybe it was the way his gaze dragged across your face, lingering a little too long on your parted lips.

Or maybe it was the unresolved tension crackling in the air—anger, defiance, and something else neither of you wanted to name.

“You came here thinking you could play with fire,” Jungkook finally said, voice low. “Now you're in it.”

He stopped just in front of you. Too close. His eyes dropped to the envelope in your hand—the one holding the pictures—and then back to yours.

“You’re bold. I’ll give you that.”

You opened your mouth to speak, but the words died on your tongue. Your breath hitched as his hand slowly reached out—not to grab the envelope, but to brush a strand of hair away from your face. A touch too soft. Too deliberate.

“You wanted my attention,” he murmured, tone now quieter… darker. “Now you have it.”

He took one step closer. The envelope slipped from your fingers and hit the floor.

Jungkook crashed his lips onto yours as he pushed you against the nearest wall. You groaned when your back collided with the hard surface.

He slid your bag off your shoulder and immediately lifted your shirt, tugging down your bra before cupping your breast.

“Mhm,” you moaned as he gently massaged it, his tongue exploring your mouth. You started kissing him back—the kiss wasn’t slow; it was rough and desperate.

Jungkook broke the kiss and moved his lips to your neck, gently biting and leaving hickeys. His hand found the hem of your shirt, and he pulled it off, along with your bra.

He sucked your two nipples, switching back and forth. Your moans started to get loud, “Be quiet,” he said before placing his mouth back onto your breasts. You immediately clamped your lips shut.

You gasped when he cupped your clothed cunt, his eyes staring directly into yours. He slipped your pants and underwear down and carelessly tossed them onto the floor.

His gaze now fixed on your bare cunt, and every hair on your body stood on end at the realization—your professor was seeing you completely naked. The cold blast from the AC wasn’t helping either.

Mr. Jeon stared at your pussy for a full minute before kneeling down to its level, his fingers parting your folds. His tongue extended from his mouth to taste your cunt.

You moaned not only from the sensation of his warm tongue but also from the view. He began to pleasure you orally, his tongue moving in and out of your tight pussy.

Your sounds became more loud as he began to slide his fingers in, curling and twisting them within you.

You climaxed twice, and you were eager for more. You want Professor Jeon inside you at this moment. "Please, I want you inside me."

You pleaded with him, and he removed his pants and boxers, tossing them to the ground.

Jungkook wanted you to suck him, but he was equally eager to be inside your wet cunt. You nearly lost the ability to breathe when you noticed just how thick, how long and how furious his cock was. Pre-cum seeping from his tip.

He grasped your waist and urged you to jump. You quickly encircled his neck with your arms as your legs rested on his hips. You expected him to take you against the wall, but that wasn’t the case.

He moved to his desk while you clung to him like a koala. Jungkook pushed his chair aside, “Sit on my cock.” You freed your one arm and held his dick—applying his pre-cum along his shaft for lubrication.

You positioned his hard dick at your entrance and gradually lower yourself—taking him in inch by inch. You breathed sharply at the penetration; he was so deep inside you.

He held the edge of the table as you encircled his neck with your one arm again. Once confirming that both of you were well-positioned and supported by his hold on the table, he gradually pulled his hip back—half of his cock slipping out your eager cunt, before thrusting his hip back in forcefully.

Both of you moaned at his movements. Mr. Jeon started to thrust in and out while you gripped his body tighter. Lewd sounds filled his whole office.

“You always thought you were the smartest in the room. A little top-grade prodigy who couldn’t take a hit to her ego.” Jungkook glanced at you, expecting rage in your eyes, but all he saw was desire as you moaned in response.

“You couldn’t just accept a mark and move on like everyone else, could you?” He continued.

“No. You had to come in here with your little evidence, your little plan. Thought you were clever.”

“Let’s see how far your intelligence takes you now.” Professor Jeon was right here, slapping your face with reality while slamming his cock inside your cunt.

If you weren't in this position—him fucking you so good—you would probably slap him in the face, even if he was your professor.

Jungkook enjoys feeling your wet and tight pussy envelop his hard cock, and you can't help but moan—his dick feels way better than your dildo.

He plunged into you with a primal rhythm, you glanced at his expression—he was biting his bottom lip, his face was intensely concentrated on making you climax.

Your stomach tightens; you are close. Your hold on him tightens as his thrusts quicken when he realizes you’re about to orgasm.

You glimpsed stars upon cumming, only for your breath to be taken away when his thrusts intensified, aiming for his climax.

Professor Jeon collided his lips with yours as he cummed, both of you moaning intensely. A warm fluid filled your whole cunt as he thrust deeper inside you.

‘Was he trying to impregnate you?’

Your thought disappeared when you heard a knock on the door. Jungkook glanced at you and asked, “Did you lock the door?”

You swallowed hard and stared at him in fear—afraid of being caught fucking your cold and strict professor.

“No.”

[whatevergreen]

Two migrant teens, Alan Magalles Bello and Yeremi Colino were confronted by 3 people in Lower Manhattan and stabbed. Colino has died.

As for CNN, they and other news outlets also had the full Luigi Mangione manifesto (more of a note) for days but wouldn't release it, and instead made intentionally false statements about the contents.

This is what he actually wrote and doesn't come across as "unhinged" (despite the cringe opening):

As for Luigi Mangione:

It's no good judging him on his background or his social media alone. His twitter wasn't updated for months, and such as Goodreads shows a somewhat different side, more relevant to recent events - though there are hints of it on twitter. And something has clearly changed radically recently. Conservatives or alt-right people (or whatever label some have been trying to fix on him) do not normally refer to corporate executives as "parasites" who "simply had it coming" and then go out and kill one of them.

It seems like he has been trying to find his way... and it's led him to target a key figure among the many responsible for the suffering, and too often deaths, of millions of people over many decades through insurance and other healthcare profiteering. He didn't take out his personal problems and his ideologicial issues on random strangers or random employees like many have in the past. He took out one of those most responsible. Indeed it's just been revealed that he considered using a bomb to kill Brian Thompson but decided against it because he did not want to harm anyone else.

As for his being born into a wealthy Republican family, so what?

Countless socialists, communists, anarchists and others more difficult to label - famous, infamous or little known - have come from a privileged background. For a start Karl Marx was the son of a wealthy lawyer and married a member of the aristocracy. He lived in poverty for most of his life however. Engels was the son of a wealthy industrialist. Mao's father was a wealthy farmer and landowner. I'm not comparing Luigi with them too deeply of course but this needs to be considered.

Don't throw him or anybody like him under the bus when they do a neccessary thing for the right reasons, and are possibly rising above some of their older ideas, just because of those said ideas or beliefs. We don't know what his current state of mind is on any issue beyond the healthcare one.

It has been suggested that there may be some connection with possibly using psilocybin (magic mushrooms). Some people have been making that point to discredit his actions when actually such may have made him more empathetic and hence more enraged by the suffering of others. And his interest in such drugs was because of his chronic pain problems.

As a side note, apparently 2/3rds of Penn students support his actions. It's not really that surprising considering that the so-called health care system can be a nightmare for anyone but the very richest.

[mostlysignssomeportents]

Billionaire-proofing the internet

Picks and Shovels is a new, standalone technothriller starring Marty Hench, my two-fisted, hard-fighting, tech-scam-busting forensic accountant. You can pre-order it on my latest Kickstarter, which features a brilliant audiobook read by Wil Wheaton.

During the Napster wars, the record labels seriously pissed off millions of internet users when they sued over 19,000 music fans, mostly kids, but also grannies, old people, and dead people.

It's hard to overstate how badly the labels behaved. Like, there was the Swarthmore student who was the maintainer of a free/open source search engine that indexed files available in public sharepoints on the LAN. The labels sued him for millions and millions (the statutory damages for digital copyright infringement runs to $150,000 per file) and, when he begged for a settlement, said that they would accept his life's savings, but only if he changed majors and stopped studying Computer Science.

No, really.

What's more, none of the money the labels extracted from teenagers, grandparents (and the dead) went to artists. The labels just kept it all, while continuing to insist that they were doing all this because they wanted to "protect artists."

One thing everyone agreed on was how disgusted we all were with the labels. What we didn't agree on was what to do about it. A lot of us wanted to reform copyright – say, by creating a blanket license for internet music so that artists could get paid directly. This was the systemic approach.

Another group – call them the "individualists" – wanted a boycott. Just stop buying and listening to music from the major labels. Every dollar you spend with a label is being used to fund a campaign of legal terror. Merely enjoying popular music makes you part of the problem.

You can probably guess which group I was in. Leaving aside the futility of "voting with your wallet" (a rigged ballot that's always won by the people with the thickest wallet), I just thought this was bad tactics.

Here's what I would say when people told me we should all stop listening to popular music: "If members of your popular movement are not allowed to listen to popular music, your movement won't be very popular."

We weren't going to make political change by creating an impossible purity test ("Ew, you listen to music from a major label? God, what's wrong with you?"). I mean, for one thing, a lot of popular music is legitimately fantastic and makes peoples' lives better. Popular movements should strive to increase their members' joy, not demand their deprivation. Again, not merely because this is a nice thing to do for people, but also because it's good tactics to make participation in the thing you're trying to do as joyous as possible.

Which brings me to social media. The problem with social media is that the people we love and want to interact with are being held prisoner in walled gardens. The mechanism of their imprisonment is the "switching costs" of leaving. Our friends and communities are on bad social media networks because they love each other more than they hate Musk or Zuck. Leaving a social platform can cost you contact with family members in the country you emigrated from, a support group of people who share your rare disease, the customers or audience you rely on for your livelihood, or just the other parents organizing your kid's little league game.

Hypothetically, you could organize all these people to leave at once, go somewhere else, and re-establish all your social connections. Practically, the "collective action problem" of doing so is nearly insurmountable. This is what platform owners depend on – it's why they know they can enshittify their services without losing users. So long as the pain of using the service is lower than the pain of leaving it, the companies can turn the screws on users to make their lives worse in order to extract more profit from them. This is why Musk killed the block button and why Zuck fired all his moderators. Why bear the expense of doing something nice for users if they'll still stick around even if you cut a ton of headcount and/or expensive compute?

There's a way out of this, thankfully. When social media is federated, then you can leave a server without leaving your friends. Think of it as being similar to changing cell-phone companies. When you switch from Verizon to T-Mobile, you keep your number, you keep your address book and you keep your friends, who won't even know you switched networks unless you tell them:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/10/29/how-to-leave-dying-social-media-platforms/

There's no reason social media couldn't work this way. You should be able to leave Facebook or Twitter for Mastodon, Bluesky, or any other service and still talk with the people you left behind, provided they still want to talk with you:

https://www.eff.org/interoperablefacebook

That's how the Fediverse – which Mastodon is part of – works already. You can switch from one Mastodon server to another, and all the people you follow and who follow you will just move over to that new server. That means that if the person or company or group running your server goes sour, you aren't stuck making a choice between the people you love who connect to you on that server, and the pain of dealing with whatever bullshit the management is throwing off:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/12/23/semipermeable-membranes/#free-as-in-puppies

We could make that stronger! Data protection laws like the EU's GDPR and California's CCPA create a legal duty for online services to hand over your data on demand. Arguably, these laws already require your Mastodon server's management to give you the files you need to switch from one server to another, but that could be clarified. Handing these files over to users on demand is really straightforward – even a volunteer running a small server for a few friends will have no trouble living up to this obligation. It's literally just a minute's work for each user.

Another way to make this stronger is through governance. Many of the great services that defined the old, good internet were run by "benevolent dictators for life." This worked well, but failed so badly. Even if the dictator for life stayed benevolent, that didn't make them infallible. The problem of a dictatorship isn't just malice – it's also human frailty. For a service to remain good over long timescales, it needs accountable, responsive governance. That's why all the most successful BDFL services (like Wikipedia) transitioned to community-managed systems:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/12/10/bdfl/#high-on-your-own-supply

There, too, Mastodon shines. Mastodon's founder Eugen Rochko has just explicitly abjured his role as "ultimate decision-maker" and handed management over to a nonprofit:

https://arstechnica.com/tech-policy/2025/01/mastodon-becomes-nonprofit-to-make-sure-its-never-ruined-by-billionaire-ceo/

I love using Mastodon and I have a lot of hope for its future. I wish I was as happy with Bluesky, which was founded with the promise of federation, and which uses a clever naming scheme that makes it even harder for server owners to usurp your identity. But while Bluesky has added many, many technically impressive features, they haven't delivered on the long-promised federation:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/11/02/ulysses-pact/#tie-yourself-to-a-federated-mast

Bluesky sure seems like a lot of fun! They've pulled tens of millions of users over from other systems, and by all accounts, they've all having a great time. The problem is that without federation, all those users are vulnerable to bad decisions by management (perhaps under pressure from the company's investors) or by a change in management (perhaps instigated by investors if the current management refuses to institute extractive measures that are good for the investors but bad for the users). Federation is to social media what fire-exits are to nightclubs: a way for people to escape if the party turns deadly:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/12/14/fire-exits/#graceful-failure-modes

So what's the answer? Well, around Mastodon, you'll hear a refrain that reminds me a lot of the Napster wars: "People who are enjoying themselves on Bluesky are wrong to do so, because it's not federated and the only server you can use is run by a VC-backed for-profit. They should all leave that great party – there's no fire exits!"

This is the social media version of "To be in our movement, you have to stop listening to popular music." Sure, those people shouldn't be crammed into a nightclub that has no fire exits. But thankfully, there is an alternative to being the kind of scold who demands that people leave a great party, and being the kind of callous person who lets tens of millions of people continue to risk their lives by being stuck in a fire-trap.

We can install our own fire-exits in Bluesky.

Yesterday, an initiative called "Free Our Feeds" launched, with a set of goals for "billionaire-proofing" social media. One of those goals is to add the long-delayed federation to Bluesky. I'm one of the inaugural endorsers for this, because installing fire exits for Bluesky isn't just the right thing to do, it's also good tactics:

https://freeourfeeds.com/

Here's why: if a body independent of the Bluesky corporation implements its federation services, then we ensure that its fire exits are beyond the control of its VCs. That means that if they are ever tempted in future to brick up the fire-exits, they won't be able to. This isn't a hypothetical risk. When businesses start to enshittify their services, they fully commit themselves to blocking anything that makes it easy to leave those services.

That's why Apple went so hard after Beeper Plus, a service that enhanced iMessage's security by making conversations between Apple and Android users as private as chats that were confined to Apple users:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/12/07/blue-bubbles-for-all/#never-underestimate-the-determination-of-a-kid-who-is-time-rich-and-cash-poor

It's why Elon Musk periodically freaks out and suspends users who list their Mastodon userids in their Twitter bios:

https://techcrunch.com/2022/12/15/elon-musk-suspends-mastodon-twitter-account-over-elonjet-tracking/

And it's why Meta will suspend your account if you link to Pixelfed, a Fediverse-based alternative to Instagram:

https://www.404media.co/meta-is-blocking-links-to-decentralized-instagram-competitor-pixelfed/

Once upon a time, we had a solid way of overcoming the problem of lock-in. We'd reverse-engineer a proprietary system and make a free, open alternative. We've been hacking fire exits into walled gardens since the Usenet days, with the creation of the alt.* hierarchy:

https://www.eff.org/deeplinks/2019/11/altinteroperabilityadversarial

When the corporate owners of Unix started getting all weird about source-code access and user-modifiability, we didn't insist that Unix users were bad people for sticking with a corporate OS. We reverse-engineered Unix and set all those users free:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/GNU_Project

The answer to Microsoft's proprietary SMB network protocol wasn't a campaign to shame people for having SMB running on their LANs. It was reverse-engineering SMB and making SAMBA, which is now in every single device in your home and office, and it's gloriously free as in speech and free as in beer:

https://www.eff.org/deeplinks/2019/07/samba-versus-smb-adversarial-interoperability-judo-network-effects

In the years since, a thicket of laws we colloquially call "IP" has grown up around services and products, and people have literally forgotten that there is an alternative to wheedling people to endure the pain of leaving a proprietary system for a free one. IP has put the imaginations of people who dream of a free internet in chains.

We can do better than begging people to leave a party they're enjoying; we can install our own fucking fire exits. Sure, maybe that means that a lot of those users will stay on the proprietary platform, but at least we'll have given them a way to leave if things go horribly wrong.

After all, there's no virtue in software freedom. The only thing worth caring about is human freedom. The only reason to value software freedom is if it sets humans free.

If I had my way, all those people enjoying themselves on Bluesky would come and enjoy themselves in the Fediverse. But I'm not a purist. If there's a way to use Bluesky without locking myself to the platform, I will join the party there in a hot second. And if there's a way to join the Bluesky party from the Fediverse, then goddamn I will party my ass off.

Check out my Kickstarter to pre-order copies of my next novel, Picks and Shovels!

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2025/01/14/contesting-popularity/#everybody-samba

[occamstfs]

Zero to Hero

In a world with superpowered celebrities, how could one not long to join them. Despite discovering his own cerebral abilities, Shirong/Zero always longed for the flashier sort of strength. When he finally gets the call up to the big leagues, he’ll get just that- though not quite how he always dreamed.

Went a little crazy with this one haha! Bit different than it was on the poll and with quite a long preamble before the TF, which starts at the red 0 0 0 if you want to skip straight to the action ;) Otherwise, I hope you enjoy this story of a hero unknowingly giving up his brain for some brawn! -Occam

Everyone wants to be a superhero. You grow up your whole life watching the Hero Corps jetting around, saving lives, doing flashy photo ops. It’s no wonder every kid out there wants to follow in Mustang’s or Lady Libertas’ footsteps. 

Shirong Ling was not exempt from the sway of these heroes and heroines. Again, who could be. All his youth the young son of second generation immigrants pushed himself to his limit, toiling as hard as he can athletically to end up a bench warmer and max out his lifts at what actual athletes label a warmup. Physically, Shirong plateaued before he even began. 

In just about every other regard, the young man excelled with flying colors. Something of a tech whiz, every adult in his life keeps him on retainer for ever-needed support. He aced rigorous course loads and went above and beyond in any non-athletic extracurriculars, though despite that all he still struggles to accept he’ll never see his name in lights.

His parents longed to see him happy and worried the glitz and glamor of those oiled up superstars was doing irreparable damage to their young man’s ego. After graduating he was on the precipice of finally accepting that it’s just going to be a civilian’s life for him. And then, it happened. 

As is more often the case, Shirong just woke up one day and had superpowers. Quite the bizarre one, the information age youth found himself with the ability to access anything on the internet with his mind. Finally it all made sense to the student, just like his parents said, he had misplaced his priorities though mind now brimming with ever increasing knowledge he’s certain they were not correct in the way they intended.

In terms of the U.S. Hero Corps operations, he was a brainiac. Some superhuman with ultra-enhanced intelligence or similar mind-based paranormal powers. Indisputably useful and outright necessary for any of the hero teams bustling about the world. No team can truly function without heroes like Shirong is to be, though rarely does one have the star power or flat out endurance to make the mainstage and headline a team. 

Knowing this, as well as anything else he forces his awareness to understand, as soon as he honed his skills enough to be useful Shirong hatched a plan. Filled with the confidence of an upstart grappling with unlimited power, he knows exactly how he can be one of the greats. After a few years stateside of using his nigh-limitless knowledge to solve problems that have long plagued just about every field that he has the slightest interest in, when the USHC makes a call for new heroes the multihyphenate is quick to answer. 

Unfortunately for the young hero, he doesn’t even make it in the room, his brand simply isn’t strong enough. They already have a brainiac and Shirong doesn’t even have a logo or heroic deed to his name. Returning home to a bedroom filled wall to wall with degrees he barely lifted a finger to earn, he chides himself for not taking this seriously enough. Spending that night learning everything there is to know about the USHC and their recruitment process.

The next morning he rises a new man and broadens his horizons. Almost immediately into his research he hears that the Beijing chapter of the ZYL has an unexpected need for a new brainiac. Before the sun sets across the Atlantic, Shirong has applied with a new alias and persona. Zhihui 0, Zhìhuì Líng, literally Wisdom Zero. 

Pitching himself as a returning wayward son to that most ancient of nations, as well as a fresh new tech savvy immigrant hero, the Beijing chapter is more than happy to welcome him onboard. He masters Mandarin, Xiang, and Cantonese on the flight over. The whole thing goes as well as he had expected his application to the USHS would, not that he’s bothered. Known mononymously as Zero to his new team, he fits in swimmingly and in little time at all finds himself quickly making waves and getting heat that brainiacs seldom enjoy. 

Never pick of the litter mind, but Zero is reaching heights in Beijing that any man in the van usually struggles to do. Almost as much effort is spent spreading his name as doing good. Zero’s happy to find that the Chinese audience seems primed for a young waifish heartthrob in a way that American fans of the USHC don’t appreciate nearly as much. Faster than he even expected he’s tagging along to group events and glitzy photo shoots. 

With each bound forward and new height of his rising star, Zero never lets himself forget that this whole jaunt abroad is but a stepping stone towards American Stardom. Sure, the language and culture were truly nothing for a man with his skills to overcome and appreciate, and he does truly enjoy the opportunity to service and enjoy a city more than twice as large as NYC. But, having been SF born and bred, the need to reach those specifically American superstar heights is simply too deep.

And in reality he’s beginning to see the limits of his influence in this non-native land. I mean c’mon, the leader of his team is literally the Sun King. Some self-styled computer whiz isn’t going to displace a monkey man literally dubbed Wukong at birth. No, despite knowing he’ll only continue to burn brighter in China, checking the stories etched into his mind of heroes who settled down and grew complacent, Zero refuses to slow.

So, when there’s talk of a hero trade with the USHC, Zero is first in line to return stateside. Using every scrap of influence he has in Beijing, he arranges himself to be sent in exchange for Trailblazer, some bruiser type woman who’s sure to do some dirty work for the ZYL. Before it’s even been finalized, Zero leaves his research and tech with his actual replacement, some meek diviner named Yijing, and he books a flight back home.

Yet again, there’s not a doubt in Zero’s mind that he is soon to be the next big all star in the USHC. He can see his face on billboards now, leading the American superintel team, blazing new ground for all those little ones out who’ll never be able to go toe to toe with bruisers and their ilk. It’s been so long since he’s been, this time no one will be able to stop him. Zàijiàn Beijing, welcome back America.

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It isn’t until his first meeting with the team leader, Mustang, that he finally learns that his dreams do not align with the USHC plans. “Now listen here Zero, ain’t all that bad y’know. Team just don’t need another brainiac right now. Higher ups, the powers that be- Well, they just think that Binary is more than enough an ace that we don’t need two of yas.”

Zero frowns, biting his tongue to not insult the man’s intelligence. Mustang has always been one of his favorite heroes, dim as he may be. Hearing that famous, simple drawl in person is almost enough to distract Zero from the acerbic words spilling from his mouth as he’s reminded that the Corps are just pawns for management to do with as they please. Pieces to play when there is something that need punching, or punching bags when they need to save face.

No, he knows he has no reason to fight with Mustang, who despite his poor job relaying the message, obviously means well with his new teammate. Who Zero doesn’t care for however, is the stoic android who has been standing motionlessly behind his hero since they entered the room. Binary, the current USHC brainiac supreme, some old tech instilled with life that masquerades as a real once-human superhero. Oft kept in the shadows where their rusty profile belongs. 

Apparently the foremost opponent in his way. Them, Zero has no qualms in attacking. ”So you’re telling me this geratic hunk of junk is just going to keep his spot on the roster forever? I’m smarter than them, faster! I mean for fucks sake surely management can see the lengthy list of pros to having an actual human being as the head of their intel department.” The android’s face remains unmoving as Zero tears into them.

Mustang scratches the back of his neck uncomfortably. Groaning to himself as he readjusts his immense weight, “Now hold on there littlun let’s not be too hasty. You, me, and Dupree ere’ll be a team no matter which way this shakes out. It’s just-” Mustang takes a second to adjust, unlike his two present compatriots thinking does not come naturally, “from what Binary thinks, the know-it-all biz just don’t got that high-profile pull that you’re after.”

Hearing the android’s right on the money, Zero’s eyes flicker from Mustang back to his would-be boss only to find the blank slate that must always be painted on their face. Rolling his eyes, he impetuously sighs and skips ahead in the conversation, “So what’s the other option?”

The hero smirks, “Ah! All you thinkers- Love it! So, I’m not gonna pretend to know anything bout the details, but Binary and the researchers’ve ‘pparently made this serum that’ll let any superdude and wonder gal unlock some latent powers. So, we’re thinkin’ what better way to introduce our new techie, Zeehooey Zero than by unveiling you as the first ever do-it-all supe! Ain’t that right Binary?”

The bot slowly nods, still betraying nothing of the processes ongoing behind their synthetic face. “Affirmative. Should Shirong so desire, I, we, have been allowed to grant access to the department’s notes on the program.” Without waiting for a response, Binary’s eyes flash a cold blue as he gives the new Corps member access to the proprietary notes. Immediately Zero’s mind rushes in, spreading thin to learn everything there is to know, searching for a downside, an ulterior motive, a trap.

Unfortunately for the scion of the internet, the trap was laid for him in mind. Binary’s impassive facade finally cracks as they watch him fall hook line and sinker. Highlighted to a degree that should certainly raise red flags, Zero is directed towards the most likely powers gained: super strength, endurance, enhanced reflexes and healing. Exactly the superhero cocktail that every big shot in the league has. 

The young man is so excited by the prospect he doesn’t even realize that the side effects and expectations for his case have been completely scrubbed. As Binary expected. In a microsecond their face falls flat once more and Zero returns from his brief sojourn in the notes on this mystery procedure, not even trying to hide how eager he is to get this done as soon as possible. 

He tells himself he has no choice, that it’s this or nothing. Zero pushes down the excitement quickly overtaking him, the surging theories and potentialities that lay ahead of him, and fanart of himself as a brawny, well-muscled superhero. His eyes slam shut as he forcefully stops himself from imagining the threads on various less than puritanical sites of himself well-hung and oiled up.

After a moment of resetting Zero clears his throat and nods, completely ignoring Binary, “Yeah, Shi de. I think this is something that I’d be interested in doing, sir-” Mustang lights up and promptly reaches over the desk to dap Zero up, “Fuck yeah! I mean who can resist y’know!? Just imagine, you ‘n me ripped as all get out. Brain ‘n brawn, can’t wait littlun- er, for now that is! Hah!”

Mustang gets up with a grunt, ruffling Zero’s hair as he walks by, an eager smile on his face, betraying nothing but his ignorance of whatever Binary has in store for Zero. Binary remains motionless, eyes powering down as they await the new hero to follow the commando before heading off to research where his is to ‘discover his new powers.’ The android would laugh, but that would be unbecoming. yes.

0 0 0 - 0 0 0 - 0 0 0 

Zero doesn’t quite understand the outfit they’re having him wear for the procedure. He was ready for a gown or something similar, but these are just, well, gym clothes? Obviously he read the notes and knows the whole thing is far less invasive than one would expect. But as he changes into a tank top, he can’t help but feel ridiculous. 

Pulling up shorts he hasn’t worn since high school, the young hero grimaces as he sits alone waiting in the smallest of the HQ’s operating rooms. In the meantime he does what he always does, to prepare for what’s to come, to kill time. He retreats into his mind. The whole thing is kind of insane, but from his expansive understanding that’s just how it is in the big leagues.

For a moment he considers trying to dive into the USHC’s data on Binary but is promptly denied access. Something about that bot was off. Another time. He shouldn’t let the piece of chrome get him bothered, this is a win, he’s going to be brain, brawn, and out of that brainiac’s jurisdiction. He should focus on himself.

And so he does, racing through the web past fanfic and photoshopped pictures of Zhihui Zero, shifting through long dead links on superhero fanblogs. He knows exactly what he’s looking for as he dives deep into a long abandoned forum kept running through the power of his mind alone. There he finds a post he made decades ago accompanied by a sloppy drawing of a costume that looks not too dissimilar from his current one, albeit on a much broader figure. ‘I wish I could be a superhero. I want super strength and super sped!! And to fly and be able to talk to dogs :) here’s my costume i hope you like it!’

Sitting in this room on the precipice of becoming a new type of hero, a new eidolon of man, Zero simply grins. And then grimaces as his connection slowly fades into static. Shaking his head at being dampened without warning, he returns to the meatspace and sees a doctor not much older than himself smiling with a datapad. “Oop! Sorry about that though you of course knew you were going to be disconnected during this procedure hm?”

In the end, not a world away from Binary himself, Zero performs cerebral stoicism in the face of this man whose eyes glimmer with curiosity and interest. He nods as the scientist continues, “I must say our team is so intrigued by your abilities! I mean a direct connection to a fully manmade phenomena! Well, it’s no wonder Binary wants their hands on-” 

Before he can finish the sentence his free hand flies to an earpiece and his face falls slightly, clearly being reprimanded by someone watching in. Zero turns to the visible camera and waves at what can only be the android, who must be obsessed with him he thinks with a smirk. 

Clearly more muted than he’d like to be, the doctor restates his excitement for the procedure, gets Zero to sign off on a few wavers he should’ve read closer, and puts a friendly hand on his shoulder. “Let’s see what a bruiser we’ll make out of you!”

 Zero does a double take at this, bruiser is a very specific word in hero parlance. Bruiser, Brute, muscle without a brain. His eyes shift back to the camera which is obviously inscrutable. He’s just in his head from being disconnected. He just needs to lay back and let the doctor work. The quietly smiling man moves with some degree of melancholy in his eyes as he puts an anesthesia mask on Zero. Would’ve sworn there were people for that, anesthes- anasteesy- olo just, uh-

0 0 0 = 0 0 0 = 0 0 0

And then he’s awake. His mind humming once more with his powers returned and he lets loose a sigh of relief. Worried about nothing.  Like a computer starting up he flexes his mind and ensures he has access to everything he should, as he does every morning. Pinned like a bookmark to the front of his consciousness is the drawing of him buff and flexing. Looking down at his form, the same as ever he feels nothing but embarrassed.

Distinctly colder from the friendly face that laid him to rest, he is greeted by Binary as he awakens. “Excellent. Now time for the true test.” Still running through start-up processes, Zero simply stares. “I trust you are familiar with the novella: Jekyll and Hyde Mr. Ling. As you are aware with my superior processing power we have little need of a second Dr. Hyde, although, I do appreciate the greater understanding of your abilities which I am sure our associates will make use of down the road. You know, when I have need of a portable computer. However, at his juncture Shinrong, it is time for you to become the Jekyll.” 

For the first time, Zero sees Binary smile before they quickly turn and sidestep out of the room, leaving him alone in this clinical cell. Going to follow in their footsteps, the young man is unsurprised to find Binary locked the door behind them.

 Zero’s face burns red as his mind overheats. He forces his eyes closed as he puts all available energy within him towards overclocking his powers to find out what is going on. Was he tricked, what did he miss in the contract, how does he get out of this room. And then sharper than any headache he’s suffered in his life, Zero falls to the floor as he hits a wall in his mind that has simply never been there before. 

Gasping in shock, Zero hoists himself up on the operating table, arms struggling far more than they should for how light his form is. Hesitant to delve into the internet he checks his surroundings in reality and notices what must be a one-way mirror at the back of the OR, He scowls at his reflection, not knowing who on the other side led him down this path of being a lab rat. He wonders if Mustang was in on it, picturing his genial face, it only introduces more anger in the young man. 

Zero slams a fist down on the table with strength he didn’t know he could summon. Tools on a tray table nearby shake as he does so, no way he could’ve manifested such force. Looking down at his hand still forcefully in place, Zero gasps as he sees the slightest dent in the table. He pulls his arm up to inspect it, using his mind to summon what it should look like and comparing it to how it is now. 

Even this is more difficult than it should be. The intricate assessment should be second nature to his supermind. At present though, Zero’s unable to perform minute calculations groaning he simply goes over the big picture. New veins trail down his arm and with each slight twitch of movement they pulse thicker. Photoshopped images of his bulging biceps, burned into his subconscious as they are, burst to the front of his mind and he suddenly forgets whatever difficulties he's having with his abilities to instead inspect his arm.

His stomach dances as he raises it to flex, smirking as he sees new muscle begin to grow. Stretching and twisting his right arm, he focuses on it with an intensity he hasn’t brought to the real world in years. Drinking in each shifting muscle fiber as they expand. Quickly bringing it into a flex he’s beside himself with primal joy as he sees it peak higher. He does it again, and again. Each time his stare grows hungrier as the bicep bloats larger, rises higher, like a loaf of bread. 

Usually able to keep a running awareness of his body’s processes, Zero simply feels his racing heart and sharp breaths rather than passively watching numbers shift. He forces his hand on his chest, feeling his palm spreading wider, fingers stretching longer and growing fatter across his thin chest. Zero struggles to slow his breathing. Upon his first deep breath he realizes his arms are not the only change. 

He smells the anesthesia in a medicine cabinet across the room, discarded sweat covered tissues and latex gloves in the sterilized trash. Eyes widen as he smells in real time his body odor changing. The muted rarely present stink of his old self issuing forth from his left pit at his left arm begins its rapid journey towards the powerful arm of a hero. Opposite, already changed, he feels the few hairs in his pit joined by a small garden as it now carries the musk of a man, the stink of a hero. 

Turning away from the glass, Zero’s face red from rage softens to one more pink from embarrassment. Thank god they got him in these stupid shorts and not spandex. He smells his heady musk changing with every passing second, grossing stronger as his arms hang heavier and bulge larger. Their odor is then joined by a new scent as he smells pre dripping into his suddenly strained underwear.

Desperately trying to readjust and obscure his newly bulging dick, Zero grunts as every time his clumsy fingers graze it it only becomes more unwieldy. Biting his lip, he forces down his leg, leaving a pipe more than clear in the shorts but allowing him at least a modicum of dignity. His heavier balls pulse with need and his mind that rarely leaves room for sexual fulfillment simply demands that he take in his reflection.

Zero smiles as he sees himself becoming the man he always dreamed he could be, would be. Flexing an arm briefly, letting his long pit hairs drip freely, his eyes then trail down. Past his bulge he, for the first time, notices his calves beginning to surge larger. Doing a quick calf raise, Zero nearly falls over as his whole body stretches taller in that half a moment. And so he does so again, the sound of cracking bones fills the air as his whole form lengthens.

Legs that were already struggling to put on mass to match his new bulky arms surge into overdrive as they race to become the trunks that any top heavy superheroism demands. Long toes burst free from the shoddy surgical shoes they had him in, leaving his grippers exposed as his soles widen into nigh perfect shock absorbers for the hero. He flexes his toes and feels even this awaken more strength in calves, sending shockwaves of growth through the length of his lower body. 

Completely forgetting about losing his mind, unaware that the fire wall he came across moments ago has only continued to shrink inward, one thought surges to the forefront. Zero needs to see what these bad boys can do. Stretching his longer legs to their limits, patting thighs and hearing how dense his muscle mass has grown in such a short time, Zero moans to himself as his pre leaks even more than his memory.

Eyes almost crossing as the thighs that now strain his pants leave his balls little room to breath, his cock straining them even moreso. Zero shifts one of the meaty palms clutching his thigh to instead tear off his underwear. 

This is done with ease, fabric he couldn’t tear without tools is suddenly scattered to the floor as stained boxer briefs are torn away from his form. It’s of little matter unfortunately as in no time at all his legs surge large enough to leave the athletic shorts skin tight.

Problem solved, he laughs to himself as he remembers what his next move was. He was going to see how high he could jump. Crouching down in an instant, he flings himself immediately into the heavily reinforced ceiling of the room before crashing back onto the floor. Thankfully pain was not a sense enhanced as he lies in a heap on the floor, doing something between groaning in pain and laughing at himself.

Resting his fat hand on his chest to steady his breathing once more, he feels one of the few remaining frontiers of his body begin to puff up. With each gasping breath new weight begins to pile onto his chest. Think fingers cup his forming pecs and the bulge in his pants struggles against its confines as his nipples poke into his new mitt.

Perfectly round pecs pounding larger with the beat of his powerful heart, Zero takes a moment to reflect. Why did he just jump headfirst into the ceiling? He never acts without thinking. He should’ve known he’d shoot into the reinforced tiles. It was his job to do the math on stunts like that for his team. It is his job, what he’s good at. Narrowing his eyes, he tries to see the numbers in front of him. 

At first Zero’s able to at least summon the equations in front of him. He can almost recognize the formula, what he’s supposed to do with it and what goes where, almost. Then they fade, becoming little more than spots in his vision. His mouth falls open as it now is almost always to be, bruisers being something synonymous to mouth breathers it’s no wonder that Zero is apt to join the rest of his new cohort. 

On the cold sterile floor, an ass that has yet to slow down its growth begins to send tears down his shorts. Joining veiny thighs and a veinier dick, it’s only a matter of time before Zero is truly baring it all to his colleagues. He tries to ignore the image of fans across the world staring at his ass, admiring his bulge. Feeling his cock throb, both staining and straining his shorts, Zero stays strong. No, he was going to figure it out.

Still the same stubborn man he’s always been, Zero once more tries to do the math, just to show that he can, to himself. This time he struggles to even produce the first digits of the problem. Falling back on an old trick, he uses his meaty digits to try and direct his mind. 

He hasn’t needed to do this since he was first starting out, he’s never had trouble organizing his mind. He’s taken great care to stay sharp, or rather he did? His crutch, his clumsy fingers struggle to offer any aid. Arms raised his musk is once more sent spewing into the open air causing him no small degree of distraction.

Sitting up in frustration, he slams an arm into the side of the operating table. His frustration only accelerates his growth. Raw, primal emotion numbs the mind and sharpens his massive form. Pecs form a wide overhang above abs so well sculpted they must have been crafted by hand. While his new hands lack finesse, this shortcoming is more than overshadowed by arms as powerful as thick and powerful as some of the strongest normies thighs. 

Standing to his feet with a deep, bovine groan, Zero is reunited with his reflection. He is truly unrecognizable. As he watches his face begins to change, jaw widening, eyes dulling. He motions his hand to bring up a saved image of himself, something that should be the easiest thing in the world, but fails to produce even a memory. Static fills his ears as cotton fills his mind. He just watches, breathing in through his mouth as he hungrily stares at himself, changing and growing.

Walking closer, inspecting his massive chest, he bounces his pecs. The static grows louder. The pecs grow bigger. Forgetting he was even trying to do a comparison, his mouth waters as he instead flexes every bulging muscle on his new form. Hypnotized by his massive chest as it pushes his tank to its limits. They’re like nothing he’s ever seen before, like no man he can imagine. His eyes fill with wonder as his pecs continue to inflate as if they were hooked up to an air compressor.

Standing there, staring at his own powerful body, finally being the superhero he always wanted to be. He would almost feel disdain for being the little know-it-all he once was. The scheming little runt who solved calculus problems for the real heroes, the little guy who stared longingly at alpha heroes like the brute he is now. He sneers as he imagines being such a pipsqueak. 

He would, that is, were he not on the fast track to forgetting that’s who he ever was. Hips bucking, Zero rapidly begins to forget his connection to the sum of all human knowledge. His abilities at solving mysteries and effortlessly uncovering buried answers as Zhihui Zero are rapidly wiped from his mind as his balls begin to bulge, pulsing with need.

Mouth watering at his splendor, his strength, he can’t imagine being anything but the strongest man in the room. His hips reflexively buck as he laughs at the idea that maybe he’s got supervirility too. The dumb thought only turns him on all the more. He guffaws to himself, switching poses each time his dripping cock thrusts forward, quickly breaking free of his shorts. 

Massive arms fall forward on the one-way glass that Zero recognizes as nothing but a mirror with enough force to shake the whole room. Staring at his dumb eyes reflected, seeing not a single thought behind them, Zero’s whole body twitches and contorts as he loses control. Spewing his load into the once sterile OR, his heavy breaths steam the glass as his sweaty palms send cracks across the glass simply from holding his weight against them.

His enhanced nose finds its way into his pits to smell his hormones change as he finally tastes sweet release. Fuck that’s the good stuff. Tongue out, panting like an animal, Zero becomes exactly the boorish brute that Binary intended him to be, no, even more of one. Judging by the truly immense size and strength of the USHC’s new behemoth it’s clear that Binary severely underestimated how useful the young technomage would have been. 

Before the new brute gets the wise idea to clean up the spilled cum with his tongue, the door at the far side of the room rears open and in walks Mustang and Binary. The android’s face squirms at the powerful odor of the room, kicking themselves for ever giving themself the ability to smell before turning it off. Adversely, Mustang is absolutely stoked to have another bruiser on the team, “Yeeehaw?! Zero that you dude!?” 

Apathetic to the still dripping cock, Mustang tosses his new teammate a towel and goes over for a bear hug. Zero is similarly ecstatic to see his captain and he tests his own strength on the man built well stronger than a stallion. Embracing and feeling camaraderie in strength, Zero’s cock immediately begins to stir again and Mustang laughs, “Shoo- Gonna need RnD to whip up some real ultragrade spandex to keep that pecker under control ‘ere Zero!” 

The two men laugh for a few seconds before Binary clears their robotic throat. Zero takes a step to look past his leader and is less than pleased to see the android, “Hm, what brings the old recycling bin by Cap?” Mustang pats him on the back and offers a stern look to half-reprimand him as Binary rolls their robotic eyes with a canned, “Hah Hah.” After a moment they continue, “I am simply here for the aftermath of the experiment, Zero.”

Zero’s thick brow furrows and he scratches his wiry pubes peeking above the towel, struggling to remember exactly what experiment must’ve just happened. Lucky for the boor, Binary is more than happy to explain, “Likely you do not recall, as intended, but before coming in here you were a fellow brainiac.” Zero scowls, looking down at his meaty hands he shivers performatively at the idea of being unable to lift a truck. 

“Anyway. You were able to access knowledge from the internet straight from the aether, now I perhaps underestimated the use of this judging by how drastic the counterweight transformation was.” Three sentences in, Zero is finding himself more than bored with the bot. Who cares what he used to be IF he even used to be some nerd, instead his eyes flit to Mustang’s rugged chin and meaty pecs as he wonders whose are bigger.

“Now, should you ever wish to access the power again I will have tech give you equipment to do so. You must keep in mind that any use would directly draw from your strength and form. Now-” Zero interrupts, “Boooooring- Why’d I ever wanna trade brawn for brain Binary? I mean look at me? There’s a reason me ‘n Stang are on lunch boxes. I’ll leave that nerd shit to you. Thanks.”

Slightly regretting adding another meathead to their team, Binary shifts their weight and puts a pin in this conversation, “Very well.” Mustang then seizes the floor and throws his arm around Zero, “Now bud, new powers means new identity, got any ideas kickin’ around in that thick-head o’ yours?” Pinching the bridge of their nose, Binary chimes in with, “What of Idiot Savant, I think it’s-”

They’re interrupted as they often are by their ever louder cohorts as Mustang waves his hand in an arc, “Oh how ‘bout Stud! Wouldn’t mind havin’ a real partner on the team. Stud ‘n Stang, I can see it now!” 

Zero then retreats into their mind to the long imagined image of himself as a brawny hero that remains firmly implanted in his psyche, internet access or not. “Y’know, I’d love to do my mom and pops proud, and they always liked Zero. Would it be alright if I kept the name?” The image of his shoddily sketched costume, still burning bright in his eyes. He’d need to go up more than a few sizes.

Binary and Mustang stare at each other before the captain shrugs. The android’s eyes light up as they set to work, “I’ll send it up to Marketing.” Not soulless, probably, they see the intensity in Zero’s expression and tack on, “I’m sure they’ll find the idea acceptable.” Zero pumps the air with a “fuck yeah!” and faster than Binary has a chance to react he rushes over to hug the robot. 

Patting them on the back hard enough to loosen a few screws, the android sounds winded despite lacking lungs, “for future celebrations a handshake will suffice!” Zero waves them off and after a few seconds allows them freedom from his grasp, leaving them more than a little sweat stained. 

Finally, Mustang saunters over and joins the pair. Putting a massive arm around each compatriot, he starts leading both out the door, “Now it’s about time to get those massive lats fitted for some spandex dontcha think kid?” And so the trio depart, Binary working on a report and Mustang yammering about their other teammates. Zero doesn’t quite hear as he is preoccupied imagining his new start and his first proper day as the hero he has always dreamed he could be.

[hard-core-super-star]

moondust in your hair [W.Maximoff]

pairing: baker!wanda x college student! reader

summary: after spending weeks looking for the perfect place for your first date, you take wanda out and give your relationship a label.

warnings: none, i think; pure fluff for once; first date shenanigans; R giggling and kicking her feet over wanda being cute

wordcount: 1.9k

a/n: HIHIHIHI! so, i survived all my midterm exams which means i was finally able to finish this fic! i couldn't resist and wrote one more part for the baker!wanda series because i love her so much. plus, writing fluff has been incredible for my mental health lately. anyway, i expect to back to writing sinful smut by next week but for now, hope you enjoy <3

part one | part two | part four

* * * * * * *

For the first time in a long time, Westview had become your home again.

You still weren't fully tied down to the small town, still traveling back and forth between it and NYC, but you'd found a small semblance of normal.

Your semester at university was almost over, the threat of finals weeks looming over you whenever you decided to relax for a little too long, which meant you were one step closer to spending your summer with Wanda. There was something slightly silly to your excitement, like you were some sort of schoolgirl, looking forward to staying up all night on the phone with a forbidden crush.

In a way, that was exactly what it was.

You didn't want to call it sneaking around, it made it sound like you were doing something bad. There was nothing wrong with what Wanda and you had but that didn't stop people from talking.

From crafting stories about how she was cheating on Vision because they technically weren't divorced, about her kids hating you, about her having manipulated you with the promise of a job.

They were awful rumors, completely made up to destroy the reputation of the older woman's bakery, and yet, there was no denying the weight they carried. The damage they could do if they got out of hand.

It made things complicated, yes, but you weren't going to give up so easily.

So, after asking Wanda out on a formal date, you got to work. Every moment of free time was spent exploring the outskirts of town, and trying to find a nice place to set up a picnic for her. It took longer than you would have liked but eventually, you made a decision and told the older woman you had finally figured out how to take her on a date.

To say she found it all ridiculous would be an understatement. She swore up and down that she didn't care about other people, that she had no problem with taking you out to a nice dinner despite the rumors. You believed her but you weren't about to risk it.

Something that she found incredibly sweet and endearing.

But when the day finally came and you told her, the smile she gave you made the wait more than worth it.

It was a slow day at the bakery and you could hardly contain your excitement about what would come next. You were practically bouncing around the room, cleaning up whatever little mess you could find to keep yourself busy.

You'd told her the second you arrived about your idea but you couldn't simply have her shut the bakery early because you were dying to sneak away with her. As hard as it was, you had to wait.

The wait, however, allowed you to fill your cute picnic basket with as many treats as you could. That did mean the displays at the front were more empty than usual but it wasn't like there were too many people around to complain about it.

Plus, it gave you an excuse to keep Wanda away while you packed things up.

But finally, after what felt like forever, the workday was over and the older woman was closing up shop.

"Go wait for me in the car, will you, sweetheart?" She asks as starts closing the blinds.

You turn to face her, your pout not even fully formed, and she shakes her head affectionately at you. Without another word, she crosses the space between you to press a quick kiss to the top of your head.

"You're not the only one who has some surprises up her sleeve." You can practically feel her smiling against your skin and it makes your heart skip a beat. "Now, go. Please?"

Who are you to deny such a request as that one?

Your feet carry you out the door before you can pout again, your picnic basket clutched in your hands as you walk to her car. It's a little silly but you keep your head down just in case. Even though it's closing time, the sun is barely starting to set and there's still a lot of light. Not to mention, a lot of nosy people walking their dogs.

You manage to make it to the car without a problem and a few minutes later, Wanda joins you. Whatever items she brought are obscured in a tote bag so you can't tell what they are. You have no doubt it's probably wine and fresh fruit, two things that will pair nicely with the cookies you stole from the display (you'll pay her back next week).

The second she's in the car, she hands you her phone so you can punch the location into her Maps app. The action makes you smile despite how small it is. You're sure you'll never get used to how much she trusts you. How badly she wants to make sure you're taken care of in every way.

"Are you going to tell me where I'm going?" She asks as she starts the drive.

You shake your head with a giggle. "Nope, it's a surprise. You're only allowed to drive."

"Oh, that's all I'm allowed to do?" Almost instantly one of her hands drifts to yours, interlacing your fingers and squeezing.

"Hmmm," you pretend to think. "I guess you can do something else if you'd like."

"Cheeky girl," she teases before giving the back of your hand a kiss.

The rest of the drive is spent just like that. With Wanda teasing you in between quick kisses and even quicker banter. You're sure your jaw will ache soon from all your smiling but you don't mind. Especially because her smile is just as big as your own.

Despite how distracted you both are, you manage to make it to your destination at the perfect time to watch the rest of the sunset. Your excitement is more than obvious as you rush a laughing Wanda out the car, holding the picnic basket in one hand and a few blankets in the other one.

"Slow down, sweetheart!" The older woman calls out as you rush down toward a secluded spot in a clearing of trees.

"Hurry up, slowpoke!" You shout back.

Her laugh accompanies you until you start setting up, laying down the blankets and pulling out the sandwiches you packed. It's while you're plating the cookies that Wanda joins you with, like you guessed, a bottle of wine in one hand and a tupperware filled with fruit in the other.

She wordlessly helps you finish your set-up, her eyebrow raising once she notices just how many pastries you took from under her nose.

The silence lingers for a little while but it's not uncomfortable. If anything, it reminds you why you love being in the green-eyed woman's presence so much. Being with her is quiet. Calm. Soothing like a day on the beach.

You lean against her side as you start digging into your feast, your eyes bouncing back and forth between the woman keeping you company and the stunning sunset overhead.

"How'd you find this place?" Wanda finally asks.

The mere question makes your cheeks heat up. "Well, I…I spent a lot of time exploring. There's no privacy almost anywhere in town so I ended up out here. It's practically a park."

"You know I would have been okay with going out to a restaurant, right?"

You shrug. "Yeah, but I wanted to do something special. And do it somewhere where we can't be interrupted."

Even though your intentions are innocent, they still make Wanda smirk, which in turn makes your stomach do a backflip. "I usually wait until the third date for that stuff, baby."

"Oh, shut up."

You hide your blushing by bumping your shoulder against hers and hoping it'll distract her. Your idea sort of works except she places her half-empty glass of wine down and takes your free hand in hers.

It's not the movement itself that makes your mind freeze, it's the ease with which she does it.

You've spent the better half of a university semester pining after this woman, thinking she would never give you the time of day, and now you're here. With her. With your side pressed tightly against her and her hand in yours, holding onto you like she never wants to let go.

It's not until the sun has fully set, and you've both eaten far too many cookies and drank almost a full bottle of wine, that you dare put a voice to your feelings.

You're on your backs, staring up at the night sky and pretending like you're paying attention to what she's saying as she points out random constellations instead of focusing solely on the veins on her hand. She's giggling about something, you're not too sure what since your mind is swimming a little, and the moon reflects the little sparkles you know litter her eyes.

When she realizes you're not laughing with her, Wanda turns to look at you. "You still with me, sweetheart?"

Instead of answering her question, you blurt out your own. "What are we?"

Her eyes widen in surprise but her lips quirk up into a smile. Not the smirk she's been throwing your way in between flirty comments, not the small and slightly fake one she uses when people are annoying her at the bakery. It's the one she reserves just for you. Where her eyes grow soft and she has to bite her lip to stop herself from laughing.

"What do you mean?"

You inwardly groan, not in the mood to play a weird form of Hot Potato where you pass questions back and forth. However, you're not about to back down. Not yet, at least.

"I don't know. I just…well, I really like you, Wanda. I didn't just ask you here because I was looking for a quick, fun time."

The whole time you talk, you feel like kicking yourself for getting so tangled up. You can't help it. Not when she's looking at you like you're more important than all the stars in the sky.

"y/n," she says before you can start thinking too hard. "I really like you too. And I don't know what we are, but I know what I want us to be…if you think you'd be interested, I know I'm not-"

You surge forward before she can finish her sentence.

There's very little grace to your movements as you press your lips against hers, drowning out whatever complaint she was going to make about herself. You don't want to hear. You don't think you can even bear the thought of hearing her say anything bad about herself.

Not when she's the most perfect woman you've ever laid eyes on.

Despite her surprise, Wanda melts into you. Her lips taste sweet like the pastries she spends all her free time making and you can faintly make out the smell of wine that lingers.

When you move to deepen the kiss, she throws her arm over your side to pull you against her.

The sudden movement makes you gasp but you don't dare move away. You allow her to pull you in until you're basically on top of her, your lips ghosting over each other as you try to catch your breath.

It's there, lying breathless with her beneath you, that you realize how crazy you are. How absolutely insane you are about her.

She doesn't seem to care, if the smile on her face is anything to go by.

As you move in to kiss her again, you realize you don't care either.

You can't care.

Because Wanda Maximoff wants you.

And that's all you truly care about.

[dejwrld]

⤷‧₊˚ hiromi higuruma helps his bratty sub study for her bar exam.

┊ •° ੈ ⋆° ┊ warning readers discretion is advised — black reader with descriptors, female anatomy described, her/she pronouns, usage of y/n, reader is a law student, mentions of reader being the child of a judge, mentions of law, dom!hiromi, sub!reader, reader described to be very feminine and bratty, no cursed au, dom x sub dynamic, usage of toys (vibrating panties), oral (reader receiving), pet names (good girl, doll), mentions of pubes, praise kink (academical), bonus after care scene, written in third pov (hiromi’s), mdni

sticky note from deja — sometimes i think about dom hiromi higuruma and just sigh happily.

Hiromi passed his bar exam with flying colors. He didn’t do study groups. Simply studied alone and prioritized his time to balance being a law clerk, studying, and socializing to ensure a law firm hired him. But this woman didn’t do any of that and frankly, he was even shocked that she still wanted to pursue law at all. She graduated from law school with a high GPA, and wonderful recommendations from amazing professors, and her father was a prominent judge. Many can assume that her pretty looks and her legacy surname got her where she is today, but Hiromi has observed her in her element and when she was in her element she was a beast. 

So the older lawyer had no clue why she came to him with law books in her arm, her tote bag slung on her shoulders—tight coils sprawled on her head like a crown, and a tight suede tracksuit on as if she was stepping into her law class. But of course, when she had a problem, she came to him. When she needed a quick nut, she came to him. Needing someone to vent about when it came to her class rival, she came to him. Now it seemed she needed help studying for the exam and who did she come to, him.

But as an hour and thirty minutes went by, the young woman was not soaking up the information that Hiromi was going over. His eyes bored into the notebook, flashcards, and textbooks scattered across his desk. She watches as she twirls her pink pen around her fingers reading over the notes she jolted down, but he can just tell by the crinkle of her eyebrows that the information wasn’t going through that thick skull of hers. It wasn’t that he didn’t believe she knew the information because she did. But he doubted she’d remember it for the exam. He leaned back into his comfortable black desk chair trying to rack his brain with a better studying technique before eventually he got an idea. An imaginary light bulb lit up over the top of the lawyer’s head.

“I think I have an idea.” He spoke out, causing her to stop her highlighting—which he was hoping she would do because the scent of the highlighter was already giving him a headache simply because she just had to have scented ones. 

This one smells like strawberries, smell it? Those were her exact words forty-five minutes ago as he was going over some laws on family laws. 

“Will it help me feel like the information I’m consuming is sticking and staying in my brain?” 

“Possibly,” was the only thing Hiromi answered before pulling himself out of his seat and disappearing from his office.

It was three things the woman that sat across from him enjoyed. Shopping, her father’s credit card, and sexual pleasure. If Hiromi had any more knowledge of psychology, he would have labeled Y/N as a nymphomaniac. 

When returned with the red velvet box, he sat the box on the table and she perked up happily, possibly thinking that this was a sparkly diamond necklace for her. 

“A gift? Aw, this definitely will help.” Her plush glossed lips spread into a smile. She claps her hands together in excitement sitting up in the chair. 

“It’s not a necklace, doll.” He points out. She opened the box revealing the black lace underwear that had a vibrator inside of them. 

He was going to use these at their anniversary dinner as a sub and dog duo, but he guessed he had to come up with another idea to make their dinner interesting. His gloomy eyes watched as her eyes lit up like fuckin’ fireworks. His assumption was right. He watches as she simply stands up ready to remove her underwear eagerly.

“I do think a quick sex session will help me focus a bit more. This is why I came to you. At first, I was going to join that one guy who knows Nanami's study group, but in my mind—I just knew you would have a better study idea.” She giggled as her hand went to untie her tracksuit bottoms to change into the other panties.

“No, we’re not doing that. Put the panties on and sit back down.” He scattered around his desk to give her time to change into the vibrating panties. 

He thought she was going to argue against what he said, but she didn’t. As quiet as can be, she’s shuffling to remove her underwear and replace it with the sexual treat that Hiromi graced upon her. While she changed, Hiromi was looking for the notebook that he used when he was studying for his bar exam. He knew it had a bunch of mock bar exam questions on there and thought they would help. When he found the book, he walked back to his desk and Y/N sat patiently waiting for him, she went back to reading her textbook without a care. 

Hiromi removed the box from the table, placing it on the ledge behind him after he grabbed the remote. He slammed the notebook on the table that looked like it’s been through centuries of war. He liked keeping it because it showed how far he had come from a law student to one of the best lawyers in the city. He skimmed through the pages before finding a page he wanted to start on. 

“A defendant is being prosecuted for conspiracy to possess methamphetamine with intent to distribute. At trial, the government seeks to have its agent testify to a conversation that he overheard between the defendant and a co-conspirator regarding the incoming shipment of a large quantity of methamphetamine. That conversation was also audiotaped, though critical portions of it are inaudible. The defendant objects to the testimony of the agent on the ground that it is not the best evidence of the conversation.” He pauses briefly to look at Y/N across from him. “Is the testimony of the agent admissible?” 

He watches as she brings her French tip manicured finger to her chin to think. He had a feeling she knew the answer, she told him about the paper she had done about admissible evidence. But as he watches her shoulders go upward and downward in an ‘I don’t know’ manner, Hiromi lets out a sigh before pressing the remote. The silence in his office was disrupted by the sound of the vibration. He watches as she jerks forward provocatively. He leans back in his seat.

“You know the answer to this, stop being a smart ass.” Hiromi’s slender fingers toyed with the small remote watching as she was withering forward in attempting to mask her moan.

“It’ll be admissible,” She breathes out. 

“Why?” Hiromi asked. 

For a quick second, he can see a glint of sexual frustration in her eyes. This was the first sexual encounter in a while due to him restricting them from it. He had a huge case coming up and she had to study for the bar exam. Sex would cloud their judgment on the tasks they had to do. 

“The best evidence rule does not require proof of the conversation through the audiotape.” 

He presses the button on the remote making the vibrator stop. “Good girl. I knew you knew that.” His lips crack a smile and he watches as she recomposes herself. 

“Next question.” Hiromi flips through the pages in his notebook. “Hypothetically thinking, say a person broke into a closed building to solely seek refuge due to a snowstorm. Can this person be convicted of burglary if that’s her defense?” His fingers were itching to press the button, but he had to hear her answer first.

“No.” 

“Why? Come on baby, you know they’re going to ask why?” 

“I’m not sure, let me think.” 

It didn’t take long before Hiromi pressed the button. Her moans echoed within the study while clasping her thighs closed to engulf the sudden vibration from the panties she wore. She falls back into the seat across from him and her body arches off of it briefly before she’s finally croaking out an explanation. 

“Burglary requires the intent to commit a crime upon entering a building and seeking shelter from a storm is not a criminal act. So, this hypothetical person can validate her claim.” 

“That’s right. You’re doing amazing with these questions. Just need it to stick in your brain, that’s all.” He reassures Y/N with a smile.

The quizzing went on for about thirty minutes, but Hiromi had lost track of time when he felt how tight his cock felt in his slacks. He was sure she had orgasmed multiple times from the vibrating panties just by the way her eyes drooped, her body slouching in the leather seat she was in, and the fact that he could see her hardened nipples through the sports bra after she had unzipped the hoodie of her tracksuit. She had this tendency where if he wasn’t touching her during little sessions, she had to touch herself. Which she did, right across from him—each time he flicked the remove on causing the vibrating on her pussy, she'd pinch her marbled nipples while uttering out a response to a random law question. 

“I think you deserve a break for today. You still have the weekend to study,” He pointed out as he tossed the remote back into its box. “Come here.” 

She’s hesitant at first and Hiromi can tell just by the way her lips part to argue and her eyebrows frown together. She wasn’t sure if she should cave and come forward or stay put just to feel the vibrating in between her thighs again. She knew that he knew she always defied him in some way just to get a rise out of him, but today—it seems her head was screwed on right. After all, Hiromi didn’t have to help Y/N study. Helping her study wasn’t a part of the contract, but he did—in such an odd sexy manner that caused her to be soaked between her thighs. 

As she tiptoed around the wooden desk, she was peeling off her clothes so provocatively that Hiromi couldn’t help but swallow the harsh knot that formed in his throat. He couldn’t wait for himself to be buried so far in between her sumptuous thighs that the only thing he could smell on his top lip was her essence. Hiromi spread his muscular thighs so that she could take place between them—looking down at him like she was Aphrodite and he was a man that she had just placed under a spell due to her elegance. His hand grabs her waist letting his hands caress every bump and curve of her body that he was obsessed with. From the stretch marks that decorate her mahogany skin to the small mole that was right near her belly button. 

“You drive me fuckin’ insane,” Hiromi finds himself saying. His dark eyes scan at how her lips spread into a grin. 

He grabs her, placing her on his desk without a sweat. The sound of textbooks and notebooks echoed through the office as he pulled himself further under the table. Her legs gaped so provocatively that in Hiromi’s mind, the Lady Justice statue on the shelf on his left probably wanted to clutch her pearls. Hiromi placed subtle kisses on her legs starting from her ankle which was decorated bejeweled with a diamond anklet. 

“You’re stalling. You know how much I want you right now, and you’re stalling.” The law student breathes as she leans back on the weight of her arms. 

Hiromi watches as her chest begins to rise rapidly with each kiss growing closer to her pussy. Her words went into one ear and out the other for the lawyer and when he was finally face to face with what his mouth salivated for, his eyes met with hers. Her eyes were pleading for something. A kiss. A nibble. A lick. Hell, even a blow. Anything to soothe the aching feeling on her clit. Y/N’s hand went down to palm at the wetness in between her thighs, so eager and impatient—but the stern lawyer stopped her. 

“Don’t fucking touch yourself, Y/N.” He commands. 

And there goes the tone she was longing for. Oh, that authoritarian tone that made her pussy clench when he used it. She relaxes under his touch and lets him do his work. “If you’re going to take so long, I might as well finish off by myself.” Y/N comments. 

“You talk so much, do you love hearing yourself talk?” 

“And you are doing so much talking for a man whose mouth should be stuffed with my pus—”

Her words were interrupted by the feeling of Hiromi’s tongue dragging upon her panties. He pulled them to the side swiftly and finally was granted what he wanted all along. The flat of his tongue licks up her pussy lips collecting her juices like a man that was deprived of water for days. He moans at the taste of her and his hands grab at her waist to pull her closer. His eyes flutter close as he’s lapping at her puffy pussy lips at the sound of her moans. Her fingers entangled in his hair as her hips grind against his face. She wasn’t sure what was turning her on more. The way his face was buried into her pussy or how attractive it looked as his nose was nuzzling against her pubes. 

“Fuck.” She moans out, her toes curling at the feeling of his tongue flicking her clit. 

Hiromi detaches himself from her briefly, peppering soft kisses on her trembling thighs before devouring her whole again. The thing about Hiromi is that he knew how her body would react to certain things. He knew how her pussy clenched around his cock when he gave her neck a little squeeze. He knew that she was in between a squirter and creamer depending on the task. Squirting when he’s fingering her with a vibrator practically glued upon her clit. Creamer when he’s forcing orgasm after orgasm out of her after begging him to cum inside her (but to Hiromi, having his cum inside her is merely a privilege). So of course, he knew using his tongue to trace alongside the drooling entrance of her pussy was going to have her pushing herself forward for more. The mere feeling of his tongue invading her in such a manner that had her a trembling and whimpering mess was something Hiromi knew about her. 

Hiromi lets out a moan at how good she tastes. The taste of Y/N has graced his tongue countless times and he still ate her out as if it was the best meal he has tasted. With each squirm in his arms, he’s flicking his tongue slower on her clit. With each moan of his name that slips by her plush lips, he’s granting her more licks and sucks. He wanted to see her come undone right here. He could feel it just by the way her thighs were poorly attempting to entrap his head by shutting them. 

He lets out an annoyed sigh after he removes himself from her pussy, “Do you want to cum, Y/N?” 

“I do. I want to cum.” She whines.

“Then fuckin’ act like it.” 

Y/N obediently nods, her snarky comment jammed into her throat before she let Hiromi spread her thighs even wider than what they were before. Her clit throbbing to be in his mouth again and he graciously granted her wish. Like a deprived man, Hiromi snuggled his nose back into her pubes as if he belonged there. Y/N was aware that Hiromi knew she was about to cum. He had this tendency to hold onto her as if she would turn into dust in his arms—as if he didn’t want to let her go. That’s what he was currently doing as her orgasm was spilling over. One hand gripping her in place (that she knew would leave a bruise) and the other palming his hardened cock through his pants.

Just with the flick of his tongue, an explosive feeling causes Y/N to let out a dragged-out moan. Her back lays back on the desk as Hiromi’s tongue helps her ride out the orgasm. Her French pedicured toes curl at the feeling of that fiery pit in her stomach shattering so intensely it brought tears to her eyes. Her fingers tugged at his black strands of hair as if they were a handle holding her up from falling. When she heard him remove himself from her with a pop, Hiromi leaned back in his seat with a huge satisfied grin on his face.

After Y/N came down from the euphoria of cumming in Hiromi’s mouth, she sat up on her elbows with a pleased look on her face. She knew after any sexual intercourse with the high-profile lawyer, he just had to include aftercare in the special package. He may have gotten off at the thought of seeing her tied up with rope, handcuffed to his headboard, or mouth gagged with his cock—but he was very serious when it came to aftercare. The two soon settled for a bath to end the evening. The warmth of the water engulfed their bodies as they were in the large bathtub filled with scented soap and rose petals. Hiromi’s head fell back to be met with the marbled tile and he let out a relaxing sigh, the scent of Y/N lingering on his upper lip and tongue. 

“I have a confession to make..” Y/N leans further back on him, relaxing under the warmth of both the water and Hiromi’s body. 

“Hm.” He hums lightly letting his eyes flutter back open.

“I’m actually well prepared for the bar exam. Took a practice bar exam a week ago and according to my professor—if it was the real one, I would have passed.” She happily sighs letting her fingers play with the bubbles in the tub. 

“What?” Hiromi glares at the back of her head with a displeased look.

“I woke up this morning with a student and tutor sex fantasy, silly.” 

“You will be the death of me.” 

⤷‧₊˚ cuties that wanted to be tagged | @tojiscumdumpster @salaciousdoll @thithesandofferings @tachibannaa @shinsousliya @sinistersnakey1427 @gothogue @rhionnajones @jamaicanqueenaa @dxmb-luv @0hmyg0th @ryukenzz @dancingwithdeities @getosbunny @hvly @racconwarrer @aiyaaayei @torapologist @strawhatsav @msdrpreist @neesieiumz @strawberrymuffinlovin @consternat1on @photosbyameil

thanks for reading. <3

[acosmicbee]

School Troubles

(This takes place in the same world as Rehabiliation and gives a deeper look into the world building. It is edited and reposted from my Wattpad because I got into a car accident yesterday and didn't have time to write anything new. Me, my family and the other person involved are all okay but my family's car is totaled and undriveable)

You were supposed to be a hero. At least, that supposed to be the end goal of your schooling at this academy. The problem being, while you had powers, you weren't interested in the slightest.

Your parents ran a small flower shop, doing a few catering things here and there. They were completely normal and powerless, your typical civilians. Then, one day, you'd barely touched a few seeds and suddenly had full-grown plants.

It didn't take long for the government to find out. They'd gotten very dedicated to snatching up any kid with powers and then sorting them into either a government sponsored hero school or 'alternate' school. From what you've heard, these alternate schools were government sponsored villain factories so they could make sure their hero schools were always needed. However, you'd ended up in one of these hero schools.

During your six months here, you'd broken several school records, including but not limited to 'quickest escape attempt', 'most uncooperative to government propaganda about becoming a hero' and 'farthest runner before being shot with a tranquilizer bullet'.

In other words you were driving the principal, though you called him the warden because this was 100% a jail in your opinion, absolutely insane. He was a younger hero, maybe late 20s. He had fire powers and had retired from hero work allegedly due to some issue with his villain nemesis.

You had, once again, found yourself in his office. He was staring at you with a carefully controlled expression but you could feel the anger and annoyance radiating off of him in waves.

"This is the third time this month." He said sternly, sitting across from you. "You can't keep trying to stage a coop. You're just going to get more hours of detention." 'Detention' wasn't even normal and instead consisted of listening to government propaganda podcasts and stuff for a couple of hours.

"Then can I go home? I'm not becoming any sort of hero, period. I'm supposed to be helping my parents with their flower shop, as I've always done." You were just as stubborn, meeting his cool look with a glare.

"Look Y/N," he'd long since dropped using your last name with how often you ended up in his office. "I wasn't happy either when I was first enrolled here-."

"I wasn't enrolled. I was kidnapped off the street." You corrected. "And I haven't seen my parents since."

"Anyways, I'm trying to tell you that I get it. You're having a hard time adjusting to life here. Despite your powers, you feel you don't belong."

"Because I don't. I'm not becoming some stupid hero." You said. You crossed your arms, fully ready to get another detention if he said something to set you off.

"Look, do you want me to try and see if Ridgeside will take you? Because that's your only other option here. Either you stay here and become a hero or we label you as 'rebellious' and ship you off to become a villain." The warden snapped.

"I don't want to become anything! I want to go home!" You yelled. "Why can't you understand that?!"

"I do understand, but 'home' isn't an option. Y/N I've laid your choices out. Hero or villain. Pick your poison or whatever, but make a choice. I don't want to keep seeing you in my office every day, but I will continue meeting with you like this if I have to." He threatened. "Two hours of detention after dinner tonight. I'll be supervising it, seeing as most teachers here are done with your attitude."

You just groaned, grabbing your things as you were dismissed. As you made your way down from his office, you could see some of the other students outside, training or playing around with their powers. You were the only person here who didn't want to become a hero. The few people you'd talked to about wanting to leave just missed home or wanted to see their families. All of them had said, though, that they'd come back here once they were done.

You were supposed to have some roommates like everyone else did. Other perspective heroes to help raise a sense of camaraderie, but you had a room all to yourself. You'd gotten moved to an empty room after you used one of your roommates powers to help you escape during your first week. Now you didn't talk to people outside of school hours and meal times. Any free period was spent alone, brainstorming ways to escape.

And you swore it, you would escape this place and find your way home, no matter what it took. Besides becoming a hero or villain, that is.

⋅˚₊‧ 🔥🌊 ‧₊˚ ⋅

You were in the hallways again. Your teachers were mostly used to you misbehaving and refusing to participate, so you spent a lot of time sitting in the hallways. It wasn't so bad, it definitely gave you time to focus on escape plans and what you would do when you finally made it home to your parents.

Today, however, you sat there, watching as some random guy hoisted himself through one of the hallways windows. You watched as he landed on the ground, dusting himself off before freezing when he noticed you. The two of you just blinked at each other.

You just shrugged, going back to your escape planning. So what if some dude just scaled the side of a building and came through a 4th floor window? That's not your problem. After thinking for a second, you added scaling the building to a possible way of escape.

"Why are you in the hallway?" You glanced up at the random man, who was now standing over you. He was clearly older than the principal by a bit. Maybe he was some government official or a visiting hero. But that still didn't explain climbing in through the window... Eh, you honestly didn't care enough to ask.

"Because I hate it here and refuse to participate." You answered, returning to your notebook. The strange man didn't take the hint and leave, instead continuing to stare at you. Finally you grew tired of his staring and asked him, "why are you in the hallway?"

"Oh! I'm here to surprise Dean! It's been so long since I saw him." The man said. "Do you know where his office is?"

"Dean?" You asked. This place didn't have a dean, just assistant principals.

"Ah! I suppose because you're a student you would know him as the principal or headmaster." Your face immediately scrunched up in disgust.

"Oh... him... His office is one floor up. Take that staircase, and it'll be the third door on your left." You said, indicating the nearby staircase. You'd been there enough times to know how to get there in your sleep.

"Thank you. What's your name hallway child?" He asked.

"Y/N."

"I'll make sure Dean rewards you for being so helpful! Later!" With that, the strange man bounded up the staircase, full of energy. You just shrugged. People were weird.

⋅⋅˚₊‧ 🔥🌊 ‧₊˚ ⋅

"Y/N!" You were just laying in your dorm room during your free period. You hadn't even done anything this time, so it made no sense as to why the warden was pounding at your door like you'd tried to escape again.

With a groan, you opened the door, already done with the conversation before it began. "Yes?"

"You let him in! Not only that, you told him where to find me!" He fumed. Literally, he was beginning to smoke. You just waved your hand in an attempt to keep the smoke out of your room.

"Who? I don't even know what you're talking about. I didn't even do anything today." You complained. He groaned, taking a few deep breaths as he slowly stopped producing smoke.

"Did anyone strange come up to you today asking about me?" He asked. His tone was the one grown ups used when they were pretending that you weren't in trouble when you definitely were.

"I mean, yeah. But he knew you by name, so I assumed you were friends or something. Wait, do you even have friends?" You asked. You certainly don't get why anyone would want to be his friend, but whatever.

"Of course I have friends!" He sounded offended. "But that man isn't one of them!"

"Okay. So you're getting mad at a student for not knowing who your friends are?" You asked, not following.

"No! The reason I'm mad is because you allowed a villain to roam the halls of a school without reporting it!"

"He was a villain? Am I supposed to just know who's a villain by looking at them?" You asked. The warden just groaned.

"Look. Do you know how he got into the building?"

"Yeah. He climbed in through the window. On the 4th floor." You said. "Can I go back to resting now? This is supposed to be a free period."

"No. You're coming to my office so we can have a little chat about proper protocol when you see someone climbing through a window!"

"But my free period!" You whined as you were all but dragged to his office.

⋅˚₊‧ 🔥🌊 ‧₊˚ ⋅

It was a Saturday, which meant a free day for you. It was pouring outside and the sound of rain on your window was marginally soothing. Normally you would spend your weekends planning out every way of escaping you could imagine, but not today. Today you just lay in your room, trying your hardest to focus on the book in front of you. It had been in your bag when you'd been snatched off the street and was the only thing you'd been allowed to keep.

Your parents had gotten it for you, and it was the only thing you had of them here. You weren't even allowed to send them letters. The book had been one of your favorites back home, but now you struggled to get through a few pages. It felt wrong to be reading when you didn't even know how your parents were doing, or if they knew you were okay.

You were attempting to gather enough willpower to just read the first chapter to give yourself something to do when you jumped at the sound of a knock on the window. Turning, you saw the strange man you now knew as a villain, was back. Only this time he'd found your room and also had managed to scale the building when it was slick with rain. Despite knowing you'd get chewed out for it later, you opened your window.

"I'm supposed to report it if I see you again. Apparently you're a villain." You informed him. Your face scrunched up as he expertly came through the window before you realized he was completely dry and wasn't dripping water.

"I wondered if you recognized me but I assumed you didn't. Guess I was right." He said, looking around your room. "Dean must've lectured you for hours. Geez kid, your room is so empty. No roomie?"

"I'm too much of a flight risk apparently. They think I'm gonna corrupt some wanna-be hero because I don't want to be here." You said. The strange man perked up.

"You don't wanna be here? Do you wanna be a villain?! I promise, being a villain is a lot more fun." He said, looking ready to give you the whole spiel on it.

"I'm not becoming a villain, but i'm not becoming a hero either. I just want to go home to my parents." You groaned. Only to flop down on your bed in defeat when the door to your room suddenly slammed open. "Great. Now he's here too."

"Xavier." The warden growled. He was smoking again but the villain, Xavier you guessed, didn't seem phased.

"Dean. Lovely weather we're having. Maybe you should take a walk outside before you burst into flames." " Xavier was completely relaxed as he took a seat in your desk chair. "I wonder if Y/N is going to end up like you in the future. You certainly acted the same way you punish them for when you were their age."

Instantly the mood shifted, the headmaster grew tense as he grit his teeth, glancing at you for a second. You sat up on your bed, suddenly way more interested in the conversation. The warden had what.

"I learned my lesson. Hopefully they'll learn theirs soon." He said, a few small flames bursting to life at his fingertips before he forcefully began to calm himself down. "You have no right to bring that up. Especially not after all you did."

"I was just trying to do what was best for you. I still think it would've been a better path than the one you've ended up on, but you'll understand in time." Xavier glanced at you before smirking. "Sooner rather than later, if I'm right."

"You don't know me, Xavier. Not anymore." He said, finally calming down enough that the smoke stopped.

"Um... can you have your little," you gestured between them, "whatever this is, not in my room?"

"Y/N. Please be quiet or I will make you sit in my office and retest your comprehension on the proper protocols when villains enter the school. Again." Dean said.

Xavier just smiled as he stood, brushing invisible dust off his pants. "Fine. I can see where I'm not wanted. I'll just see myself out okay?"

He smiled at you as he made his way over to the still open door of your room. "And Dean? I know you're trying to deny it, but you can't forever. Sooner or later, you'll need my help and my door is always open for you."

"Why didn't you report it when you saw him?" Dean asked, back to his default headmaster mode.

"How did you even know he was in my room?" You countered.

"There are walls with guards surrounding this school if you'll remember. Since his last breach I've had them on high alert." He groaned. "I'm not in the mood to supervise another one of your detentions so we're going to pretend this never happened. Behave Y/N."

With that he stalked out of your room, shutting the door and leaving you alone once again. You glanced at your book for a second before immediately ignoring it for a more enticing train of thought. Just what was the relationship between those two? And why were you getting drawn into whatever was going on?

⋅˚₊‧ 🔥🌊 ‧₊˚ ⋅

You were getting impatient. It had been months, but Dean and Xavier were still keeping an eye on you. Xavier would climb through windows or just stroll into your dorm like he owned the place. Dean would constantly call you to his office to 'check in' and seemed to have a Xavier detector, often finding the two of you a couple of minutes after Xavier would sneak onto school grounds.

Either way, you were no closer to an escape than you had been when you'd first arrived. At least, that was until a school trip was announced. Apparently it was around the time when the rest of the heroes-in-training in your age group would find out who their nemesis was supposed to be. For some reason, you were included in this trip.

Of course, Dean had threatened you with everything from detention to private lessons during your free time to shipping you off to become a villain yourself. It wasn't going to stop you. Not when you were so close to your goal. This time, you would see your parents again. 

Eventually the bus had to stop so you all could use the restroom and get some snacks. You were supposed to stick with your assigned buddy but when he drifted off towards his friends you took the opportunity. You stood by the door, waiting for the right moment. The second you heard someone start bickering and the teacher's attention was turned to them you ran. You could see the train station from the rest stop and jumped the turnstile, darting onto the train you needed at the last second. You just managed to make out a pissed off Dean, staring right into your eyes, by the ticket counter as the train pulled out of the station.

You had done it. You were going to see your parents again. You knew, deep inside, that you'd just be taken back to the school at some point, but it didn't matter. For now, you were going home.

⋅˚₊‧ 🔥🌊 ‧₊˚ ⋅

Something was wrong. You could tell the second you got off the train and saw smoke rising from somewhere in the neighborhood. You could feel it in your stomach, that something was fundamentally wrong. You ran.

It wasn't until you found yourself outside your family's flower shop did you confirm it. The building was on fire, you could see the pretty displays you'd once helped to set up turning to ash. When you couldn't find your parents out on the street you ran into the building.

It was hot, hotter than you'd ever imagined. You crawled into the back where your apartment was, avoiding the areas with fire. Smoke billowed over your head and you could barely see. Your eyes were burning and you felt like you had no air, but you still pushed on. 

"Mom! Dad!" You tried screaming, only to inhale smoke. You began coughing but didn't let that stop you.

"Y/N?!" You could faintly hear your father's voice. He was close. You were so close.

"Dad! Mom!" You called again. "Where are you?!"

"Y/N!" There! Your parents were across the living room, on the floor. They both looked unharmed. Upon seeing you they both began making their way over. You held out a hand to pull them towards you... and that was when the ceiling gave out. You couldn't even scream as you watched the roof crush them underneath. Couldn't hear anything over the sound of crackling fire, blood rushing through your ears and your own screaming.

You struggled, ignoring how your hands instantly blistered as you tried lifting the burning hot pieces of roof. They couldn't be... no! After all you'd gone through to get back here, they had to be okay!

"Mom! Dad!" You were sobbing now, your hands were burnt and you could barely breathe. As you became more and more lightheaded, you resigned yourself to dying there, along with your parents. You wouldn't stop fighting to save them.

You were hysterical, and fought viciously when someone pulled you away, forcing an oxygen mask over your face. All your mind could focus on was the collapsed roof and your parents. You scratched and squirmed, trying desperately to break their grip on you. By the time you registered the pinch at the base of your neck you'd already been injected with a high grade tranquilizer and the whole world faded to black.

⋅˚₊‧ 🔥🌊 ‧₊˚ ⋅

"That was mean of you." Xavier's voice echoed through the bedroom. You were laying in the bed, hooked up to an oxygen machine, IV drip and more machines used to monitor your health. Your bandaged hands rested on top of the comforter. You had yet to wake up in the hours since Dean had pulled you out of the burning flower shop.

"I didn't start the fire." He said back. He sat in the chair next to your bed, watching over you. "I didn't want this to happen."

"But you knew what would happen. You knew what happens to those that escape, don't you Dean? What happens to their families?" Xavier probed.

"That's enough! If you think I wanted what happened to Calista and Rome to anyone else you're more insane than I took you for." He hissed. "This isn't the time for this. Y/N is... they're..."

"So you finally understand." Xavier smirked. "You understand what I did to you all those years ago. Why I tried so hard to lock you up. They remind me of you. Both of you are too stubborn for your own good."

Xavier stepped closer, his smile growing when Dean didn't push him away. Instead one of his hands made their way to Dean's head, playing with his hair. "They don't have anyone anymore, Dean. No parents, no home to go back to. They're all alone. Don't you remember how it felt to be all alone?"

"I... I need to help them. I need to save them." Dean murmured, slowly accepting his own dark feelings as Xavier egged him on. "They need me..."

"They didn't want to become a hero, right? You need to keep them safe where they can't be hurt in hero work. You need to make sure they never leave you. I'm sure you remember what happened when you left me. Do you really want to have to do that to them? To make sure they can never be a hero in the public eye again?" Xavier asked. He knew Dean was already going to do it. He just needed to add a little more fuel to the fire to make sure you would be extra safe.

"They always wanted to go home... so I will make them a home here. That way they will never leave me again. They can never be hurt again." Dean decided.

That was the moment your fate was sealed. No matter how much you cried when you finally woke up. No matter how much you screamed when the bandages on your hands needed to be changed. No matter how much you disassociated when the news was finally broken to you that from the amount of third degree burns you received you'd never regain the full range of motion in your hands. No matter what happened, Dean and Xavier were right there beside you, making sure you wouldn't injure yourself more than you already had. You would never be free again.

[watermelonsloth]

Hiruzen and Danzo are more complicated than people give them credit for

It says it all in the title.

Hiruzen and Danzo are among the most hated characters in all of Naruto, and I’m not entirely removed from that crowd of haters. They’re probably among the easiest characters you can argue are just bad people. Or, at minimum, people who did horrendous, unjustifiable things (or allowed them to happen in Hiruzen’s case). However, I think that because people hate them so much, no one wants to take a closer look at their characters and the more complicated/human reasons why they make the choices they do.

Hiruzen is spineless and that’s a hill I’ll die on, but he’s spineless in one of these most sympathetic and realistic ways I’ve seen depicted in media. Specifically, he’s the walking talking representation of the fallibility of compassion. Hiruzen cares about so many people so deeply that he would rather stand by and let people get hurt than to hurt them himself. He ignores the fact Danzo keeps trying to kill him because he knows he’ll likely have to execute him as retribution and he doesn’t want to kill his best friend, he turns a blind eye to Orochimaru’s dark side because he doesn’t want to fight/kill his student, Tsunade isn’t labeled a rogue ninja because he doesn’t want to put a bounty on his student/mentor’s granddaughter’s head, he let the Hizashi situation and Uchiha Massacre happen because he didn’t want to risk subjecting his people to the horrors of war that he experienced, and he died because he couldn’t bring himself to go all out against his mentors (even if they were reanimated and emotionless versions) or student.

I’m not defending Hiruzen’s actions or lack thereof. Obviously, this is a deeply flawed way to go about life, especially as a leader of a country where you have to regularly make difficult trolly-problem decisions. But Hiruzen is meant to be a deeply flawed individual. He’s like the family of an abuser that refuses to properly step in to stop the abuse because they love the abuser and don’t want to face the idea that the abuser is a bad person. I’m not saying Hiruzen is a good person or in the right, I’m just saying he’s realistic.

If Hiruzen is “the few over the many”, then Danzo is “the many over the few” with a sprinkle of “the ends always justify the means”. Danzo is, at his core, someone who is always trying to do what’s best for the village. He turned Hanzo against the Akatsuki to keep the group from gaining too much power and becoming another threat to Konoha (keeping in mind that Amegakure is adjacent to the Land of Fire), he pushed for the Uchiha Massacre to keep a civil war from breaking out, he killed the messenger toad to keep Naruto away from Konoha and the nine tails out of Pain’s grasp. He created ROOT to make sure that Konoha had a back up fighting force that was highly trained, wouldn’t turn against the village, and were willing to do what even ninja wouldn’t. Even Danzo’s choice to essentially turn on the village by trying to kill Hiruzen was motivated by him trying to do what he thought was best for the village. After all, he knew better than anyone how bad of a Hokage Hiruzen was.

A lot of people oversimplify Danzo into “the selfish, corrupt asshole”—and while I can agree that he’s selfish and corrupt, he’s selfish and corrupt in very specific ways. The corruption is the most obvious and easiest to explain. Danzo is willing to do anything he thinks will benefit the village; that includes working with bad people and using backhanded tactics. As for his selfishness, it stems from one specific thing: Tobirama telling Hiruzen to become Hokage over him.

For a while I was confused why Danzo got a flashback flashbacked to this scene before he died. Now, I think I’ve settled on it being because the scene was at the core of Danzo’s character and greatest character flaws because it was also his greatest regret. It’s pretty clear that Danzo wants to become Hokage and it’s implied that he’s had this dream for a long while. However, Tobirama—his mentor, the former Hokage, and one of the people to define what it meant to be Hokage—chose Hiruzen over him. Because Hiruzen was willing to sacrifice himself for his comrades while Danzo, who knew he should’ve done the same, was too cowardly to offer himself up.

Then he never really grows out of that cowardice. Instead, he looks down on Hiruzen to cope with his own sense of inferiority, gives himself body modifications to become a stronger ninja more capable of defending the village, and obtains as much political power as he can. He remains a coward who prefers letting other people take the fall over fighting his own battles (setting up Hanzo to fight the Akatsuki, asking Orochimaru to kill Hiruzen, ordering Itachi to kill the Uchiha clan, etc.) right up until he uselessly “sacrifices” himself right before he was going to die anyways.

Most of Danzo’s selfish actions come down to him not being able to accept his failure at becoming Hokage while also refusing to learn from his mentor’s final lesson.

I honestly think that Naruto has some of the best representation of bad people simply because it consistently acknowledges two things about bad people: 1. People who do bad things usually do them because they grew up being taught that doing bad things were okay or necessary to survive (being abused, societal normalization, never being punished, early exposure to things like domestic violence, etc.) and 2. Even if they don’t necessarily think they’re good people, the large majority of people don’t think they’re bad or evil. Both Hiruzen and Danzo were raised by a generation haunted by war only to be thrust into two world wars themselves (one at a young age and one when they were older). This left them both traumatized and willing to do anything to avoid experiencing it again. And even if they acknowledge that they’ve made mistakes, they still don’t (seem to) see themselves as bad people, only people who are committing the lesser of two evils.

[danicalithegirl]

Dustin and his dad's.

Hawkins, Indiana – June 1986

It had started because the school finally kicked Eddie out.

Technically, he graduated—which was the shocker of the century according to half the teachers at Hawkins High. But the real problem came after: no longer being a student meant he couldn’t claim the AV closet for Hellfire anymore, and the janitors were itching to get their storage space back.

So, he’d gotten a notice from the school office (“Final warning before items are discarded,” in all caps) and immediately called in reinforcements. Namely: Dustin, who owed him at least a dozen favors; and Steve, who didn’t owe him anything but showed up anyway, because that’s just what Steve did now.

Hellfire’s old headquarters was chaos incarnate. Towering cardboard dragons. Mismatched dice in cracked film canisters. Paint-chipped miniatures. Torn campaign maps. A box of cloaks that smelled like body spray and ramen. Eddie treated it like sacred treasure. Steve treated it like it might contain anthrax.

They spent the morning hauling boxes out to Eddie’s van, then to a half-cleared unit at an old storage lot outside of town—one he claimed was "temporary," though he’d already hung up Christmas lights in the rafters for ambience. Something about maybe throwing band rehearsals in there. Something about “the vibe.”

The heat was punishing—Indiana summer already in full swing—but Steve had shown up in a cream-colored cable-knit sweater and slacks, like someone’s dad on his third wife’s second wedding.

Dustin gawked at him when he arrived. “What the hell are you wearing? Are you okay?”

Steve just shrugged. “Had brunch with my mom. You know how it is.”

He didn’t elaborate. And no one really asked. But the truth was: it was safer this way. After what happened last spring—everything in the Upside Down, everything with Vecna, everything they couldn’t tell anyone—his mom had become just attentive enough to notice if he looked “unraveled.” Sweaters hid scars. Slacks hid bruises. Sweaters meant “I’m fine, Mom,” and for a while, that was what he needed to be.

Besides, Eddie had looked at him once while he was wearing it and called him “Professor Daddy Issues,” and then blushed so hard he nearly tripped over a crate of resin dice. Which honestly made it kind of worth it.

Eddie, by contrast, was in full gremlin-mode: black jeans torn at both knees, boots scuffed to hell, and a Nirvana tee with cracked yellow lettering under his vest. The shirt technically belonged to a cousin from Indianapolis—some college guy with a taste for weird zines and off-label punk. He’d handed Eddie a tape labeled Bleach (Sub Pop) the last time they saw each other and said, “You’re welcome, metal boy.”

Eddie had listened to it so many times the tape was already warping.

“This band’s gonna blow up,” he kept telling Steve and Dustin, like he was personally manifesting it.

“I’m sure,” Steve said dryly, wiping sweat off his forehead with the hem of his sweater, which made Eddie grin and mumble something like, “God, you’re such a jock.”

But he didn’t mean it like an insult. Not anymore.

---

The Secret of Them

Steve and Eddie hadn’t meant to end up together. It was never part of the plan.

They'd started talking more after spring. After the battle. After the hospital. It began with late-night drives and shared cigarettes on the roof of Family Video. Steve had a lot of quiet he never used to have, and Eddie had a lot of noise he didn’t know how to shut off.

Somewhere in between they started hanging out just to hang out. Not because Dustin begged. Not because there was supernatural horror afoot. Just... because.

One night, Eddie let it slip that he never really dated anyone seriously in Hawkins. Steve said “yeah, same,” and meant it for the first time. A few weeks after that, Steve kissed him on the back step of the trailer when he thought no one was watching.

That was early May.

Since then, it had been movie nights, and stolen looks, and hands brushing when they passed soda cans. Quiet stuff. Small stuff. Hidden stuff. Dustin and Robin didn’t know. Wayne probably did. But they didn’t say anything. Not yet.

---

And Now... This Dumb Joke

So when Dustin showed up, jittery from sugar and full of post-graduation chaos energy, it wasn’t surprising that he found Steve and Eddie loitering in the string-light glow of a half-empty storage unit, surrounded by old cloaks and boxes labeled “Critical Hit!” and “DO NOT OPEN – CURSED?”

What was surprising was the way Dustin grinned and declared, “Mike. Take a picture of me and my two dads.”

Steve blinked. “What?”

“You heard me. Come on.” Dustin wedged himself between them, practically bouncing. “Dad #1: leather, rock n’ roll, possibly cursed. Dad #2: sweater-wearing, mom-car-driving, looks like he pays taxes early.”

Eddie wheezed with laughter. Steve huffed but didn’t pull away.

Mike—beyond done—snapped the photo and muttered, “Say ‘bad life choices.’”

The shutter clicked. Eddie barked out a laugh. Steve gave Dustin a noogie. Dustin screamed. It was dumb. It was great. It was... over.

Until the photo showed up in a frame.

---

It was the following weekend when Dustin spotted it.

He’d dropped by Eddie’s trailer to borrow a box of old D&D minis and maybe convince him to run one more summer campaign before college stuff stole everyone away. But as he stepped into the living room, there it was. Sitting proud and centered on a shelf just above the legendary Mug Wall™—Eddie’s weird, ever-growing shrine to novelty mugs.

“Uh.” Dustin blinked. “You framed that?”

Eddie looked up from where he was trying (and failing) to glue a goblin’s arm back onto a tiny figurine. “Framed what?”

“That.” Dustin pointed like it might disappear if he didn’t. “The dad pic.”

“Oh,” Eddie said, like it was no big deal. “Yeah, of course I did. It’s a classic.”

“You have, like, a hundred mugs and one photo up here. This is practically a shrine now. What, is this the Church of Eddie and Steve?”

“Maybe.” Eddie smirked. “Don’t be jealous just ’cause we’re photogenic. Also, look at your face in that shot. You look proud. You look like we just picked you up from Little League.”

“I’ve never played Little League,” Dustin scoffed.

“But if you had,” Eddie said, gesturing with the glue-covered goblin, “we would’ve been in the stands. With matching ‘Henderson #1’ shirts.”

Dustin snorted. “Oh my God.”

Just then, Wayne appeared from down the hall, towel slung over one shoulder, having clearly just showered after a shift. He nodded at Dustin in greeting, then paused.

“Huh,” Wayne said, squinting at the photo. “That’s a good one.”

Eddie perked up. “Right? It’s got energy.”

Wayne scratched his chin. “You, your boyfriend, and the kid. Real cute. Like a Sears ad if Sears had a section for weirdos.”

Record scratch.

Eddie froze. Visibly. The kind of full-body panic Dustin had only seen in horror movies and the time Mrs. O'Donnell almost caught him cheating off Lucas in history class.

“I—he—I—” Eddie stammered, suddenly red-faced and nearly dropping the glue.

Dustin’s mouth fell open. “Wait. WAIT.”

Wayne frowned. “...What?”

“You knew?!” Dustin squeaked, spinning toward Eddie. “You’re dating Steve? Like, actually?”

“Okay, first of all—Wayne, what the hell, I told you we were keeping it quiet!”

Wayne held up his hands, utterly unbothered. “Didn’t know it was a secret. You’ve been starin’ at him like he’s a damn Hallmark movie for months. I figured everyone knew.”

“I didn’t!” Dustin shrieked. “How do you know before me?! I live in the middle of all your weird flirt fights!”

Steve chose that exact moment to enter, holding a paper bag. “Hey, I brought fries. Why is everyone yelling?”

“STEVE,” Dustin said, pointing dramatically. “YOU.”

Steve blinked. “...Me?”

“YOU’RE DATING EDDIE.”

Steve looked at Eddie. Then at Wayne. Then back at Dustin.

“Well,” Steve said slowly. “I guess the cat’s out of the bag.”

Eddie groaned and buried his face in his hands. “I’m going to kill Wayne and then myself.”

Wayne patted his shoulder on the way to the fridge. “Relax, kid. It’s cute. And I’m too tired to be murdered today.”

---

Dustin didn’t shut up about it for a week. He made Steve and Eddie endure endless teasing, dramatic reenactments, and a new nickname: Dad².

But what he didn’t tell them—what he told no one—was that a couple days later, he got a copy of the photo printed.

He slipped it into a frame from Melvald’s and set it on his own desk at home, right next to a little science trophy and his radio.

Because... yeah. They were his dads.

And maybe it was kinda cute.

Even if they were idiots.

[meatsaint]

Stupid girl.

Michael Gavey x Reader.

Summary: On Christmas Eve, Michael found himself alone, stuck in the quiet of his room, with no invitation to the Christmas party that everyone else was attending. He tried to distract himself, dive into something—anything—to kill the time. But it would’ve been easier if your arrogant, fucking beautiful face didn’t keep invading his thoughts.

Warnings: This will be Michael Gavey alone and bursting with need. Solo masturbation, nipple teasing, choking, whimpering, loud moaning, dirty talking.

By now, Michael swears he can see the letters burned onto the backs of his eyelids, etched onto the scratched lenses of his glasses. He’s been reading, re-reading, poring over the same pages for what feels like hours—not out of necessity, but out of sheer, exquisite boredom. Studying is beneath him; he doesn’t need it, not like the pathetic little plebs cluttering up Oxford’s hallowed halls. Especially not the ones fawning over Felix at tonight’s insipid Christmas party.

Not that Michael was invited, of course. NFI—no fucking invite. But who cares? Honestly, the idea of enduring that brain-dead circus of undercooked intellects is enough to make him laugh. Felix and his preening flock of hangers-on, spilling cheap wine and flinging around half-baked opinions as if they’re profound insights—God, it’s all so unbearably tedious.

Michael knows better. He's smarter than all of them combined. He doesn’t need their pathetic approval or their pitiful attempts at camaraderie. He's better than this. Smarter than this. And frankly, he knows it.

But even geniuses have their weak spots—turns out, he’s still human after all. The real issue? That old adage about idle hands being the devil’s workshop might as well have been written for him. And in his case, the devil wasn't some abstract concept—it was you. Yes, you. That insufferable, magnetic little thorn on its side, always lurking just out of reach. He couldn’t shake you—not in the university hallways, and apparently not in the supposed sanctity of his dorm room either.

What the fuck is your problem, anyway?

He’d clocked you from the start. And no, it wasn't because of your perfect face, or your body that made his stomach twist in ways he'd rather not name. It wasn't your eyes, either—though they had a way of locking onto him, melting his resolve with the precision of a surgeon. Nor was it how you always looked a little undone when you showed up late, messy but effortlessly captivating, like you weren't even trying. And it certainly wasn't the rare times you smiled—God, that smile—that fucking gorgeous, infuriating smile that seemed to light up the entire room and derail every coherent thought in his head.

Although, if he’s honest, he’s got a sneaking suspicion all of those things had more to do with it than he’d like to admit.

It was the way you were good. Not just good, but obnoxiously good. The kind of good that felt like a personal affront. You always seemed to know the answers before the question had fully left the teacher's mouth, every word perched smugly on the edge of your tongue, just waiting for the perfect moment to make everyone else in the room feel like an idiot. You weren’t mediocre—not in your looks, and certainly not in your intellect. And it drove him mad.

It wasn't a passing irritation, either. It burned. Deep. It clawed at him that there was nothing he could label you—no snide insult to fling your way. Idiot? Hardly. Loser? Not a chance. He couldn't even resort to the old “stupid, spoiled rich girl” trope, because like him, you were a scholarship student. No silver spoon. No trust fund.

There was nothing. Not a single flaw for him to latch onto. And that—more than anything else—infuriated him.

It was irritating him now—gnawing at him, scratching under his skin—until he threw the book back onto the wobbly table in front of him with a sharp slap of paper against wood. He let himself pause, tilting his head back and closing his eyes, feeling the ache of his body sink into the uncomfortable chair. His hand drifted to his face, thumb and index finger pinching the bridge of his nose as if he could squeeze out the tension gathered from hours of relentless reading. The release was brief—his hand dropped back to his lap with an exhale that was equal parts exhaustion and frustration.

And, of course, his mind began to wander. It always did.

He could still remember the only real interaction he’d had with you—back in those first few weeks after you’d arrived. Something stupid, trivial, forgettable. Except not for him. His brain, that obstinate bastard, clung to it like a dog with a bone.

The hallways had been chaos that morning, teeming with bodies and noise. Probably Felix and his band of sycophants stirring up their usual mess. He'd been trying to slip through, and apparently, so had you. He hadn’t even noticed he was behind you until it was too late.

The memory alone made his chest tighten. The smell of your hair, warm and clean, had hit him first, flooding his senses. Then the heat radiating from you, so alive it was almost unbearable. And finally, the proximity—too close, close enough to make his pulse hammer.

He’d had to touch you, his hands finding your hips without a second thought as he maneuvered past. “Excuse me,” he’d murmured, low and quiet, just beside your ear. And then your eyes—those fucking eyes—turned to his, locking onto him with an intensity that nearly stopped him in his tracks.

He remembers how, in that fleeting, charged moment, your bodies pressed closer together as he tried to move past you. How his hand lingered on your hips just a second too long, how your warmth seeped into him like some addictive, forbidden drug. And then, as he finally squeezed by, your hips brushed against his.

Holy shit!

The contact felt a jolt straight through him, lighting up every delicious, traitorous nerve in his body.

Michael bit his lip, the memory still fresh and alive, thrumming through his body like a pulse he couldn’t control. It was pathetic, he knew that. Laughable, even. And yet, there it was—the way it made him feel then, the way it was making him feel now. His gaze dropped, and he caught sight of himself: the loose black shorts he’d thrown on for the night already tented, his shirtless torso rising and falling with heavy, uneven breaths. The bridge of his glasses slid slightly down his nose, slick with sweat.

He could hardly believe it, how turned on he really was—how something so fleeting had embedded itself in him like this.

A low, involuntary sound escaped his lips as his head fell back again, resting against the edge of the chair. His hips shifted weakly, thrusting upwards in a desperate, almost instinctive rhythm, finding nothing but empty air. Torturous. Completely maddening. His fingers gripped the arms of the chair with white-knuckled determination, keeping himself grounded, holding back from giving in entirely.

No, not yet. He wanted to make it last, draw it out, at least for this fleeting moment. Since you were already so deeply in his fucking head, he might as well let himself indulge in it.

Slowly, so achingly slow, he let his hands drift from the arms of the chair, sliding up over his body. His fingers brushed against the flat of his stomach, gliding up to his chest, his touch igniting a shiver that made his back arch instinctively. Every inch of his skin felt alive, buzzing under his fingertips, alight with sensation.

And then you were there again, haunting him. He could see your hands in his mind—how effortlessly you wrote, quick and precise, how sometimes you’d press a fingertip to your lips to wet it before flipping to the next page. The memory crawled over him like fire, his skin burning with the thought of you, your face painted vividly behind his closed eyelids. Every inch of you felt so close, tantalisingly within reach—if only in the merciless confines of his imagination.

His fingers found his nipples, hardened and aching, and he rolled them between his thumb and forefinger, a shock of pleasure coursing through him. His hips lifted sharply, pressing against the frustrating barrier of his shorts, seeking some kind of release. A low, slurred groan escaped him, unrestrained, sweat dripping from his temple as his mind spun with thoughts of your smile—wicked and teasing—and your teeth, perfect and dangerous, that he was certain would leave marks he’d never want to forget.

Fuck. It was too much, all of it. Too much and not enough.

"Fuck, I'm so hard," Michael mumbled to himself, the words slipping out into the emptiness of the room, perhaps picturing how you'd react if you knew how much he was aching for you.

His hand finally ventures down, sliding under his clothes to free his erection into the cool air. He gazes at the precum beading at the tip, a clear sign of his arousal, almost laughing at how insanely turned on he is by the mere thought of you. A smile curves his lips, followed by a quiet chuckle. He's so wound up, it's almost absurd. With his thumb, he begins to circle the sensitive head of his cock.

"Oh, yeah," Michael whispers again, his lips parting, eyebrows knitting together as waves of pleasure wash over him. "Yeah, yeah, that feels so good." His words fade into the air, his other hand still on his chest, giving the nipple a sharp twist, heightening his sensations.

His breathing becomes labored, the pleasure intense yet unfulfilling. He craved you, only you. His hand moved to his mouth, thumb slipping between his lips, tasting himself, a moan echoing from deep within as he fantasized it was your essence he was savoring. He longed for the taste of your pussy, to dive between your legs with abandon, to explore every inch of that perfect cunt he imagined you possessing. The thought of you riding his face, using him for your pleasure, made his desire spike to new heights. He wanted to be the one to make you shudder, to feel your thighs clamp around his head as you took what you needed from him.

Withdrawing his hand from his mouth, he spits into his palm, the saliva making his hand slick, ready to simulate the wetness he'd bring out in you. His fingers then wrap around his erection, eyes rolling back as his hand grips him at the base, a silent moan parting his lips.

"Oh fuck," he murmurs, overwhelmed by the sensation, the throbbing of his cock almost punitive in its intensity.

Taking a deep breath, he begins to stroke himself, his other hand gripping the arm of the chair, nails digging into the fabric. His hips buck in rhythm with his hand, up and down, the mental image of you vivid in his mind. He imagines how snug you'd feel around him, how it would feel to stretch you with his thickness, to dive deep and watch your expression shift from clever to needy. Would you take all of him without protest? Would your moans fill the room? Would tears of pleasure brim in your eyes for him? Just the thought sends tremors through his legs.

"You're so tight," he vocalizes, not fully understanding why he's speaking it aloud, but needing to make the fantasy more concrete. "You little smug bitch, I want to fuck you so bad, so bad..." he repeats, almost like a mantra.

His hand accelerates, the pace frantic as he watches, his gaze fixed on his own arousal. His cock, slick with saliva and precum, is a mess, the head engorged, veins protruding like they're about to explode. He imagines himself thrusting into you, coated in your essence, shining with your desire. His chest is covered in sweat, his legs trembling, his toes curling in ecstasy.

"Oh fuck, I need you, please," he begs, as if by some divine intervention, you'd hear and materialize right there. "Please, please make me cum, please..." His plea, though soft, reverberates around him.

The hand that was clutching the chair moves to his throat, his grip tightening, a statement of need. He imagines it's your hand, while you ride him, those perfect breasts bouncing before his eyes. He craves the suffocation, the breath taken away by you and your sharp mind. His fingers press harder into his throat, moans escaping as muffled sounds, his other hand now punishingly fast, the veins in his forearm standing out with the effort.

"I'm cumming, fuck..." He cuts off his own words, his grip on his throat tightening further, not allowing his hand on his cock to slow. "Cum with me, fuck!" The words are barely audible as his body surrenders to the climax.

His eyes roll back, and he quickly moves the hand from his throat to cover his mouth, muffling the scream of pleasure as his release hits, cum spilling onto his stomach, his thighs clenching in desperation, his whole body tense with the image of you in his mind. Everything fades into numbness, except for the vivid image of you, the thought of fucking you.

Michael’s body slackened in the chair, sliding lower as his arms fell limp at his sides. His head tipped back, eyes half-lidded with exhaustion. When he glanced down, he saw the mess he’d made—his stomach sticky, his skin glistening with sweat, strands of hair plastered to his damp forehead. He was a wreck, a pathetic disaster, and all for someone who would never know.

A stupid grin crept onto his lips as his eyes wandered to the ceiling, a long, heavy sigh leaving his chest.

“I hate you so much,” he murmured to the empty room, his voice barely audible. A part of him almost wished you could hear it, wherever you were right now. Then again, maybe it was better if you didn’t.

A low chuckle rumbled from his chest, his head shaking faintly from side to side as that ridiculous smile lingered. Yeah, he hated you. Hated the way you got under his skin, the way you took up space in his thoughts without even trying. But, God help him, he should probably thank you—for making Christmas Eve marginally more interesting than the stale, lifeless pages of his books.

Stupid girl.

[hirayalore]

— PART ONE, PART TWO.

the one where the thought of someone liking you romantically has never crossed your mind, much less being liked by your own crush, sirius black, who proves to you that all your doubts are nonsense.

pairing: sirius black x fem!reader

word count: 3k

rating: PG-15

content: fluff, established relationship au; gryffindor!reader

warning/s: mentions of being insecure, low self-esteem

୭ৎ ࣪ ׅ ⊹ reposted from my other account !

Being seen with Sirius — and frequently, might you add — indeed became the talk of the town for the first few days.

As soon as the news spread, Iris and Martha, your close friends, interrogated you endlessly inside your shared room at the dormitory, asking a bunch of questions that ranged from how did Sirius confess and what did you feel for the aforementioned guy.

They labeled themselves as ridiculous and as oblivious as you were when they realized that all the gestures that Sirius has been doing in all the times they accused him of liking Iris were actually directed to you. They apologized, for not seeing it themselves and for not thinking of you as the person Sirius liked, and told you that they were going to be happy and supportive of you as long as they saw that you were happy too and that Sirius treated you well.

When your Hogsmeade date came, you spent the whole day just getting to know Sirius. Turns out, he was more well-mannered than you thought. He was a gentleman; he opened doors for you, offered to pay for everything, was the one who ordered your meal, stood up whenever you wanted to follow up something from the counter, and carried your bag when you bought some sweets from Honeydukes.

But what you liked most about him now was how he seemed genuinely interested in you and whatever that happened in your life. He made it apparent that he really was keen on discovering more about who you really were, from your hobbies, to your favorite things, and where you grew up.

“My parents… I don’t know if you’ve heard it from somewhere,” you began as you walked with him back to the path that led back to the Hogwarts castle, “but they’re, uh, Muggles. So, that means —”

“You’re Muggleborn,” Sirius supplied for you, appearing not even the slightest bit bothered by the fact. “And you don’t have any siblings, do you?”

You answered him, quite confused that he didn’t dwell too much on your revelation, but chose to drop it for now. “None.”

“Ah, so that makes you the only witch in your family.”

“Yeah,” you nodded, “uh, does that sound okay?”

He glanced at you with a quirk of his eyebrow. “Of course. Why wouldn’t it?”

“I don’t know. You’re a Pureblood, and you come from an excellent line of wizards.”

“You have a point,” he said, still nonchalant as ever, “but I’m… well, you can say I’m a bit different from them. I mean, to start it off, I’m a Gryffindor.” He chuckled. “Plus, I’ve moved out from my home decades ago.”

“Really?”

He nodded. “I live with James over the summer. His parents treat me as their own. Nicest couple, the Potters.”

“Wow. I never knew.”

“Well, being a teenage runaway and an outcast in my own family isn’t exactly something I should be proud of.”

You both laughed.

You were relieved to find out that there was no issue about you being a Muggleborn, especially since as stated, he came from a family of impressive and some well-known wizards who — from what you remembered — believed that being a Pureblood was equivalent to being practically royalty in the wizarding world.

Even if you knew that he wasn’t like that to begin with, there was still some doubt in your mind that perhaps his mindset is the same as theirs, considering that you’ve been a victim of prejudice over the years you studied in Hogwarts and was even called a Mudblood by a Pureblood student when you surpassed them on an exam in second year.

So, to have a confirmation right now was great. You were happy to hear from him that he didn’t have any problem with it, unlike some people who you’ve caught muttering to themselves about how Sirius could associate himself with a person like you, which inevitably led to some insecurities building up.

“Do you reckon I can get away with taking you out again next week?” asked Sirius once you were back in the Gryffindor common room, stopping before you where you stood at the last step of the stairs leading to the girl’s dormitory.

Your eyebrows rose. “There’ll be a next time?”

“Yes. If that’s okay with you,” he said with a patient smile. “Or did I read the signals wrong and you actually hated spending time with me today?”

“Don’t be foolish. I didn’t hate it.”

“You didn’t?”

“Not one bit.”

“Then how did you like it?” He was suddenly doing it again, that thing he does wherein he moves closer to you and you were bound to move away because of shyness, but somehow at this instance, you couldn’t command your feet to do its usual response.

“Hm?”

“Was it nice?” He continued, a hand now placed on the stairs’ handrail, leaning towards it. “Was it okay? Was it average? Would you ever want to be with me again?” He was teasing, it was evident on his big smile and his mischievous expression.

“I think you already know the answer to that.” You frowned cutely.

“Oh, I really don’t.”

“Sirius…”

“Tell me what you think,” he urged, tone gentle.

There were girls from your house walking down the steps, seeing the scene of Sirius gazing at you and you looking flustered playing in front of them. They hushed among themselves, glancing at you in envy, and you felt your cheeks burn at the attention.

“It was nice.” You told him finally.

“Just nice?”

“Wonderful,” you corrected.

He nodded solemnly, waiting.

“And I’d like to do it again sometime.”

He grinned. “That’s more like it. That’s exactly what I wanted to hear.”

You smiled down at the floor. “As if I was going to say something else.”

He lifted your chin up so that your eyes could meet. “Still, I like hearing it come from your lips.”

Before you went upstairs to your room, Sirius reached for your hand and kissed the back of it, winking at you and then heading to the boy’s dormitory.

For the following weeks, the both of you were consistently hanging out and going on dates. It reached a point wherein your respective friend groups were starting to merge. It was either Martha and Iris who were going to be with you two, while anyone from Sirius’ own friends tagged along and joined the party as well.

You were naturally growing more comfortable with Sirius day by day. You even allowed him to hold your hand by the third date. He has stolen a few kisses on your forehead and cheek, and has laid his head on your lap whenever you were in the Gryffindor common room, Sirius sometimes getting your hand and placing it gently on his hair, asking if you would stroke it as he tried to take a nap.

Everything was going at such a smooth and great pace.

Sirius was great. His friends were great. What you were feeling for him was getting stronger.

The only problem was the bitter people who had no business having a say in your blooming relationship.

You knew you shouldn’t mind them, but it was hard when you could hear students whispering about you in classes and during breaks, always going on about how someone like you didn’t seem to be a good fit for Sirius, either in deep belief that Purebloods shouldn’t date Muggleborns or that you were far too quiet and timid to be a wonderful match for the ever so magnetic Sirius Black.

You couldn’t agree more, to be frank. However, your greediness and happiness were what mattered to your most in situations like these that you managed to fade those comments out.

That didn’t mean it didn’t hurt though.

Or influenced you to sometimes see yourself in a harsher light.

“I knew you’d still be here,” Sirius spoke from behind you, a quick kiss being planted on your temple before he took the spot next to you on the sofa.

It was past midnight, and you were still working on an essay for History of Magic. You promised Sirius an hour or two ago that you weren’t going to stay up too late, but you haven’t been adding any new paragraphs to your essay because of your overthinking, so that meant you also haven’t reached your personal quota that was made in the first place to prevent you from cramming the said output.

“I thought you were going to sleep,” you replied, looking at him as he wrapped an arm around your shoulders. “Didn’t you say you have training for Quidditch in the morning?”

“I do.”

“Which means you really have to go to bed.”

“I tried to. Really. But I couldn’t.”

“Why not? Do you need warm milk or a frame that has dozens of sheep for you to count to help you get drowsy?”

He rolled his eyes. “Ha, very funny, but I actually wanted to make sure that you were already in your room. It’s not good to be here all alone.”

“I do it all the time. Nobody’s usually up in the common room at this hour, anyways.”

“Well, next time, tell me, so I’ll keep you company.”

“Oh, but that won’t be necessary.”

“I’m aware,” he said. “However, I insist. Come on, love, we’ve talked about this.”

You smiled, apologetic. “Sorry. I should know better, shouldn’t I?”

“Well, you told me that you’re still getting used to it, so I’m not holding that against you.”

“Yeah. But that’s just it, actually. I know that I should be getting used to it. To us… to you… but my brain keeps telling me that it’s bad to do so.”

“How come?”

“I don’t know,” you trailed awkwardly, realizing that you might have said too much, but you didn’t want to stop giving him a little bit more of your thoughts, getting a sudden rush of courage you’ve been wanting to have, “perhaps just, I feel like… I don’t deserve this. Any of what’s happening between us.”

Sirius stared at you, confused. “That’s ridiculous.”

“I just feel like this is all a wonderful dream that I’d have to wake up from soon.”

“____,” he began to say your name, but you shook your head, already sensing where it was heading.

“You don’t have to say anything, Sirius. It doesn’t have anything to do with how you’re making me feel.”

“Then what’s making you think this way? Is it because of what the others are saying?”

In your silence, he got the answer he needed.

“It’s absolute rubbish, you know,” he said. He sat up straight too, appearing more passionate now. “People don’t know what they’re blabbering about. All they want is to stick their noses into others’ businesses when they don’t know anything.”

“Sometimes they have a point, though.”

“Such as?”

“Such as you being a Pureblood and me being a Muggleborn not making any sense.”

He seemed frustrated at that. His nostrils flared a bit when you mentioned it. “Since when did that matter anymore? Lily and James are literally the same.”

“Yeah, but we’re not the same same as them. We’re still different. Lily’s different. She’s much more spectacular than I am.”

 “Come on, you’re being absurd. You’re amazing, ____.”

You had the nerve to laugh. “It’s fine, really. You don’t have to make me feel better. If there’s something that I’m used to, it’s this.” You sighed, going back to your previous position and focusing back on your parchment. “I’m sorry I brought it up in the first place.”

“No, don’t be,” he reached for your hand and forced you to face him again, in which you did, but you still couldn’t look him in the eyes. “I should be the one apologizing. I haven’t been checking up on you about this. I should have known better that this was something that would bother you.”

“What do you even see in me, Sirius?”

“What?”

“We nearly have nothing in common. You should be someone who’s at the same level as you are.”

“No, I don’t. I much rather be with you — regardless of how different we are, I don’t particularly care and I never thought of it as an issue nor will I ever do.” Sirius pursed his lips, appearing a bit nervous now because of what he was going to say. “Look, ____, I like you so much. I like every aspect of you and what kind of person you are. I see what you’re made of, and I cherish you very much because of it. I like your kindness, your wit, your energy, and your whole being. You’re simply the easiest person to adore, and I’m utterly puzzled that you cannot see it.”

Your tongue felt dry. No one has ever declared what they felt for you in that manner before. It caused your eyes to tear up a bit at the overwhelming reality that there was a person out there who saw you this way, who liked you for who you are and didn’t give two cents of what others thought of about it. You were so accustomed to being unseen, not given that much importance to, that to have Sirius tell you what you meant to him brought indescribable contentment in your heart.

So, without thinking, you leaned towards him and kissed his lips, bringing your arms around his neck while he parted his mouth in surprise, nonetheless wrapping his own around your waist to support your weight on him.

Sirius reciprocated the kiss, matching the vigor you were showing him, despite being shocked that you were the one who initiated your first ever real kiss with him. He was under the impression that it would take more dates before the both of you would reach this point, a concept that he didn’t have any problem with since he was sincere when he said he’d be patient with you, and that he’d be the one who was going to test the waters before asking if you were good with the thought of him planting a kiss on your lips.

“I like you so much too, Sirius,” you whispered, pulling away and gasping for air. “Having you be in my life is perhaps one of the most unexpected yet greatest things to happen to me.”

He grinned at that, pressing another firm kiss on your lips that made you sigh. “You’re so wonderful, love. I should’ve been with you since first year if only I wasn’t a bloody coward.”

You both laughed at his statement.

“It’s fine,” you assured him. “You have a lifetime now to show me what I’ve been missing.”

“You’re exceptionally bold tonight.” He observed.

“Well, the guy I have been crushing on and dating just made a heartfelt declaration of his attraction to me so I’m feeling my best.”

“About time that he did, honestly. Will this guy have the honor of being officially your boyfriend if he asked tonight?”

Your eyes widened. “That depends. Is he going to ask right now?”

“He’s about to. Just after he stops pretending that he’s pertaining to another guy and not himself.”

Another laugh and you were kissing him again, Sirius holding onto you tightly as he kept you in his embrace.

“Be mine?” he murmured against you, drawing his head back a little so he could stare directly at your eyes.

You smiled. You were on cloud nine; there was nothing that could ruin your entire year. “Yeah.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes.”

Sirius leaned for a longer kiss, much longer than the one you just shared earlier. He thought of how he could stay all night like this, how he might have to fake sickness just to ditch quidditch practices so he wouldn’t have to wake up so damn early, but before he could seriously contemplate it, you retracted your mouth from his and was telling him that he should go back to sleep because he had a tiring day ahead of him.

He frowned, wanting to kiss you again but you shook your head, evading his advances and giggling. “Sirius, you have practice in a few hours,” you told him again, “and I have to finish my essay too. You should head back.”

“For real?”

“For real.”

“But —”

“No, no.” You stood up and pulled him with you. “As your girlfriend now, my opinion holds more bearing, so when I say that you should go back to sleep —”

“I should follow you?” he finished, allowing you to lead him back to where the boy’s dormitory is headed.

You grinned, teasing. “Only if you want to, of course.”

He snorted. “You promise not to stay up too late? Because as your boyfriend, I should be entitled to stop you from making bad decisions as well.”

“Yes, I won’t. You have my word.”

“Good.” Sirius pecked your lips. “Goodnight, beautiful.”

An even bigger grin made its way to your features. “Goodnight. I’ll see you at lunch?”

He nodded. “You’ll probably catch me standing at the Gryffindor table too. I have to announce to the whole school that you’re my girlfriend. Can’t have anyone thinking you’re still available, right?”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“I would.”

“Sirius.”

“Goodnight. Dream of me, would you?” He snickered, abruptly rushing to the dormitory and leaving you there, speechless.

You were positive that he was only bluffing to tease the hell out of you who was not a fan of too much attention, but somehow, considering Sirius’ track record of being mischievous, you suddenly feared that he was not bluffing like you reckoned him to be.

Not to mention that he could be really petty at times too, and given that a lot of students still did not believe that a person like him would like a person like you, making a dramatic proclamation of how much he liked you and how much he hated those who couldn’t keep their idiotic opinions to themselves would certainly make a point.

For some reason, you found yourself smiling at the idea, secretly pleased that you had Sirius — the person you were now sure would move the earth and moon for you if that was what you wanted.

gentle reminder: this author loves feedback! let her know your thoughts if you enjoyed reading this fic and you’ll add 100+ points in her writing motivation meter ♡

[dearseirlyn]

• “MAILMAN, MAILMAN! TELL ME, WILL MY LOVE BE RETURNED?”

“WHAT? I'M JUST A GUY WHO EVERYONE MADE A LOVE LETTER MAILMAN, NOT A FORTUNE TELLER..”

— In your school, you’ve earned a peculiar reputation. Not exactly the “cool kid” nor the “loner,” but somewhere in between—and you’re perfectly fine with that. The labels people attach to you don’t matter. After all, what’s the point of a title that only adds more stress to your already tiresome school life?

You deliver the heartfelt confessions for people who weren't brave enough to do so themselves. It's weird. And because of it you've almost accidentally gotten a partner (only the people above knew how much you panicked in that moment). You always delivered them halfheartedly. Your part of the deal? People would leave you alone, and maybe.. a few yen to urge you to comply with a particularly difficult task.

Hakuho is nothing special, for a private school. The students are forgettable, the walls are a dull shade of marble, and the uniforms? Blindingly white with a hint of black— so stiff and formal, it feels like you're playing a game of chess, each of you confined to your assigned role.

But lately, there’s been something strange. This rich, popular guy with purple hair— Reo Mikage keeps leaving love letters in your locker. The problem? He never tells you who they’re for. It’s like he expects you to magically know where to deliver them. Seriously, you’re not some love guru, so how are you supposed to figure this out?

But here’s the real kicker; with every gift— you'll open one of the notes to find it’s addressed to you.

“From: Reo Mikage… To: (Name) (Last name)”

Doesn’t he know that love letters are supposed to for the crush, not the delivery guy?

I had this idea on a random school day at practice. I thought it'd be cute! Expect the first chapter to be in about.. 10 years!!:))))/j

Will edit this later, maybe