#Consumer electronics study

[gojonanami]

❝ 𝐈 𝐍𝐄𝐄𝐃 𝐒𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐎𝐍𝐄 𝐎𝐋𝐃𝐄𝐑 ❞

❝ PROF. GETO'S CLASS IS SO HARD, BUT HE'S SO HOT!! ❞

✧ pairing: professor!geto x f!reader (part one of the prof geto series)

✧ summary: you were a 4.0, straight A student, until professor geto's class, the same far too hot ethics professor fawned over by faculty and students alike. you didn't understand what was so special about him...until you start having dreams about him.

✧ warnings: 18+, nsfw, a lot of smut (mostly fantasy), depictions of student/teacher relationship (only ok in fiction not irl!!!), reader is a grad student in my mind, but age is vague, masturbation (f + m), fingering (f! receiving), sex (p in v), getting off to his voice in recorded lectures, arousal from reading his writing, amateur's take on moral philsophy and ethics, art by @/jatinsohanvi, google scholar graphic by platonic loml @laneysmusings

✧ wc: 10,149 (i have a problem) | part two

“You’re late,” 

Your first impression of Professor Suguru Geto’s class was that you could never be late again, unless you would like to be chided in front of all your peers for your tardiness. 

Your first impression of Professor Suguru Geto himself was that he was truly the most breathtaking man you’d ever laid your eyes on. His inky black locks tied into a neat bun, his deep royal purple vest buttoned over a crisp white button up with pressed gray slacks, his pretty lips pressed in a small frown, as his dark gaze pierced through you. And you don’t know what stirs in your chest — a fleeting moment that is tucked away under a bite of your bottom lip and burning cheeks. 

And now you knew why when you had walked into class, the amount of unfamiliar faces in this course had far outnumbered the ones in your usual course load — the same reason why this man undoubtedly had three chili peppers next to his professor rating on some website out there. 

And now you were faced with him staring you down as you stumbled down the stairs of the all too full lecture hall. 

As you muttered apologies, and took your seat far too close to the front of the class, smack dab in the very front of the very same professor whose eyes still were concentrated on you, before sliding back to the class at large. 

“Now, where were we?” he says, continuing the lecture. 

Ethics was not your major — you were a philosophy grad student, and although the two went hand in hand — no, they were not the same thing. Ethics are the moral principles — like rules to follow to live a moral life — people can follow, while philosophy is the study of knowledge, reality, and existence. And this class encompassed both — an ethics and moral philosophy class. Your eyes slid around the room — and compared to all the random majors stuffed into this classroom, you had no doubt you’d do well. Your eyes met Professor Geto’s — maybe one slight doubt. 

And when you get your first essay back, you eagerly flip to the last page of the paper, wondering what accolades and compliments you’d receive this time. Your eyes find the grade, and your stomach drops, a gaping maw that consumes you from the inside out. 

You got a B. 

A B+ — an 88 on your paper in this course, and you stared at the grade on the very last page of the paper you had collected from his desk — Professor Geto had insisted everyone submit their papers both physically and electronically — his scrawl in red pen littered each page of what you thought was a thoughtful and even clever paper on the existence free will and the ethical and moral dilemmas that surround it. And he had given it an 88. 

You had a 4.0 point average — you had gotten the highest scores in some of the most difficult courses required by your major, and now you were going to be derailed by a class you took on a whim? That’s not happening. No, you were going to get him to change your grade. You were seeing as red as the ink that tore your paper to shreds. 

“Come in,” your knuckles had rapped against Professor Geto’s door, your heart in your throat, as you heard his reply, entering his office. His office was as pretentious as he was. A much larger office than you had seen before (poor Professor Ijichi had a shoebox of an office), while Professor Geto’s was three times the size, outfitted with large, beautiful windows, distinct bookshelves, and even a lovely deep mahogany colored couch with decorative cushions. And you knew why that was the case — Professor Geto was an expert in his field, revered, even at his relatively young age. And the university had coveted him, and managed to lure him to work behind these ivy covered walls. While other professors who have been here longer are stuck with offices that don’t begin to compare. 

Academia was truly hell. 

And yet, Professor Geto seemed to rule over it with an iron fist. Even now, you found your professor looking as annoyingly perfect as ever — his elbow resting against his desk, pen in his other hand, as he flipped through more papers on his desk, his hair in a messy bun, a few black strands falling across his furrowed brow, his pretty lips pursed in concentration, and his dark gaze flicks up from his work to you, and his lips curl, your name leaving his lips, “good to see you, please sit,” 

You had planned to attend these office hours in victory, to apologize for your misstep in the first class, and let your professor praise your paper to no end — but instead you were going to see why your paper was graded so harshly. 

Your speech was ready, you were going to lay it out, you had the perfect explanation and the excellent reasoning “Professor Geto—” 

“I know why you’re here,” he cuts you off, lips forming in an utterly condescending smile, “you want to discuss your paper, correct?” 

“I am, I wanted to—” 

He sits forward in his chair, setting down his pen, “I’m going to save us some time by explaining my comments on your paper, do you have it?” and you close your mouth, pulling the paper out of your folder and handing it to him, “Your paper was one of the best in the class — it was thought provoking, grounded in research, persuasive, even made me consider some points I hadn’t before—” 

You blink, his praise catching you off guard, your thoughts twisting in on themselves, “Then why did you give me B?” 

“You didn’t allow me to finish,” he sighs, as he flips through your paper, looking up to meet your gaze,  “your paper was excellent when it came to philosophical concepts, but your ethical conclusions on the other hand, could use some work,” 

You gaped at him, “What did I possibly—” 

“To put it simply, you were trying to use your knowledge of philosophy to cover up your lack of knowledge in the field of ethics,” 

“I wasn’t—” 

“And that’s okay, because that means I have something to teach you don’t I? That’s why you’re in this course, to learn,” he gives a tight lipped smile, tilting his head. Oh you’d like to learn a lot more from him — like the ethical dilemma of wanting to murder your professor, “and I’m here to teach — and this paper is a teaching moment — and from your expression, I assume you didn’t read the comments I left in detail,” 

And your cheeks burn, as your eyes fall away from him, “Not fully in detail,” you still swallow your shame, and meet his gaze, “I don’t mean to be a bother, Professor, but how can my paper still receive a B — I’ve never received that low of a score on any single paper—” 

“There’s a first time for everything,” and you have to bite back your retort, “yeah first time having an annoying prick for a professor,” and he rises from his desk to hand you back your paper, “the bottom line is, I know you’re capable of better, this class isn’t going to be easy — I’m not going to hand you accolades for no reason. You have to earn them — if you aren’t up for the challenge, you can drop the class.” 

The option was there — you could simply drop the course, rid yourself of Professor Geto and his ridiculous criticism forever. You could take a class with one of the many professors who delighted in your papers (even the ones you’d written at 3 AM and submitted not proofread), and go on with your life and preserve your 4.0 GPA with ease. 

But then you looked at him again. He was unfairly hot, even when he was fucking putting you down, he stood in front of you, offering your paper, his fingers long and thick brushing yours by mistake as you took back your paper, a watch on his wrist gleamed in the low light of his office. You glanced around his office, saw the awards on his walls, pictures of him giving lectures or receiving honors, and the books that lined his shelves weren’t dissimilar to your own academic shelf at home. And your eyes fell back to his, as he stared at you curiously, lips pursed, as your paper slightly crumples in your fist. 

“Next paper is due in two weeks?” and he pauses, before his lips curl in that same grin. 

“Yes it is,” and a smile graces your lips, lightning quick.

Like hell you were going to let him win. You were going to get him to praise your papers (and maybe that wouldn’t be the only thing he praised) — if it was the last thing you do. You’d get an A in his class, hell, you’d get him to beg you to be his teaching assistant (he’d look very nice on his knees for you, wouldn’t he?). 

You rise from your seat, and grab your bag, “I’ll see you at your next office hours then, to discuss my paper topic,” and he watches you leave, his eyes piercing into your back as you do. 

“See you soon.” 

Oh, he would. 

“Right on time,” Professor Geto barely looks up now when you knock on his door, his door now always ajar for office hours. 

Now you had made a habit of showing up for his office hours, you’d bring your paper topic all picked out, along with your handpicked sources you had chosen for your paper, all typed up in a neat bibliography. And he’d kindly rip it apart with that same damn smile on his lips. It had been a few weeks, a few papers later — and you finally had worked your grade up to an A-, not quite an A+, but you’d get there. You had to. 

Because it wasn’t just about your GPA now — you were going to get Professor Geto to praise you — through any means necessary. The man was stubborn, even when you’d come back with an improved draft, he’d only hand it back to you with a smile barely tugging at the corner of his lips, with no compliment to be had — only small check marks scribbled in the margins in your papers, with the occasional “good” written next to it. 

“Well, we all know what happens when I’m late,” he laughs, a noise that makes the ice dagger clutched behind your back ever so slightly melt, “I made you laugh, extra credit?” 

And he rolls his eyes, and you notice that his dark eyes are hidden behind glasses today — and god, why does it only make him even more gorgeous? He’s already brilliant, it’s unfair for him to look as if he was sculpted by the gods as well, “It takes a lot more than a chuckle to earn extra credit,” and you can’t help but bite your lip. 

No, no, he’s the worst. It didn’t matter he was the epitome of every academic’s wet dream, you were above that. You had a goal. 

“So, can we discuss my next paper?” you hand him your bibliography, and he takes it, delicate fingers flipping through, your mind notes the absence of a ring on either hand, before brushing the thought aside. 

“You’re writing on the morality of good or bad actions,” he hums, as he looks over the sources you had chosen, “Scanlon, good — have you read—” 

“‘What We Owe to Each Other?’ Only about a million times — well more like six,” and he nods appreciatively, “of course you’ve read it,” 

“I didn’t just read it, I wrote a paper on it, similar to yours, actually,” and your eyes flick up to meet his, he’s leaning forward in his chair, red pen in hand, as he scribbles notes in the margins, as well as on the back of your bibliography, “of course I don’t have your penchant for rambling,” 

You pout, “I don’t ramble — I like to make my point—” 

“Many times, and the same one,” and your mouth opens, only to find a wry smirk on his lips, “I’m teasing, another one of my very tedious qualities, and how you stand it during class astonishes me,” 

You cross your arms, unable to meet his eyes, as you choose to stare at your bibliography instead, “You’re not completely tedious, more like irritating,” and he huffs a chuckle. 

You had to admit, begrudgingly, Professor Geto was a…good teacher. And you had your fair share of awful teachers — many of them were brilliant, accomplished people in their fields, but didn’t know how to translate and convey that in their lectures to students who simply knew less than them. But Geto…he knew how to break down complex concepts and theories of moral philosophy and ethics to a science, he knows how to make students understand these complicated topics that you had seen other professors fail to, and he does it while being an intellectual dreamboat to most of his students — the ones that swarm his desk after class, still there even as you slowly make your way out of the lecture hall. 

“A rare compliment from you,” he raises an eyebrow, “I’m touched,” 

“You’re one to talk,” you furrow your brow, and a smile pulls at his lips. 

“Didn’t know you wanted my approval,” he tilts his head, leaning forward to lean on his elbow on the desk, “well, you have improved remarkably in the class so far, and if you keep going like this, I may have no choice but to praise you,” 

“You will,”

“Someone is very sure of themselves,” a pause and then he adds with a quirk of his lips, “as you should be,” and he’s sliding your bibliography across the table again, and passes it back, “read the sources I recommended, and see about adding them to your paper — you may have some overlap in the other papers you chose so use your discretion on which ones you use,” 

“So don’t repeat myself?” You raise an eyebrow, and he leans back in his chair, crossing his legs. 

“You learn fast.” 

And you do — returning to your apartment to work on your paper, as you flip through his notes — as much as you hate to admit it, his notes and criticism did help — annoyingly so. He was far more detailed and perceptive than any other professor you had. Most had let you skate by without a second thought, and you wrote papers like you deleted your internet history after a scandalous romp through elicit websites — tools, clear history — and then onto the next paper or exam. But Professor Geto forced you to face your shortcomings, face the things that you didn’t like to give a second glance to, lest your rejection sensitive self feel the agony of having to deal with criticism. 

Each time you did it, you got a little better, and he had a little less to say — time and time again.��

You leaned back on your bed, scrolling through the papers he recommended, but so what? So what if he was a good teacher? Doesn’t mean he has to be as infuriating as he is — he knew exactly what to do to get under your skin, and he didn’t prod at it, he scratched it. 

And you found yourself typing his name (“suguru geto”) and T.M. Scanlon’s name into the search bar of your university’s library collection, and his paper pops up right on top. 

You stare at the paper for a good minute, before you click on it — and you start reading. And reading. And reading — and fuck— 

It was good. It was more than that — it gave you so much insight on this topic, it made you rediscover T.M. Scanlon’s work in a new light — and you bite your lip. And it wasn’t just the research — the way it organized, the way it was presented, the way it was written — it was eloquent, but it wasn’t unreadable or incomprehensible. It was…really good. 

You imagined him, pouring over Scanlon’s work as he wrote notes in the margins of his copy, pages dogeared and passages highlighted, as he sat in his office typing away at this paper. His sleeves rolled up, his hair let out of his usual bun, his glasses perched on his nose as he read, only his desk lamp and computer illuminating his office. The keys of his computer clacking under his touch, lengthy fingers pitter pattering as he wrote his thoughts and analysis of Scanlon’s work — his brow furrowed in thought. 

And you felt yourself flush, swallowing the lump in your throat, as you kicked off your blanket — it was so warm all of a sudden, pressing your thighs together. You shook the thoughts from your mind — what the hell were you doing? You glanced at the time, 2:39 AM it read back at you mockingly. You sigh, shutting your laptop down, and putting it aside — you need to do your skincare and brush your teeth. You glance back at your laptop—the familiar of your flush clung to your skin like a forbidden kiss— 

And you clearly needed sleep. 

“Can you read this passage to me?” Professor Geto’s voice said, as he stood in front of you in the lecture hall — as you stood behind the podium that faced the entire class — hands in his pockets, in an olive henley, his hair tied in the usual neat bun, his black bangs falling in his eyes as always, glasses on, instead of the usual contacts. The class sat all around you — his exercise in getting the class to participate and get comfortable speaking in front of others, just as philosophers had done in the past (his very own “literary salon” he called it). 

You swallow, keeping your eyes fixed on the book in front of you, “‘When I ask myself what reason the fact that an action would be wrong provides me with not to do it, my answer is that such an action would be one that I could not justify to others on ground I could expect them to accept—’” 

“What do you think Scanlon meant by this?” he asks you, but his gaze was different this time, it held the amusement it always did when it came to you, but it was warm — no — it was burning. His lips were pursed, as he crossed his arms, the henley’s fabric seemingly straining under the action. 

“He meant that an action that is wrong in his eyes when he couldn’t expect others to accept the ground on which he could justify it,” and his lips curve into that damned smile, as he takes a few steps closer, rounding the podium, as he brushes past you, the brief touch of temptation incarnate — the dangling apple of Tantalus personified before you. 

“And can you give me some examples of what kinds of actions would be wrong?” and he’s standing behind you now, and you can’t bring yourself to look at him — but you can feel his gaze on you. 

“Senseless murder,” and he hums in approval, his breath felt like it was warming your skin, “wanton violence, reckless assault—” 

“What other everyday wrongdoings could fall under this category?” and suddenly the class before you is gone, and it’s just the two of you in an empty lecture hall, “theft, lying, student-teacher relationships?” 

And your breath catches in your throat, his cologne strangling any sense left in your mind, as his body heat nearly radiates off him, “Professor Geto—” 

“Suguru,” he corrects you, and he’s reaching for you, but he pauses, “can I—” and you only can nod, and his fingers brush your hair aside, ever so gently, “would this be considered a moral wrongness, sweetheart?” his lips press a chaste kiss to your shoulder, and you shiver at the softness of his touch. 

“Well, I am a student in your class, and even though I’m of age, it presents a power dynamic and a favoritism that might be—” and your sentence cuts off as his arms wind their way around your waist, pressing himself to your back, “I—” 

“Go on,” he’s murmuring his words against the nape of your neck now, as he pulls his glasses off to place them on the podium, “might be what?” 

“Might be viewed as morally wrong—” and he’s chuckling, the vibration sending a delicious shiver down your spine, as he presses more butterfly kisses to your neck. 

“How can something be wrong when it feels so right?” he asks, and his hand is sliding down your side, “feels so good, does it even matter what society views as right or wrong? Do their rules pertain to what we’re doing here?” and his fingers toy with the hem of your pants, teasing and pulling, as he pauses, waiting for your answer, “what do you think—” 

“Please,” you swallow, as you turn to look at him, seeing his lips in that same smile that haunted you, “touch me,” 

And his smile only grows wider, “Good girl.” 

BUZZ. BUZZ. BUZZ. 

Your eyes flutter open, your breath caught in your throat, as you stare at your ceiling, your hand reaching for your phone to silence the alarm. And you squeeze your thighs together, a distinct ache between your legs, your skin all too warm. 

What the fuck was that? 

You skip office hours the next week. You couldn’t bear it — you could barely tolerate going to class now, as the dream invades your nights, with filthy variations that leave you perturbed and horny (mostly horny). The common theme only being that each time you get close to anything remotely that’s anything (a kiss, a touch that’s more than a caress, anything at all), you wake up. 

It’s as if your dreams are edging you — you groan into your pillow — and it was working. 

You’re so wound up, you’ve even resorted to using your vibrator before bed, wondering if that would make a difference — it did, but only with you having a dream of Professor Geto using a vibrator on you during class — the vibrations growing even faster when you were speaking as he watched you— 

You needed to stop thinking about this. But how can you? 

God, it’s even worse when you’re in class. You sit in your usual seat, front and center — and why does it feel like his eyes are on you far too often? Even as he lectures Professor Geto attempts to catch your eye during his lecture, trying to make a point, you all but glue your gaze down to the textbook and your laptop, typing away his words, trying to drown out the whispered words and groans from your dream that ring in your ears. You can’t stop seeing him — unless you want to skip class, which you really couldn’t when attendance and participation counted for a good chunk of your grade. 

Class ended and you were packing up your things. You had to weather the storm — avoid being alone with him until the dreams were just a distant memory— 

And then you heard him say your name— 

Your eyes flick up to meet Professor Geto — who had his usual swarm of students waiting by his desk, but he parted the crowd, he approached your own seat, hands in your pockets, “Do you have a class after this?” 

“No, I don’t—” the words slip out before your sleep deprived mind can put the pieces together. 

“Then can you please stay after class? I’d like to talk to you,” he says, and before you can say anything, he turns to speak to the students waiting for him. 

And now you wait — your anxious energy singing at the frayed ends of your nerves, as you tried to hold yourself together — wondering what he could possibly want to speak to you about. His students dissipated one by one, until it was just you and him left in the lecture hall. 

Just. Like. Your. Fucking. Dream. 

You round the row you sat in, before walking down to speak to him, “Is there something wrong? The next paper isn’t due until the end of next week—” 

“It isn’t about the paper,” and your heart squeezes, as you try to keep your breathing even, as he steps closer — and why, why did he have to opt to only wear a button up today —  and a deep royal purple one no less,  “I wanted to check in with you,” and he begins to undo the cuffs of his shirt, rolling them up — exposing his forearms and the pretty veins that ran along them — the same arms that he had used in one of your dreams to bend you over that desk, the whispers of heated kisses along your neck—

You needed to get out of here. 

You blink, “I’m fine,” and he tilts his head. 

“I only ask because you’ve looked tired the last two classes, and you didn’t show up for office hours this week,” he crosses his arms, unhelpfully, as he purses his lips, the lines of his brow furrowed. 

“I’m fine, Professor, I appreciate your concern — I just haven’t been sleeping well,” you admit — it was the truth, “and that’s why I didn’t come to office hours. I was trying to catch up on sleep,” 

He nods, sighing, fingers raking through his hair — those same fingers that would feel so pretty around your neck— “I know I’m hard on you,” oh he would be, “but it’s because I know you’re capable of more — most of these students are taking the class for an elective, but I know it’s more than that for you,” yes, it’s so you can finally earn his praise, “but I’m also here for your benefit, so if you need an extension or anything else, please let me know,” 

God, all you wanted was for him to maybe wrap you in his arms and kiss you, or bend you over, pull your clothes off and fuck you, or just to leave you alone all together. 

You weren’t sure which one you wanted the most at this moment. 

“I will, Professor Geto, I appreciate it,” you murmur, biting your lip, as you try to focus on the task at hand — getting out of here, “I don’t think I need an extension, I’ve made good progress so far. I just need to finish it, so I can revise,”

“Well, let me know if anything changes,” his lips curl, “ok?” And you nod, and if you weren’t so hyperaware, you swore you would have imagined it — but you didn’t, “good girl,” 

And you pause a moment — his lips did move, you pinch yourself discreetly — and you know it isn’t a fucking dream. You only smile in return, giving a curt nod and goodbye, before beelining out of the classroom. 

But you didn’t stick around long enough to see the slight flush on Professor Geto’s cheeks — nor did you know that you two were thinking the same thing about yourselves— 

What the fuck were you doing? 

But to your relief, the dreams do subside, and you’re finally able to rest — but the thing that doesn’t subside is your awareness of your professor. 

You sit in class, watching him teach — and you knew he was attractive, hell, it was one of the things that made you all the more embarrassed to have him ream you out — having your super hot professor rail at you for your mistakes wasn’t on your list of shining achievements (lest it was him actually railing you—). 

You needed to stop doing that. 

But it felt as if you weren’t the only one who was hyper aware. You felt as if his eyes skimmed over you during class this week, his replies to your weekly discussion board were less biting than usual, and his office hours were surprisingly canceled this week. First time all semester, but you weren’t so full of yourself that you thought it had anything to do with you — right? 

Either way, you had submitted your paper and now you were done with this week—and as class finishes, you slowly pack up, looking forward to the week being over with and for a personal rendezvous with your bed. But as the usual gaggle of students make their way to chat with Professor Geto, your eyes flicker up to meet his, as he stares back a moment. 

And you can’t make yourself look away, and for a moment, neither can he. 

But then a student calls for his attention, so his eyes flicker away, a smile on his lips as he spoke — and you turn to leave, grabbing your bag, as you look back— 

But why did his smile look so strained? 

There must be something wrong with him. 

Professor Suguru Geto drummed his fingers against his desk, but he felt more like shoving his things off his desk — if only to distract him for a moment. He pulls his glasses off, and runs a hand down his face—god, he hadn’t been sleeping well. No, his nights were plagued, plagued by you — you had slipped into his dreams ever since that day he stopped you. 

Why had he stopped you? 

It wasn’t the first time he had personally stopped a student who seemed to be struggling, he could count the times he had on both his hands. 

But this, this felt different. 

You were different. 

But why were you different to him? He rubs his temples, from the moment you had stepped into his office he thought he had read you — an overachieving student used to getting their way, As handed out to them, and an inability to take criticism. 

He knew, because he used to be one of them. But he knew you needed to be challenged to grow — but it was a matter if you would accept it. And from the moment you asked him when the next paper was due, he couldn’t help but smile. 

And his time spent in office hours with you grew more enjoyable each time you came. And when you hadn’t last week, he couldn’t sit still, checking the time, checking his email, and even checking if his office hours had been accidentally listed wrong in his weekly email to the class (they weren’t). And the hour and half passed with many students hungry for his time and his charm  — but not the  one he was looking for. 

Then those words had slipped from his tongue when he had stopped you, left his mouth like he was possessed, and now he had found himself here. Found himself thinking about how your lips parted when he said it, thinking about how you were feeling, thinking about you, you, you— 

There’s a knock at the door, “Professor Geto?” 

And it was you. 

“I apologize, I know you canceled office hours, but I just had a few questions I didn’t get to ask you in class,” your fingers toy with the ring you wore, a folder in hand, a soft smile on your lips. 

“Of course, come in,” and you did, your dress was painfully short, the fabric riding up as you sat, the folder in your lap, “is this about your paper?” 

“It is, I was reading a few papers, and after our conversation, I couldn’t help but find your paper,” and he tilts his head, “and I want to include it as a source in my paper, but I had a few points you made that I wanted clarified,” 

He raises an eyebrow, and he can’t help but tease,  “Clarified or criticized? Are you planning on turning the tables on me?” 

“Well I do have a red pen,” you click your pen, lips curved in a smile, and there’s a hint of heat that he wishes to unearth, pluck from the earth and possess himself, “but I promise I’ll be civil,”

 “I have no doubt,” he had a million when it came to you — but that wasn’t one of them. He runs his fingers through his hair, a few strands coming loose, “of course, let’s discuss it,” 

“You discuss Scanlon’s idea of a social contract, everyone within this moral society agrees on what’s right and what’s wrong — the basic principle is that if there is a rule no one can reasonably reject as a basis, but is there such a rule that can exist?” 

He tilts his head, “Scanlon’s theory relies on this premise — are you questioning me or the premise?” 

“Both, actually,” you shrug, crossing your legs, “is there a magic switch that changes every person to be rational? Because I think only rational people can agree on what rules cannot be reasonably rejected — what about people who are cruel, inconsiderate, self-absorbed? Do those traits go away when operating under Scanlon’s social contract? You propose in your paper that moral reasons are not subjective — nothing is uncolored by human opinion,” 

“No, but—” 

“How can we agree on what is truly right or wrong? How can one hundred people agree on that when everyone views these actions in different ways? Right and wrong? Black, white, or gray?” you rise from your chair to hand him his paper printed out, the paper more red than white with the amount of writing you’ve done, “like for example,” you lean forward, your hand braced against the edge of his desk, “can one hundred people agree that student-teacher relationships are wrong? Because one veto,” your hand trails ever closer to his, toeing that dangerous line either of you had even yet to approach to cross. But here you were, seemingly barreling toward it. 

And he didn’t want to pull away. 

He swallows, whispering your name, “This can’t—” and you were so close — too close, your perfume hypnotized him, your fingers brush against his and he can’t help but hold them, his thumb rubbing across your knuckles, “they can agree that it’s wrong — the power imbalance from the authority of the professor and the age difference—” 

“I disagree, so the rule isn’t legitimate, right? Even if one disagrees, the rule cannot be make valid,” and his breath catches as your fingers slide up his arm now, resting on his shoulder, as you lean over his chair now, as your other hand toys with the loose strands of his hair, “if the two of us can’t even agree, then how could a hundred, or a thousand, or a million?” 

“But—” 

“But what?” you pout, your fingers dragging down his chest, toying with the top button of his button down, “I don’t see you pulling away, do you want me to stop, Professor? Because I will,” 

And he swallows thickly, but he can’t stop you — he doesn’t want to, “But, we shouldn’t — it isn’t a reasonable objection—” he tries his hardest to stand firm, but he only crumbles when your fingers brush his cheek, tracing the cut of his jaw. And it feels like flames tickling at his skin, begging him to thrust his hand into the fire. 

“Like I said, people are not reasonable,” your lips draw closer, and he can feel your breath warm his own, and god, why are you so tempting? And your lips stop short, barely an inch between your faces, “and besides, would you rather be reasonable or satisfied?” 

And there’s only one answer — you. 

He leans forward, lips nearly brushing yours— 

RING. RING. RING.

He jerks awake from his desk, papers sliding as he does, his breath caught in his throat, and his eyes wander — and finds no one else there. 

A dream. He runs his fingers through his hair again, crumpling the paper he had oh so lovingly drooled during his nap. He needed to get his shit together. 

But his current predicament wasn’t making that easy — his cock strained against the fabric of his pants — was he a grown adult or a horny teenager? 

Fuck. It wasn’t going away — no matter what he thought, his mind kept circling back to you. 

And his eyes slide to the time: 1:40 AM. 

Far past the time any soul would be here, even cleaning staff would have been long gone. It was just him—

And you. 

“So good for me, baby,” he’s panting, palming his erection, an embarrassing amount of precum drips from his cock for a barely wet dream. He ignores the gnawing guilt in the back of his mind — but he can’t help but imagine the image of you, spread out on his desk, hiking that oh so teasing sundress up, only to find your underwear drenched — just for him. 

His fingers would slide up your plush thighs, squeezing to draw a gasp from your pretty lips, “Professor—“ you’d say, unable to form a sentence, all those brilliant falling away under his touch, until it was just him occupying every crevice of your mind. 

“Where’s that mouth now? So needy f’me,” he’d murmur, “but such a good girl,” and you were, his thumb tracing his slit, smearing his pre-cum, as he imagined you spread on his desk, your puffy folds nearly showing through your far too translucent panties, “my best student’s so pliant for me now,”

And his hand moves faster, and he can imagine your fingers reaching for him too, your smaller fingers wouldn’t be able to even touch as much as he can — but god it would feel so much better. 

But he’d want you to feel even better than he did.  

He’d tug your underwear down, stuffing it in his pocket (his fee for all of additional office hours), and he would prep you right — fuck you open with his fingers, two or three, before he tasted you. Your fingers would dig into his scalp as you moaned his name again and again, before you came all over his face. 

He’d lick his lips clean of your release, before dragging his cock down your sweet cunt, watching his precum mix with your cum, as your walls flutter around nothing, craving to have him sink into you. 

“Professor, please,” you’d beg with pretty, kiss bitten lips between pants, “please,” 

“Where’s all those quips now, sweetheart?” he’d tease, as he would let his tip tease your clit, pulling a moan from your lips, “all those words fall away when you want this cock, don’t they? Been thinking about you like this, wondering what you’d look like spread out under me,” and he would lean down to kiss you, “it’s even better than I expected,”

He’s jerking himself off in earnest now, the lewd noises of his hand around his cock filling most of the silence, his low groans filling the rest. And he’d finally sink into you, inch by inch, until he’d kiss your cervix with his weeping tip. 

And, god, he wishes his fingers fisted around his cock would be as good as your cunt would feel around him. He would fuck you slow at first, “I know those boys can’t fuck you as good as I can, as well as I can,” he’d tell you, as he would pick up the pace when you’d tell him to, making you cum again and again with his cock, thumb rubbing at your clit, until he was finally close. He’d either cum all over your stomach, marking you with his release, or if you’d let him, he’d cum inside you, filling you with his seed—and then he’d watch it drip out when he would pull out. He groans your name lowly, shuddering as he comes all over his hand, hard. 

Fuck. 

That’s the hardest he’d cum in a long time. He’s a mess — panting and flushed, as he leans back, head against the back of his  chair, too spent to even clean up. And then he finally does, cleaning himself up well, and collecting his things to leave the office. 

But he only treated the symptoms, not the problem itself. His hard-on is gone, but his mind is still filled with thoughts of you. How he’d kiss you sweetly after, how he’d clean you up, care for you gently, make you rest because you never seem to do enough of that, and he’d let you relax — finally relax, as you slept the night in his arms. 

As he heads to his car, he knows that he’s utterly fucked (without even being fucked) because he has feelings for you. And he didn’t know if they were going to go away as easily as he hoped. 

But he hoped they would. He owed it to you, your education, and your future career not to act on these feelings. 

And he sighs as he sits in his car, starting it, but why did it hurt not to? 

It was that time again. 

Your next paper had come around again, and you needed to prepare a topic before you went to speak to Professor Geto. You had put it off, something you had never done with his class, but you wanted to limit the amount of time you spent with him, if only for the sake of your heart. 

Watching him in lectures was bad enough, your thighs pressing together as you watched him speak, his impeccable looks and intelligence a deadly combination for your heart (and your body). You could barely focus, your eyes too fixed on the way he wrote on the board —  his fingers too lithe and too thick, his voice all too alluring when discussing Kant and Aristotle and you can’t help but think what he’d sound moaning your name. 

God. Fuck.  

Either way, you needed to listen to the lectures again since you weren’t able to pay attention. Maybe without watching the video would be better, you settle on your bed, notebook and pen in hand, as you place your headphones on. His voice filled your ears, and you’re scrawling notes. 

But your mind begins to wander. He’s lecturing on the deontological ethics, and all you can think about is how he could make you cum with just that voice of his.  

Shit, you shifted your thighs again, feeling that familiar ache again. What would he sound like when he moaned? How would it sound to have him touch you, run those long fingers down your thighs, and whisper filthy things in your ear? 

As you listened to the lecture, his voice became white noise as your fingers slipped past the waistband of your shorts, and you shut your eyes. 

“That’s it, sweetheart, spread your legs for me,” he’d murmur in your ear, his chest pressed to your back and he’s urge your thighs wider, and his fingers would press against the wet patch on your panties, and he’d hum, “so wet f’me and I haven’t touched you yet, Princess,” his lips would kiss your pulse, “you like my voice that much?” 

“Professor,” you gasp, as his fingers would tease you through your underwear, the fabric growing more soaked by the second, “please—“ and his thumb would ghost around your clit, teasing you, as his long fingers would piston in and out — they would reach so much fucking deeper “I need to—“ 

“Already begging? I knew you learned fast, but not this fast,” and his fingers would tug the crotch of your panties aside, his fingertips tracing around your outer lips, before a finger pushes past your sweet cunt, “fuck, my favorite student’s pussy is so fucking tight. These boys are not fucking you right,” and you whimper, his finger would be so much thicker than yours, as you glide another finger inside you, the two dragging against your walls, “listen to your pretty cunt,” he’d grin against your skin, “and the wet squelch of your pussy, “so pliant for me, takes my fingers so well,” he’d murmur with a chuckle, “practically swallowing me up,” 

And you’re bucking your hips against him, wanting, needing him deeper, because your fingers don’t reach as far as his does, moans leaving your lips. 

“I’m so—” you’re moving faster and faster, his lecture still filling your ears, your pre-cum soaking your shorts and onto the bed sheets, “I can’t—” 

“Come on, Princess, use those big words of yours, you have no problem usually,” his hot words would whisper in your ear, and you’d hear him rub his erection against your ass, trying to get himself off, and you’d grind against him, wanting any friction, “tell me,” 

“Let me cum, please,” and he would smile, running his fingers through your hair, before he bore his thumb down on your clit and sunk a third finger into your needy cunt, just as you did now. And it’s too much for you, your toes curl, your messy walls fluttering around your fingers, as you cum all over your shorts and sheets with a groan of his name. Your fingers were soaked, as you pant, trying to gather yourself, as you came down from your high. 

“Fuck,” you murmur, tugging off your headphones, so your cunt doesn’t have to twitch listening to his dulcet words again. And you’re pulling your fingers out, your cum dripped down your fingers, as you shifted, far too wet underneath you, as you tried to slip off your bed to take a shower and clean yourself up. 

And then you realized, you didn’t even hear any of the lecture. 

Double fuck. 

Why was this so difficult? 

You stood near his office, trying to work up the urge to approach his door for office hours? Since it’s almost the end of the semester, there had been an influx of students attending office hours, and with everything, you had found excuses in your head to avoid office hours. But you couldn’t avoid him anymore. 

For your final paper in the class, you had to have a meeting with him during office hours to discuss your topic, complete with bibliography and outline. And it was almost time for your meeting. 

But you didn’t know how to go in. 

The last few weeks in class have made things worse. You couldn’t help but watch the other students fawn over Professor Geto, his lips curled as he spoke to them. And you’d leave class without a word. You had to stick through the semester and your feelings would disappear with time. You wouldn’t have to see him, you wouldn’t have class anymore, and you couldn’t talk to him. 

Or wouldn’t. 

But now you had to. And you didn’t know how— otherwise than just to do it. 

You knock at his door, “Come in,” and you open the door to see an empty desk, blinking, “I’m over here,”

And your head snaps to your right, and Professor Geto is sitting on his couch, his legs crossed with a stack of papers in hand. His jacket is slung over the side of the couch, his deep maroon button up sleeves rolled up, glasses perched on the tip of his nose. 

“I thought you lived at your desk,” you raise an eyebrow, “decided to change it up for the end of the semester?” 

“Everyone needs a change of scenery,” he leans forward, placing the stack of papers on the table in front of him, “do you want to sit here or move to the desk?” 

You shift in place, before moving to the couch beside him, “This is fine,” he stares, “what?” 

“Just surprised, you always have something to say,” he leans on his elbow, “no smart remarks today?” 

“Fresh out, can I offer you my proposal for the final paper instead?” You say dryly, and he cracks a smile, holding out your proposal. He clicks his red pen, readying his sword. 

He takes it, his dark eyes darting back and forth as he reads, his brow furrowed in concentration — and you can’t help but want to reach out and smooth his brow for him, tease him that he’ll get wrinkles. But you can’t. Can’t because that would cross a line that neither of you should cross. 

“You’ve come a long way,” he says, as he flips it back the front, writing only a few notes here and there. 

“But?” You wait for it. 

His gaze flickers up, a tilt of his head, “That was the end of my sentence,” 

You pause a moment, “Really?” 

“Really,” he scribbles a few more notes, “I look forward to reading the paper, it will be excellent I’m sure, maybe you’ll even get higher than a B+,” 

“Oh, ha, ha,” sarcasm dripping from your tongue, but you can’t help but smile, “you’ll miss me and my endless need for academic validation,” but was it really academic validation you were after now — your eyes gazed at him sitting with the tip of his pen pressed to his lips — or was it his? 

And it’s his turn to pause, and his lips curl into a soft smile, “I will,” 

Your breath catches, “Really?” 

He chuckles, “Really,” he licks his lips, his eyes glancing downward at your proposal than at your face, “I’ve enjoyed our chats this semester,” 

“Have you? Even when I argued with you,” a half nervous half serious laugh dies on your lips when his gaze meets yours, far too serious for your heart to take. 

“Especially then,” his fingers run through his hair a moment, before he speaks again, “I can’t say you could say the same,” 

“And why couldn’t you?” his eyes flicker with an emotion you can’t grasp fast enough, before it slips away into the depths of his dark irises. 

“Because you stopped coming,” his voice is soft, his tone barely even, and this gives you a real pause, heat flushing your body, as if his words had set every nerve ending alight, your mouth growing dry along with it, and it gives him a reprieve he needs to brush it aside, “you don’t have to, of course, these office hours are not relevant to your—” 

“I didn’t stop coming because I didn’t enjoy it,” you cut him off, swallowing the lump in your throat, “I stopped coming because I did,” 

He stares, “What do you—” 

“I don’t want academic validation anymore, I don’t care about my GPA,” you consider it a moment, “ok I do,” and he snorts, “but I care more about validation from you,” 

“From me?” he says, and his gaze tries to meet yours and it can’t — but his fingers brush against your skin, making your breath catch, your eyes finding his, “and what kind of validation do you want?” 

And you can’t find the words, and you hesitation makes him shake his head, “I apologize, I shouldn’t have—” 

“Will you have a drink with me?” and he’s speechless for once, “after the semester is over, of course — I know it wouldn’t be ethical before,” 

And his eyes find yours again, “Some would say it would be unethical after too,” 

“I would say it depends,” 

“On what basis?” and you can’t help but smirk. 

“Am I being graded, Professor?” and you delight in a small crack in his smiling veneer as a light flush dusts the tops of his ears, “and if I’m good, will you call me a good girl again?” 

He swallows, “I don’t want to cost you your education or your—” 

“I understand the risks, but we aren’t contemplating shifting a trolley to hit one person or five, or murdering one healthy person to save five sick ones,” and he raises an eyebrow, “it’s a drink to celebrate the end of the semester,” 

“And if it's something more?” he nearly whispers, the softness of his voice reflected in his features, as his fingers that rested on the couch twitched beside yours. 

“Then we’ll cross that bridge then,” and then you add with a small smile, “Or hit the metaphorical person with the trolley,” and it pulls at the corners of his lips. 

“You make a fair point,” and you gasp in mock surprise.

“The first time all semester you agree with me,” and he chuckles, a noise you wished you could hear him make innumerable times more. 

“Not the first,” he replies, before leaning forward, pressing your outline back into your hands, his fingers brushing yours, “we both agree you’re a good girl, don’t we?” 

And your breath catches, his words warm your skin, turning your blood to lava, “Professor,” and he smiles again. 

“When we go for drinks, call me Suguru.” 

~~~~ 

The semester wears on and finally draws to an end, but finals induced hibernation begins for you. A mix of papers and exams, you finish everything — including your paper for Professor Geto’s class. As always, he has you submit a paper and electronic copy, the paper copy to be dropped off at his office mailbox. And you do just that, the mailboxes being only around the corner from his office, and your heart squeezes at the thought of him. After this, the class was over, it was done. You weren’t his student anymore. 

And you place the paper into the mailbox and sigh, chewing your lip as you pass by his office, but find the door closed (and locked, as you quickly turned the doorknob to test it). Where was he? This was the time he was usually in his office, but maybe he had left campus for the semester — had he forgotten about your drinks? 

Fuck. You hadn’t even discussed a time or place, you had left it vague — “after finals.” Your cheeks burned at the memory, you were far too flustered to elaborate. And you had spent far too many nights imagining him calling you a ‘good girl’ in many other situations. 

And then you heard a call of your name, your gaze snapping up, your heart leaping, but only to see the department head. 

“Hi Professor, how are you?” and the two of you make polite chit-chat, until he asks you. 

“Have you applied to be a T.A. for the department?” and you blink, “applications just opened and I think from what I’ve heard about you around the department, I think you would be an excellent candidate.” 

“I’d love to be — how does the application process work?” and he explains that it’s a double blind process where applications are viewed without personal information of the candidates, and then matched with a professor based only on resume and writing samples. 

You can barely listen to the department head, still far too distracted with thoughts of Professor Geto — so you agree to apply, if only to placate the department head, and make an excuse to leave. 

It had been a week or so, as you lay in bed in your apartment, staring at your ceiling — you hadn’t even bothered to get Professor Geto’s personal number. You couldn’t even reach out to him if you tried, as the only way you could was through his university email, which was out of the question — the university had rules against a professor and student dating, and if anyone found that email — you sighed — it wouldn’t be good. 

Maybe it was for the best. 

The only communication you had gotten from him was an email from Professor Geto’s mailing list to the class from a few days ago, stating that he was out of state in a conference, and he would return soon, but your grades would be emailed to you. But the paper copies would be available to pick up in his office from 3:00 PM to 6:00 PM on Tuesday. It was almost time to pick up your paper, and your nerves bit at you as you thought about the possibility of seeing him. Who knows if he would even be there to begin with. 

Would it be anything? Would it be nothing? Was there not any point to this at all? 

Oh, great, you were becoming existential. 

You sat up, the only thing you could do was go. So you do, taking your time to get dressed. If you were going to see him, you might as well look your best. 

Fuck. You couldn’t go in. It had taken you longer to get back to campus than you thought, and now there were only a few minutes of his office hours left.

And you’re about to knock when the door opens, and you find yourself face to face with the man who has consumed every thought of yours for the last few months — good and bad alike. 

“Late again?” and you can’t help but smile. 

“I prefer fashionably late,” and his eyes rake over your outfit, making your cheeks burn. 

“You certainly are,” and he steps aside to allow you into his office, and you glance between the couch and the desk, but he makes the choice and sits at his desk, “I have your paper right here,” and he’s rifling through his file of papers, “how did your finals go?” 

“If I have an A on this paper, perfectly,” and a smile tugs at his lips, and you raise an eyebrow, “what? Something funny?” 

“Not at all,” and he pulls your paper out, ha “I just recall you saying you wanted something more than, what was it? ‘My academic validation?’” 

And your cheeks flush, “I did, but I also didn’t hear from you,” and your fingers reach for the paper, and he holds onto it, “Professor,” 

“I couldn’t reach out to you because I was still your professor, but once you get this grade, I’m not anymore,” and his gaze is sharper without his glasses today, his dark blue Henley doing nothing to help the flush on your cheeks — memories of your dreams flooding your mind, “and once you get this grade back, I’m not anymore,” 

“And what does that mean?” you can’t pull your eyes away from his, but his fingers let go of your graded paper, “how about you look at the last page of your paper and see?” 

You pull the paper into your hands, flipping to the last page: 

99 — I was impressed by this paper not only by the content but by its comprehension and use of both ethics and philosophy. But I was also impressed by the person who wrote the paper. You’ve shown determination and growth throughout the semester — and you have reminded me what we owe to each other. And I think we owe each other a drink, and a chance for this. 

You feel his eyes watch you as you read, your eyes finally meeting his — his brow knit together, his lips pursed, concentrated gaze trying to decipher your reaction. 

“Why a 99?” And his eyebrows raise, as if to ask, “that’s your question?” 

“You had some spelling and grammar errors,” 

“Really? You couldn’t let it slide?” And he tilts his head, before he sees your lips curling into a grin. 

“So you think it’s funny to mess with your professor?” And his voice drops, a playful tone that makes you nearly shiver, as he leans forward, resting his chin against his elbow. 

“You’re not my professor anymore, are you, Suguru?” he likes that by the way his teeth bite his bottom lip briefly, his eyes flitting to your lips for a moment and back to your eyes, “so I guess we’re using that trolley after all,” 

“If you want to,” he says softly, “I wouldn’t blame you if you change your mind, it’s a risk,” 

It was. It was a risk to your reputations, your careers, your futures — especially to yours. But, your eyes met his again. 

“Contractualism is about avoiding risk,” and he nods, as his gaze falls away, “but some risk is necessary in life, and I think this is one that’s worth taking,” 

“We will have to be careful,” he murmurs, but already his fingers are twitching, far too eager to touch you, “we can’t make any mistakes. I don’t want to hurt you,” he adds softly. 

“I know, I don’t want to hurt you either,” and you rise before slowly rounding his desk, “but I want to know what it’s like,” 

And he can’t stop himself — he gets to his feet, his fingers finding your cheeks and he kisses you. You can taste the black coffee on his lips, his kiss is gentle at first, so chaste and fleeting that you’d swear he didn’t kiss you at all — and so it’s not a second before your lips find his again, in a deeper kiss that steals every ounce of breath from your lungs, and leaves only heat behind. This was dangerous. The very risk you were both trying to avoid, but as he’s pressing you into the edge of his desk, you can’t find the logic you misplaced when those goddamn fingers you’ve been dreaming about squeeze your hips. 

“Fuck,” he’s panting — god that word sounded more sinful on his lips than it should — as he presses sweet kisses to your neck, “we shouldn’t be doing this here,” 

“Not very ethical,” you chuckle breathlessly, as your fingers rake through his now disheveled bun, “but I can’t find the sense to care,” your noses brush, as you can’t help but smile, “what would Scanlon or Kant say about this?” 

And his arms lift you onto his desk, several papers crumpling underneath, “Who the fuck cares?” he’s hissing, his lips find yours in a searing kiss, as his thighs press yours apart, as he settles himself between your legs, his knee grazing your core, drawing a delightful gasp from your lips, “I know what I want,” and his eyes soften, his fingers tracing the length of your cheek, “do you?” 

Before you can answer, two pings catch your attention — your phone and his computer lighting up with a notification, and you both pause a moment, as your eyes glance at the banner notification on your phone, skimming over the words. The T.A. positions have been assigned. 

“Fuck,” you hear him mutter, and you gaze snaps up to his on his computer, the email now opened on his screen, “this can’t be right—” 

“What is it—” and the question dies on your lips as your eyes find where his rested — 

You — you were his T.A. for next semester — for the very class that you met in. 

Fuck, indeed. 

✧ read part 2 now

✧ a/n: lets all remember that student and teacher relationships are bad in real life. it's ok to live vicariously through reader but unfortunately no professor will be as hot as professor geto or gojo T_T. s/o to @/laneymusings and @bucky-of-the-opera for beta reading this for me and being just absolutely wonderful!!

✧ tag list: @sokkasmoon, @unoriginalideas, @waytootiredforthisss, @sinnerstardoll, @secret-pages-of-my-heart, @drthymby, @hanlay, @catsgomurp, @hatsunemitskislobotomy, @esuz, @difficultdomains, @poopyface222, @iwassentfromhell, @diogodxlot, @totallynotcc, @llovekami, @deadmarygolds, @teatreeoilll, @carcarcraziiv2, @forest-hashira, @aliyalala, @esuz, @that-goth-bisexual, @hehehehesthings, @imjustmememe, @j1jay, @iwassentfromhell,

[optiblog]

OPTİVİSER - GOLD

Welcome to Optiviser.com, your ultimate guide to navigating the complex world of electronics in 2024. As technology continues to evolve at a rapid pace, finding the right devices that suit your needs can be overwhelming. In this blog post, we’ll harness the power of AI to help you make informed choices with our comprehensive electronics comparison. We’ll take a closer look at the top smart home devices that are revolutionizing how we live and work, providing convenience and efficiency like never before. Additionally, we’ll offer expert laptop recommendations tailored to various lifestyles and budgets, ensuring you find the perfect match for your daily tasks. 

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[damnfeelings09]

Animals AU- Shadow's version

A.N: Sorry, got lost in crimson eyes! RED for stalker thoughts, GREEN for yours Please check your surroundings, someone is coming.

Shadow stopped his motorcycle just in front of your house. You got off, still on shaky legs, feeling dizzy. “Thanks... for the ride, for saving me.”

“Now you owe me a bunny”  he said with a wink. “Why did you show up out of nowhere? Be thankful I have good reflexes or you'd be a stain on the floor by now.”

“Ah...” you quickly thought of an excuse, because telling him that you had been chased by a madman was not an option “I missed the bus and the only way out is to walk 5km to the next stop, so I was running to catch it.”

Lies.

“Really? I thought you looked scared, are you afraid of the dark bunny?” he asked getting close to your ear. His hot breath hitting your neck. The memory of what you had done in the afternoon and even more the why came back to your mind blushing you instantly. Shadow had the power to make you furious and now, it seemed, he also had the power to make you blush and he was enjoying it. “Would you like me to walk you to your bed? You won't be afraid of the dark if you’re with me.”

“Asshole” you said coming back to reality. You threw the helmet back at him, but Shadow had good reflexes, catching it in mid-air. You frowned and turned around raising your middle finger at him.

What you trying to do to me

It's like we can't stop, we're enemies

“Love it when you play hard to get”. - He said putting on his helmet “You turn me on” And with that Shadow disappeared again among golden sparks.

The next morning you were at the bus station, Mailo had been apologizing for leaving you alone for 10 minutes straight and excusing himself that he had to go for his sister and you were nowhere to be seen. Mailo and you were best friends since you were in high school, you were both in the same class and his house was 2 blocks away from yours, you used to spend a lot of time at his house because your parents were too busy working for GUN. However, when you turned 15 something changed, both of them became paranoid, locking you at home with them, you were not allowed any electronic devices, you could only talk to your friends when your parents were asleep. Little by little, the stress was consuming you, nobody knew what was going on, a mobian virus the doctors said, it was slowly eating your parents brain and there was nothing to do. You went through many studies but fortunately you had not been infected.

That was the reason for you to study medicine, you would find a cure for that virus, for the Mobian diseases. When you enrolled in medicine Mailo was surprised, he had no idea that you liked sick people, he cared so much about you, saying it was his job to protect you at all costs, that he ended up enrolling with you in the faculty, however his other interests did not allow him to have a clear conscience and he changed some of his classes to biology.

“Forgive me, honey,” he said, pleading with his blue eyes. He’d always been like this, you knew he had feelings for you, heck you even tried to feel the same but in your eyes Mailo was like your brother “I promise I will never leave you alone again.”

“It's okay. Besides, the bus ride wasn't so bad.” You lied. If Mailo knew what was going on he would surely get upset and go straight to his father Commander Clarke, they would start an investigation and have you watched 24/7 or worse, locked up in a safe house. You wouldn't let either of those things happen. You would never be locked up again.

“It is my duty to protect you,” he said with a peculiar smile, ”I will never leave you alone… again.”

When you arrived at the university Mailo said goodbye to you, gave you a kiss on the cheek and assured you that this time he would wait for you. You smiled at him and waved goodbye. You turned around and bumped into a hairball. You blew it away from your face before it made you sneeze, when you opened your eyes white fur was in front of you, shiny and tempting, inviting you to run your fingers through it and check its softness.

“Wow, are we getting along like this bunny? It's my turn to touch” it was his stupid teasing voice again. You were beginning to miss the Shadow who only teased you or hid your stuff. You walked around him and continued on your way to Psych class. “Hey, no good morning kiss for the one who saved your pretty little ass last night?”

“I said thank you.” you reminded him, hurrying your pace.

“You still owe me one bunny,” Shadow walked at your pace, wearing a black sports outfit, which camouflaged perfectly with his fur except for his chest. White fur peeked through the V-neck of his shirt; the same one you had bumped into minutes ago. On his wrists and ankles, he wore golden rings, imprisoning him as if he was something dangerous, he also wore his typical aero shoes.

You're like a drug that's killing me

You rolled your eyes at his words. You might be a good person, but you would never, ever do that hedgehog a favor. “Consider it a truce between us.” You smiled mockingly at him.

Shadow tugged on your wrist, pulling you into the hallway between the buildings. He placed you back against the wall and positioned himself in front of you, one hand resting on the wall close to your neck and the other resting on your waist with a firm grip, a mixture of the warmth of his hand and the coldness of his ring against your bare skin.

“Wha- Shadow let go of me.” You brought your fists to his chest striking him but only managed to get laughter from your opponent. You could feel the vibration under your hands.

“Somone's got fire inside,” he said looking you up and down with his eyes. “Careful  you might get burn bunny.” He withdrew his grip on your waist, your body yearning to feel the touch again.

“Maybe I want to” you whispered, holding his gaze. Shadow smiled, the glow in his crimson eyes turning dark, as if warning you of danger. Seeing that you were not frightened, he looked away.

“I need you to repay me for last night's favor,” he turned his attention back to you, that darkness gone from his eyes.

“What?, Mr. I do everything better than you, Mr. Perfection, Mr. The Ultimate Lifeform is asking for the help of a mere mortal?”

“You're so funny bunny, are you sure you didn't take the wrong career path? You should be a comedian,” he said sarcastically with an annoyed grimace. Seeing Shadow annoyed was not something that happened easily, but when you did it your whole being enjoyed it. You enjoyed making him feel a hint of what he provoked in you.

“I don't think so, sombrita.” you teased, a smirk perfectly drawn on your face, however, your moment of satisfaction didn't last long. Shadow closed the distance between you, his face only inches from you, his breath crashing against yours and his grip again on your waist, this time, gently caressing you with his thumb. The heat rising to your cheeks, almost as red as his eyes. Shadow inhaled deeply, allowing the strawberry scent of your perfume to flood his lungs causing him to shiver, his spikes standing on end.

You can start over you can run free

You can find other fish in the sea

“You're going to help me” it was more of a command than a plea. Your mind focused on his touch, his pads were rough against your skin but the contact didn't bother you, it felt... good.

“Wh-what for?” you hesitated to speak.

“Something simple bunny. There's a girl who doesn't understand that I'm not interested, I just want you to get her off my back.” he said as he played with the strap of your bra, very close to the curve of your breasts.

“Ho-how?”

“Go out with me.” he smiled. “It'll only be a few weeks.”

“No fucking way” You refused, but the blush on your face and your body's reaction to his touch gave away what you felt.

“Pleeeeeease,” he pleaded softly, ”I'll be good to you and help you pass your self-defense class.”

Danger alarms were ringing loudly in your head, but the way Shadow was looking at you had you trapped, you couldn't pay attention to anything else but him. His commanding presence over you and his deep voice, unsettled your senses. And his eyes, fuck those crimson eyes hid behind them an indomitable fire and you a simple match waiting to burn. You were at his mercy, whatever he asked for at this moment you would give it to him.

“Okay” You replied, almost inaudibly, but Shadow had excellent hearing.

“That's my girl.” he smiled, releasing you from his grip “Later bunny.”

But you can't stay away from me

Stupid, sensual hedgehog you thought. How could he look so carefree and disappear just like that after all the wave of emotions he had caused in you.

[grogumaximus]

Yet another Red Bull team mate of Max Verstappen’s is struggling to be competitive, Liam Lawson having qualified last in China last weekend after failing to get out of Q1 in Melbourne. He joins a long list over the last five years. Pierre Gasly, Alex Albon and Sergio Perez were never this far off, but the pattern is unmistakeable: Red Bull has followed where Verstappen’s enormous talent has taken them. But it’s made for a car no-one else can make competitive.

This looks a lot like Michael Schumacher at Benetton in 1994/95. There was of course a lot of controversy around the electronic systems on the Benetton in ’94 and it led to questions about whether his car was the same as that of his team-mates. But it was about more than that. JJ Lehto, Jos Verstappen and Johnny Herbert all had good reputations damaged by being his team-mate in a nervous car only he could properly exploit.

Listening to Max describe his car preferences, it sounds pretty much how Schumacher used to describe it.

Schumacher: “People say I like oversteer. I don’t. I can handle it and drive it but I don’t want it. With a neutral car you can have it sliding from turn-in to exit and all the time you can just drive on the limit of the four tyres’ given grip, and that’s what I’m always looking to achieve. I had cars that did that. With a little input you could make it go the way you wanted it to go.”

Verstappen: “I like a pointy car but with a rear that is just stable enough to have a controlled balance. I like a strong front end. I don’t really like understeer. It’s just killing the whole feel of the car. A strong front end with a rear that is just on the edge. But of course you still need that rear to rely on.”

It sounds simple, but what separates them from their team-mates is/was the feel for the transition, trading off rotation against scrub. Verstappen’s sim racing partner Atze Kerkhof is also an F1 driver coach and has studied intensely what Max does and how he makes it work. He relayed it on his YouTube channel. at 0:30:40

“When the Red Bull was a bit of a lazy car at the beginning of ’22 it was very easy to drive leaning towards understeer. Understeer is a very boring way to drive a car because whatever you do with the brake pedal, at a certain point the car doesn’t rotate any more. A pointy car wants to rotate more than you want and what Max does very well is he can balance the car that is too pointy for everyone else because for them it starts sliding. Max can make that car perfectly smooth and make use of that extra rotation and he can cancel it with his inputs in the points where he doesn’t need it. … the last five-tenths is dancing a very thin line, balancing the car and stepping away from the textbook style of aggressive on the brakes, very smooth coming off, turning at the right time. That’s still there in the basics but it needs to be adjusted intermittently in millimetres to have a positive effect on the balance.”

Intuitively feeling that point where the rotation needs to be checked, with just the smallest inputs of brake and steering, allows outrageous speed to be taken in without the penalty of time-consuming slides. Watching Lawson desperately try to make sense of the Red Bull in Shanghai, he would take the speed in and turn, only to then find himself correcting big snaps of oversteer. That sensitivity to a demanding car just wasn’t in the same league. But put them in a less pointy car, Lawson would be much closer.

Red Bull has naturally followed Verstappen’s preferences in how it has developed its cars over the last few years. Just as Benetton did with Schumacher. But when Michael left and two good drivers – Gerhard Berger and Jean Alesi – tried the car, they could barely control it and each suffered several pre-season crashes.

Some say Lawson should be given more of a chance than just two races and certainly there’s merit in that. But conversely, perhaps the sooner he can get back in to a ‘normal’ car, the quicker he can begin recapturing the confidence which has surely been destroyed.

[peterparkouryo]

fell from the sky into my lap | ⍣ ೋ

⍣ ೋ

prompt; You encounter a very charming boy on the train.

warning: fluff, fluff, and did i mention fluff?

word count: 1.5k

a/n: meet cute!! i missed writing <3 (also ignore the fact that i used this gif once b4, feel free to send me tom gifs for future fics 😭)

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ taglist

You step out of Midtown High, the warm afternoon sun casting long shadows across the pavement. You had decided to stay after school, opting to have a small study session with a few of your friends for an upcoming test for the gruesome mathematics class, also known as calculus. The weight of your backpack pulls slightly at your shoulders as you make your way down the stairs of the school building, balmy wind blusters against your skin. Descending down the stairs finally, you keep your head down and walk across the football field, creating a safe distance between you and the ongoing practice taking place. 

What seemed forever, but in reality was maybe a good two to three minute walk off the school grounds, you head toward the train station. The familiar hum of chatter and the rhythmic clack of shoes on the sidewalk fill the air, blending into a comforting soundtrack of the end of the school day.

As you approach the station, the distant sound of a train horn echoes, signalling its arrival. Just in time, you thought to yourself. You quicken your pace, the excitement of heading home, mixed with the anticipation of the journey itself, propelling you forward. The station is a bustling hub of activity, with students, commuters, and travelers weaving in and out of the crowd.

You swipe your transit card at the turnstile, the beep granting you passage onto the platform. The cool, metallic scent of the train station mingles with the faint aroma of fresh coffee from the nearby café. You glance up at the electronic display board, noting the arrival time of your train. It's right on schedule.

The train glides into the station with a soft hiss of brakes and a rush of wind. The doors slide open, inviting you inside. You step onto the train, the cool air conditioning a welcome relief from the warmth outside. You find a seat by the window and settle in, reaching into your backpack and digging through to find your wired headphones, despite begging your parents for regular ones.

You open your phone, clicking the green app for music, scrolling through many playlists you've obsessively created for various different scenarios. Picking a playlist you don't remember creating, you let out a tired yawn and sit back, wandering your eyes to the left, and daydreaming  about your bed. 

The train ride was relatively quiet, aside from a crying baby (not that you could hear it, but breaking your daydream to observe your surroundings, you could see a crying baby), and the loud music blasting in your ears. 

For the next six minutes, the music from your headphones consumed your ears, guaranteed to worsen your hearing in the next twenty years or so. You were at an unusual ease you normally don't feel when you're alone on a train by yourself. It could do with the fact that there was maybe five or six people onboard, you weren't too sure.

You lay your head back against the seat and stare out the window, the passing buildings rapidly leaving your vision. A bored sigh leaves your lips, the spotify ad only adding onto the exhaustion you felt. 

The train stops, indicating people were either leaving or stepping on the train, and you tear your gaze away from the window out of curiosity, watching a couple people swipe their transit cards. You notice the last person, a boy with hair as brown as a bear, swipe his card more than once, and you can only assume something was wrong.

The more you watch the boy struggle, the more you feel bad because not only was the operator getting impatient, the passengers moan and groan as well. Slowly you dig into your pocket for your card, standing up and swiftly walking to the front of the train. Showing the boy a friendly smile, you glance at the operator, who's eyebrows were furrowed and a permanent frown carved onto his face.

"Um, he can use my card." You say unsurely, not entirely positive thats even how transit cards work.

The man narrows his eyes and stares between you and the boy for a good while before he exhales a huff.

"Go ahead, you're holding up my line." He mumbles and you furrow your eyebrows and glance behind you, seeing that it was only the boy and no one else, but you decide not to say anything about it.

You swipe the transit card, watching the red dot change to green, and the boy sighs in relief.

"Thank you." He says, watching your every move as you put your card back into your pocket.

You nod and your eyes drift to his face, studying him carefully, because boy, he was gorgeous. The boy had eyes just as brown as his hair, maybe even a little lighter with the golden specks straggling within them. If anyone was lucky (such as yourself) to stand so close to him, one might be able to see the small barely visible, but undeniably delightful freckles scattered across his nose.

Your eyes trail down to his lips, but not in a weird way, the small smile etched on his face captivated you and deep in your stomach, you swore you felt butterflies erupt. The smile was warm and inviting, and one of his most endearing features, capable of lighting up his entire face. It gave him a friendly, yet approachable demeanour. 

He was the kind of person who had the-boy-next-door kind of vibe, and you can't help but gaze longer than intended, making him uncomfortable in a way you had no intentions of doing.

So, you clear your throat, and quickly look at your shoes. 

"Its no problem." You mutter.

There's a standstill silence between the two of you, the murmur of passengers, the rustling of bags and the occasional ring of a phone not helping the awkwardness you felt whatsoever.

Eventually, the boy shows you yet another charming smile, walking past you to sit in a nearby seat. You return to yours and try your hardest not to stare at the boy diagonally across from you.

That challenge, however quickly crashes when you glance at him only to see him gazing back, in a way that wasn't entirely creepy, but cumbersome for the both of you. You do your best to show him a smile, cringing slightly when you realize its more of a nervous grimace than what you intended.

Though, he shows no signs of being weirded out by your so called "smile", he waves as you wave back. A rush of warmth and pleasantry overtakes you when he looks away. You'd think this is the first time any boy has ever showed you this much attention, no matter how little it might have been.

Minutes pass in a blur as the train carries you forward, each moment seamlessly blending into the next. Ultimately, you reach your stop and you gather your things, albeit a bit reluctantly. As you leave, you bite your lower lip and share a scrutiny when you walk past him, making your exit off the train.

While you step off the train, and make it your mission to ascend up the stairs, a hand purchases on your shoulder causing you to flinch fearfully, many thoughts running through your head as you make the stupid decision to turn around to face the culprit.

 All fears subside once you meet the familiar chestnut brown eyes of the boy from the train.

He realizes your initial fear and holds up your tangled headphones. "You left these on the train." He blinks.

"Thank you." You obligate, retrieving the headphones from his hand.

The boy nods and buries his hands in his pocket, unwieldy looking around.

You tilt your head as a thought comes about.

"Is this your stop?" You wonder.

He breaks his train of thought and stares right at you before laughing awkwardly. "Um, no my stop was actually three more blocks away." He informs and guilt fills you at that information.

"Oh, I'm sorry," You apologize, frowning.

He shakes his head quickly. 

"No, its fine I was just going to stop at Delmar's anyway." He reassures and smiles, holding out his hand.

"Also, I'm Peter by the way, Peter Parker." 

You return the smile and shake Peter's hand at his dorky introduction, speaking your name in greeting.

"I know, we share a gym class." Peter says.

You blink at the revelation, having no idea he even went to Midtown. Small world, you think.

"Anyway, is it okay if I walk you up the stairs, in a non weird way that seems creepy." Peter offers shyly, interrupting the barely there silence. There was something about his adorably dunce proposal that made you appreciate him despite only knowing the boy for ten minutes at most.

"Sure." You agree all too eagerly.

With new found courage, you and Peter make your way up the stairs of the train station and you're greeted with the bustling New York city, of what you can only describe as chaotic, honking cars and fellow civilians either arguing or arguing on their phones.

You felt excited to be walking next to Peter, no matter how small your interactions have been or how little you two knew each other, you were grateful for his presence.

Grateful that you decided to take the train. Had you would've walked, only god knows what could've happened, the foreign feeling of butterflies in your stomach would not had been, that's for certain.

taglist: @victoriousskylar @imawhoreforu @myfangirlinessononeblog

shoutout to the divider account: @saradika-graphics

[mostlysignssomeportents]

Fintech bullies stole your kid’s lunch money

I'm coming to DEFCON! On Aug 9, I'm emceeing the EFF POKER TOURNAMENT (noon at the Horseshoe Poker Room), and appearing on the BRICKED AND ABANDONED panel (5PM, LVCC - L1 - HW1–11–01). On Aug 10, I'm giving a keynote called "DISENSHITTIFY OR DIE! How hackers can seize the means of computation and build a new, good internet that is hardened against our asshole bosses' insatiable horniness for enshittification" (noon, LVCC - L1 - HW1–11–01).

Three companies control the market for school lunch payments. They take as much as 60 cents out of every dollar poor kids' parents put into the system to the tune of $100m/year. They're literally stealing poor kids' lunch money.

In its latest report, the Consumer Finance Protection Bureau describes this scam in eye-watering, blood-boiling detail:

https://files.consumerfinance.gov/f/documents/cfpb_costs-of-electronic-payment-in-k-12-schools-issue-spotlight_2024-07.pdf

The report samples 16.7m K-12 students in 25k schools. It finds that schools are racing to go cashless, with 87% contracting with payment processors to handle cafeteria transactions. Three processors dominate the sector: Myschoolbucks, Schoolcafé, and Linq Connect.

These aren't credit card processors (most students don't have credit cards). Instead, they let kids set up an account, like a prison commissary account, that their families load up with cash. And, as with prison commissary accounts, every time a loved one adds cash to the account, the processor takes a giant whack out of them with junk fees:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/02/14/minnesota-nice/#shitty-technology-adoption-curve

If you're the parent of a kid who is eligible for a reduced-price lunch (that is, if you are poor), then about 60% of the money you put into your kid's account is gobbled up by these payment processors in service charges.

It's expensive to be poor, and this is no exception. If your kid doesn't qualify for the lunch subsidy, you're only paying about 8% in service charges (which is still triple the rate charged by credit card companies for payment processing).

The disparity is down to how these charges are calculated. The payment processors charge a flat fee for every top-up, and poor families can't afford to minimize these fees by making a single payment at the start of the year or semester. Instead, they pay small sums every payday, meaning they pay the fee twice per month (or even more frequently).

Not only is the sector concentrated into three companies, neither school districts nor parents have any meaningful way to shop around. For school districts, payment processing is usually bundled in with other school services, like student data management and HR data handling. For parents, there's no way to choose a different payment processor – you have to go with the one the school district has chosen.

This is all illegal. The USDA – which provides and regulates – the reduced cost lunch program, bans schools from charging fees to receive its meals. Under USDA regs, schools must allow kids to pay cash, or to top up their accounts with cash at the school, without any fees. The USDA has repeatedly (2014, 2017) published these rules.

Despite this, many schools refuse to handle cash, citing safety and security, and even when schools do accept cash or checks, they often fail to advertise this fact.

The USDA also requires schools to publish the fees charged by processors, but most of the districts in the study violate this requirement. Where schools do publish fees, we see a per-transaction charge of up to $3.25 for an ACH transfer that costs $0.26-0.50, or 4.58% for a debit/credit-card transaction that costs 1.5%. On top of this, many payment processors charge a one-time fee to enroll a student in the program and "convenience fees" to transfer funds between siblings' accounts. They also set maximum fees that make it hard to avoid paying multiple charges through the year.

These are classic junk fees. As Matt Stoller puts it: "'Convenience fees' that aren't convenient and 'service fees' without any service." Another way in which these fit the definition of junk fees: they are calculated at the end of the transaction, and not advertised up front.

Like all junk fee companies, school payment processors make it extremely hard to cancel an automatic recurring payment, and have innumerable hurdles to getting a refund, which takes an age to arrive.

Now, there are many agencies that could have compiled this report (the USDA, for one), and it could just as easily have come from an academic or a journalist. But it didn't – it came from the CFPB, and that matters, because the CFPB has the means, motive and opportunity to do something about this.

The CFPB has emerged as a powerhouse of a regulator, doing things that materially and profoundly benefit average Americans. During the lockdowns, they were the ones who took on scumbag landlords who violated the ban on evictions:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/04/20/euthanize-rentier-enablers/#cfpb

They went after "Earned Wage Access" programs where your boss colludes with payday lenders to trap you in debt at 300% APR:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/05/01/usury/#tech-exceptionalism

They are forcing the banks to let you move your account (along with all your payment history, stored payees, automatic payments, etc) with one click – and they're standing up a site that will analyze your account data and tell you which bank will give you the best deal:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/10/21/let-my-dollars-go/#personal-financial-data-rights

They're going after "buy now, pay later" companies that flout borrower protection rules, making a rogues' gallery of repeat corporate criminals, banning fine-print gotcha clauses, and they're doing it all in the wake of a 7-2 Supreme Court decision that affirmed their power to do so:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/06/10/getting-things-done/#deliverism

The CFPB can – and will – do something to protect America's poorest parents from having $100m of their kids' lunch money stolen by three giant fintech companies. But whether they'll continue to do so under a Kamala Harris administration is an open question. While Harris has repeatedly talked up the ways that Biden's CFPB, the DOJ Antitrust Division, and FTC have gone after corporate abuses, some of her largest donors are demanding that her administration fire the heads of these agencies and crush their agenda:

https://prospect.org/power/2024-07-26-corporate-wishcasting-attack-lina-khan/

Tens of millions of dollars have been donated to Harris' campaign and PACs that support her by billionaires like Reid Hoffman, who says that FTC Chair Lina Khan is "waging war on American business":

https://prospect.org/power/2024-07-26-corporate-wishcasting-attack-lina-khan/

Some of the richest Democrat donors told the Financial Times that their donations were contingent on Harris firing Khan and that they'd been assured this would happen:

https://archive.is/k7tUY

This would be a disaster – for America, and for Harris's election prospects – and one hopes that Harris and her advisors know it. Writing in his "How Things Work" newsletter today, Hamilton Nolan makes the case that labor unions should publicly declare that they support the FTC, the CFPB and the DOJ's antitrust efforts:

https://www.hamiltonnolan.com/p/unions-and-antitrust-are-peanut-butter

Don’t want huge companies and their idiot billionaire bosses to run the world? Break them up, and unionize them. It’s the best program we have.

Perhaps you've heard that antitrust is anti-worker. It's true that antitrust law has been used to attack labor organizing, but that has always been in spite of the letter of the law. Indeed, the legislative history of US antitrust law is Congress repeatedly passing law after law explaining that antitrust "aims at dollars, not men":

https://pluralistic.net/2023/04/14/aiming-at-dollars/#not-men

The Democrats need to be more than The Party of Not Trump. To succeed – as a party and as a force for a future for Americans – they have to be the party that defends us – workers, parents, kids and retirees alike – from corporate predation.

Support me this summer on the Clarion Write-A-Thon and help raise money for the Clarion Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers' Workshop!

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/2024/07/26/taanstafl/#stay-hungry

Image: Cryteria (modified) https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:HAL9000.svg

CC BY 3.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/3.0/deed.en

[jaggedamethyst]

circuit breaker 🔬🌌 (part five)

tutor!jayce talis x reader, ekko x reader college au

content: after what happened, jayce is committed to helping you learn the physics material. even if it means daily sessions and spreading himself extremely thin.

harsh language (cursing, off-hand kms jokes), jayce mom angst, actual physics but I hope it makes sense…I swear I chose relatively simple concepts!! (If you need more context for the graph Jayce made, legit just google physics electron progression 1s 1p and a chart with arrows should come up on google) 

notes: might fuck around and post the next part asap because its that good

word count: 1.9k

series master list

。·:*:·ﾟ★,。·:*:·ﾟ☆　　 。·:*:·ﾟ★,。·:*:·ﾟ☆

Somehow the next week was even more stressful than the last few. With the looming stress of this week’s quiz and the strenuous schedule Jayce had you on—you were beginning to wonder if these study sessions were even going to pay off. 

He agreed to meet at your place. He’d show up every day, on the dot, supplies in hand. The happy expression on his face made you feel optimistic at first. You were ready to take on physics with a new level of confidence.

That was Monday.

By Wednesday, Jayce’s upbeat mood and cheery outlook just drained you even more. When Thursday came around, one day before the quiz, you were sure you were at your limit. 

“Hi, Jayce.” You spoke in monotone, opening the door before he could even knock. You turned away from him, allowing him to step into your apartment and close the door himself. 

He poked at your disinterested tone. “Someone’s in a good mood.”

“Yes, well I think that I’ve consumed enough physics this week that I might be reincarnated as Bohr…but that’s fine.” You stalked to your room, “That’s assuming my brain cells aren’t stuck in their own orbits or whatever the fuck.”

“Wait,” he paused in the middle of the hall leading to your room. 

“What?” 

“You…just made a physics joke.” He pointed to you, his tone increasing in amazement. “And it actually made sense-“ 

“It should.” You turned away from him, continuing into your room. “If I have to hear about atomic structure, valence electrons, or nucleus-es any more I might kill myself.” 

“Nuclei.” 

“Huh?” You pulled out the chair at your desk, allowing space for him to sit at the chair next to yours. 

He sat beside you, grabbing your notebook. He flipped to a fresh page as he spoke, “Nuclei is the plural…for when you mean more than one nucleus.” 

“Not to be that person but I think we may have bigger fish to fry than my grammar, Jayce.” 

“You’re right.” He rubbed his hands together, “Where should we start?” 

“Well we left off with electron configuration. I understand the concept…kind of…but I can’t remember all of these damn numbers. The pattern is weird.” 

Jayce reached toward the floor, seeing some of the papers from the previous day still thrown about. He grabbed one with the electron chart—clearly marked with notes and color coordinated to help you remember. 

“I think its best we start with this…if you’re trying to remember and do the problem at the same time you won’t understand it.” He slid the paper in front of you, setting it aside from the book. He then reached for another paper he’d bought—a worksheet. “Here’s some more examples for you to work on. Why don’t you try the first one like we practiced?”

You whined a bit, “Do I have to?” 

“Do you want to get a good grade?” 

You paused, snatching the pencil from the table. “Just because you have a good point doesn’t mean I like it.” 

He remained silent, stifling a laugh. He looked over your shoulder, watching you work out the questions. Somehow you’d made an already long question exponentially longer—working through a method that seemed to work for you. It of course tacked on extra minutes to each problem, though.

“How’s this?” You looked to Jayce for approval. 

“This is…” His eyes scanned your writing. Among the many cross outs and faint eraser marks was not a correct answer, but one extremely close. “This is almost right. You just messed up at the end here.” 

“What? No way-“ You looked at his finger pointing between the chart and your work, spotting the error. “Oh…I see what I did wrong.” 

“Good…wanna try and fix it?” 

You didn’t make direct eye contact, but honed in on the paper—encouraged to get the correct answer. He lingered over your movements with a watchful eye until you were done. 

“Okay…how about now?” You held the book out to Jayce.

“Amazing.” 

“But you didn’t check-“ 

“I did—watched you do the whole thing.” 

You turned to Jayce, “Sure you did.” 

“No, really.” He pushed the notebook back to you. “In fact, I think you’re ready to do three of these.” 

“You sure?” 

He nodded, pushing the materials back in a group for you to work on. “You got this.” 

Jayce sat silently again, catching the way you’d twisted your lips in concentration. Your grip on the pencil was harsh, the wood pressing into your skin in a way he was sure should hurt. Even so, you didn’t give up. The process became longer than he expected. His vision started to blur, his focus becoming less sharp, but he stayed watching. 

Eventually, you turned to him, several minutes having passed. To both of your surprise, you did rather well. Jayce traced over your handwriting, noting the simple mistakes you needed to keep an eye out for. You nodded alongside him, physically writing down the notes he gave you. Before you continued, you decided on a quick break. 

“I’m gonna go grab something to drink, do you want anything?” 

“No,” Jayce yawned suddenly, “I’m good.” He moved to rub his eyes, sorting through some of the papers that had found their way to the floor. He turned a bit, watching you leave the room. 

You rounded the corner, beelining for the refrigerator and cabinets for a snack—you needed fuel immediately.

With an inhale, you leaned back into the kitchen countertop. Truthfully, you were feeling a bit more confident now, but if you were feeling drained you could only imagine Jayce. You made quick work of grabbing a few more snacks for him and a bottle of water before heading back to the room. 

Before crossing the threshold, you froze—the sound of light snores filled the room. 

Jayce had fallen asleep. 

A crooked smile found a way to your lips, the sight of him admittedly being very cute. Despite him being asleep, his lashes fluttered a bit. His lips parted and let out the sound of his breath. In an occurrence that should provide him comfort, intensity still lingered in his brows; they were pinched together in worry. You didn’t miss the way his lip would occasionally twitch—fighting off the pain that lived in him. 

With a quick motion, you quietly set the things you’d grabbed to the side. Making sure you stepped lightly—you swung open the closet and grabbed a blanket to lay over him. You gulped at the action, not even giving it a second thought. The thought left you just as quickly as it had appeared, your feet moving you back toward your desk and open notebook. 

Your eyes scanned over your work and the example problems pensively—immediately feeling an overwhelming sensation fill you. Your palms began to sweat, fingers and hands shaking in front of you. A slow blink and deep breath allowed you to calm yourself, enough to grab your pencil and start in on the example problems. Jayce turned then, still sleeping but fidgeting a bit. You had to try to do this—on your own. 

For a while, you worked on the problems only, afraid to crosscheck for the answers. Eventually, you’d grown confidence to check. There were a few you’d gotten wrong, circling back to check what you did incorrectly with a motivated scribble. Others, you’d gotten right, though. A warm feeling sat inside you, a pride over finally understanding the material. 

Beside you, Jayce started to stir before quickly sitting up in panic. “Fuck, when did I fall asleep?” 

You looked to your left, the clock hanging above. “Like an hour ago.” 

“Why didn’t you wake me up? I’m supposed to be helping you.” He moved to stand, folding the blanket you’d placed over him. 

“Figured you could use the down time.” 

He moved closer to the chair, watching you lean your head up to look at him. His shoulders slumped at the optimism in your gaze. “I feel like I’m fucking this up.” He drew in a dramatic breath, “Am I a bad tutor?” 

You pushed the chair back a bit, letting him look at your self-graded work. “You tell me.” 

His eyes raked over the paper, bending over the blanket in his grasp. He took his time surveying all the written out problems. His nostrils flared when he would let out an amused chuckle at the ones you went back to fix. He leaned away, “You’re pretty smart, huh?” 

“Well,” You stood, grabbing the blanket from him. “I have a not so bad tutor.” 

Jayce folded his arms, “Right.” 

You turned to put the blanket away. When you got back to your desk, you gestured for Jayce to find his seat next to yours again. As the two of you were finally sat, Jayce spoke up. 

“So,” he cleared his throat, “How are you feeling? I mean, like mental health wise. I know it’s been a lot.” 

“I think…I’m working on it.” You nodded, “As best as I can.” 

“That’s good. You should be proud.” 

“Thank you, I try to be.” You swallowed, seeming to look off into the distance. The quietness of the room made you want to speak to fill it. “How’s your mom?” 

Jayce watched you grimace at the abrupt question, but felt grateful you asked. “She’s okay. I spend a lot of time with her—helping and doing whatever she needs to feel comfortable.” He looks down at his hands in his lap. “Think it’s just a hard time for her, feeling herself be weak in a way she’s never been before.” 

You nodded then, looking at his downturned gaze. “I get that.” 

“I’m trying really hard to be what she needs me to be, whatever that looks like.” He readjusted, “Sometimes I think that’s a good student…to keep my grades up. Other times I think it’s to just be a good son…show up every day after class. It’s exhausting trying to figure it out.” 

“I can only imagine.” 

“It’s different with you though.” He jumped a bit at the way your head snapped to him. He spoke quickly, “I just mean that…I know what my purpose is. I can physically see you improving.” He rubbed his neck, “I’m not making sense am I?” 

You shook your head, “I’m attempting to follow-“ 

“I guess I should just thank you, then.” 

“Thank me? For what?” 

“For letting me help you. For letting me have a purpose outside of just student, son, friend, whatever.” He placed a hand on the desk in front of you, closing the gap between you. He finally let his eyes meet your again, a sincere look on his face. “Thank you.” 

A tight feeling ran through you, pushing from your chest outward. You didn’t break the eye contact, though. “I think you’re giving me too much credit, Jayce.” 

“I don’t think I give you enough.” 

A breath caught in your throat, suddenly overwhelmed by the lingering look Jayce had on you. The both of you stayed there, looking between one another’s eyes. Jayce’s movement forward was almost imperceptible; you wouldn’t have noticed had you not been studying every feature on him.

His phone dinged—piercing through the palpable tension in your room. He looked away, a reluctance in his motion. You looked toward the door in a huff, pushing away the feeling that had creeped up on you so quickly. 

“Sorry, it’s Mel.” 

“Oh,” you turned to him expectantly, “Do you need to go?” 

Without missing a beat he turned his phone face down and folded his hands in front of you. “Nope…I’m good here.” 

“Okay, then.” 

He slid the book from in front of you, splitting the distance. “Let’s get a better look at this amazing work you did.” 

Your tongue pushed on the inside of your cheek, the skin puffing out and heating at the praise. 

“Alright, then.” 

chapter six

taglist

@juskonutoh @sseleniaa @aerina127 @sleepysoldier @angelicmisty @1800latenitecreep @venus-in-roses @myxticmoon @rando-no-5

[doomsayersunited]

A Decade Of Doom!

I started this blog ten years ago to compile the growing evidence that our planet would not longer be able to sustain human life by 2050, thanks to our continued, capitalist-fueled efforts to destroy all the systems we rely upon to sustain life. The first thing I put up here was this essay, on February 20, 2014. Now, a decade later, I thought it might be "fun" to look at what's changed: 1) Earth Overshoot Day

In 2014, "Earth Overshoot Day" (the day that humanity collectively consumes more resources from nature than it can regenerate over a year) was August 19th. Now, in 2024, Earth Overshoot Day is August 1st, 2.5 weeks earlier. At this rate and assuming things don't accelerate (even though they are likely to), Earth Overshoot Day will be around June 17th by 2050. 2) Biocapacity Biocapacity is the amount of resources contained on the planet required available to sustain life, measured by area. In 2014, I calculated that the planet had a biocapacity of 1.7 hectares per person. By dividing the total available biocapacity today in 2024 with the current global population as I did then, it now appears that there are just 1.5 hectares of planetary resources left per person to extract all the materials needed to sustain life, as well as all the area available to dispose of waste. That's a 12% loss over ten years. At that rate, we can expect to lose another 30% of biocapacity by 2050, going down to just 1.05 hectares per person by then, and that's assuming that the rate of biocapacity loss does not accelerate further and that the global population suddenly stops increasing after a run of non-stop increases spanning five centuries. Oh, also a reminder that the average human requires 2.7 hectares of land to sustain its current consumption habits/levels. So. 3) Individual Conservation To illustrate the futility of individual conservation at this point in the apocalypse, let me give you an example: If you were: a fully-vegan localvore living in a one-bedroom apartment with nine other people and using 100% renewably-generated electricity; who did not ever use motorized transportation of any kind or buy new clothing, furnishings, electronics, books, magazines, or newspapers and recycled all the waste you generated that was recyclable, you'd only require 1.4 hectares of biocapacity to sustain yourself. That is close to the kind of lifestyle extremism it would take to live sustainably. Deviate from that level of stoicism even slightly (say by living in a two-bedroom apartment with three other people instead of a one-bedroom apartment with nine other people and taking a single, four-hour roundtrip flight, once a year) and you're now consuming 1.6 hectares of biocapacity, which means you're using more resources than the world has available for you if everything was divided evenly among everybody. Of course, biocapacity, like all resources, are not divvied up evenly among everybody, which is why there are currently 114 different armed conflicts happening worldwide - the highest number of armed conflicts since 1946. 2023 was the most violent year in the last three decades. 4) Other Signs Of The End Times In my 2014 essay, I referenced the work of geologist Dr. Evan Fraser, who studies civilization collapse. In his book Empires of Food, Dr. Fraser noted common signs of a civilization about to collapse, which began to appear about two decades before it all goes completely to hell. Those signs were: -a rapidly-increasing and rapidly-urbanizing population We've added 700 million people to the planet since I began this blog in 2014. And where is everyone moving to?

-farmers increasingly specializing in just a small number of crops " "As farm ecosystems have been simplified, so too are the organisms that populate the farm.  A farm that specializes in a limited number of crops in short rotations does not, for example, look for plant varieties that do well in more complex rotations with intercropping.  A beef feedlot operation wants breeds that gain weight quickly on grain diets and does not want cattle breeds that digest well pasture grasses and thrive in all year outdoor environments on the range." The result? Recent estimates put the loss of global food diversity over the last 100 years at 75%. Over the 300,000 species of edible plants that exist, humans only consume about 200 of them in notable quantities, with 90% of crop plants not being grown commercially. -endemic soil erosion Climate change and the need to raise more crops have combined to increase the rate of agricultural soil erosion globally. Back in 2014, when I started blogging about the end of everything, the UN had already determined that there was only enough fertile soil left to plant 60 more annual crops. So, by 2074, we won't be able to grow food, full stop. This of course comes at a time when the global population continues to increase, and with it the need to grow more food. If projections are accurate, we will need to increase food production by 50% over the next three decades to feed everyone. -a dramatic increase in the cost of food and raw materials When I started this blog in 2014, I noted that 2011-2013 had seen the highest food prices on record. So what's happened since then?

It's important to point out here that the current food price spike started in 2020, so if Dr. Fraser's calculations are correct, the food system will collapse sometime around 2034, taking civilization with it. I closed my debut essay on this blog with a quote from the (now deceased) climate scientist Dr. James Lovelock, who advised a Guardian journalist to "enjoy life while you can. Because if you're lucky it's going to be 20 years before it hits the fan." That interview was published in 2008. We have four years left to enjoy.

[pudgiehedgie]

Just so you guys know, the net neutrality law is being blocked right now because the fcc wants to reclassify the electronics (that you are required to have for isp services) as class ii consumer products, and the isp corporations are trying to keep them considered class i business products (lowering taxes for isp companies through legal loopholes that currently allow them to pass the tax onto consumers through 'device rentals') but this is rarely mentioned in the few news posts I could find on the topic.

Please I beg you all to get this info out there.

sources I read and could find on the topic

https://tax.kenaninstitute.unc.edu/wp-content/uploads/2020/04/corptaxprice.pdf (pdf. study on how corporations pass taxes onto consumers)

https://www.theverge.com/2024/8/1/24211570/net-neutrality-sixth-circuit-stay-blocked-fcc

https://www.reuters.com/legal/us-court-blocks-biden-administration-net-neutrality-rules-2024-08-01/

https://www.usnews.com/news/top-news/articles/2024-10-31/us-appeals-court-questions-biden-administration-net-neutrality-rules

https://statescoop.com/court-blocks-fcc-net-neutrality-rules-2024/

[bitbybitbot]

Stone Computer

Stone computer is one of my most involved and time-consuming projects I have ever made.

The idea and early sketches first came to me around 2020 when I was thinking about what makes our electronic devices feel different from our other objects. Maybe it's a screen, maybe it's a button, maybe it's nothing but a single blinking light and subtle whirring. Any of these indicators can shift an object's perception from something that could be tossed across a room to something that is delicate and thinking; almost treated as alive. I started considering the smallest change needed to turn a thoughtless, solid object into a device, thereby changing how the viewer perceives and interacts with it.

It wouldn't be until four years later in the summer of 2024 when I was finally in a place to start working on this project for real. I was back in my home state of Rhode Island reconnecting with my friends. The previous summer, we had worked on an ambitious project that included teaching ourselves to anodize aluminum and conducting dangerous experiments in our own backyards. I was inspired by the accomplishment of working on and finishing a project like that just through having a vision and an obsessive work ethic, and I wanted to make something new the next summer.

My friend Cooper and I work well together: I study art and design, he studies electrical and computer engineering, and we share a strange abstract wavelength of thinking. It was the perfect pairing to make the stone computer a reality. We started with sketches designing what we wanted our computer to do. We made prototypes and tests as we went starting with the form made of chicken wire, the exterior sculpted from concrete, and finally inserting the electronic components and coding the machine.

The final piece is an interactive sculpture that generates a combination of odd words fed to the machine by Cooper and myself. Pressing the button flashes an LED indicator light and shows a new cryptic message on the LCD display. The organic shape of the concrete rock and the unique words it spits out give the stone computer a personality.

It is a fun to use and completely non-utilitarian interactive sculpture, and it makes me happy every time I look at it.

[mariacallous]

The economic winds whipped up by President Trump’s “Liberation Day” tariff proclamations in early April have been anything but a gentle breeze. Rising prices, fomenting trade wars, and uncertainty about when tariffs will go into effect has led to a volatile economic climate.

People looking to buy electronics and other goods affected by the tariffs are trying to figure out whether they should wait it out to see if the administration’s trade policies become more favorable, or quickly scoop up what they can while prices are still cheap-ish.

For consumers weighing a purchasing decision, buy now, pay later services like Klarna, Affirm, and Afterpay are offering to make that choice easier.

These companies make a relatively straightforward case: Spread out the cost of a purchase into smaller, more manageable payments over the course of a few weeks or months. Because BNPL services make deals with the sellers they’re providing the payment plans for, the companies behind the BNPLs don’t charge interest to the customer. So instead of spacing out a purchase with a credit card, say—which usually charges a high interest rate—BNPL would get you that thing you want for the listed price.

BNPL companies don’t require you to have good credit, and some only charge fees if you’re late with your payments. Otherwise it’s a nice free amenity—and one that might indicate bigger financial troubles across the economy.

Nadine Chabrier, ​​senior policy council at the nonprofit Center for Responsible Lending, says it is easy to see why BNPL services are appealing. “The top reasons consumers use buy now, pay later is because they can't afford the full cost of the item at once,” she says. “Another reason is because there's a higher approval rate. It's that convenience factor.”

Economic uncertainty—over tariffs, rising inflation, and the possibility of a looming recession—is giving consumers pause about stretching their limited funds. It’s rocky times like these when BNPL services become even more appealing.

“BNPL really skyrocketed in adoption during the pandemic,” says Matt Gross, a spokesperson for Affirm. “It may not be as high-growth now as you saw in 2020, 2021, when everyone was stuck at home shopping online, but we're still growing at orders of magnitude faster than broader spending and consumption levels.”

Stress Spending

Economic watchdogs have concerns about BNPL. The services often appeal to people with lower incomes, who financial experts have warned may be at risk of financially overextending themselves. Still, BNPL services are now woven into nearly every digital payment platform, and people have come to rely on them. PayPal offers it now, letting you spread out payments of almost anything. Klarna has partnered with DoorDash, so you can pay for your family’s dinner in weekly installments. And people aren’t just using them for electronics and pizza delivery, but also for basic essentials: A recent study found that 25 percent of BNPL users in the US were relying on the services to cover the costs of food and household sundries.

“Before tariffs even came into the picture, people were already using BNPL for gas and groceries,” Chabrier says. “We're already talking about folks who may not have a lot of money or credit to spare. Additional economic stress could be hard.”

“Absolutely, this is a leading indicator of financial distress,” says Martin Kleinbard, founder of the consultancy firm Granular Fintech who formerly worked at the Consumer Financial Protection Bureau and coauthored a CFPB report about BNPL. “Consumers are smart. They understand where they’re getting the lowest-cost-of-credit option here and are going to avail themselves of that for the goods they have to get.”

Kleinbard says that in terms of acquiring debt, BNPL services can be more forgiving than high-interest loans like credit cards and payday loans.

“BNPL has grown rapidly over the last five years,” Kleinbard says. “But it's still a tiny, tiny fraction of the overall spending and borrowing pie. You really have to think about it in the context of the alternatives. If the alternative is you were going to borrow anyway and it's an important purchase, then this is a pretty damn good option. This isn't a product with a lot of gotchas.”

Economically, lots of people have compared the looming uncertainty of the tariff situation with that of the pandemic. But Gross says Affirm has weathered the storm before and doesn’t expect this economic shakeup to be all that different.

“I wouldn't go so far as to say this is an opportunity for us, other than to say that I think the last several years and years into the future is an opportunity,” Gross says. “People are shifting their payment preferences to favor these types of products. And so in that sense, we are trying to be their favorite way to pay—not just when things are uncertain, but all the time.”

Storm Watch

Shawn DuBravac, chief economist at the electronics trade association IPC, says he agrees this is indeed a moment for buy now, pay later services, for better or worse. It’s a service that’s growing during a time of uncertainty that will make the service more appealing. The financial leg up it provides can indeed be helpful, but DuBravac cautions that the benefits are likely not evenly distributed.

“This could be a very good thing for some people; this could be a great service that could help them through a tough week,” DuBravac says. “But you can't get around the fact that people who are using it then might have all of a sudden a downturn in their job. They lose their job, their household goes from two incomes to one income, all of a sudden they're strained.”

As with any loan, both the borrower and the lender incur risk. DuBravac says this moment, if the economy truly does spiral, may be the first real test of whether the BNPL industry is stable enough to keep themselves and their borrowers afloat. How well that system maintains in the face of financial downturn really depends on whether people are using it as a convenience or out of necessity.

“Are they using it as a bridge or are they using it as a crutch?” DuBravac says. “If they're using it as a crutch, then I think there's a lot more risk there.”

[reasonsforhope]

"It may sound surprising, but when times are tough and there is no other food available, some soil bacteria can consume traces of hydrogen in the air as an energy source.

In fact, bacteria remove a staggering 70 million tonnes of hydrogen yearly from the atmosphere, a process that literally shapes the composition of the air we breathe.

We have isolated an enzyme that enables some bacteria to consume hydrogen and extract energy from it, and found it can produce an electric current directly when exposed to even minute amounts of hydrogen.

As we report in a new paper in Nature, the enzyme may have considerable potential to power small, sustainable air-powered devices in future.

Bacterial genes contain the secret for turning air into electricity

Prompted by this discovery, we analysed the genetic code of a soil bacterium called Mycobacterium smegmatis, which consumes hydrogen from air.

Written into these genes is the blueprint for producing the molecular machine responsible for consuming hydrogen and converting it into energy for the bacterium. This machine is an enzyme called a “hydrogenase”, and we named it Huc for short.

Hydrogen is the simplest molecule, made of two positively charged protons held together by a bond formed by two negatively charged electrons. Huc breaks this bond, the protons part ways, and the electrons are released...

The molecular blueprint for extracting hydrogen from air

With Huc isolated, we set about studying it in earnest, to discover what exactly the enzyme is capable of. How can it turn the hydrogen in the air into a sustainable source of electricity?

Remarkably, we found that even when isolated from the bacteria, Huc can consume hydrogen at concentrations far lower even than the tiny traces in the air. In fact, Huc still consumed whiffs of hydrogen too faint to be detected by our gas chromatograph, a highly sensitive instrument we use to measure gas concentrations...

Enzymes could use air to power the devices of tomorrow

It’s early days for this research, and several technical challenges need to be overcome to realise the potential of Huc.

For one thing, we will need to significantly increase the scale of Huc production. In the lab we produce Huc in milligram quantities, but we want to scale this up to grams and ultimately kilograms.

However, our work demonstrates that Huc functions like a “natural battery” producing a sustained electrical current from air or added hydrogen.

As a result, Huc has considerable potential in developing small, sustainable air-powered devices as an alternative to solar power.

The amount of energy provided by hydrogen in the air would be small, but likely sufficient to power a biometric monitor, clock, LED globe or simple computer. With more hydrogen, Huc produces more electricity and could potentially power larger devices.

Another application would be the development of Huc-based bioelectric sensors for detecting hydrogen, which could be incredibly sensitive. Huc could be invaluable for detecting leaks in the infrastructure of our burgeoning hydrogen economy or in a medical setting.

In short, this research shows how a fundamental discovery about how bacteria in soils feed themselves can lead to a reimagining of the chemistry of life. Ultimately it may also lead to the development of technologies for the future."

-via The Conversation, March 8, 2023. Article written by the authors of the study.

[blakeswritingimagines]

Life With Yandere Hanzo Hasashi

Every waking moment is occupied with thoughts of you; your health, and your well-being, he is watching you constantly, and thinking of you, from the moment you leave until the moment you come back. He wants nothing in this god-forsaken world, except for you. He wants you to love him, he will do whatever it takes to keep you, no matter the cost.

The life of a yandere is intense and consuming. Every thought, every desire, every action revolves around his darling. He lives for you, and you alone. His whole existence is centered on adoring, protecting, and possessing you. His heart races when you smile at him, and he would do anything to make you happy. It is a constant battle between his need to control and his need to prove his love.

A yandere is a complex being. His love is strong and deep, but it is often accompanied by jealousy and possessiveness. He struggles to balance his need to protect you and his jealousy when other people get close. He desires to know everything about you, and he might become upset and even violent if he feels like you're not giving him enough attention or if he senses that you are keeping something from him.

Being a yandere, he would constantly worry about your safety and well-being. He would always want to be near you, to ensure your protection and keep an eye on you. He would get extremely jealous if you even talk to someone else, fearing that you might like them more than him. He would obsess over every detail about you, from your favorite songs and movies to your daily routine. The depths of his love and obsession are truly endless.

Every morning he would make sure that you wake up to a warm and delicious breakfast. Then he would accompany you throughout the day, making sure you are always within his sight and reach.

During the day he would always keep his phone close, ready to answer your every call, text, or message immediately, no matter what he was doing at the time.

In his free time, he would probably do anything that you enjoy doing: Shopping, watching movies, or just simply enjoying each other's company. In the evening, he would make sure to make you a delicious and elegant dinner.

A typical day for him with his darling would be filled with constant attention and affection. He would wake up early and prepare breakfast for you. Then, he would drive you to work and spend the entire day thinking about you. When you come home, he would have dinner ready and wait for you eagerly. After that, he would want to spend every moment with you, often showering you with gifts and affection. He would want to talk for hours, listen to your day, and just be close to you.

During the nighttime, he would be at his most clingy and needy. He would want to be as close as possible to you, holding onto you tightly, and often wrapping his arms and legs around you, in an attempt to be completely enveloped in your presence. He would probably spend hours just staring into your eyes, studying every detail of your face, and finding new things to love about you.

During the night, he would probably enjoy spending time with you, talking and cuddling until you fall asleep. He would then watch you sleep for hours, just admiring your beauty. If you have nightmares, he would do his best to comfort you, holding you close and vowing to kill anyone who tries to hurt you. He would be the first to wake up in the morning just so he can start his day serving you with love and adoration.

His days and nights, his every thought, and every breath, everything is dedicated to you and you alone. His whole existence would revolve around you.

Yanderes in general, love to pamper their darling with gifts, and this one is no exception. On your birthdays and anniversaries, he would go above and beyond to give you the best gift possible. Whether it be jewelry, clothes, or even expensive electronics, he would spend hours and hours trying to think of the best way to show his love for you.

If you work, you would often find him randomly visiting you at lunch, just to spend some time with you, and make sure you're alright.

He would probably spend a lot of his free time just observing you, studying every move and expression you make. He would make sure to remember every single detail about you, from your favorite foods and colors to your little quirks and habits. He would buy you whatever you wanted. He wouldn’t mind if you asked for his entire bank account. After all, his main priority is to make sure you are happy.

Being a yandere, he would also be rather possessive of you, constantly wanting to know where you are and what you are doing at all times. He would likely demand that you share your location with him, so he can always know where you are. He might also have a habit of checking your phone and messages, just to make sure you are not talking to other men. He would not hesitate to intervene in any conversation he deems inappropriate or threatening to your relationship. He might even go as far as to isolate you from your friends and family, to keep you all for himself.

He would plan special dates and surprises for you, just to keep things fresh and exciting. He would even go to the extremes, like taking you to an extremely expensive place and hiring an entire staff just to serve you.

He would definitely be very protective of you and your boundaries. He would not tolerate anyone who tries to cross a line or disrespect you in any way.

He would also hate it if you ever hid anything from him. He would want to know everything, no matter how small or unimportant it may seem, to him - secrets are unacceptable.

He would constantly compliment you, telling you that you are beautiful, smart, and perfect in every way. He would encourage you and support you in all your endeavors, always believing in your talents and skills. If you have any insecurities, he will try his best to ease them and make you see your own worth. He would remind you every day how much he loves you.

[partisan-by-default]

Data centers in the United States are consuming so much power that they may be impacting the flow of electricity to millions of Americans.

AI data centers are sprouting up across the country to meet the increased demand for AI, but they're also sucking up the power on which millions of Americans rely.

The new tech is demanding massive amounts of energy from grids that are, in some areas, already stressed. Researchers have estimated that AI centers could need three to five times the power used by traditional facilities, Business Insider previously reported.

A Bloomberg analysis assessed readings from some 770,000 homes from February to October and found that over 75% of "highly distorted power readings across the country are within 50 miles of significant data center activity."

Stresses on the power grid can lead to inconsistent power quality, and as the power quality decreases, the risk increases, Bloomberg reported. Inconsistent energy flow can cause electronics to overheat, leading to sparks or even house fires.

[beakers-and-telescopes]

Genetically Modified Bacteria Produce Energy From Wastewater

E. Coli is one of the most widely studied bacteria studied in academic research.  Though most people probably associate it with food/water borne illness, most strains of E. Coli are completely harmless.  They even occur naturally within your intestines.  Now, scientists at EPFL have engineered a strain of E. Coli that can generate electricity.

The survival of bacteria depends on redox reactions.  Bacteria use these reactions to interconvert chemicals in order to grow and metabolize.  Since bacteria are an inexhaustible natural resource, many bacterial reactions have been industrially implemented, both for creating or consuming chemical substrates.  For instance, you may have heard about researchers discovering bacteria that can break down and metabolize plastic, the benefits of which are obvious.  Some of these bacterial reactions are anabolic, which means that they need to be provided external energy in order to carry it out, but others are catabolic, which means that the reactions actually create energy.  

Some bacteria, such as Shewanella oneidensis, can create electricity as they metabolize.  This could be useful to a number of green applications, such as bioelectricity generation from organic substrates, reductive extracellular synthesis of valuable products such as nanoparticles and polymers, degradation of pollutants for bioremediation, and bioelectronic sensing.  However, electricity producing bacteria such as Shewanella oneidensis tend to be very specific.  They need strict conditions in order to survive, and they only produce electricity in the presence of certain chemicals.  

The method that Shewanella oneidensis uses to generate electricity is called extracellular electron transfer (EET).  This means that the cell uses a pathway of proteins and iron compounds called hemes to transfer an electron out of the cell.  Bacteria have an inner and outer cell membrane, so this pathway spans both of them, along with the periplasmic space between.  In the past, scientists have tried to engineer hardier bacteria such as E. Coli with this electron-generating ability.  It worked… a little bit.  They were only able to create a partial EET pathway, so the amount of electricity generated was fairly small.

Now, the EPFL researchers have managed to create a full pathway and triple the amount of electricity that E. Coli can produce.  "Instead of putting energy into the system to process organic waste, we are producing electricity while processing organic waste at the same time -- hitting two birds with one stone!" says Boghossian, a professor at EPFL. "We even tested our technology directly on wastewater that we collected from Les Brasseurs, a local brewery in Lausanne. The exotic electric microbes weren't even able to survive, whereas our bioengineered electric bacteria were able to flourish exponentially by feeding off this waste."

This development is still in the early stages, but it could have exciting implications both in wastewater processing and beyond.

"Our work is quite timely, as engineered bioelectric microbes are pushing the boundaries in more and more real-world applications" says Mouhib, the lead author of the manuscript. "We have set a new record compared to the previous state-of-the-art, which relied only on a partial pathway, and compared to the microbe that was used in one of the biggest papers recently published in the field. With all the current research efforts in the field, we are excited about the future of bioelectric bacteria, and can't wait for us and others to push this technology into new scales."

[aroacewxs]

my personal interpretation of cyberpunk dead boy

finished the event story today (thank you sekai.best my dear buddy pal) and looped the comm numerous times and studied the lyrics under a microscope, so i will now ramble a bit about my thoughts!! spoilers for backlit lens flare.

cyberpunk dead boy, from what i can tell, describes how modern consumerism and fame affects artists. it tells the story of an artist who started out with big dreams of portraying their feelings through their work, but slowly began spiralling into this pit of numbers and recognition and a vain desire for attention. whatever they wanted to communicate with their audience no longer has any substance or thought. they are then left wondering about whatever it is they dreamed of before this. what was the story they wanted to tell? does it even matter anymore?

cyberpunk "dead boy." the artist no longer lives for their art. there is nothing to breathe life into. are they even alive at this point?

on the other hand, we are also given the perspective of the consumers. consumers who don't care about the thought put into a piece of art, consumers who only care about whether this will make them feel good or not.

when you connect these two, you get a vain, lost artist who no longer sees their audience as individual human beings, but as VIEWERS. BUYERS. and these members of the audience are also trapped in this loop of consuming, throwing away, and finding something else to sink their teeth into. there is nothing meaningful being created.

rui's 4 star illustrates these audience members quite well. see, none of the passing people are. people. they have electronic devices for heads, and they're all glued to their phones. the little child holding their parent's hand, it should be a very wholesome and endearing sight, but it just feels wrong. there is no connection being developed between the two. this card depicts this haunting dystopian society where art no longer carries any weight for the human race, and we are all just left as hollow vessels with a mindless desire for meaningless entertainment. we don't develop any connections with other human beings, and the feelings that rui wants to evoke within his audience are futile.

on that note, the themes in this comm and the cards are incredibly oppositional to rui's own philosophy. what HE wants to achieve with his own art, his dream. compared to the thoughtless robots this artist sees their audience as, rui is incredibly caring and treats every single living being with such soft tenderness. he sees his audience as people. everything around him, the nature, the interactions he has with others, every single detail in his environment is a source of inspiration for his work. every single detail means that much to him. and whenever rui encounters a new artwork, a new play or story, he never just plays it off like "YUP another play. same old." he practically takes apart each layer one by one, studies it intently and tries to understand what kind of meaning the artist wanted to communicate. he then applies it to his own life, and to his own work. to think that rui would ever treat art and stories as something to just be eaten, thrown out, and forgotten about, is unfathomable.

this only leads me to wonder about the role sakaki will play in wxs's current arc. we ended off the story with ohara explaining to sakaki that rui is interested in stage production, and would probably encounter him again in the future. the way they framed this cliffhanger makes it only correct to assume that sakaki will return and will have a bigger part to play in wxs's story and their development.

sakaki intrigues me. his manner of speaking is very light and careless, his mannerisms even more so. compared to ohara, who is incredibly headstrong and burning like the sun with passion for his work and every single detail that is put into it, sakaki treats these details like they're just. there. takes one look at the scene ohara is having trouble with and it clicks instantly in his head. says some cryptic shit and packs his bag to leave.

furthermore, considering that most event commissions are written for the characters, for the story in that event, i really wonder who this song is about? is it about sakaki? will rui encounter this exact same problem about wondering what it was he wanted to portray from the beginning (unlikely imo, but would be interesting to see). nothing in backlit lens flare even remotely hints toward the lyricism in cyberpunk dead boy (i may have missed something, correct me if im wrong) which only excites me more for their next focus hehehe !!!

this was just a bunch of word vomit,, thank you for bearing with me, hopefully it makes sense?!?