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moondirti · 1 year

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animalic (2)

← chapter 1 // series masterlist

pairing: Miguel O'Hara x F!Reader rating: mature word count: 2.2k summary: a game of cat and mouse warnings: enemies to lovers, canon typical violence, guns, death, blood, angst, no use of y/n (reader is referred to as ‘wraith’) notes: remember when i said part 2 would take a while? i lied. the next chapter is fun as all hell so i wanted to churn this one out as build up. teehee i hope yall like it regardless

He let you go.

No matter how Miguel tries to vindicate it, he rounds back to the same conclusion. You weren’t subtle, regardless of what you’d have yourself believe; he’d seen the calculations glaze over your eyes the instant he pinned you to the wall. He knew what was coming, how your heavy breathing was a cover for the clicks of his watch – of which he heard regardless – and your squirming a diversion from the movement of your busy fingers. He had a goddamn plan too, a fail safe in case you decided to attack instead of listening to reason.

(One he’d settled on for the duration of your lost consciousness, for knowledge that you would.)

So, there is no dismissing it. You’re obnoxious and lack precision, and he could have had you halfway back home by now, which isn’t the case – because he let you go.

The frigid air of his office thrums with irritation, weighing down on his shoulders until they collapse inwards, his hands coming up to rub the weariness off his expression. HQ has been unsettlingly quiet as of late – occupied by only a fraction of its regular population – and the peace worries him. History betrays its status as the precursor to havoc; lulls in the past have fooled him into believing his mission was drawing to a close, only for another anomaly, another mess, to spin that naivety on its head.

You were one such instance. A year ago, you’d popped up on an Earth that wasn’t your own, and didn’t leave until you’d drawn all that you could from it. It’s an empty husk now, lacking land to propagate its agriculture. Thousands – millions – dead, from the flap of a butterfly’s wings.

Parasite. A fucking parasite who just won’t quit.

The mantra surges through him, festering from the base of his gut to the cap of his tongue. It bursts out with a roar right then, the sudden violence finding monitors thrown across the room, smashed to bits of orange light and static. It does nothing to sate him, though, the heady anger filtering out like molasses. His back hunches as he draws in thin breaths. He doesn’t count, nor does he attempt to. Instead, he looks for his only real decompressor.

The video of Gabriella flickers at him from a distant floor, the transparent tablet wrecked with four distinct claw marks. He exhales, pulling it back to the platform with an extended web.

“Boss,”

His mija smiles toothily down at his digital self, winding her small palms in his hair for balance as he carries her. He recalls helping with hers, tying it back into shabby ponytails the mornings before a big game. How she wouldn’t let anyone fix it afterwards, not until her elastic slipped off the ends and her bangs hindered her playing. And she’d run to him, whenever, to get it fixed again.

“Boss.”

Her jokes resonate still, echoing laughter from when she’d poke fun at how bad he’d gotten at it, amused by the sudden decline in ability. To Miguel, it was one more reminder that the life he led wasn’t his own.

“Oh Miguel!”

So much for calming down.

“Lyla.” He looks up at the virtual assistant, her corporeal character a little fuzzy around the edges. She chooses to ignore his dissociative episode, rather projecting a map of the arachno-humanoid poly-multiverse, a point off centre highlighted in red. His heart skips. Placing the tablet down on his desk, he takes a step closer to survey the pin.

“Managed to track the Wraith down using the day pass you’d given her. Currently stationed on Earth-15, no signs of jumping anytime soon.”

Parasitic, and stupid enough to forgo destroying a potential tracking device.

Lyla snickers, seemingly able to read the sneer pulling at his cheeks.

“Seems like she’s afraid of glitching more so than she is you, Boss.”

His glare snaps to meet her heart shaped sunglasses.

“Funny.” His assistant shrugs at his admonishment. “Pull up the anomaly cam.”

A second later, your figure blinks into sight.

You’re crouched atop a tiled floor, the grout darkened to near-black with grime. In front of you lies a sparse spread of medical supplies; gauze, scissors, and miniature packets of disinfectant wipes. Miguel can’t help but wonder what you think you’re doing, treating your wounds in a bathroom as unsanitary as the one that cramps you. Graffiti littered walls, nests of used paper towels in every corner. You spring up to wash your hands after undoing the old bandages that hugged your forearm, but all that comes out is an inconsistent splutter of grey water.

His chest twinges, a tug of intrinsic sympathy playing against him. It worsens at the sight of your injury, the consequences of his talons’ assault on you, the puncture points brimming yellow and blackening closer to their middles. He can’t tell whether it’s gotten any better, whether you were good and had it treated by a professional, or made the common mistake of relying too much on your enhanced healing.

“Gave her a harsh gig there. You always that rough?”

“When I need to be.” Miguel murmurs, skimming over the conspicuous innuendo.

“Right. Until it comes to finishing the job, that is.” And, despite the offence taken to Lyla’s jest, he can hardly disagree. Newfound resolve hardens within him, sympathy fleeting at its failure to deter him.

“Set coordinates for Earth-15.” He rumbles, gesturing to his wrist as he walks away. The assistant does as she’s told, shrinking back to an icon on his watch. While waiting for the portal to configure, Miguel cocks his head, taking one last look at your oblivious form.

“I won't let her get away this time.”

“Put the money in the fucking bag or she gets it!”

Of all the spider-people you’ve met, you don’t believe any have been the hostage in an armed robbery situation. You imagine that they’d come in at the last minute, valiantly swinging through the window, accentuating their arrival in a shower of shattered glass. They’d demand the money be remitted, and all’s well that ends well. But – of course – there’s got to be a first for everything; your record just so happens to be the lamest of the bunch.

The masked man presses the gun further into your temple, bursting capillaries until the spot starts to ache with a raw tenderness. His body wraps around you, other arm waving wildly outwards, extending a plastic bag to the poor soul behind the register. You take a great gulp of air, staring at the buzzing fluorescents above, and pray.

Lord, now would be a really good time to phase out.

“P-Please, leave her be.” The owner throws a potful of crumpled fives into the bag, as if to punctuate her plea. The man is dismissive in face, urging her for more, shaking the receptacle with comedic insistence. You purse your lips, blinking up at the ceiling once more.

Or make this more exciting, at the very least.

“And you!” You’re jolted out of being a passive observer, rattled when the man diverts his attention to you. His gun thrusts harder against your forming bruise, adding to the list of damages sustained in the past week alone. You peer at him from the corner of your eye. His roll incredulously, pointing to the bill in your grip. “The twenty!”

“Is that a real gun?”

“Wha– Of course it’s a real fucking gun! Put the money–”

“In the bag. I know.”

His hold on you slackens, expectant. By contrast, you ball your fist and punch him square in the nose. The hit sends him reeling farther than it should for the amount of space you had in winding back, the feat prompting a deluge of pride to wash over you. It’s bolstered when he drops the spoils in the process, toppling into a rack of chips and cup noodles that consequently cushion his fall.

Your first save.

Filled with bravado, you snatch and pass over the bag to the cashier.

“Here you go, ma’am.”

But she doesn’t look at you. Rather, her stare remains trained on the man you’d just disabled. Nerves maturating, you join her line of vision, only to be met with the barrel end of his weapon. You catch the vicious conclusion in the way his hand trembles, veins protruding from the pale skin, supplying courage to the finger hovering right over the trigger. You process it all, aware of the ways it can end, at how fast it can sour.

Before you can so much as act on it, he shoots.

Your skin prickles.

You’ve heard stories of people who don’t realise when a bullet strikes them. Their bodies take time to catch up to the pain, cells stuck in paralytic shock, stimulus signals held somewhere between the existential and a will to delay the inevitable. You think you understand what they mean, your mind dragging in a rare bout of silence. Things slow, for a perennial moment, and you wonder how fast the blood loss will kill you.

You can do nothing but follow the man, who scrambles to a stand, letting him take the money – with whatever else – and watching as he runs out onto the street.

And even still, the pain hasn’t caught up to you.

Looking down, the case starts piecing itself together. No blood sticks to your shirt, the fabric still as pristine as it had been upon purchase. You check your arms, then your legs, then reach up to smooth over your head. Nothing. You’re okay.

The relief is short-lived when the morbid sound of gurgling meets your ears. Slowly, you turn, bracing for what you knew you’d find.

The scene unfolds with a distressing intensity as crimson liquid blooms from the cashier’s throat. The torrent is never-ending, every gush of ichor bringing forth a new momentum, splattering its macabre scene over the register. Her eyes gloss over with an unshed panel of tears, and she looks to you for help.

She looks to you.

(You don’t admit it to yourself, but it’s the novelty of that fact that pushes you into action.)

With a swift leap over the counter, you intercept her mid-fall, carefully cradling her weight as you guide her down to the ground. Scanning your surroundings, you search for a means to call for help. A rotary phone catches your recognition, situated a ways off by the back exit. Despite the inconvenient placement, it stands as your sole option at this stage.

In a split second decision, you sling your backpack off, hastily rummaging through its contents. You find solace in your hoodie, gathering its folds to tightly bunch it up, converting it into a makeshift compress. Knowing she lacks the strength to apply pressure to the wound, you move to wrap it around her neck, hopeful that it’s tight enough to stem the bleeding while leaving enough room for air.

Urgency fuelling your every step, you leave her side for a fleeting moment, dashing over to call an ambulance. Your medical knowledge only extends so far, and some selfish part of you itches to pass on the responsibility to someone more competent. It’s an impulse that derives from an innate acceptance, that resoundingly insightful voice in your head telling you it's too late. That she’s already dead, had been from the moment the bullet – that was meant for you – missed.

Perhaps your help isn’t really helpful at all, then. Perhaps it’s your attempt to wash your hands of the sin. You think back to the grey water in the bathroom, how exasperated you had been at your inability to stay clean.

(You don’t think you’ll ever rid yourself of this.)

“911, what’s your emergency?” The question crackles through the receiver.

The bell by the entrance jingles, the chime accompanied by heavy footsteps. You press yourself against the wall, the concept of the robber returning filling you with such dread that you feel your stomach tighten and congeal. It’s a heavy lump, icy cold and slippery, and it seems to weigh a hundred pounds.

“Hello?” The operator says.

But if it was the man, then he'd have to have changed into a navy and red suit. Somehow, your terror worsens.

“Hijo de la chingada…” The whisper is barely legible, but the deep baritone is discernible enough to validate the assumption pulled from your brief glimpse. You’d recognise him anywhere.

Shrinking in on yourself, you cup your palm over your mouth. “Hello,”

“Ma’am? Can you describe your emergency?”

“There was an armed robbery at the convenience off sixth and Third. Someone’s hurt.” You hardly register the words as they escape you, eyeing Miguel when he crouches over the lady. You’re propelled back to the conclusion of your last meeting; how his claws tore into you, how his persistence didn't falter until you pressed yourself onto him.

That kiss.

He runs a finger over your hoodie-turned-compress, wavering, like he can’t quite place where he’d seen it before.

Or, maybe he can, for he spins to meet your wide-eyed stare.

You drop the phone, bolting out the back door, charged on a paroxysm of adrenaline and pure, unadulterated panic.

chapter 3 →

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ulsigns · 1 year

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dramaticals · 2 months

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daisy chains

pairing: theodore nott x reader

summary: daisy chains mean a lot to you, and theo makes you one to tell you how he feels. fluff. / requested by anonymous.

word count: 789

author's note: i fear i'm an angst gal and i'm rusty when it comes to fluff. and if you squint, pansy's also interested in reader.

"When will you give it up?"

Your fingers were stained green, and loose petals were sticking to your fingers. It was a messy task that shouldn't have been messy at all, but you were determined, as always.

"Never," you said, giving Pansy a pointed look. "Daisy chains are so cute. My dad used to make them for my mom and me when I was younger. Honestly, if someone made me one, I'd take it as a sign and marry them on the spot."

"Interesting." Pansy said, a look flashing across her face that definitely meant she was tucking the information away for later. You don't notice, as your gaze was focused on the wilting flowers loosely tied together.

"I feel like you're setting me up." Theo said. His eyes flickered between his meticulously-made daisy chain and a smug Pansy. Theo had spent all morning carefully tying daises together by hand (using magic felt like cheating).

"Oh, please. When have I ever led you astray?" Pansy scoffed, holding up a single digit to preemptively shut Theo's smartass response down. "Just trust me, Nott. You wanted a way to show her you were interested in her, and I'm telling you the perfect way to do it. Now go and give it to her, before I regret ever telling you this."

Theo shook his head and took another look at the daisy chain in his hands. He'd never put himself out there like this before (as he typically only made moves if he was 100% on the other's reciprocated feelings), and it was increasingly nerve-wracking considering he was putting himself out there for you.

You and Theo had been friends ever since you bumped into each other on the train in first year. All the cabins were full and Theo had impulsively invited you to sit in with him and his friends. The two of you got along so well that his friends had admitted that they'd never seen Theo so chatty with a newcomer in his life.

"Merlin, any longer and those poor flowers will wilt."

"Jokes on you, I put a stasis charm on them."

"Stop stalling." Pansy said, shoving Theo forward and in your direction.

You were sat on a ledge in the courtyard, scribbling into a notebook, completely unaware of Theo approaching.

He cleared his throat. You looked up.

"Theo," you greeted with a smile. You closed your notebook and set it aside. "I missed you at breakfast."

"Yeah, I was pretty busy." Theo said, settling down beside you, careful not to reveal the flower crown hidden behind his back.

You gave him a nod of understanding, shifting slightly to make room for him. "Let me guess: the History of Magic paper? Because that one's such a pain—"

"No, not that. I mean, yeah, that paper was rough. But I was actually making something for you."

"For me?"

Theo nodded, and you gave him a curious look. He looked nervous—his perpetual bedhead was perpetually bedhead-ing more than usual, and his gaze couldn't hold yours for more than a second. You were ready to point his demeanour out to him until he revealed a daisy chain that rivalled the one in your fondest childhood memories.

"Oh," you sounded, your eyes bright in shock. Your lips curled into a smile at the sight. It was delicate and perfect and it was better than anything you've ever made. If you weren't so familiar with daises, you'd have sworn it was fake. "Wait, but how did you...?"

"Pansy told me." Theo said, his thumb grazing one of the petals gently. "May I?"

You nodded, and Theo placed the flower crown atop your head. You bit back a smile as you brushed your own fingers against the crown.

"I love it, Theo," you said. Unable to hold your excitement back any longer, you threw your arms around his neck and pulled him in for a hug. "Thank you. It's perfect."

You felt Theo laugh as you embraced him, his shoulders relaxing and the tension easing away. As he pulled back, a teasing smirk tugged at his lips.

"I know you told Pans you'd marry the person on the spot, but I'll be kind and gracious and not hold you to that promise. I'll happily accept a date, though."

"A date?" Your cheeks flushed pink. You're too stunned to even comment on the fact that Pansy had told Theo about your half-joking daisy-chain-marriage-pact and he had acted on it.

"I want to take you out on a date."

"You do?" You asked, not unkindly. It was obvious to nearly everyone how your feelings for Theo had blossomed into something more than friendship. You just never thought it'd be a possibility.

"Yes. Will you let me?"

#theodore nott #theo nott #theodore nott fanfiction #theodore nott imagine #theo nott x reader #theo nott imagine #theo nott fanfic #theo nott x y/n #theo nott x you #theodore nott x you #theodore nott x y/n #theodore nott x reader #*writing

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lovelybotblog · 1 month

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─ iv. sympathy is a knife

summary: For some reason the universe always puts you in an unfavorable situation, a super secret mission with the person you don't want to encounter, you wouldn't achieve, not even if you tried. pairing: Satoru Gojo x female reader content: this bitches are messy asf, you guys are classmates but you don't fw his personality, I would say most of this is angst and also backstory from the reader song of the chapter: sympathy is a knife by charli xcx word count: 6.2k

“y/n, come here,” Sensei Yaga called you behind your back.

You pulled your head out of the classroom you were peaking for any sign of an acquaintance. You went for a nap after your morning class but since then neither Shoko nor Suguru had made an appearance, oddly to the usual, because they always managed to sneak on your bedroom and accompany you in the bed or sitting in your desk and finishing their homework, sharing the warmth of the sunset rays invading your room by the window.

“Follow me.” Your superior orders as you close the door in front of you, you raise an eyebrow when you catch a glimpse of mysteriousness in his movements, but never questioning it. You did the requested, walking behind the big figure of his.

You were getting used to sudden motivational talks and secret training sessions. You have met him before entering Jujutsu High, the first time you remember meeting him was at your parents funeral, ten years ago when Sensei Yaga had just gotten his teaching license. Nowadays, you weren’t really saddened by the absence of your parents, you no longer remembered them as much, they were like fleeting memories. You were too young, and you didn’t remember most of your early years, but the way you saw how your life was getting discussed in the living room of your house by your family and some said friends of your parents was important enough to remember.

"She's too young for us to take her, you know that," you remember hearing Yaga say to your mother's sister.

"Well, she is one of your kind, isn't she?" The woman replied, arms crossed, tears pooling in her eyes. You were never appreciated in that family of non-sorcerers, to them you were the spitting image of your father, the man who led your mother astray. "It will be easier for you to control her than we ever will be, that girl is a bad omen."

You still remembered the repudiation that their eyes expressed, the rejection that they always had towards you, a girl who hugged the empty coffin of her parents because the thing that killed them didn’t even leave a trace of their existence.

Your mother came from a middle-class, non-sorcerer family in the suburbs of Tokyo. It was a surprise to them to learn that their youngest daughter had "diabolical" abilities, though they let it pass because she was a good girl and still had time to be rescued, but that hope was dashed when she met your father and announced her marriage. Your father was a deserted member of the Zen'in clan, a promising sorcerer but considered "weak" by the family when he refused to fulfill the role assigned to him.

Sensei Yaga was their younger classmate, one of his closest friends. He never had the opportunity to meet the daughter of his idols due to a busy schedule, until the assigned mission was to analyze the case of their death.

"It will only be a few years, the father's family is not an option." Sensei Yaga implored, knowing what you would be subjected to if you fell into the hands of the Zen'in. If he had the chance he would have taken you under his protection, but the director had been cautious enough and forbade it. With a pension of high digits he managed to get your mother's sister to agree, but that didn’t prevent the Zen'in from finding your existence and with a larger check you being acquired.

He had never confirmed it to you, but you know that deep down he cares about you. Ever since the checkups he took the time to do on you when you were under the control of the Zen'in clan, where you were neglected by the Old Man, how you always called the person who was assigned to take care of you and train you, but he did nothing but scold you and punish you if you didn't do outstanding right away.

"Are you going to tell me what's all the fuss about or...?" You inquired, hands posing on the side of your hips in annoyance, one of your feet tapping the floor as you saw your professor close the door of his office then moving to the chair of his desk.

He sighed, you always try to show everyone off with a defensive and calculating position, but that didn't work with him, he had met your scared and childish side. "I have a top secret mission for you." A smirk fighted to escape when he saw your eyebrows extend in curiosity and your eyes shine with hunger, waiting for more information. “This is the direction.” He handed you a paper with his writing on it.

"And what do I have to do?" You asked again, unsure of what to think. Usually they gave you papers with all the information about the case, maybe this was different because it was secret.

The illusion of having your first top secret mission collapsed when your superior spoke again.

"I entrusted this mission to Satoru Gojo in the morning, as I suppose you have noticed his absence in today's class," Yaga respond, of course you noticed, it didn't need a genius to see the lack of irritating noise and the eyes of a creep on your back missing. "He was supposed to just pick up a package and return, tha assistant assigned to accompany him lost him, you have to find him-"

His words were cut off by the paper he gave you, being irreverent thrown at his desk. "Sir, with all due respect, why don't you find another person to babysit that boy?"

Yaga fought the urge to rant about your generation of brats and troublemakers, always harassing his peace, but he just breathed out, "Because you are the best of your class, and the person I trust to bring back the package and Gojo Satoru."

"Then why did you send an incompetent like him before me?" You huffed, jutting your hip, leaning forward in an accusative way, he was so lying to your face.

“Ehh? I'm your authority, you shouldn't be questioning me, young lady." The professor pointed out, handing you the paper again. He hoped that would be enough for you to take the case with no-whining about it. You took the paper from his hand, dissatisfied with the situation he was putting you on.

"Is that all?"

He nodded, dismissing you with a wave of his hand, trying not to chuckle as he watched you give him your back grumbling. He knew he might provoke some riot, forcing you to interact with Gojo. Actually, he didn't even need to give his students the mission. It was just a request the principal had made him, an easy to-do, but Yaga was too fatigued and Gojo was getting on his nerves earlier in the day, so yeah, the first thing that came on his mind was sending him away to a ‘mission he was the only one capable to do’.

You smacked your tongue against your teeth as you got out of the car that took you to the shopping district in downtown Tokyo, passing by Gojo's assistant. You couldn't blame him, your partner was a nightmare to deal with, but because of his carelessness you now found yourself searching for the strongest sorcerer on a street filled with crowds of people.

“Which way did he go?” You asked the assistant without stopping your walk, analyzing the street and the stores in the place. It was obvious that he got distracted from the purpose of his visit, you knew that if he had been attacked he would have easily gotten out of it, so that was not an option.

“Over there," the man replied, an unsettling anxious tone in his voice. He screwed up leaving Gojo alone, and now another sorcerer was sent to finish the job. "But that was hours ago. When I went to look for him, I couldn't find him. I don't know where he could be now. I'm really sorry."

“No worries, and thank you.” You reassured him, trying to put on your best smile to comfort him. You didn't know where he could be either, you didn't know him well enough to know where he could be, he could even have already left.

You continued walking down the sidewalk, glancing at the shops trying to find something that your classmate might be interested in. You were sure that the hardest part of the mission was finding him, but for a moment the option of picking up the package crossed your mind. After all, Gojo would be back that night or the next day, but you couldn't afford to leave a classmate behind. You were tasked with returning with the package and Gojo Satoru.

You chuckled, the universe always managed to get him on the track of your life, it was funny because that was one of the few things you avoided. Then you remembered how Suguru, one break between classes, when you and him were laying in a tree, the shadow of it cooling you from the heat of the sun, your shoulder brushing each other, and the first thing he said to you was, 'Why don't you try to sympathize with him?'

How could you? He threatened your success, your well being in your family was based on how much you could match his strength, they didn't expect anything from someone like you, you were warned to stay away from him, the reason the sorcerer community was shakened. Yet, you thought that if you were strong, you could live a better life. You didn't needed to gain approval by the Zen'in clan, but you did want to prove that you could be better than what they expected, that you could be someone to fear.

It burned you, it embarrassed you the way you think of him.

You finished browsing the clothing stores without any trace of his cursed energy, you were at the crossroads between the souvenir street and the food street. You would be in a dilemma if you hadn't seen the disgusting way he ate morbid amounts of food.

By now he should be hungry, you wanted to be sure you were right, little by little your annoyance began to increase and if you didn't find him quickly, the news of a whole street being strangely banished was going to be on the cover of the newspaper the next morning.

You had been walking for about an hour, approaching the windows of the shops to get a better look at the people, it was easy to notice a tall mop of white hair. You were really trying to convince yourself that spending so much time with non-sorcerers helped you understand them better, but god- you couldn't help but get irritated, noticing how they worried about such insignificant things, living so naïvely of the world around them.

You were starting to think about the 'what if', you hated those words. Rarely, but sometimes you think about what your life would be like if you weren't a sorcerer, nothing ever comes to your mind.

Almost unnoticed, a Mochis stand flashes in the background of your peripheral vision. A strong feeling hit your chest, suddenly cursed energy was screaming all over the place, that was why you hadn't noticed it from a distance.

You strode down to him, sneaking through the crowd of female vendors surrounding him, offering him samples of all kinds of mochi. Of course you were going to find him in that kind of situation. He was so delighted that he didn't notice you by his side for a few seconds, his arms were scoot with bags of shopping hanging, his hands full of the colorful desert, his round sunglasses slid down his nose.

“Mhmp.” You cleared your throat, both arms crossed over your chest to keep from punching his face off.

You watched as his head slowly turned towards you, eyes closed savoring the sweetness on his tongue and a bright smile plastered on his face, which slowly faded as his eyes took in the person in front of him.

"Is she your girlfriend?" A girl squealed beside him, your face twisted, looking up and down at the man in front of you, muttering a ─ew, no─

“Uhh- I- I didn’t knew you were here too.” He mumbled with rests of mochi stuffed in his mouth. He didn't decided yet if the bitterness that had fallen down his throat was because of the surprise of running into you or because of the annoyance that your face directed at him.

"I'm not supposed to.” You grunted, rolling your eyes. “Do you have the package?” You questioned, hoping that you could return quickly to the comfort of your bedroom. But you weren't that lucky, Gojo's face was lost in confusion, "The package? The thing that you were sent here for?" You asked, raising your tone, but your breath left you when the snow-haired boy popped a mochi into his mouth again.

"Oh, I forgot. I thought I had the day off." Gojo replied nonchalantly, slowly turning his back to you with a giddy smile, taking out money of his wallet to finally make his purchase.

“Huh? How could you forget that?!” You yelp, the vendors of your sides slowly disappearing from the scene. “"I've had enough, let's go." You ordered, smacking his arm, turning your body to leave as you massaged your nose bridge, a pang resounded on the sides of your forehead.

Gojo glanced at you, then the mochis, “I’m not going to waste my time on this.” He heard you say as you walked away.

The white-haired boy quickly exchanged the money for the box of mochi and bowed to the girls in gratitude, and sorry for the bother with your grumpiness. You are so moody─ he thought, following your steps as he carried the shopping bags on his sides.

When he reached your pace, he tried to read your expression. It was the first time the two of you were out on a mission, it was the first time the two of you were alone. But that didn't seem to bother you for him, you were too busy trying to locate where you were, eyebrows furrowed and your lips pouted in concentration.

He giggled, caughting your attention, enough for you to glance at him pissed off. He ignored it, taking the paper off your hand with the directions, reading it fast as he tilted his head to the street on your right. “C'mon,” He said.

"I have to make a call first." You stopped him, walking over to one of the nearby pay phones, the boy looked at you with a raised eyebrow, confused as to what you were going to do but following you anyway.

You stuffed the money into the slot of the machine and called Gojo's assistant. You grabbed the phone and placed it to your ear, the automated voice playing that your call was being transferred. You tugged your earlobe, facing more at the wall in front of you, avoiding Gojo's gaze.

He put his hands in his pockets, leaning against the wall next to you, looking away when he noticed what you were doing. His gaze fell upon a group of middle school girls who were watching you from a table outside a cafeteria, giggling and mumbling amongst themselves.

He huffed, his mind rambling about what was so funny about. He sneaked a glance at you, the way your gaze softened when you heard the assistant's voice, telling him that you found him. Then he looked at himself by your side, shopping bags in his arms. Both of you were wearing the same uniform, he guessed that for other people you looked like close friends hanging around after school, then he thinked a little more, boy and girl, you looked like a- He shook his head at that thought, a warmth settling on his neck.

You hung up the phone again and looked at Gojo, being more surprised that you would like when his cerulean eyes were already shining in your direction, "Are we going?" You said trying to keep your tone steady, letting out the air that the interaction had restricted you, you weren't used to looking him in the eyes.

He nodded, guiding you in the direction where you were going to pick up the package, since he was more familiar with the place than you.

You didn't notice, too deep in your thoughts, but a smile crept onto the white-haired boy's lips. You were walking together side by side, not you walking with a quick pace so as not to see his face, nor you walking too slowly behind him talking to Suguru immersed in your own conversation leaving him aside, this time it was you and him side by side.

When it came to you, you revolted his insides. Always too bratty, too hermetic for him to catch a glimpse of your true self. He could only see your outside, keeping him away with your indifference, something that causes a strong mordacious sting in his chest, bringing back memories of the rejection he received from his clan relatives and most of his upper classmates. But the difference between you and them was that you didn't show any kind of interest in him, neither positive nor negative.

When you passed by him you didn't look at him, and when you did you looked at him without any trace of expression, as if you were seeing a void. Never showing surprise by his ability to easily complete the ridiculously difficult training Yaga-sensei prepared for him, or by the missions he managed to successfully complete in record time.

But over time Satoru managed to notice that it was nothing more than a facade. You weren’t as heartless and blithe as you wanted to appear. He could see the twist upwards the corner of your lips made while hearing Shoko ramble or the way in which your eyes shone when you observed Suguru slowly getting beat by sleep in class. You would never admit it to him, but Satoru could tell how you cared for others from the shadows and secretly always trying to improve yourself.

You both walked in an unusual silence, making your way through the sea of people surrounding you. Your shoes echoed in unison against the stone floor until the sun set and the moon shone brighter under the cloak of the progressive darkness, leading your presences to an uninhabited street, only a couple of shops still in operation.

An old store that seemed to sell second hand items sat in front of you.

“Are you sure this is the address?” You questioned your classmate, grabbing the paper with the direction off his hand, no specifications of the place to help you.

He huffed, hanging his head in offense, “Tots.”

You entered the place keeping your doubts to yourself, you were no longer in the mood to question what you were doing. The top secret mission had seemed like nothing more than a joke to you, it shouldn't cost a sorcerer of your size so much. But the universe has managed to make the situation oddly inconvenient.

The lighting was poor, the wooden floor creaked with every step, the place smelled like dust and incense burning. You were supposed to just pick up a package but your instincts wouldn't let you let your guard down. There were only two customers in the store, hulky and grotesque looking, without a hint of cursed energy. But you knew too well that it wasn't synonymous of weakness.

Gojo walked behind you, his gaze shifting from object to object without interest, his hands clasped behind his head. When you got to the glass counter you didn't see any worker nearby, a well-polished golden bell shined in your sight and you pressed it. Gojo must have found it amusingly hilarious, because he pressed it not once, not twice, not even three times, but five times until you pushed his hand away.

He laughed out loud, the sound buzzing around the room as he turned around, flipping through a book on an oak shelf for sale. A man's voice echoed from behind a door at the back of the store, ‘coming!’. You couldn't help but prepare yourself for a possible fight, what if there was a misunderstanding and they didn't want to give you the package? Or if the package itself was of extreme importance and tried to steal it? You had to proceed defensively but there was no sign that those present were sorcerers. Even so, the companion on your side was surely going to want to show off if the opportunity arose.

The door opened, your gaze and Gojo's expectant, a hunched, white-bearded old short man smiled at you. Huh? You couldn't figure out what was so super secret about the situation, there were no obstacles to fight or some extreme security to break.

“Oi! The guys with the spiral buttons,” The man greeted you with narrowed eyes, putting on the glasses that rested on his head, realizing that you weren’t, in fact, men at all. "Oops, my sincerest apologies, young lady." He said ashamed under the thunderous and irritating laughter of your companion, who was holding his stomach and pointing at you mockingly.

You glared at him with flames in your eyes and gritted teeth, before returning your attention to the man in front of you. "Offense not taken." You try to answer kindly, faking a smile that only makes Gojo explode more because of the falseness of it. Maybe this is worse than getting covered in sticky curse residue.

“"I thought no one was going to pick it up anymore, I was told that you would come in the morning." The man pointed out the delay with some displeasure. You took the comment like a slap straight on the face, the snow-haired boy progressively quelling his laughter when it turned into embarrassment.

"I'm sorry, sir. There were some mishaps." You apologized, bowing your head in respect, poking Gojo in the ribs with your elbow to get him to repeat your action.

The old man nodded, waving a hand dismissively, he bent down to open the sliding door of the counter and took out a wooden box with several stamps indicating that it was a fragile product.

"The receipt?" The man asked.

Your eyes widened, you didn’t have it but Gojo quickly reached into one of his pockets and pulled out a sheet of paper folded in four and gave it to the man, who stamped one corner and signed it as delivered. "That would be all."

You cast a quick glance towards the suspicious men, now looking at a restored Nordic clock. If it were any package you would open it to check it, but it was clearly specified that it was secret even for you.

The harder part was finally over. You snapped your fingers at Gojo to carry the box, he clucked his tongue between his teeth and whispered 'Brat' low enough that only you and he could hear, but still he did as ordered. You pressured him from behind, tossing a thank you to the salesman as you walked towards the exit.

You both walked past the ones you thought might be a nuisance but were nothing more than simple shoppers. You were both dismissed by the door bell as it closed behind you. You let go a sigh, stretching your muscles, you don't even remember when you concentrated so hard to numb yourself that much.

“We should-” The sound of your mouth stops when you notice Gojo looking at you with a smirk, his glasses down in his nose bridge giving space to his eyes shining schemingly. “What?” You hiss, nothing good comes after his head flashes a thought.

“Aren't you curious what this box contains?" He asks you, running his fingers dangerously slowly over the opening of the box. You're about to say a direct no when he speaks again, “It could be a new special tool,” Gojo smiles from hear to hear, a purr longing in his words. Your low lip quivers, a new tool would be a good addition to your training. “What do you think it could be? Definitely not a type of sword, the box is too small."

You take an instinctive step back as he approaches you. “We are forbidden from opening it.”

Deny it, deny it, deny it, you forced yourself to fight his temptations.

"It's most likely a Kunai knife," Gojo ignored your comment, you growled, being intercepted by his right arm daring to rest on your shoulders, heat flooding your body. Your gaze fell on the contact of his hand with your shoulder, his heat poisoning your skin, making you stumble through your thoughts, you pushed him out of you by nature, or sanity preservation.

"But it would be epic if it were shurikens.” You heard him say, the jump in his voice when you looked at him didn't go unnoticed, he seemed as shocked as you were by his recent audacity. It was the first time he touched you, that he got physically close to you even. Gosh- you didn't even call him by his last name. “Didn’t you say you knew how to use them?" He tried to play it off.

His words brought you out of the trance of his eyes, you had never noticed that his glasses hid so much behind. His orbs resembled the bright water of tropical beaches so much, twining to the clear, aquamarine sky. Eyes shining like the reflection of the moon at night.

"Or receiving him at this place is just a facade, you know, because it's top secret." Gojo continued chattering, murmuring the last two words, his usual giddy smile plastered on his face again.

Your expression closed up, you truly were tempted to know the contents of the box but his way of convincing you was atrocious, he was just throwing a bunch of words at you until you gave in. He didn't even need your permission, and if he wanted, he could blame you for opening it.

Although the culprit would be more than obvious.

“Come on, I know you want to." Gojo coo, passing the box in front of your face, you shake your head, eyes closed and arms crossed. He pouted in annoyance but that didn't stop him from finding the truth himself. "Do you always play by the rules? Bo-ring."

You stuck your nose in the air, you weren't a sanctimonious person, but what was in the box was confidential information, you reminded yourself. Gojo looked to his sides and then lifted the lid of the box, eyes shining with excitement and a smile waiting for a big surprise.

Who were you kidding, you quickly approached to peek at the box.

As if you had witnessed a divine apparition, you raised your gaze to connect with his. Both of you were expressionless and your mouths were gaped, a confirmation that you didn't see wrong.

You both burst out laughing at the same time, as if you were looking at a reflection. Suddenly there were no barriers between you two, the revelation of the content was more outrageous.

It was a Hello Kitty music festival edition tea set.

Why of all the things that could be, it was just the most ridiculous?

If someone had told you in the morning that later you would find yourself laughing with Satoru Gojo, you would have checked-in the person in a psychiatric center for nutso.

Gojo's laugh was partially dismissed when he caught your smile, you were all laid back with the corners of your eyes crinkled, he felt like a warm blanket embraced his body. He was a little intimidated by the way he felt his pride rise at the knowledge that he now shared a memory with you, that he sighed in despair when your voice hummed like a melody from his ears to the cage of his chest.

Betrayed by his mouth his thoughts escaped out loud, "Knowing you could smile like that I would have made you laugh sooner."

As if you had been threatened with being pierced by a thousand cuts, you stopped dead.

Gojo felt a heat burn on his cheeks, the words stuck in his throat, but forcing himself to play it cool, “I don’t understand why you are always so pressed.”

Suddenly the atmosphere became bitter, settling into Gojo's body.

You regained your demure posture, weight once again falling on your shoulders, the constant brickbat not to ruin your family's appearance any further by hanging out with anomalies like Satoru Gojo drowning your thoughts. Your smile faded in eyebrows twitched and nose wrinkled, “I don't hope for you to understand.”

He shaked his head, deep down wishing that he could go back in time one minute ago.

“And if we are gonna talk about understanding, then I could say I don’t understand why you are so obnoxious all the time.” You snapped, an urge to return him the bad taste kicked in you. Contrary to what people thought, you didn’t enjoy fighting meaninglessly.

You knew that Gojo would one day return the pitiful behavior you directed at him, but you didn't expect to be shaken by such childish and insipid words like 'pressed'.

“You know nothing about me or my past, and I have never messed with you for you to try so hard to bother me and make my life difficult,” Your words came out of your mouth without thinking, as if a dam was overflowing without any control, making a direct path towards the destruction of everything nearby. "Because that seems to be what you want, you stand in one place without thinking twice about If you are blocking someone else's path."

You watched as white strands flew in front of his motionless eyes upon you, his mouth gate open to speak, closing again when nothing came out.

His thoughts bounced around with indecision, he didn't mean what he said, no, it was sincere but not worded correctly for you to understand. Then a crack split in his mind, but did you mean what you said? He wanted to know better than he did, that you weren't as deceiving and hurtful as you scratched, but any trace of your smile and the small dose of warmth it gave him left no trace behind when you noticed his presence. Your indifference hunted him down.

It wasn’t disinterest or apathy. Satoru's theory that his Six Eyes weren’t telling anything to him was wrong, his instinct was sending him signals but he simply couldn’t decipher it.

You were like searching for a message in a bottle sunken in the sea.

He would have every right to be angry at being judged and unwanted without reason, but he was looking for more behind that. Since that day when he saw you talking to Suguru, leaning on his shoulder, fully trusting all your weight in him, with your guard down and your expression so soft and attentive to his words, it made Satoru think that the reason for your behavior towards him was something more than simple annoyance or envy.

He'd be lying if he said he was used to being hated and rejected as well as praised and loved, sometimes he could tolerate it more, but you were like hiding small doses of poison in his favorite food.

"Is that what you think of me?" His voice came out more sneering than his expression reflected.

He didn’t consider himself an understanding person, he tried to be until people convinced him that the world owed him for his existence. That if he was born with the purpose of being better than others and protecting them, then he was at a godlike level above them.

Your eyebrows furrowed and your fists clenched, you couldn't figure out if he was still provoking you or if he was trying to hide his thoughts.

"I don't trust someone who is always smiling and whose only method of communication is to piss people off with wordplay.” You added, catching his grin tense.

You had been watching him from your peripheral vision for as long as you'd known him. Unlike you, he didn't enjoy a serious fight that was open to negative emotions.

"I don’t like you not because you're immature or loud, or because you've been the face of jujutsu sorcery since you were born." Your words meandered in front of the boy, accompanying you as you got closer to him, each step squeezing his chest, making it difficult to breathe normally. The atmosphere was tense and it progressively closed in even if you were outdoors.

It was twisted the way you could aimlessly shoot your words like bullets to his weak points, but it was more twisted the way he let you keep going just to hear what your perception of him was. As if that would be the key to finding the answers to do the same with you.

He was a better-man than the rest of humanity because he had the power to be worse than any.

“I don’t like you because you were given everything and you don’t seem to take the importance of it, you have every right to not care about it or anyone.”The fact that you were opening your deepest feelings was revolting your insides, your despair crawling weighing on his body.

“Is that so?” He nagged, gripping the edges of the wooden box still between his arms around his chest. Being used so childishly and uselessly as protection from your snipes.

It wasn't just your thoughts about him, but also the emotional discharge you were throwing at him. You were aware that he was not at fault for being the switch-breaker of the community of sorcerers and curses, it just turned out that casualty made both of you meet your paths.

“You represent everything! You are strength and the reminder that weakness exists because you aren't that.” Your voice was raised, piercing his ears, wording him so kindly but also recalling every scolding and reviling surmised to him by everyone who misinterprets him.

"And that's the only thing that makes you oppose me?"

"Of course not!” You replied, biting your lower lip, hesitant to say what was next, but you were tired of keeping it in. Those feelings wore you down just as his cursed energy consumed his brain, “I'm selfish, I'm ambitious, it frustrates me that we could seem to come from similar and privileged places and at the same time be so different and hurt. I'll never be able to be as skilled or powerful as you, no one else can, I can't aspire much to things that are innate given to you without forgetting my limits."

Your head was pounding incessantly, you didn't know if it was because of the accumulated fatigue or the embarrassment that was growing red and hot on your face.

“But the thing is,” You murmur, stepping closer, the box with the package was the only thing producing space between you, a quick flash of a thought wondered if it wasn’t there, how much would you dare to get close? Enough to slap him? Enough to push him?, “I don’t understand why everyone expects so much from you, because to me you seem just like a kid who obviously would rather not carry all the weight people put on him.”

His eyebrows raised, his eyes widened, and his cheeks tinted pink as your pitiful soft gaze fell upon him, intimidating him as if he were a child again. Anyone would think that you were seeing him as a poor thing, as if you wanted to snatch away what he owned, as if you were going to stab him with a dagger out of compassion.

But he had the ability to see further than others, physically and figuratively. You didn't need to give him more explanations to make him understand, although your actions firstly made him think that you weren't even a little envious of him, they were uncertain, your sincerity led him further into his thinking.

You were real, you were observant and cautious for that very reason, you had become one of the first people that saw him beyond prejudice. You were capable of being human and aware of your weaknesses, and at the same time being governed by reason and morality. He couldn't blame you for keeping your distance with him because his nonchalant and playful mask had been dismantled without him realizing it.

He played his most annoying card, he tried to bring you to the edge of hysteria to test your limits and he never completely succeeded because you were surely just as or even smarter than him, and you were also testing him.

It didn't bother him that people thought he was arrogant and apathetic, after everything experienced in his lifetime he concluded that not everyone had the capacity to understand the level he was at.

When the car that would take you back to Jujutsu High arrived, you got in without saying a word or looking at him, not ignoring him because you were mad but because you understood that what you said not only implied your vulnerability, but his as well.

‘You seem just like a kid who obviously would rather not carry all the weight people put on him’ He couldn't even get angry or overthink about your raw comments that hurt his ego. For the first time in his life he felt truly seen and he couldn't stop himself from constantly smiling about it.

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mostlysignssomeportents · 2 years

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John Deere's repair fake-out

Last week, a seeming miracle came to pass: John Deere, the Big Ag monopolist that — along with Apple — has led the Axis of Evil that killed, delayed and sabotaged dozens of Right to Repair laws, sued for peace, announcing a Memorandum of Understanding with the American Farm Bureau Federation to make it easier for farmers to fix their own tractors:

https://www.fb.org/files/AFBF_John_Deere_MOU.pdf

This is a move that’s both badly needed and long overdue. Deere abuses copyright law to force farmers to pay for official repairs — even when the farmer does the repair. That’s possible thanks to a practice called VIN locking, in which engine parts come with DRM that prevents the tractor from recognizing them until they pay hundreds of dollars for a John Deere technician to come to their farm and type an unlock code into the tractor’s console:

https://doctorow.medium.com/about-those-kill-switched-ukrainian-tractors-bc93f471b9c8

Like all DRM, VIN locks are covered by Section 1201 of the Digital Millennium Copyright Act (DMCA), a 1998 law that criminalizes distributing tools to bypass “access controls,” even if you do so for a lawful purpose (say, to fix your own tractor using a part you paid for). Violations of DMCA 1201 carry a penalty of 5 years in prison and a $500k fine — for a first offense.

This means that Deere owners are locked into using Deere for repairs, which also means that if Deere decides something isn’t broken, a farmer can’t get it fixed. This is very bad news indeed, because John Deere tractors are just computers in a fancy, mobile case, and John Deere is incredibly bad at digital security:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/04/23/reputation-laundry/#deere-john

That’s scary stuff, because John Deere is a monopolist, and a successful attack on the always-connected, networked tractors and other equipment it supplies to the world’s farmers could endanger the global food supply.

Deere doesn’t want to make insecure tractors, but it also doesn’t want to be embarrassed by security researchers who point out that its security is defective. Because security researchers have to bypass Deere tractors’ locks to probe their security, Deere can leverage DMCA1201 into a veto over who gets to warn the public about the mistakes it made.

It’s not just security researchers that Deere gets to gag: the company uses its repair monopoly to threaten farmers who complain about its business practices, holding their million-dollar farm equipment hostage to their silence:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/05/31/dealers-choice/#be-a-shame-if-something-were-to-happen-to-it

This all adds up to what Jay Freeman calls “felony contempt of business model,” an abuse of copyright law that allows a monopolistic corporation to reach beyond its own walls and impose its will on it customers, critics and competitors:

https://locusmag.com/2020/09/cory-doctorow-ip/

If Deere was finally suing for peace in the Repair Wars, well, that was wonderful news indeed — as I said, a seeming miracle.

But — like all miracles — it was too good to be true.

The MOU that Deere and the Farm Bureau signed is full of poison pills, gotchas, fine-print and mendacity, as Lauren Goode documents in her Wired article, “Right-to-Repair Advocates Question John Deere’s New Promises”:

https://www.wired.com/story/right-to-repair-advocates-question-john-deeres-new-promises/

For starters, the MOU makes the Farm Bureau promise to end its advocacy for state Right to Repair bills, which would create a repair system governed by democratically accountable laws, not corporate fiat. Clearly, Deere has seen the writing on the wall, after the passage in 2002 of Right to Repair laws in New York and Colorado:

https://www.eff.org/deeplinks/2022/06/when-drm-comes-your-wheelchair

These two bills broke the corporate anti-repair coalition’s winning streak, which saw dozens of state R2R bills defeated:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/05/26/nixing-the-fix/#r2r

Deere’s deal-with-the-devil is a cynical ploy to brake R2R’s momentum and ensure that any repairs are carried out on Deere’s terms. Now, about those terms…

Deere’s deal offers independent repair shops access to diagnostic tools and parts “on fair and reasonable terms,” a murky phrase that can mean whatever Deere decides it means. Crucially, the deal is silent on whether Deere will supply the tools needed to activate VIN locks, meaning that farmers will still be at Deere’s mercy when they effect their own repairs.

What’s more, the deal itself isn’t legally binding, and Deere can cancel it at any time. Once you dig past the headline, the Deere’s Damascene conversion to repair advocacy starts to look awfully superficial — and deceptive.

One person who wasn’t fooled is sick.codes, the hacker who has done the most important work on reverse-engineering Deere’s computer systems, culminating in last summer’s live, on-stage hack of a John Deere tractor at Defcon:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/08/15/deere-in-headlights/#doh-a-deere

Shortly after the announcement, Sick.codes tweeted how the fine-print in the MOU would have prevented him from doing the work he’s already done (including “a direct stab at me lol”):

https://twitter.com/sickcodes/status/1612484935495057409

As with other instances of monopolistic, corporate copyfraud — like, say, the deceptive Open Gaming License — the John Deere capitulation is really a bid to take away your rights, dressed up as a gift of more rights:

https://mostlysignssomeportents.tumblr.com/post/706163316598407168/good-riddance-to-the-open-gaming-license

[Image ID: Hieronymus Bosch's painting, 'The Conjurer.' The Conjuror's shell-game table holds a small John Deere tractor that the audience of yokels gawps at. One yokel is wearing a John Deere hat. The conjurer is holding a wrench.]

#pluralistic #copyfraud #right to repair #r2r #headfa #deerlife #john deere #tractors #big ag #licenses

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ikkosu · 8 months

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THE CAT-INATOR

summary : Brainstorm accidentally blasts you with a ray gun and now you've got cat ears, a tail and feline embedded mannerisms. Perceptor is at lost for words.

warnings : fluff. short lil drabble (?)

You glare at the mirror. A clear visage of your narrowed eyes, crinkled nose and upturned cat ears greets back despite your surreal belief in it's plausibility. Oh, right. You've got fangs. Cute dainty little fangs. Good for biting. God, how can a simple jog pass the laboratory led to this unexpected outcome?

Yet again, predictability is not the lab's strongest vice.

"Brainstorm." Perceptor wasn't even mad.

He stood before the source of his misery, a servo clamped, kneading his face. They're both regarding their subject on the desk,who's busy pawing the mirror like you're trying to claw out your tail from that angle.

"I can't begin to imagine how you're able to...to....do precisely what you did right now. Look at her. Just look. What have you done?"

Brainstorm doesn't know what to say, and while he did turn his, ah, little human friend into a domestic pet, he settled on (with caution, Perceptor's under-optics are twitching again. Not a good sign). "Well, you see. I was a bit curious. A smidgen, tad curious—

"Of course. The lovely appeal of generic curiosity. It's only now, you're curious? First it was that bomb you insisted on bringing along our travels—"

Here we go again

"— and now, how you even manage to build such a ray gun is beyond my understanding of your capabilities."

"Hear me out! You see molecules? On a surface level they're intact, right? so what if I delved deeper and altered their existing entity to change them into—"

"A domesticated cat of all things?!" Youre now pawing at Barinstorm’s wings, about to make a grab for the edge if it weren’t for his servos clamping on your waist and hauling you onto his lap. His digit finds the underside of your jaw, tickling the spot as he coos at you. Preceptor grimaces at the display. He’s really not bothered one bit. If anything, the chaotic scientist seemed to be enjoying this new turn of event, yellow optics crinkled with delight, punctuated by his next remark.

"Hey, c'mon Percy. It's not so bad is it, eh?" You let out an involuntary purr when Brainstorm's servos skims over your head, scratching your hair. “It’s a new discovery! Can you imagine how our expeditions, missions, or whatever you call them, would proceed if advanced by this sort of cloaking technology? Disguise but call it authentic!” He gives your nose a little tap. You mewl, scrunching your face.

"You turned her into a feline cat and the ray is damaged! That's the problem, brainstorm. Is she even human anymore? I— forget it. From now on, I am no longer enforcing you to look after the liaison. In fact, i’ll—“

When Perceptor marches close to scrutinize your new 'change' in appearance you jump from Brainstorm’s lap, wrapping your arms around his shoulders, curl yourself under his neck and purred. Perceptor visiby sags.He can't deny the endearing pulse in his spark. He finds himself faltering and he groans in disbelief at that fact.

"Oh for Primus sake."

#perceptor x reader #brainstorm x reader #transformers idw #idw #perceptor #brainstorm #maccadam #transformers x reader #fluff

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shifting---patterns · 8 months

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Wearing Time: Carpe Diem and the Artistry of Anti-Fashion (Pt. 1 / 2)

In today's article, I want to tell you something about what I consider the most important and influential artist collective in avant-garde fashion.

A collective whose artists, their labels, and their design language have impressed me so much that it has completely changed my perspective on how clothing is created, what its purpose really is, and the impact it can have.

/// Carpe Diem, an avant-garde designer collective, was founded in 1996 in Perugia, Italy, by Maurizio Altieri. There are conflicting reports on the founding year, with sources mentioning 1994, 1998, and 1999 (the latter mentioned by Maurizio Amadei of M.A+ in a podcast with Lucentement). The visionary minds, particularly Maurizio Altieri, initially specialized in leather design, working with materials such as horsehide, cowhide, and anaconda.

These materials underwent intricate hand treatments, including washing, distressing, crushing, and burial in the ground for months. Carpe Diem quickly established itself as an avant-garde trailblazer, gaining recognition for its commitment to quality and craftsmanship. Originally concentrating on shoes, the brand later expanded its offerings to include clothing.

In 2006, Carpe Diem disbanded due to its increasing mainstream popularity, paving the way for other brands to follow its innovative path. This marked the peak of Carpe Diem's fame, with celebrities like Brad Pitt seen wearing their leather shirts. The surge in investor interest eventually led to Maurizio Altieri abandoning the label.

In recent years, Carpe Diem has been acquired by a Japanese company, resulting in the reissue of some designs and the introduction of new ones. However, signs indicate that Altieri and his colleagues are no longer actively involved in the design process.

Carpe Diem's influence extends to avant-garde brands like Carol Christian Poell, Boris Bidjan Saberi, Layer-0, and others, incorporating designs such as twisted seams, dropped-crotch trousers, asymmetric plackets, and J-cut pants. The brand's collections, including L'Maltieri (knitwear), Sartoria (made-to-measure), and Linea (jackets, pants, and T-shirts), aimed to diversify offerings.

The Linea collection, utilizing a 3x3 modular system, features interchangeable and conceptually connected laser-cut jackets, cotton pants, and T-shirts.

Sartoria, a customized line derived from Linea, maintains the "arte povera" aesthetic with crumpled, washed, and treated leather. Custom items required visits to a Parisian garage for fitting and digital photography, and delivery took 60 days, utilizing leather buried in the deserts of Afghanistan.

The distinctive feature of hanging garments on meat hooks pays homage to the label's origins as a leather house. The Sartoria line has evolved into the fifth line named Anatomica, propably my favorite collection of Carpe Diem.

Now, let's introduce the creative minds behind Carpe Diem in detail: Maurizio Altieri Maurizio Altieri, the visionary founder of Carpe Diem, is a perfectionist who brings an academic background in business and law to the world of fashion. His professional journey began at Chrome Hearts, where he honed fundamental skills in craftsmanship and leather treatment. In 1996, Altieri departed from Chrome Hearts to establish Carpe Diem, driven by a philosophy to craft timeless, useful, and handmade pieces from the finest materials.

Altieri's unique approach materialized through the application of distinctive treatments and washes, setting his creations apart. Notably, Maurizio Altieri rejects traditional editorials and advertising, firmly believing that the craftsmanship and quality of his pieces should speak for themselves. This commitment to craftsmanship is vividly demonstrated through a series of collections known as the "Continues Collection," showcasing an enduring dedication to the art of craftsmanship and the creation of timeless fashion experiences. Post-Carpe Diem, Altieri embarked on various projects, including m_moriabc, active in the fashion world since 2012.

Beyond demonstrating Altieri's exceptional talent for creating memorable brand names, m_moriabc is renowned for its handmade footwear crafted through special Norwegian craftsmanship. Altieri's ambitious pursuit involves capturing the essence of time itself in his creations, symbolized by the names A, B, and C, each representing distinct lines that embody aspects of the past, present, and future.

Avantindietro, launched in 2009, stands out as another notable project, offering a minimalist response to Carpe Diem's initial collection. In a collaborative effort two years later, Altieri partnered with Alessio Zero, the Italian designer behind Layer-O, to produce a small offering of shoes made from leather buried years earlier, adding a fascinating narrative to the creations.

Altieri's current venture, the art project Vnapersona, further underscores his dedication to pushing artistic boundaries. Through these endeavors, Maurizio Altieri continues to leave an indelible mark on the fashion landscape, weaving together elements of time, craftsmanship, and innovation.

Maurizio Amadei Maurizio Amadei played a pivotal role in shaping the distinctive identity of Carpe Diem's leather products, encompassing accessories and jackets. During his tenure as a designer at Carpe Diem, Amadei demonstrated a unique exploration of human anatomy, sculpting pieces to follow the lines of the body's muscles. This innovative approach not only left an indelible mark on his designs at Carpe Diem but continued to influence his subsequent work.

Following the conclusion of Carpe Diem in 2006, Maurizio Amadei founded M.A+ as a spiritual successor to the renowned "Continues Collection." The unmistakable parallels between the two collections are evident in Amadei's inaugural M.A+ collection, where a standout piece was a large shoulder bag crafted from a single seamless piece of leather—a hallmark reminiscent of Carpe Diem. The introduction of the cross motif in this collection became the emblem of Amadei's design ethos, defining sought-after pieces like the 925 Sterling Silver Cross Belt.

M.A+ seamlessly carried forward many of the distinctive design techniques for leather while integrating cozy cotton fabrics into seamless one-piece silhouettes. Amadei's deliberate use of blunt knives for cutting and processing garment hems serves as a nod to Altieri's design philosophy. The overarching objective was to envelop the wearer in a second skin—an uncomplicated construction that is seamless yet refined.

In the present day, M.A+ stands out with flawlessly crafted garments in an array of materials such as silk and satin, garnering significant attention for their luxurious functionality. The allure extends to the patterned garments within the M.A+ collection, complementing the outstanding leather and shoe products. Amadei's design DNA is deeply rooted in principles of simplicity and minimalism, with stitches employed only when necessary. This commitment to minimalism is further emphasized by the absence of tags conveying fabric or size information—a testament to Maurizio Amadei's sophistication and meticulous attention to detail in his designs.

Simone Cecchetto Simone Cecchetto, during his tenure at Carpe Diem, brought an exceptional perspective and creative flair to the realm of shoe and accessory design. Influenced by his background in body art, Cecchetto delved into the "Second Body" project of Sartoria or Anatomica at Carpe Diem, an exploration of the concept of leather as a second skin on the human body.

His visionary approach extended to innovative ideas such as integrating chips into leather jumpsuits, enabling the tracking of digital images and movements—a seamless fusion of traditional craftsmanship with modern technological elements.

Despite Maurizio Amadei's primary responsibility for leather goods, Cecchetto collaborated directly with Altieri to optimize their products. Despite lacking formal training as a shoemaker, Cecchetto's deep passion for shaping leather led him to assume the role of footwear design at Carpe Diem, allowing him to preserve the brand's legacy in shoe design.

Following the closure of Carpe Diem, Cecchetto sought refuge at Rick Owens briefly, only to realize a misalignment with Owens' avant-garde aesthetic. This experience served as a catalyst for him to chart his own course, resulting in the establishment of his label, Augusta, later renamed A Diciannoveventitre and A1923. The name Augusta pays homage to his grandmother, embodying the brand's principles of simplicity inherited from her. A1923 revolves around the principle of Wabi-Sabi, a Japanese philosophy seeking beauty in natural irregularities.

Cecchetto's unwavering dedication is evident in the meticulous sourcing and processing of leather, compensating for his lack of formal training with experimentation and craftsmanship. A1923 stands out with its niche offerings, featuring handmade leather shoes and bags for men. The collection includes distinctive elements such as boots with double zippers and sneaker-boot hybrids, adorned with worn-out laces and intense colors. This testament to Simone Cecchetto's ability to preserve creative integrity while forging his own path underscores his continued contribution to the creation of influential and unique designs.

/// Part two is coming in a couple of days!

Davis Jahn

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