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freak-accident419 · 1 month ago

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‘not your fault’

Bob Reynolds x reader

Summary: After a mission goes horribly wrong, you take a hot shower to unwind. With Bob being your worried boyfriend, he keeps you company.

Word Count: 1.9k

Content: 18+ SMUT, MDNI, gender neutral reader (of course), no pronouns used for reader, brief use of Y/n, reader is a Thunderbolt, shower sex, fluff, penetration (no specified genitals for reader), creampie, Bob may or may not be ooc, a certain stupid reference at the end, Yelena makes an appearance

SPOILERS FOR THUNDERBOLTS* MOVIE UNDER THE CUT!!!

Taglist: @g0ry0re0 @deceitfuldevil Happy reading! <3 Reblogs and likes are much appreciated!

You fucked up big time.

One of your missions as a New Avenger went terribly wrong, and it was all your fault. You led your team to the wrong place, made the wrong calculations, and overall was the epitome of a screw up. Most days, you were proficient and prepared, smart and level-headed, so it disheartened you when you let your teammates down. And while you all ended up succeeding by the end and completed the mission, sensing your colleagues' frustration towards you didn't feel so great.

When you all went back to the Watchtower, you went straight to your room without a word, ignoring Bob in the process. You knew that wasn't a good move on your part, but you felt way too ashamed to face your lover.

Your usual remedy was to take a hot shower. You were embarrassed and humiliated by your performance today, so enveloping yourself in flaming, steamy water seemed like the best distraction.

So there you were, standing in the large stall of your own bathroom as the hot water cascaded onto your sensitive skin. Your body had been covered in some debris as a result of the mission, now being washed off in the shower. You wouldn't have removed all of the grime, however, considering that you hadn't even picked up the soaps or even anything at all yet. All this time you just stood there, trying to distract your mortification with the heat surrounding you.

Your back was turned, looking at the ground that the water would land on, not turning your head as you hear the bathroom door creak open. You already knew who it was, so there was no use in questioning it.

The sound of shifting clothes was drowned out by the spraying of the shower. Then, it wasn't too long before the glass door slid open, closing immediately once the figure behind you stepped in.

"Ow—shit—that's hot," Bob flinched clumsily, turning the handle ever so slightly to turn down the heat. In other circumstances, in which you weren’t so depressed, you probably would’ve laughed at his silly response.

You felt your boyfriend's warm chest press against your back as his arms wrapped around your front, hands resting on your stomach. His head was relaxed against your shoulder, holding you close to comfort you. Your wet, naked bodies were practically merged together, in light of the very close proximity. Your thoughts had been drastically spiraling ever since the mission, but at least this felt nice.

For a while, it was quite silent aside from the rushing water, Bob offering his sole presence to ground you. Then, he finally spoke up afterwards, his tone in a compassionate manner.

"It wasn't your fault..."

Great. You assumed the team already informed him about what happened, probably telling him every stupid thing you did during the mission.

"Yelena, uh... She told me what happened," he continued hesitantly, your stiff body remaining against him. "Apparently, there was a whole mislead, uh... fraudulent information, something like that. But I mean, you just did what you had to do, and that's—"

"Don't." You sighed, briefly shutting your eyes in exhaustion. You didn't want his pity, you didn't want to be rewarded for your mistakes. "I screwed up. If it weren't for my judgement, then maybe—maybe all that wouldn't have happened, and there wouldn't be so much collateral damage, and—"

"Y/n." Bob grabs your shoulders, turning your body around to face him. Your expression was wrecked, eyes fearful and guilty. It hurt him to see you like this, especially since your vulnerability is a rare occurrence. "She said it was bound to happen. It didn't happen because of you. You didn't do anything wrong. It was an ambush."

"They're pissed at me," you frown miserably, disregarding his words, "the whole team, they hate me right now."

"That can't be true," he says with a gentle, sympathetic smile, "they're mad about the—the situation and the people involved, but not you. They know how skilled and smart and great you are, so no, they couldn't hate you, definitely not for this."

Usually, you were the one who would comfort and console Bob. Whenever he was going through something, you always talked him through it. Which was why this moment felt so foreign. This time, he was the one comforting you, using his own wisdoms to reassure you. And it worked like a charm.

"You okay?" He asks after a short pause with a questioning look.

"Yeah," you huff tiredly, embracing him closely, "I'll be fine..."

Pulling away from the hug, your hands reached up to cup his face. His eyes were so gentle, looking at you with enamored adoration. His hair was already soaked, some wet bangs falling over his face that accentuated the blue in his irises. Your thumbs stroked his cheeks affectionately, captivated by his effortless beauty. He was so goddamn pretty.

You grabbed his face and crashed your wet lips against his, pouring all your love and appreciation into the kiss. Instantly, Bob followed, kissing you back slowly, firm hands resting on your bare waist.

He whimpered needily in your mouth, parting it with his wavering tongue. He was addicted to your taste, grabbing you closer to his body as things began to grow tense between the two of you. The hot shower didn't seem to make it better, as it only added to the sensuality of this moment.

Bob wanted to please you. He wanted to make you feel worthy of pleasure, he wanted to remind you of how amazing you were. Essentially, he knew how it felt to fuck up and be looked down upon. He could only assume all the emotions you were feeling after the mission, so he made it his objective to distract you from them.

Bob carefully pressed your back against the shower wall, kissing you deeply and passionately. His hands came down to your thighs, lifting you up so your legs could wrap around his hips. He pecked your lips briefly while grasping his cock in one hand, stroking his already hardened length. The sensitive head of his dick throbbed as he guided it between your thighs.

“Ahh…” You let out a soft moan as he slowly entered through your tight entrance, walls fluttering at the stretch from his thick girth.

“Mmm—You feel so good,” he praises meekly, eyes half-lidded once he was fully inside you, “so good for me.”

Your hands were still cupping his face, holding him close to you as you pant under your breath. Bob began to thrust out gently, only to piston back in, making the two of you moan in pleasure. With his fingernails digging into your plushy thighs, he rocks his hips leisurely, taking his time to hit every deep, sensitive spot you had. And after a long time of being your boyfriend, he knew your body as if he studied a manual for it.

Bob was obsessed with making love to you. If not obsessed, then he simply loved it. And right now, he needed to make you feel the gentle love he had for you.

His lips were attached to yours once again as he fucked you softly against the wall, thrusting his cock deeply inside of you. Quiet whines left his throat, as he had always been the more sensitive out of the two of you.

Your hands reached the back of his head, fingers tangling in his soppy brown strands the more he stretched you with his length. Suddenly, Bob’s hand sneaked between your bodies, bringing attention to your sensitive flesh with his touch. Breaking the kiss, your mouth gaped in awe, panting heavily at the amazing sensation.

Noticing you were getting close, he tenderly pulled out in pursuit of a new position. As a whimper escaped your lips from the new-found emptiness, he kissed them briefly as a silent apology.

Bob positioned you with your stomach facing the glass door, standing right behind you as you felt his hard cock resting against your ass. His hands ran up and down your sides in a warm, worshipful caress. Then, his palms moved to your front, feeling sensually for your chest and stomach as your own hands were pressed against the glass, bracing yourself.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispers against your neck, nipping the skin, “you did so good today... you deserve so much…”

Finally, his dick pushed back inside of you, making you feel the satisfying stretch of your inner walls. Bob moved at a steady pace, still fixated on making slow, sweet love to you. He moaned as he felt your fleshy insides grip his hard length, his hands desperately feeling for your skin.

“Faster,” you murmur, already eager to reach your climax. Bob moans at your words, aroused by your voice as he then obeys you, increasing his pace. Your body was overwhelmed with pleasure, feeling your walls tighten even more around him.

The brunette groans, one hand now gripping your hip, and the other reaching around your front to touch your sensitive anatomy once again. He was already close, just desperate to make you cum with him.

“Ahh!” You cry as his cock dives deeper and faster in your hole, massaging your insides. Your knees wobbled, already weak from the pleasure. The lewd, wet sounds of skin slapping against skin that echoed in the steamy bathroom aroused you terribly.

"I’m close,” Bob whines, his forehead pressed to your back as he pounded his hips against your ass. “Y/n, I’m so close…”

“Fuck!” You moan, feeling close to the edge as well. You felt a warm sensation pool in your lower stomach as he continued thrusting his cock inside of you.

Then, with a soft cry, Bob tenses up against you, cumming deep inside as his hot, white semen would paint your sensitive walls. You came directly after him, flesh tightening around his dick as you moaned in pleasure.

He held you close, peppering kisses all over your face and back. And you would stay in that position until he thought it was time to finally lather your body with soap; not only washing off the leftover dirt from your body, but also the guilt and stress you had once carried.

Later that night, as Bob was fast asleep in his quarters, you went to the kitchen for a midnight snack. Closing the pantry after obtaining said snack, you flinch as you see Yelena standing in the room.

“Hi,” she smiles softly.

“Shit!” You huff under your breath, heart rate slowly stabilizing. “Jesus, you scared me.”

She walked closer to you with a purposeful expression, raising her eyebrows. “I just wanted to let you know that… None of us blame you for what happened,” she explains in her familiar, thick Russian accent. “I know, we were all angry and pissy, but you barely screwed up. Hell, it was an ambush, there was nothing you could do.”

Her eyebrows softened as she looked at you warmly. “We’re all in this together, Y/n. And none of us are perfect, far from it, actually, so don’t think you’re less than any of us because of what happened today. Okay?”

“Yeah,” you nod appreciatively, mirroring her smile. “Thank you, Yelena.”

Satisfied, she turns around to walk away, until she suddenly stopped in her tracks, eyeing you once again. “By the way… You and Bob might want to be a little… quieter. The Watchtower is still in construction, and, well.. walls and ceilings are pretty thin.”

As she strides away, you curse under your breath, feeling your cheeks heat up in embarrassment.

“But I’m happy for you both!” She calls out, disappearing into the darkness.

You took a worn-out bite into your Pop-Tart. Goddammit.

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warning-medicaltourismscammexico · 2 years ago

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SCAM ALERT: Scott Kramer | MTM Medical Tourism Mazatlan | MTM Medical Billing Company | Hospital Marina Mazatlan

I recently embarked on a journey to Mexico for a medical tourism experience, seeking stem cell treatment that I had heard promising things about. Little did I know that my decision to trust Scott Kramer and his company, MTM Medical Tourism Mazatlan, would turn into a nightmare filled with deceit, dishonesty, and fraud.

Upon contacting Scott Kramer through his website, I was initially hopeful. He promised a seamless experience, assuring me that my $5,000 deposit would be refunded after the treatment. However, this promise was nothing but a smokescreen to lure unsuspecting patients like me into his scheme.

Not only did Scott Kramer fail to refund my deposit, but he also took advantage of my Medicare insurance details, ostensibly for claim processing. To my shock, I discovered multiple suspicious entries on my Medicare claims, totaling around $80,000 in the months that followed. It became apparent that Scott Kramer had engaged in unethical billing practices, including upcoding, which involves assigning inaccurate billing codes to medical procedures to inflate reimbursements. This left me not only financially drained but also in a state of disbelief at the extent of his deceit.

Scott Kramer operates in association with Hospital Marina Mazatlan, a partnership that only further compounds the distressing situation. It's clear that this collaboration is designed to lend credibility to his dubious medical tourism services.

Furthermore, Scott Kramer has his own medical billing company, MTM Medical Billing Company, which he evidently uses to manipulate billing processes and commit Medicare Anti-Kickback violations. This revelation underscores the depth of his fraudulent activities and highlights the urgent need for caution when dealing with him or any of his affiliated entities.

In conclusion, my experience with Scott Kramer, MTM Medical Tourism Mazatlan, Hospital Marina Mazatlan, and MTM Medical Billing Company has been nothing short of a nightmare. I implore anyone considering medical tourism in Mexico to steer clear of these individuals and entities. They have demonstrated a blatant disregard for ethics, integrity, and the well-being of patients. My hope is that by sharing my harrowing experience, others can avoid falling victim to their deceitful practices and safeguard their health and financial well-being.

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black-fist-order · 5 months ago

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THIS WAS ON A FRIEND’S PAGE: An anguished question from a Trump supporter: ‘Why do liberals think Trump supporters are stupid?’

THE SERIOUS ANSWER: Here’s what the majority of anti-Trump voters honestly feel about Trump supporters en masse:

That when you saw a man who had owned a fraudulent University, intent on scamming poor people, you thought "Fine."

That when you saw a man who had made it his business practice to stiff his creditors, you said, "Okay."

That when you heard him proudly brag about his own history of sexual abuse, you said, "No problem."

That when he made up stories about seeing Muslim-Americans in the thousands cheering the destruction of the World Trade Center, you said, "Not an issue."

That when you saw him brag that he could shoot a man on Fifth Avenue and you wouldn't care, you exclaimed, "He sure knows me."

That when you heard him relating a story of an elderly guest of his country club, an 80-year old man, who fell off a stage and hit his head, to Trump replied: “‘Oh my God, that’s disgusting,’ and I turned away. I couldn’t—you know, he was right in front of me, and I turned away. I didn’t want to touch him. He was bleeding all over the place. And I felt terrible, because it was a beautiful white marble floor, and now it had changed color. Became very red.” You said, "That's cool!"

That when you saw him mock the disabled, you thought it was the funniest thing you ever saw.

That when you heard him brag that he doesn't read books, you said, "Well, who has time?"

That when the Central Park Five were compensated as innocent men convicted of a crime they didn't commit, and he angrily said that they should still be in prison, you said, "That makes sense."

That when you heard him tell his supporters to beat up protesters and that he would hire attorneys, you thought, "Yes!"

That when you heard him tell one rally to confiscate a man's coat before throwing him out into the freezing cold, you said, "What a great guy!"

That you have watched the parade of neo-Nazis and white supremacists with whom he curries favor, while refusing to condemn outright Nazis, and you have said, "Thumbs up!"

That you hear him unable to talk to foreign dignitaries without insulting their countries and demanding that they praise his electoral win, you said, "That's the way I want my President to be."

That you have watched him remove expertise from all layers of government in favor of people who make money off of eliminating protections in the industries they're supposed to be regulating and you have said, "What a genius!"

That you have heard him continue to profit from his businesses, in part by leveraging his position as President, to the point of overcharging the Secret Service for space in the properties he owns, and you have said, "That's smart!"

That you have heard him say that it was difficult to help Puerto Rico because it was in the middle of water and you have said, "That makes sense."

That you have seen him start fights with every country from Canada to New Zealand while praising Russia and quote, "falling in love" with the dictator of North Korea, and you have said, "That's statesmanship!"

That Trump separated children from their families and put them in cages, managed to lose track of 1500 kids, has opened a tent city incarceration camp in the desert in Texas - he explains that they’re just “animals” - and you say, “Well, OK then.”

That you have witnessed all the thousand and one other manifestations of corruption and low moral character and outright animalistic rudeness and contempt for you, the working American voter, and you still show up grinning and wearing your MAGA hats and threatening to beat up anybody who says otherwise.

What you don't get, Trump supporters, is that our succumbing to frustration and shaking our heads, thinking of you as stupid, may very well be wrong and unhelpful, but it's also...hear me...charitable.

Because if you're NOT stupid, we must turn to other explanations, and most of them are less flattering.

- Adam-Troy Castro

(To all who agree with its content, I ask that you PLEASE SHARE IT on your own post, and ENCOURAGE OTHERS to do the same.)

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philtstone · 9 months ago

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the running bit of shawn being an excellent shot but entering every single Very Dangerous Situation completely unarmed is so fun because it just contains so many multitudes within it. practical interpretation? has a criminal record & california gun laws are relatively strict. personality wise? silly little pacifist with no sense of self preservation. meta narratively? the main character and he knows it. archetypally? sets him apart from the cops. funniest interpretation? cosmic forces at play in the universe think shawn and his fraudulent psychic schtick are deeply funny. hes actually just too touched by god to ever need a weapon to survive; a spiritually unkillable guy.

#its one of my all time favorite characterization choices truly #phil.txt #psych

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fernadoblogs · 2 years ago

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Warning - Unnecessary Medical Billing Practices

I had a concerning experience with MTM Medical Billing. It came to my attention that they were engaged in providing and billing for unnecessary medical services. As a patient, I believe it is vital to trust healthcare providers and billing companies to act ethically and in the best interest of patients' health and financial well-being.

During my interactions with them, I noticed a pattern of overdiagnosis, unwarranted tests, and inflated billing for treatments that were not medically justified. This raised serious concerns about their practices and the potential harm it may cause to patients, both financially and physically.

It is essential for all patients to be vigilant and question any suspicious billing practices. I urge everyone to thoroughly review their medical bills and seek a second opinion if they feel uncertain about any tests or treatments recommended.

I have reported this issue to the relevant authorities and insurance company to ensure that appropriate actions are taken to protect patients and uphold the integrity of the healthcare system.

I hope my review serves as a warning to others who may be considering using MTM Medical Billing. We must all work together to maintain transparency and accountability in the medical billing process and put patients' well-being first.

#MTM Medical Billing #Unnecessary Medical Billing Practices #MTM Medical Billing New Jersey #Fraud Billing Company #fraudulent medical billing #upcoding #Illegal Balance Billing #Scott Kramer #Billing for unnecessary medical services

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fraudulentbusinesspractices · 2 years ago

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Broken Promises: Navigating the Consequences of Breach of Business Contracts

Introduction: Business contracts form the foundation of commercial relationships, outlining the rights, responsibilities, and expectations of all parties involved. However, there are instances when one party fails to fulfill their contractual obligations, leading to a breach of the agreement. This article explores the consequences of breach of business contracts, shedding light on the impact it can have on the parties involved and emphasizing the importance of addressing such situations promptly and effectively.

Financial Implications: Breach of a business contract can have significant financial consequences for both parties. The non-breaching party may suffer financial losses due to missed opportunities, additional expenses, or reduced profitability. Additionally, they may incur legal costs associated with pursuing legal remedies or seeking damages for the breach. The breaching party may face financial liabilities such as compensatory damages, penalties, or even loss of business reputation, which can impact their future prospects.

Damage to Business Relationships: When a contract is breached, trust between the parties is undermined, potentially damaging the business relationship. The non-breaching party may feel betrayed, leading to strained or severed ties. This can have long-term repercussions, as damaged business relationships may result in lost partnerships, reduced referrals, or negative word-of-mouth that can harm the breaching party's reputation within the industry.

Legal Consequences: Breach of contract can lead to legal action. The non-breaching party may choose to pursue legal remedies to enforce the contract, seek specific performance, or claim damages for the losses incurred. Engaging in a legal battle can be time-consuming, emotionally draining, and costly for both parties involved. It is crucial to consult legal professionals to navigate the complex legal landscape and understand the available options for resolution.

Reputational Damage: In the interconnected world of business, news of contract breaches can spread quickly, tarnishing the reputation of the breaching party. Negative publicity can harm their credibility and brand image, leading to a loss of trust from customers, suppliers, and other stakeholders. Rebuilding a damaged reputation can be challenging, requiring significant effort and resources.

Future Business Opportunities: A breach of contract can have lasting implications on future business opportunities. The non-breaching party may be hesitant to enter into new contracts with the breaching party or may insist on stricter terms and conditions to mitigate future risks. Conversely, the breaching party may find it difficult to secure new partnerships or contracts due to their reputation for non-compliance and unreliability.

Conclusion: Breach of business contracts carries significant consequences for all parties involved. It is crucial for businesses to prioritize contract management, ensure clear communication, and fulfill their obligations. In the event of a breach, prompt action should be taken to minimize the impact and seek appropriate resolutions through negotiation or legal means. By upholding the sanctity of contracts and fostering a culture of trust and accountability, businesses can maintain strong relationships, protect their financial interests, and uphold their reputation in the marketplace.

#Fraud #bad business practices #fraudulent business practices #deceptive behaviour #business lies #deceiving customers online #breach of contract #breach of business contract

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applereid · 2 months ago

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— HIS CAMGIRL, DEAN WINCHESTER.

MDNI smut, camgirl!user, male masturbation

Was Dean the type of man to indulge in something like this? Absolutely. More than anyone else he knew, Dean was aware— unapologetically— that this was exactly his kind of thing.

He sat alone in a dimly lit motel room, the familiar creak of the mattress beneath him as he leaned back against the headboard. Sam was out— running errands or maybe chasing a lead— and Dean knew he had time. Time to unwind in his own way. With one hand he began to unbutton his jeans, the other deftly maneuvering the mouse of his aging laptop until he landed on a site he knew far too well.

BecomeACamGirl.com

His preferred distraction. His favorite money sink. Hundreds of dollars funneled through fraudulent credit cards, all to indulge in moments of digital intimacy that felt far too real. He justified it easily— if the money wasn’t theirs to begin with, then why not spend it on something that made him feel something?

And then there was you.

Or rather, Sugar— your screen name, sweet and simple, but with a bite that matched your smile. You were his weakness. The way you spoke to him in chat, the way you said his name— moaned his name—it drove him to the brink every single time. It wasn’t just lust. It was obsession, tangled with the illusion of connection.

He clicked through to your profile. You were live. Thank God.

It had been weeks since he’d had the chance. Sam had been glued to his side lately, and solo moments like these were becoming rare. But now— now he had you.

“Dean,” your voice purred through the speakers, sultry and teasing. You sat on the floor of your softly lit bedroom, framed by plush carpet and shadows. Lingerie hugged your curves like a second skin. “Nice of you to join. Was starting to miss my favorite boy.” You smiled, biting your bottom lip just enough to make his heart race.

Dean let out a breathless chuckle, jeans and boxers shoved down in one practiced motion. He typed with one hand, the other already gripping the base of his aching cock as he sent a $50 tip along with a message.

Dean: Missed you, sweet thing.

You glanced to the side to read it, your smile widening as you spoke. “You remember the last time you were here? Bought me something off my wishlist?” You leaned off camera for a moment.

Oh, he remembered. A white lace lingerie set— soft, delicate, almost innocent. He’d imagined you in it for days. Then, he imagined it crumpled on your bedroom floor.

You returned, holding the set between two fingers like a promise. “Should I go put this on for you guys?” you asked, your voice light with a playful lilt. You giggled as you scrolled through the chat.

Dean didn’t hesitate. His body moved on instinct, fingers flying over the keys as the tension in him built higher.

Dean: Fuck yeah.

After stepping off-screen for a few moments, you return to view— Dean’s white lingerie hugging your curves, your hair now loose around your shoulders. With a coy, knowing smile, you sit back down, settling gracefully as you flash a bashful grin to the camera.

“Do you like it?” you murmur, your voice soft and teasing. Leaning back on your palms, you subtly adjust your posture, striking a few flattering poses to show off your body in all the right angles.

On the other side of the screen, Dean exhales sharply. Without hesitation, he spits into the palm of his hand and rewraps it around the base of his cock, slicking himself up slowly, his eyes never leaving the screen.

You reach off camera and return with a pastel pink dildo, bringing it into view with a lazy smile. You drizzle lube into your free hand, the bottle making a soft sound as you apply it, then start stroking the toy with practiced ease.

“God, baby… you’re so big,” you whisper breathlessly, eyes flicking up toward the camera, every word dipped in desire.

“Let me taste you. Please? Want you in my mouth,” you plead softly, your lips forming a pout as you lean in, giving the silicone tip a slow, deliberate lick while holding eye contact with the lens.

Dean lets out a low groan, whispering as if you could actually hear him. “Yeah… you can,” he mutters, nodding to himself, immersed entirely in the illusion that you’re in the room with him.

His breath catches as he watches you take the toy fully into your mouth, lips stretched around the shaft until you reach the base. When you pull back, a glistening string of spit connects your lips to the toy, and his grip tightens reflexively.

Dean’s imagination runs wild— wondering how your throat would feel around him. Could you handle all of him? Would you gag? Would you moan around him, tears in your eyes as you took every inch?

You moan softly, your free hand rising to cup your chest as you begin sucking on the toy once more, slow and sensual.

“Fuck, sugar,” Dean groans, closing his eyes for a moment, hips jerking upward into his own hand as pleasure courses through him.

“Cum for me, baby,” you whisper sweetly, pulling off the dildo and stroking it slowly, resting your cheek against it as you gaze into the camera with wide, pleading eyes.

“I’m cumming, sugar… fuck,” he gasps, his voice low and broken. With a series of quiet grunts, Dean finishes into his hand, his body tensing as he rides out the wave, breath stuttering in his chest.

You smile softly, reading through the flood of chat messages and generous tips rolling in. One by one, thank-you notes and donations appear— until Dean’s $300 tip pops up, rocketing him from second place to the coveted top spot: your highest tipper of the night.

Dean: Until next time, sweet girl.

“Thank you all for coming tonight. Thank you, Dean.” you say gently, your voice dripping with satisfaction. “You were amazing. I’ll see you next time, yeah? And don’t forget, there’s a new $20 chat option if you ever want to talk one-on-one.”

Dean’s eyes narrow with interest at that last line, watching as the camera clicks off and your profile reappears on screen. He grabs a towel from beside the bed, cleaning himself off as he scans the new feature you teased.

A direct message option—private access to you, his favorite camgirl. For $20, he could talk to you directly, one-on-one.

He smirks.

He just might have to give that a try.

#༦ applereids 📝 work ㅤ۫#dean winchester #dean winchester x reader #dean winchester smut #dean winchester fanfiction #dean winchester fic #dean winchester x you #dean winchester x female!reader #supernatural #supernatural smut #supernatural dean winchester

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jellyfishsthings · 25 days ago

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Say It Again and I’ll Kill You

navigation , dc navigation

WARNINGS: funny miscommunication, Damian's pride, AGED UP! Damian

requests are open

dividers by @cafekitsune

The air in the study crackled with a tension thick enough to cut with a knife. Outside, the Gotham drizzle mirrored the tempest brewing within its oak-paneled walls. He stood by the window, a silhouette etched against the grey sky, his posture rigid, his jaw a hard line. You leaned against the overflowing bookshelf, arms crossed, trying to project an air of calm that felt increasingly fraudulent.

We were, as was becoming tragically routine, locked in a battle of wills. The subject, as always, was your well-being, specifically your insistence on handling a particularly delicate matter involving a rather unsavory character who believed threats were a valid form of negotiation. His argument, delivered with the icy precision he often employed, was that . You were jeopardizing myself unnecessarily and that, as someone who cared (the word was always laced with a barely-concealed reluctance), he felt obliged to intervene.

Your argument, which you considered infinitely more reasonable, was that you were perfectly capable of handling myself. You weren't some simpering damsel in distress. You were a grown woman, a woman who had navigated treacherous boardrooms and outmaneuvered seasoned con artists. You were, in short, not in need of his paternalistic protection.

He simply couldn't seem to grasp it.

"It's reckless," he finally said, his voice a low rumble that barely registered above the drumming of the rain. "You're courting danger for the sake of… what? Proving a point?"

"I'm not courting danger," You retorted, your voice sharper than you intended. "I'm handling a situation. And for the last time, darling, I can take care of myself."

The words hung in the air, a grenade tossed into the already volatile atmosphere. He went utterly still. It was the kind of stillness that precedes a storm, the calm before the deluge. He didn't react, didn't twitch, didn't even seem to breathe. He simply stood there, a statue carved from granite, his gaze fixed on some distant point beyond the rain-streaked window.

Then, with a deliberate slowness that only amplified the tension, he turned. His eyes, usually a cool, calculating grey, were suddenly dark, almost black.

"What did you just call me?"

The question was deceptively soft, a silken thread woven with steel. He wasn't yelling, wasn't raising his voice, but the sheer intensity of his gaze sent a shiver down your spine.

A reckless impulse, a perverse desire to poke the sleeping bear, surged through me. You knew you should apologize, should backtrack, should pretend you hadn't said it. But the defiant part of me, the part that bristled under his constant, albeit well-intentioned, supervision, refused to yield.

You forced a smirk, a calculatedly provocative expression. "I said darling. What, can't take a pet name, princeling?"

The silence that followed was deafening. He stared at me, his expression unreadable, a mask of carefully controlled displeasure. You could practically see the gears turning in his brilliant, infuriating mind, calculating, analyzing, plotting his next move.

Without a word, he turned on his heel and walked out. The door closed behind him with a soft, deliberate click, leaving you alone in the echoing silence of the study.

A wave of guilt, quickly followed by a stubborn sense of defiance, washed over me. He was being ridiculous. He was being overprotective. He was being… well, Damian.

The next day passed in a state of uneasy truce. He was present at the office, but he was distant, aloof, treating you with a detached politeness that was far more unnerving than any argument. He spoke to you only when necessary, his voice devoid of any warmth or inflection. It was as if you had been demoted from a… a something to a mere colleague, a face in the crowd.

You spent the day alternately regretting your impulsive words and stubbornly refusing to apologize. He was the one being unreasonable, wasn't he? He was the one turning a simple phrase into a personal affront.

By evening, you were a mess of frayed nerves and conflicting emotions. You were halfway through a glass of wine, wrestling with a particularly thorny paragraph in a report, when a shadow fell across your desk.

You looked up to find him standing there, his expression as inscrutable as ever. In his hands, he held a small, elaborately wrapped package. It wasn't for me. You knew that instinctively.

He placed the package silently on your desk, close to the sleeping form of Mr. Fluffernutter, your perpetually grumpy Persian cat, who clearly saw Damian's presence as an unbearable intrusion.

"If you insist on calling me such things," he finally said, his voice low and clipped, "at least be consistent. I am not fragile."

Then, without waiting for a response, he turned and walked away.

You stared at the package, then at Mr. Fluffernutter, who blinked at you with an expression of profound disinterest. You carefully unwrapped the gift. It was a ridiculously extravagant cat toy, a miniature throne of intricately carved wood, complete with a tiny velvet cushion and a feather-tipped scepter.

It was absurd. It was ridiculous. It was utterly, undeniably… Damian.

A grin spread across your face.

He was impossible. He was infuriating. He was, without a doubt, the most complicated, exasperating, and undeniably compelling man You had ever known.

The following day, you found him in the library, surrounded by stacks of books, his brow furrowed in concentration. You approached him cautiously, a playful glint in your eyes.

"Morning, darling," You said, your voice deliberately sweet.

He didn't look up. "Good morning."

"Enjoying your reading?"

"Yes," he replied curtly.

You leaned closer, your voice dropping to a whisper. "You know, for someone who claims to be impervious to pet names, you seem awfully preoccupied with them."

He finally looked up, his eyes narrowing slightly. "I am merely attempting to understand the… the logic behind your… your…" he trailed off, clearly struggling with the word.

"Affection?" You supplied helpfully.

He rolled his eyes. "Let us not exaggerate."

You grinned. "No, you're just my darling pain in the ass."

He paused, considering your words, his expression softening ever so slightly. For a moment, You thought he might actually smile.

He didn’t disagree. Instead, he simply returned to his book, a faint hint of color rising in his cheeks.

The truce, it seemed, was holding. But you knew, with a certainty that settled deep in your bones, that this was just the beginning. The battle of wills, the playful jabs, the underlying, unspoken affection – it was all part of our dance, a complex, intricate tango that we would continue to perform, each of us determined to lead, neither of us willing to truly surrender. And perhaps, that was exactly the way it was supposed to be. After all, what was life without a little darling dilemma?

#damian wayne #damian al ghul #damian wayne x reader #damain wayne x you #damian wayne fluff #damian wayne fanfiction #damian wayne imagine #damian wayne oneshot #robin x reader #robin x you #robin fluff #dc comics #dc comics x reader #dc comics x you

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vague-humanoid · 2 years ago

Text

Verizon handed Poppy’s personal data, including the address on file and phone logs, to a stalker who later directly threatened her and drove to an address armed with a knife. Police then arrested the suspect, Robert Michael Glauner, who is charged with fraud and stalking offenses, but not before he harassed Poppy, her family, friends, workplace, and daughter’s therapist, Poppy added. 404 Media has changed Poppy’s name to protect her identity.

Glauner’s alleged scheme was not sophisticated in the slightest: he used a ProtonMail account, not a government email, to make the request, and used the name of a police officer that didn’t actually work for the police department he impersonated, according to court records. Despite those red flags, Verizon still provided the sensitive data to Glauner.

Remarkably, in a text message to Poppy sent during the fallout of the data transfer, a Verizon representative told Poppy that the corporation was a victim too. “Whoever this is also victimized us,” the Verizon representative wrote, according to a copy of the message Poppy shared with 404 Media. “We are taking every step possible to work with the police so they can identify them.”

In the interview with 404 Media, Poppy pointed out that Verizon is a multi-billion dollar company and yet still made this mistake. “They need to get their shit together,” she said.

Poppy’s story highlights the very real human cost of a massive failure on Verizon’s part. More broadly, it highlights the increasing problem of criminals filing fraudulent emergency data requests (EDRs) with tech companies and telecoms as a way to trick them into handing over their targets’ data. Other criminals who discuss the practice are often part of wider criminal groups that rob, shoot, and attack one another and outside victims, according to Telegram messages reviewed by 404 Media. Senators have written to tech companies for information on the problem of fake EDRs, and one company has emerged which attempts to mitigate the problem by vetting requests from police departments. And yet, the issue remains.

“This has completely changed my life, for the rest of my life,” Poppy said, adding that the incident has amplified her PTSD and anxiety from previous trauma.

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loveyouprongs · 23 days ago

Text

bringing up baby part 1

remus lupin x whimsical fem!reader | Buttoned-up grad student Remus Lupin has the rare chance to work under one of the top scholars in the country. But his carefully laid plans keep getting derailed by the scholar’s free-spirited whirlwind of a daughter who seems determined to unravel both his plans and his sanity.

upcoming content: mentions of alcohol

authors note: thank you to @oldhollywoodniall for requesting this! my first seriessss!!! i hope you like it :) it’s inspired by the 1938 movie of the same title! it’s so adorable, it’s cary grant as a straight laced academic and katharine hepburn as a whimsical romantic and all the hijinks they get into! I'M SO EXCITED THIS IS MY FIRST SERIES!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹🥂🥂🥂🥂

word count: 3.5k

series masterlist | masterlist

Remus took a steadying breath and fixed his eyes on the gilded doors ahead. This was just another room. Just another room full of people with expensive shoes and sharper minds, maybe, but people all the same. He’d practiced what he wanted to say. He knew Binns’ work like the back of his hand, and he looked, objectively, quite presentable. Not remarkable, he wouldn’t go that far, but tidy enough. Reasonably confident. Academically unthreatening in a way that might actually help.

He could do this.

He was two full seconds into that rare sense of mental composure when a hand smacked the back of his head.

“Sorry, Moons,” Sirius said, not sounding sorry at all. “That was obviously meant for James.”

“What the hell?” James stepped back, affronted. “Why are you trying to hit me?”

“Because,” Sirius said, already reaching again, “I know you used the last of my hair mousse! Your hair is NOT that naturally luxurious. I know a fraudulent bounce when I see one.”

James dodged right and shoved Remus into the line of fire with one smooth motion. “He’s closer. Hit him instead!"

Remus closed his eyes. shoving James' arms off of him, “Oh my god. I can’t believe I brought you two.”

“You say that,” Sirius said, adjusting the lapels of his jacket, “but without us, you’d still be standing in the flat, fucking hyperventilating into a paper bag.”

Remus flushed, because he wasn’t entirely wrong.

James, softer, bumped his shoulder against Remus’. “We’re here for support, mate."

"And selfishly, I want to be there from the start. When you’re a world-famous historian, I want it on record that I stood by you through the awkward beginning, boring mixers with your scruffy fringe!"

Remus deadpanned, deciding to ignore the quip about his hair, “I don’t think historians become famous.”

“Well,” James said, grinning, “then you’ll be the first.”

Remus huffed, more out of affection than exasperation. They reached the edge of the crowd, the soft jazz and swirl of candlelight spilling from the room beyond. Robes rustled like paper. The scent of old books and spiced wine hung in the air.

He paused and turned to his friends, who despite being utter nuisances most of the time, were still his very best friends, and he was glad they were there for him. A safe space he could run to that would aid him in drowning his sorrows if he made a complete fool of himself tonight.

“Final outfit check?” he asked, quieter now.

Sirius stepped in, considered him with a critical eye, and unfastened the second button of his shirt. “There. Now you look less like you're going to a funeral and more like a tenured professor with a scandalous past.”

Remus gave him a flat look, but he didn’t fix the button.

“We’ll be at the bar,” Sirius added, clapping him once on the back. “If you need someone to talk you up, or pretend you’re more interesting than you are.”

“I don’t-”

“Shhh,” Sirius whispered, already walking away.

James offered one last encouraging grin before following him. Remus adjusted his cuffs, lifted his chin, and stepped into the crowd, the noise folding over him like a wave.

He could do this.

He had to.

Remus was trying, honestly, truly, with everything he had in him! not to sweat through his shirt. The hall was warm, the crowd too dense, and someone had spilled something sticky near the entrance that now clung to the soles of his shoes like guilt.

This was fine. He was fine. He’d been preparing for this for months. He had backup parchment in his pocket. He had mentally rehearsed his opening line to Professor Binns exactly forty-seven times. He had flossed. He was ready.

He was also walking directly into a pack of contenders.

Charles Burke stood at the foot of the stairs in full academic regalia, even though robes weren’t technically required tonight. Probably wanted to remind everyone that he had a lineage and wasn’t afraid to use it. Dottie Fenwick was holding court by the floating wine decanter, surrounded by a circle of admirers as she casually name-dropped committee chairs and made academic nepotism sound like a family reunion.

Remus tried to keep his pace even, dignified. He imagined himself as a very serious, very capable person, the sort of person who was asked to edit Binns’ work, not just alphabetize it. The assistantship was for Binns’ in-progress encyclopedic catalogue of British Magical History. A hundred years of material, minimum. And if Remus got it, he’d be reading original manuscripts, categorizing war-time spell development trends, probably translating some 14th-century folklore if he was lucky. It was a once-in-a-career opportunity. Or once-in-a-lifetime, depending on how well this went.

He wondered if it was too late to turn around and hide in the coatroom.

No. Absolutely not. He was here. He was doing this. All he had to do was locate Binns, say something brilliant and humble, maybe reference the footnote on dragon labor strikes in Volume VI, and avoid being too obviously undercaffeinated.

He was halfway through mentally crafting a line about subversive spells in peasant revolts when something tapped his arm.

Remus let the featherlight touch roll off his back, chalking it up to someone brushing past him.

He kept walking. Another tap, more purposeful. This time at the elbow.

He glanced down, not expecting to see a glittery rainbow manicured hand.

A hand that was very clearly batting at the loose thread on his sleeve.

“Oh, um, can I help you?” he began, but the hand was already back, more insistent this time.

“You oughta hold still,” the owner of the hand said beside him, cheerful and wholly unconcerned. “I’m trying to fix this.”

Remus looked up and found you beside him, calm as anything, studying his sleeve like it had personally offended you. He squinted his eyes and found a miniscule thread hanging from the sleeve of his blazer.

You weren’t exactly smiling, but there was a kind of pleased mischief about your expression, like fixing this thread was the most natural thing in the world, and he was the one being difficult about it.

“I, what?” he asked, helplessly. “Why are you-”

“If you would just hold still,” you said, with the exact exasperated tone one might use on a particularly unhelpful cat, “I could fix this.”

“I—I don’t think that’s nec—what are you doing?” Remus stammered, recoiling slightly as your face drew even nearer.

You ignored him entirely, eyes fixed on the offending thread. “It’ll only take a second. Biting is faster and cleaner, arguably!”

Remus sputtered. Actually sputtered. He had been preparing to talk about goblin tax revolts and now someone was threatening to gnaw on his jacket.

His buffering was the perfect opportunity, you thought, insides lightly fizzing with amusement as the boy who towered over you was positively scatterbrained.

With the ease of someone who had long stopped checking whether her behavior was socially acceptable, you caught his arm again, held it steady, and brought it level with your mouth. Remus could only stare, horror blooming in his chest as you tilted your head, examined the thread with a kind of academic focus, and then, unbelievably, leaned in.

“Wait! No, don’t, please don’t!”

“It’s fine,” you said calmly, already biting. “Honestly, you’re making this far more dramatic than it needs to be!” You muttered as you clenched your teeth together, pulling back with the thread between them.

You weren't even particularly close to skin, but enough to make Remus jolt like you’d doused him in cold water, or like an electric shock, No, he thought, cold water. Freezing cold water. You straightened before he could stop you, holding the thread up like a prized specimen, entirely pleased with yourself.

“There,” you said, flicking the thread toward the nearest plant. “All better. Honestly, you should be thanking me, it was about to unravel into a tragedy.”

“You—you bit me!”

“No, I didn't,” you said indignantly, already adjusting the shoulder of his jacket. “I bit the thread. It’s completely different. If I’d bit you, we’d be engaged. Or cursed. Or maybe both, depending on the mood of the room, but I think we’re safe.”

Remus could only gape at you as you looked at him, matter-of-factly. You stood before him, donning a gold colored gown that slightly puffed out with tulle at the waist. Your hair, an explosion of curls, that framed your face, your multi-colored nails, did they just change colors? Remus thought, combed through them.

"Besides," you began, "you should be thanking me! What would you have done if I hadn’t been here? Just walked around like that? Unraveling in front of important academics?”

He rubbed a hand over his face, growing more exasperated with every second, he hadn't prepared for this. What is going on? “I was not unraveling.”

Remus looked around to see if maybe he somehow fell down a rabbit hole, and that's why you were speaking to him as if you both were in a different reality.

“You were absolutely unraveling,” you replied, brushing off his shoulder like you’d just saved him from public disgrace. “And I can’t have Evan Rosier—Evan Rosier, of all people—thinking I’d go out with a boy with loose threads on his jacket. Imagine the precedent that would set."

That did it.

Remus straightened like he’d been yanked upright by a string, jaw tightening. “We are not going out.” He said in the same way a parent spoke while telling off their child.

You blinked at him, all wide-eyed mischief and mild amusement. “Well, no, obviously not, but we’re pretending to-”

“No. No, we’re not,” Remus said, already backing up a step like that would somehow physically distance him from the madness unraveling in front of him. “I am not pretending, I’m not involved, I haven’t agreed to anything, you can’t just declare someone your boyfriend!"

You tilted your head, only half-listening now. You could practically see the bullet points unrolling behind his eyes.

“I had an agenda,” he went on, spiraling. “I had talking points. I did not schedule time for, for thread-biting! Or charades! Or public declarations of fabricated affection in front of, Merlin, I don’t even know where Evan Rosier is! And frankly I don’t want to know, and I haven’t even spoken to Professor Binns yet, who I am here to see, by the way, not you!”

He winced halfway through the sentence, suddenly aware of his own voice, he was angry, but never one to be without manners. “I mean—offense not intended. You seem very… very…”

He trailed off, clearly searching for something both accurate and non-insulting.

Your jaw dropped in theatrical horror. “How rude! I give you five minutes of my very best company and you can’t even come up with a single charming adjective? Not one? I was going to say you had a nice jaw!”

Remus would’ve felt bad, truly, he would!, if you hadn’t burst into giggles halfway through, delighted at your own outburst.

"That’s not the point," he sighed, "I’m here to speak with Professor Binns-”

You smirked.

It was subtle. Barely there. But unmistakable. The kind of smile people wore when they knew something no one else in the room did, and were enjoying it immensely.

Remus, tragically oblivious, forged ahead.

“about the assistantship, the historical catalogue project, which is very serious, very competitive, and—surprise!—does not include fake relationships, or magical wardrobe repairs, or being mistaken for anyone’s emotional support date.”

“Never said you were emotionally supportive,” you mused. “You’re more… scenic. A visual asset. Very professorial.”

“I don’t care if people think I invented goblin poetry,” he snapped, eyes wide, voice high and a bit cracked at the edges. “I am not playing along with whatever whimsical detour you’ve designed for my evening. No one warned me about whimsical detours. There was no mention of them in the pamphlet.”

“Just for tonight,” you said, cheerful as ever. “Or the next hour. Or until Evan decides someone else is his soulmate and starts writing haikus to them instead. Honestly, I’m flexible.”

Remus let out the sort of laugh that meant he was not laughing.

He turned sharply on his heel and stormed off, muttering something that sounded suspiciously like, “I need a drink. Or a Portkey. Or a bloody time machine.”

You watched him go with your hands clasped neatly behind your back, still smiling to yourself. Not smug, just pleased. The secret curled behind your teeth like sugar on the tongue.

You liked the look of him. Not just his commanding, long-limbed frame, or soft dirty blonde hair (though that helped) but the way he said things like “emotional support date” with a straight face and the air of someone who’d never been more inconvenienced in his life.

Remus made it five paces before curiosity, traitorous and insistent, tapped on his shoulder. He didn’t look back, not exactly. That would be obvious! But he did slow, just enough to glance into the reflection of a decorative suit of armor, angled slightly to the left. The armor, unhelpfully, was fogged from someone’s spilled drink

He tried again, peering into a nearby windowpane as he passed, catching only a vague smear of gold tulle and motion. You were still there. Still watching him. Not offended, not huffy, not even particularly surprised. Just… interested. Like you were actively trying to figure him out. Like he was the most interesting person in the room.

He hated that it made his ears go pink.

Remus tugged at his sleeve and marched off toward the far end of the hall, trying to summon the ghost of his original confidence. Professor Binns, thankfully, was exactly where he’d hoped, nursing a drink near the arched fireplace by the bar where James was throwing pretzels in the air, trying to catch them in his mouth, Sirius must've been only a couple drinks in as he was thoroughly entertained. Two-drink Sirius was a giggler, Remus thought as he watched them from the corner of his eye as he approached the professor.

This was it, this was his chance.

He straightened his spine, smoothed his sleeves, and marched toward Professor Binns, rehearsing the revised version of his introduction in his head (“Hello, sir, sorry I’m late, I was waylaid by a girl who bit me- no, that won’t do-”).

“Professor Binns?” Remus said, straightening his shoulders.

The old fellow turned with the air of someone mildly surprised to still be receiving visitors. “Mr. Lupin,” Binns said, his voice pleasantly dry. “I'd been hoping to see you!"

From over his shoulder, Remus saw James turn, clearly having heard the praise and sent Remus a huge smile and two goofy thumbs up. Remus ignored it as best as he could, he couldn't deal with anymore silliness in one evening.

"Thank you, sir," Remus said softly, wringing his hands with new found nerves, "I was hoping to-"

“Ask about the assistantship, I assume? Quite a few of you here tonight hoping to pin your name to the margins of history.” Binns chuckled to himself, a sound like rustling paper. “Walk with me, Lupin.”

They began to move slowly along the edge of the crowd, Remus answering questions and nodding where appropriate, his nerves easing with every step. He brought up obscure archival processes, lightly referenced spell classification errors in pre-Ministry records, even managed a laugh when Binns made a joke about poltergeists as research assistants.

This was going well.

“And of course,” Binns said, pausing near the dessert table, “you’d be spending a great deal of time in my office, if you’re selected.”

“Yes, sir, I understand,” Remus said quickly, that was no problem to him.

Professor Binns gave him a knowing look, then turned with a faint grunt of effort. “Come along, then. I’ll give you a quick tour of the staff offices. Most of my papers and current research are stored there. Spell-locks, some charmed filing systems—nothing too exciting unless you’re in love with parchment.”

Remus startled into step beside him, nodding. He’s speaking like I’ve already got it. Like this is happening. Like I’m not just here to audition but to begin.

Sirius, who was shamelessly eavesdropping, was now pumping his fist in the air, a fairly accurate portrayal of how Remus felt on the inside.

“You with me, Lupin?”

Remus, who had briefly dissociated into a vision of himself singlehandedly preserving magical labor history, blinked. “Oh, yes, sir. Sorry, what was that last part?”

“Ah.” Binns adjusted his glasses with a knuckle. “Only that my research is largely confidential, of course. So don’t be surprised if you see a young lady hanging about my office. That would be my daughter," he said flippantly.

“Oh. Alright,” Remus said easily, he didn't really care, but he catalogued it anyway, just in case that information would somehow be useful to him in the future.

“Pumpkin?” Binns called, peering at the crowded hall, suddenly spotting whoever he was looking for. “Come here. I want you to meet Remus Lupin. He may very well be working with me this year.”

Remus turned, already smiling a little, politely preparing himself for a bored teenager or perhaps a mild-mannered girl in spectacles—

But you stepped forward.

Instead, his stomach dropped.

Oh no.

No, no, no.

A hurricane wrapped in gold, with an infuriatingly smug little smile to top it all off came waltzing towards them.

Remus’s heart plunged into his shoes. He’d ruined it. She was going to tell her father about how he’d basically scolded her, how he’d —not once, but twice— rejected her (despite it being over a fake relationship!), how he’d looked at her like she was certifiably insane and then marched off like a man personally wronged by whimsy.

She was going to sink him before he even got the chance to board the ship.

“Oh—” Remus managed.

You beamed. “Remus was it? Lovely to meet you!”

Remus made a strangled noise that might’ve been words. He could feel heat flooding his collar, as if Sirius was giving him one his infamous horrible neck massages.

“Your sleeve stitches are so tidy. Don’t you think, father?"

Your father just rolled his eyes, something he probably did maybe fifty times a day when you were around. You were used to the fond exasperation. He was used to your unrelenting theatricality. After all, you had gotten it from somewhere!

"Yes, yes, lovely tailoring. You see what I have to put up with, Mr. Lupin?" Your father asked and you could do nothing but look up at Remus with a squirming smile, seeing how he was malfunctioning in real time.

"I-it's nice to meet you..." Remus trailed off.

You told him your name, following it with, "but don't call me pumpkin!"

Remus nodded almost furiously, and well that just wouldn't do. Where was the man who spoke to you so boldly earlier? Now he was looking at you as if you were your father. Someone he owed something to and had to impress. You bit your lip, trailing his frame up and down, Oh, it'll be fun to tear that down.

Binns, unmoved, added, “You’d be seeing quite a lot of her around my office, if you’re selected for the position. Which, between us, is looking rather likely.”

Remus made another sound, possibly a vowel? His insides were stuttering with being overwhelmed, so much had happened in such a short amount of time. Maybe it was a good thing James and Sirius were watching them, unblinkingly, they could give him a rundown.

“I’ll be seeing you around then, Mr. Lupin,” you said, eyes sparkling, your smile widening like a cat curling into the sun.

With a final nod and a promise to reach out with the details, Remus watched you and your father, his new boss, move back into the thick of the hall. Your father shook his cane at a group of young students standing in the way, who scattered like mice, and Remus couldn't help but let out a breathless laugh. You followed at a skip, wiggling your fingers in front of his face to show off your color-changing nails like a child with a new toy.

It was Remus' turn to watch you walk away this time.

"M-a-a-a-a-te!!!!" Sirius’s voice slammed into him like a Quaffle to the ribs. An arm swung heavily around his shoulder, “You got it! You got it, didn’t you?”

All Remus could do was nod, letting himself for the first time that night, enjoy himself. He was the one who did all the work, why is it that only his friends seemed to be celebrating?

"WE KNEW IT!" James yelled, clearly unaware of his own volume.

“And you didn’t pass out, cry, or say anything embarrassing,” Sirius added, counting on his fingers, barking out a drunken laugh, the scent of lemon drops wafting around him.

“CONGRATULTIONS,” James grinned, not far behind Sirius. “WE’LL THROW YOU A PARTY!! OH, I KNOW LILS WILL GET RIGHT ON IT!"

Remus, still faintly spinning, exhaled. “I need a chair.”

“You need a drink!” Sirius said. “And maybe a fainting couch.”

Remus was inclined to agree.

Whatever he’d expected this night to be, it wasn’t this. And whatever this was — this position, this assistantship, this future — it was already shaping up to be a lot more than he’d bargained for.

part two ->

#remus lupin #loveyouprongs #bringing up baby #remus lupin x reader #remus lupin x fem!reader #remus lupin x whimsical!reader #remus lupin fluff #remus lupin imagine #marauders #marauders era #marauders fluff #marauders fanfic

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mostlysignssomeportents · 2 years ago

Text

An Epic antitrust loss for Google

A jury just found Google guilty on all counts of antitrust violations stemming from its dispute with Epic, maker of Fortnite, which brought a variety of claims related to how Google runs its app marketplace. This is huge:

https://www.nytimes.com/2023/12/11/technology/epic-games-google-antitrust-ruling.html

The mobile app store world is a duopoly run by Google and Apple. Both use a variety of tactics to prevent their customers from installing third party app stores, which funnels all app makers into their own app stores. Those app stores cream an eye-popping 30% off every purchase made in an app.

This is a shocking amount to charge for payment processing. The payments sector is incredibly monopolized and notorious for its price-gouging – and its standard (wildly inflated) rate is 2-5%:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/08/04/owning-the-libs/#swiper-no-swiping

Now, in theory, Epic doesn't have to sell in Google Play, the official Android app store. Unlike Apple's iOS, Android permit both sideloading (installing an app directly without using an app store) and configuring your device to use a different app store. In practice, Google uses a variety of anticompetitive tricks to prevent these app stores from springing up and to dissuade Android users from sideloading. Proving that Google's actions – like paying Activision $360m as part of "Project Hug" (no, really!) – were intended to prevent new app storesfrom springing up was a big lift for Epic. But they managed it, in large part thanks to Google's own internal communications, wherein executives admitted that this was exactly why Project Hug existed. This is part of a pattern with Big Tech antitrust: many of the charges are theoretically very hard to make stick, but because the companies put their evil plans in writing (think of the fraudulent crypto exchange FTX, whose top execs all conferred in a groupchat called "Wirefraud"), Big Tech keeps losing in court:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/09/03/big-tech-cant-stop-telling-on-itself/

Now, I do like to dunk on Big Tech for this kind of thing, because it's objectively funny and because the companies make so many unforced errors. But in an important sense, this kind of written record is impossible to avoid. Any large institution can only make and enact policy through administrative systems, and those systems leave behind a paper-trail: memos, meeting minutes, etc. Yes, we all know that quote from The Wire: "Is you taking notes on a fucking criminal conspiracy?" But inevitably, any ambitious conspiracy can only exist if someone is taking notes.

What's more, any large conspiracy involving lots of parties will inevitably produce leaks. Think of this as the corollary to the idea that the moon landing can't be a hoax, because there's no way 400,000 co-conspirators could keep the secret. Big Tech's conspiracies required hundreds or even thousands of collaborators to keep their mouths shut, and eventually someone blabs:

https://www.science.org/content/article/fake-moon-landing-you-d-need-400000-conspirators

This is part of a wave of antitrust cases being brought against the tech giants. As Matt Stoller writes, the guilty-on-all-counts jury verdict will leak into current and future actions. Remember, Google spent much of this year in court fighting the DoJ, who argued that the company bribed Apple not to make a competing search engine, paying tens of billions every year to keep a competitor from emerging. Now that a jury has convinced Google of doing that to prevent alternative app stores from emerging, claims that it used these pay-for-delay tactics in other sectros get a lot more credible:

https://www.thebignewsletter.com/p/boom-google-loses-antitrust-case

On that note: what about Apple? Epic brought a very similar case against Apple and lost. Both Apple and Epic are appealing that case to the Supreme Court, and now that Google has been convicted in a similar case, it might prompt the Supremes to weigh in and resolve the seeming inconsistencies in the interpretation of federal law.

This is a key moment in the long project to wrest antitrust away from the pro-monopoly side, who spent decades "training" judges to produce verdicts that run counter to the plain language of America's antitrust law:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/08/13/post-bork-era/#manne-down

There's 40 years' worth of bad precedent to overturn. The good news is that we've got the law on our side. Literally, the wording of the laws and the records of the Congressional debate leading to their passage, all militate towards the (incredibly obvious) conclusion that the purpose of anti-monopoly law is to fight monopoly, not defend it:

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

It's amazing to realize that we got into this monopoly quagmire because judges just literally refused to enforce the law. That's what makes one part of the jury verdict against Google so exciting: the jury found that Google's insistence that Play Store sellers use its payment processor was an act of illegal tying. Today, "tying" is an obscure legal theory, but few doctrines would be more useful in disenshittifying the internet. A company is guilty of illegal tying when it forces you to use unrelated products or services as a condition of using the product you actually want. The abandonment of tying led to a host of horribles, from printer companies forcing you to buy ink at $10,000/gallon to Livenation forcing venues to sell tickets through its Ticketmaster subsidiary.

The next phase of this comes when the judge decides on the penalty. Epic doesn't want cash damages – it wants the judge to order Google to fulfill its promise of "an open, competitive Android ecosystem for all users and industry participants." They've asked the judge to order Google to facilitate third-party app stores, and to separate app stores from payment processors. As Stoller puts it, they want to "crush Google’s control over Android":

https://www.epicgames.com/site/en-US/news/epic-v-google-trial-verdict-a-win-for-all-developers

Google has sworn to appeal, surprising no one. The Times's expert says that they will have a tough time winning, given how clear the verdict was. Whatever this means for Google and Android, it means a lot for a future free from monopolies.

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/2023/12/12/im-feeling-lucky/#hugger-mugger

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blackstarlineage · 4 months ago

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The Hypocrisy of Fake Love for Black Revolutionaries: A Garveyite Perspective on the Betrayal of Our Icons, Leaders, and Ancestors

From a Garveyite perspective, one of the most dangerous betrayals in the Black community is the false admiration for Black revolutionaries, icons, and ancestors. Many Black people praise these figures publicly but refuse to embody their teachings, sacrifice for the movement, or apply their wisdom in daily life.

Marcus Garvey himself experienced this hypocrisy: he was celebrated by millions but was ultimately betrayed by his own people, leading to his persecution, imprisonment, and the destruction of the Universal Negro Improvement Association (UNIA).

This false love for Black revolutionaries is a form of empty hero worship—where Black people:

Wear the names of Black leaders on their clothes but refuse to carry their ideologies in their hearts.

Quote Malcolm X, Assata Shakur, and Garvey but live according to white capitalist values.

Praise the ancestors but continue the same behaviours that kept Black people in chains.

This analysis will explore:

How Black revolutionaries are romanticized but ignored in practice.

The betrayal of Black leaders in their own lifetimes.

How the system benefits from keeping Black leaders as symbols rather than applying their teachings.

The failures of modern Black movements to truly follow Garveyite principles.

How we must break the cycle and truly honour our icons with action, not just words.

1. The Romanticization of Black Leaders While Ignoring Their Teachings

Many Black revolutionaries are treated like celebrities rather than serious leaders.

A. Turning Black Leaders into Symbols Instead of Following Their Actions

People wear Malcolm X shirts but still believe in integration and white validation.

They post Garvey quotes online but refuse to build Black-owned businesses or invest in Pan-African economic power.

They celebrate Dr. King but ignore his late-stage radicalism against capitalism and imperialism.

Example: Malcolm X rejected integration and white liberals, yet today, many of the people who claim to admire him fight for assimilation into white institutions instead of Black independence.

B. The Empty Worship of Black Ancestors Without Change in Behavior

Many Black people claim to honor the ancestors, but still:

Use their resources to enrich non-Black communities.

Reject African traditions and spirituality in favour of white religions.

Teach their children Eurocentric values instead of Pan-African principles.

Example: The same Black people who praise Queen Nzinga and Shaka Zulu will still vote for anti-Black politicians, neglect Black-owned businesses, and refuse to defend their own communities.

Key Takeaway: Garveyism teaches that honouring our icons means CONTINUING their work—not just admiring them from a distance.

2. The Betrayal of Black Revolutionaries in Their Own Lifetimes

Throughout history, many of the same Black leaders we celebrate today were rejected, attacked, or betrayed by their own people when they were alive.

A. How Marcus Garvey Was Betrayed

Garvey built the largest Black movement in history, but many of his own people helped destroy him.

W.E.B. Du Bois and the NAACP opposed him and worked with the U.S. government to undermine the UNIA.

Many Black elites and integrationists mocked his call for African self-rule and repatriation.

Example: When Garvey was arrested on fraudulent charges, some Black leaders celebrated his downfall, showing their loyalty to white power structures over Black independence.

B. Malcolm X and the Nation of Islam Betrayal

Malcolm X risked his life for Black people, but when he started exposing the weaknesses of the Nation of Islam, he was abandoned and ultimately assassinated.

Many of his former supporters refused to stand with him when he needed protection the most.

Example: After Malcolm X was killed, Black people mourned him—but where were those same people when he was alive and fighting alone?

Key Takeaway: Too many Black people only recognize greatness AFTER a leader has died—but real support means standing with them while they are alive and fighting.

3. The System Benefits from Keeping Black Leaders as Symbols, Not Teachers

The white power structure wants Black leaders to be icons, not active ideologies. They understand that:

A dead revolutionary is harmless; a living one is dangerous.

A Garvey shirt is acceptable; a Garveyite movement is not.

Dr. King’s “I Have a Dream” speech is promoted; his speeches about fighting capitalism and imperialism are ignored.

Example: The U.S. watered down Dr. King’s radicalism and now uses him as a symbol of “peace” rather than a fighter against white supremacy and economic exploitation.

Key Takeaway: The system promotes a version of Black history that is safe and non-threatening—true Garveyites must reject this watered-down history and embrace the full revolutionary teachings of our leaders.

4. The Failure of Modern Black Movements to Apply Garveyite Principles

Many modern Black movements:

Focus more on representation in white spaces rather than building independent Black power.

Seek validation from white liberals rather than unifying with Africa and the global Black world.

Celebrate Black icons without practicing self-reliance, cooperative economics, or Pan-Africanism.

Example: Some modern Black activists claim to admire Garvey but spend more time appealing to white-owned corporations for funding than building their own economic power structures.

Key Takeaway: Black liberation can not come through white money, white validation, or white institutions. Garveyism teaches that true power comes from self-reliance and unity among Black people worldwide.

5. How We Must Break the Cycle: Honouring Black Icons Through Action

To TRULY honor our ancestors and revolutionaries, we must:

Practice Pan-Africanism – Work with Black people globally, not just within colonial borders.

Build and support Black-owned businesses – Keep wealth circulating within Black communities.

Teach Black children about REAL Black history – Not the whitewashed version.

Protect Black revolutionaries while they are alive – Not just mourn them after they die.

Reject the trap of white validation – Stop seeking approval from the same system that destroyed our leaders.

Final Takeaway: Garvey warned us: Black people must stop being spectators in their own liberation. If you love our leaders, SHOW IT by continuing their work—not just praising their names.

Conclusion: Time to Put Respect in Action, Not Just Words

If Black people TRULY loved Garvey, Malcolm X, Assata Shakur, and our ancestors:

We wouldn’t be begging for acceptance from white society.

We wouldn’t be spending trillions on white businesses while Black communities remain poor.

We wouldn’t be waiting for white governments to save us instead of uniting with Africa.

True love for Black revolutionaries means:

Practising their teachings.

Building the systems they fought for.

Sacrificing for the future of Black liberation.

As Garvey said:

"We must canonize our own saints, create our own heroes, and elevate our own history."

Words are not enough. The time for REAL action is NOW.

#black history #black people #blacktumblr #black #black tumblr #pan africanism #black conscious #africa #black power #black empowering #black liberation #black revolutionaries #black revolution #self determination #reparations now #Garveyite #Garveyism #marcus garvey

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blackthornwren · 1 month ago

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Why Wicca Matters

If you’ve seen me comment on any kind of witchblr discourse, you’ve likely seen me defend Initiatory Wicca, or you’ve seen me criticize others who tear down the tradition while not being a part of it, or examining their own practices and where they originated. There are specific reasons for my doing so, and I’m going to elaborate on those. First, let me preface by stating that I live in the United States and as a practitioner, I actually owe a lot to Wicca, as does anyone who considers themselves to be a witch or pagan or something adjacent while living in the United States.

So, Wicca began to truly gain ground in the 1950’s. Fear not, I know Gerald Gardner is no one’s cup of tea and I don’t intend to rehash the origin story of The Wica. However, let’s consider the time period.

The Witchcraft Act of 1735, passed by the Parliament of Great Britain, was not replaced until 1951 when the Fraudulent Mediums Act took its place. But until then, it was literally a crime for anyone to claim that they had magical powers or practiced witchcraft. From 1951 onward, the Fraudulent Mediums Act was instituted; making it no longer illegal to claim to be a magical practitioner, but illegal to claim it while attempting to make money from related services - with the provision that the buyer be informed that any services rendered by a magical practitioner were for entertainment purposes only.

Are you still with me? I love reading about old laws but they can be dry as hell for anyone who doesn’t have a special interest. And I’m not even going to touch on the 1950’s and what a fun time they were for anyone who was a little different, didn’t conform to the norms.

Now, let’s take this movement to the states. Wicca paved the way for the protection of paganism and witchcraft practices in the United States through the landmark case, Dettmer v. Landon. Not only did this case set the standard for officially recognizing Wicca as a religion in the United States, it also entitled pagans, witches, and others claiming under nature-based religions to the protections granted under the first amendment.

Because Dettmer v. Landon was centered around religious expression for a prison inmate, this trial also set a precedent for prisons acknowledging and ensuring that inmates were allowed to practice - not just for Wicca or witchcraft, but other non-mainstream religious traditions as well.

Furthermore, it wasn’t until 2007 that the pentacle was accepted as an emblem for US military headstones or grave markers. The groundwork for this all began with Patrick D. Stewart, a US service member who was also a Wiccan. Sgt. Stewart was killed in action in 2005, and the Department of Veteran’s Affairs initially refused to allow the pentacle to be marked on his headstone, despite his widow's best efforts. It was a combination of the cases of Stewart v. Nicholson, and Circle Sanctuary v. Nicholson, that won Wiccan military members the right to have their headstones marked with a pentacle.

Sure, that’s great for Wiccans, but not all witches are Wiccans - yes, yes, I know. Except, because of these cases, the US Military later added Mjolnir and the Awen as options for service members to mark on their graves.

I know, you may be thinking, “that’s nothing” or “that really hasn’t accomplished much” and that’s fair enough. But let’s consider that Wicca is a religion still in its infancy, not even a hundred years old (despite what old Gerald might say). This is a lot of movement in the United States for a religion that a growing demographic of Christians see as a direct threat to their own beliefs. In fact, it’s momentous.

Now, that’s not to say that there are no issues with this religion. My personal gripe with this is that criticism aimed at Wicca tends not to be about the current issues, but snapshots of things from 20 or more years prior. As I said before, this religion is young but evolving quickly - filled with members who can appreciate the past for what it was, but also learn from it and work to make the changes so that it isn’t just an outdated fertility cult. Wiccans are actively putting in the work in real time to make their religion and their covens inclusive and strip away appropriative and abusive behaviors propagated by the past.

Finally, after spending a decade on this site, it’s almost become part of the witchblr wheel of the year to hate on Wicca while, in the same breath, recommending authors like Gemma Gary, Nigel Pearson, Michael Howard, Andrew Chumbley, Robin Artisson, and Roy Bowers (Robert Cochrane). Authors who are known for saying that they’re writing of the “old” tradition, while giving their audience an awful lot of material that looks like basic Wiccan rituals. And of course, in studying these rituals, we can see the immediate influence of Crowley and other occultists of the time, as well as the Freemasons, and how their practices laid some of the foundation for Wicca.

#wren rambles #traditional witchcraft #witchcraft #wicca

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