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trans-axolotl · 10 months ago

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"Much ink has already been spilled on Harris’s prosecutorial background. What is significant about the topic of sex work is how recently the vice president–elect’s actions contradicted her alleged views. During her tenure as AG, she led a campaign to shut down Backpage, a classified advertising website frequently used by sex workers, calling it “the world’s top online brothel” in 2016 and claiming that the site made “millions of dollars from trafficking.” While Backpage did make millions off of sex work ads, its “adult services” listings offered a safer and more transparent platform for sex workers and their clients to conduct consensual transactions than had historically been available. Harris’s grandiose mischaracterization led to a Senate investigation, and the shuttering of the site by the FBI in 2018.

“Backpage being gone has devastated our community,” said Andrews. The platform allowed sex workers to work more safely: They were able to vet clients and promote their services online. “It’s very heartbreaking to see the fallout,” said dominatrix Yevgeniya Ivanyutenko. “A lot of people lost their ability to safely make a living. A lot of people were forced to go on the street or do other things that they wouldn’t have otherwise considered.” M.F. Akynos, the founder and executive director of the Black Sex Worker Collective, thinks Harris should “apologize to the community. She needs to admit that she really fucked up with Backpage, and really ruined a lot of people’s lives.”

After Harris became a senator, she cosponsored the now-infamous Stop Enabling Sex Traffickers Act (SESTA), which—along with the House’s Allow States and Victims to Fight Online Sex Trafficking Act (FOSTA)—was signed into law by President Trump in 2018. FOSTA-SESTA created a loophole in Section 230 of the Communications Decency Act, the so-called “safe harbor” provision that allows websites to be free from liability for user-generated content (e.g., Amazon reviews, Craigslist ads). The Electronic Frontier Foundation argues that Section 230 is the backbone of the Internet, calling it “the most important law protecting internet free speech.” Now, website publishers are liable if third parties post sex-work ads on their platforms.

That spelled the end of any number of platforms—mostly famously Craigslist’s “personal encounters” section—that sex workers used to vet prospective clients, leaving an already vulnerable workforce even more exposed. (The Woodhull Freedom Foundation has filed a lawsuit challenging FOSTA on First Amendment grounds; in January 2020, it won an appeal in D.C.’s district court).

“I sent a bunch of stats [to Harris and Senator Diane Feinstein] about decriminalization and how much SESTA-FOSTA would hurt American sex workers and open them up to violence,” said Cara (a pseudonym), who was working as a sex worker in the San Francisco and a member of SWOP when the bill passed. Both senators ignored her.

The bill both demonstrably harmed sex workers and failed to drop sex trafficking. “Within one month of FOSTA’s enactment, 13 sex workers were reported missing, and two were dead from suicide,” wrote Lura Chamberlain in her Fordham Law Review article “FOSTA: A Hostile Law with a Human Cost.” “Sex workers operating independently faced a tremendous and immediate uptick in unwanted solicitation from individuals offering or demanding to traffic them. Numerous others were raped, assaulted, and rendered homeless or unable to feed their children.” A 2020 survey of the effects of FOSTA-SESTA found that “99% of online respondents reported that this law does not make them feel safer” and 80.61 percent “say they are now facing difficulties advertising their services.” "

-What Sex Workers Want Kamala Harris to Know by Hallie Liberman

#personal #sw #sex work is work #kamala harris #one of the MANY many reasons i hate harris #she directly put so many sex workers at risk. i lost multiple community members because of her #whorephobia #fosta/sesta

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boinday · 8 months ago

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The God and The Devil

Just a little folk-gothic about loneliness, the countryside, and keeping a cat. For the spooky season! 1.8k words ^_^ (Copyright Bóín Day 2024)

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There's a fire in the garden. Again.

I step outside, careful to close the sliding glass door behind me so Cock Robin can't get out. He prowls the length of the glass with performative indifference, pretending he only follows so far to rub his whiskers against the doorframe. Pretending not to notice the orange flames spitting up into the blue-dark twilight sky.

I take the watering can, already full, from the patio and walk to the center of the garden, where the effigy burns. It is bigger than the last one. About as tall as my knee. I douse it before it catches in the dry summer grass.

Our cottage is in the middle of County Leitrim. In that typical part of Leitrim where nothing really is. I bought it because I could afford it, derelict and rotting as it was, surrounded by a sea of disused fields, twenty kilometers from the nearest shop. It still cost more than my parents' first home; a restored Victorian townhouse purchased in the eighties. I do what I can with the cottage. Funnel all my earnings into making it habitable. Close off the rooms that drive me into despair. I think I got Cock Robin because I was lonely. Or because he was lonely. I can't remember which.

I remember I found him quite endearing at the shelter, though. He is a peculiar shade of brown for a cat – almost chocolatey – with a striking ginger breast by contrast. His eyes are yellow, and suspicious. He's large and fat, and maligned by a snaggletooth that gives him a permanent sneer. Despite his unfortunate face, he is docile, cuddly, and a formidable companion. I don't blame him completely for what's happened, though he must think I do. Why else would he be confined to the house, he thinks. Why else would his dear mother jail him.

Cock Robin, for all his lazy mornings and babyish ways, is a talented and voracious hunter. I never exactly approved of him catching mice, but I suppose I tacitly endorsed it by allowing him outside, into the fields where he was undoubtedly the apex predator. At first I would only find pieces of the mice: a half body, a dismembered foot, an internal organ licked clean of blood.

But as Cock Robin acclimatised to the good life of being a kept cat, and gradually grew rounder from tinned tuna and cold cuts of chicken, he must have grown bored with the taste of mice. Because more and more often, he would bring them home alive.

He would bring them home alive, and with them stunned and confused between his careful teeth, he would howl for my attention. Once I would rise from whatever task I was at, he would wait for me to approach, present his quarry, and kill it in front of me. People say this is a cat's way of teaching hapless humans how to hunt, and perhaps they are right. But from the way Cock Robin would proudly deposit the poor creature on the step, whole but for the killing wounds, and bounce along to the cupboard where he knows I keep his treats, I think this ritual is more akin to a crude, kitty capitalism.

'I have rendered you the service for which our two species coexist,' Cock Robin says with his closed eyes and loud purr. 'Now I shall collect my fee.'

I don't like to watch things die. Even spiders, which I hate, I can't bring myself to kill. Even indoor plants, which are a chore to keep, I endeavour to save from my own habitual neglect. And now even mice, already trapped in the jaws of death, I am compelled by my conscience to rescue. Cock Robin objects to my charity, but he is stupid enough to trust my approach whenever he has some poor living thing in his maw, and once I am close enough, I grab him. Sometimes he drops them instinctively when he hears my stern demands, and sometimes I must pry his mouth open, but he always gives up without much fight.

The difficulty then is re-catching the mouse. I keep gardening gloves by the sliding door for this task, now. If they are sufficiently traumatized, I can simply scoop them up, walk to one of the neighbouring fields, and gently release them into the long grass. If they are lucid, though, they jump away; run, climb, scramble for their life. Those times are harder – especially if Cock Robin is still in the room. But I always catch them. Once they're out of his teeth, I find a way to cup them, grab them, cradle them. Out they go to the fields. Alive to survive another day.

I must have caught at least a dozen mice when the first gift appeared. I didn't know it was a gift then, of course. It was four raspberries, piled together on the doormat. I'm sure I thought it was odd at the time, but I simply picked them up and set them on a fence-post for the birds.

A few days later there were twenty raspberries. A whole punnet's worth. I certainly thought that was odd, and it ignited some paranoia in me. There are no other houses in sight of my cottage, only fields. Not even cattle graze there, so there is little cause for anyone to come out as far as my place on the quiet country road. I fretted about axe wielding maniacs, countryside bandits, the sort of nightmarish characters you might hear about on a True Crime podcast. Of course, as far as threats go, raspberries are a tame and obscure one. Hardly worth calling the Gards over. I think I mentioned it to some friends, and they laughed like I was crazy. I think I laughed too. I didn't want to be crazy.

The raspberries continued to appear for weeks, sometimes with a whole apple rolled into the mix, sometimes ornately arranged among picked daisies and buttercups. I tried to ignore them. Hoped if they rotted on the step, that would send a message. But the damaged, old raspberries were removed in the night, and replenished with fresh ones by morning.

At a certain point, I decided it was best to just wait up. I drank three cups of coffee and, with heart pounding and carving knife in hand, sat in the perfect dark of my kitchen, and waited.

It was just before dawn when I saw them. I'd imagined every manner of strange or dangerous person, - I'd spent the night staring at the middle of the glass door, the height you would expect a person to stand - and so I almost missed them. The tiny, moving bumps of darkness scuttling along the ground towards the door. It looked like the patio stones had come to life, and were rippling towards the cottage in little waves.

I stood and approached. Quite a stupid thing to do, in retrospect, but I did it anyway. I could see them in their droves: hundreds of mice removing the old, imperfect fruit and rolling in the new. Some of them carried the flowers in teams of two or three. I crouched slowly by the glass door, enraptured by their industrious energy. By the sophistication of the endeavour.

One of them must have noticed me, and the noticing spread, because almost instantly the bustling and bumbling little bodies went still. I went still as well. It was relatively dark out, the sky just lightening to a gloomy blue, but I could tell they were looking at me. Then, in another wave of collective movement, their bodies stretched upward – stretched towards the heavens, tiny front paws raised above their mousey heads – and then fell down again. Prostrating themselves on the ground.

I watched the motion repeat several times, paws stretching skyward, then falling back down, before I realised I was watching some strange, cultish worship. They were bowing to me. They were bowing to me.

I ran away, as any rational person would. I closed myself into my bedroom with Cock Robin, who was sleeping none the wiser. And I thought about how truly impossible it is to keep a mouse out of your home, if the mouse has a mind to get in.

It was the following week that Cock Robin was attacked. He came in from the fields, mewling in a pitiful manner I'd never heard from him before. There was a piece of wood lodged in his right eye, about as big as a toothpick. I rushed him to the vet. They couldn't save the eye. An unfortunate accident, they supposed. A mishap while Cock Robin was climbing through a hedge. We agreed he ought to be an indoor cat from then on.

Now they've taken a liking to effigies.

I kick through the smoldering remains of this latest one. Their understanding of human proportions has certainly improved. I see they've stitched leaves together with plant fiber and bug silk to simulate clothing. I wonder how they learned to light the wood. I wonder if this is what we looked like, too, when man discovered fire.

I look up the length of the garden to my rotten little cottage. Cock Robin is sitting politely behind the glass door, watching me through his surviving eye, tail ticking away in simmering upset. He wants to be out here, I know. He wants to exercise his divine wrath.

I wonder, as well, how they make sense of us. It seems impossible to me, that they cannot know how dearly I love Cock Robin. How I infinitely prefer him to any little mouse, no matter what mercy my conscience mandates. How he sleeps beside me, inside the cottage that is so alien and fortified compared to the world of empty fields around it. I suppose it is a contradiction inherent, that they should give me tribute while reviling the cat I openly adore.

I suppose that even God adored Lucifer, once.

I stomp out the last of the embers and wriggle my phone out of my pocket. I've been photographing these things, for posterity – not that anyone would believe them. It would be written off as some natural phenomenon, or AI fakery, or perhaps they'd simply say I'm lying. I photograph it anyway.

Trudging back towards my cottage, I turn on the phone's flashlight. This is a newly formed habit. I hold the light above my head and sweep it over the neighbouring field, in an arc. Tiny pinpricks of light glow back at me. An ocean of beady eyes, watching in the darkness.

I shout at them to go away, please. I say that I have nothing for them, and thank them for their worship but I'd really rather they just move on. There's no response. There never is. They cannot understand my prayers. I am too huge and powerful to be understood. But still, I pray.

#short story #the god and the devil #just a widdle horror for halloween week!

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idkyetxoxo · 5 months ago

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Gwayne Hightower - Hate to Love

Summary - A defiant Lannister noblewoman clashes with her stoic guard, Gwayne. Their battle of wills ignites an undeniable attraction, leading to a passionate collision that shatters their defences and reveals that the true danger lies in the fire they spark within each other.

Pairing - Gwayne Hightower x Lannister reader

Warnings - Sexual content (smut!)

Word count - 2233

Masterlist for Gwayne • House of the Dragon General Masterlist

The first time I met Gwayne Hightower, he stood at the entrance of my father's estate, his posture straight as a spear, hands clasped behind his back.

He was a figure of stoic authority, clad in dark leather armour that seemed to absorb the light, rendering him a shadow amidst the colours of the world around him.

I was a noblewoman of House Lannister, dressed in silk and jewels that sparkled like stars.

My first impression of him was one of disdain like a cloud shadowing the sun.

"Lady Lannister," he greeted, his voice a low rumble, the weight of my name hanging heavily in the air. I turned my head away, my nose in the air, as if the mere act of acknowledging him would somehow tarnish the glittering world I inhabited.

What could a mere guard know of the lives we led? I was accustomed to the admiration of lords and ladies, not the scornful glances of someone who considered themselves above it all.

As the days turned into weeks, Gwayne became an unwelcome fixture in my life. He was always there, lurking at the edges of my existence, his steely gaze watching my every move with a sort of unwavering vigilance that unnerved me.

He seemed to find great pleasure in making me feel like a delicate flower in a storm, meant to be protected from the rain when all I wanted was to dance in it.

I would try to engage him in conversation, only to be met with clipped responses and a dismissive tone. The man was infuriatingly steadfast, a wall that I could not breach.

"You're too strict, Ser Gwayne," I once told him, my voice playful, as I fluffed the skirts of my gown. "Life is meant to be enjoyed, not endured. Surely, you have a sense of humour somewhere beneath all that armour."

His expression barely shifted, though I caught the briefest flicker of irritation in his eyes. "Humor won't protect you, my lady. This world is filled with dangers you cannot even begin to fathom."

"Oh, but I can fathom plenty," I replied, a smirk dancing on my lips. "Such as the danger of boredom. And I fear you are a prime suspect in that regard."

He merely shrugged a nonchalant motion that only fueled my frustration. The more he brooded, the more I felt compelled to provoke him.

I would parade around the estate in my finest gowns, flaunting my beauty as though it were a weapon, daring him to break his stoic façade.

But each time I looked to him for a reaction, he would simply stare ahead, as if I were an unremarkable piece of furniture. I took it as a challenge.

If he was going to act like a rock, then I would be the flowing water that eroded him.

One evening, as I prepared for a feast at our ancestral castle, I stood before my mirror, adjusting the emerald necklace that hung against my collarbone like a silken chain.

My reflection smiled back, confident and radiant, and I imagined all the eyes that would linger on me.

Gwayne stood at the entrance, arms crossed, watching with an intensity that sent a shiver down my spine.

"Must you stare?" I snapped, irritation bubbling beneath my carefully crafted composure. "You're making me feel like a prize to be won."

He straightened, the corner of his mouth twitching slightly as if he fought the urge to smile. "It is my duty to watch over you, my lady. You should be grateful for it."

"Grateful?" I laughed, incredulous. "For a man who cannot even allow me the freedom to enjoy my own life? You see me as some fragile thing that must be protected at all costs. You fail to realize that I am not a child."

He opened his mouth to respond, but the words died on his lips when my father entered, bearing the weight of House Lannister's crest. I could almost feel Gwayne's body stiffen at the sight of him.

"Ready for the feast, my dear?" my father asked, beaming with pride.

"Quite," I replied, casting one last glance at Gwayne. His expression was unreadable, and I wondered for a fleeting moment what it would take to break through his impenetrable exterior.

The feast was everything I had dreamed it would be. The halls of Casterly Rock were alive with laughter and music, the scent of spiced wine mingling with the perfume of blooming roses.

I glided through the crowd, head held high, revelling in the attention. I danced with lords and ladies, exchanging flirtatious glances, my laughter ringing like chimes in the air.

But Gwayne remained a shadow in the background, his eyes fixed on me with an intensity that sent a thrill through my heart and a twinge of annoyance through my mind.

It was infuriating to think that he believed I needed guarding against the likes of these men, yet I couldn't help but feel a pull towards him as if the very air around us crackled with unacknowledged tension.

As I spun across the dance floor, I caught the eye of a handsome stranger, his confidence palpable as he approached.

"Lady Lannister," he said, bowing slightly, his voice smooth as honey. "May I have this dance?"

I accepted eagerly, keen to escape Gwayne's watchful gaze. The music swelled, and we twirled together, my laughter mingling with the notes.

The stranger leaned closer, whispering sweet nothings that made my heart race and my cheeks flush.

"Your beauty is a rare treasure," he murmured, his breath warm against my ear. "I could lose myself in those eyes."

Through the crowd, I caught a glimpse of Gwayne, his expression dark and stormy, lips pressed into a thin line.

I felt a thrill at the sight of him, something unnamable stirring within me, but I pushed the thought away, focusing instead on the man before me, who made me feel desirable and free.

But Gwayne's presence lingered like a shadow, always in the periphery, and as I spun and laughed, I could feel the tension in the air shift.

When the night finally drew to a close, I returned to my chambers, exhilarated yet exhausted.

As I opened the door, I was met with Gwayne's imposing figure, arms crossed and his brow furrowed, an undeniable tension radiating from him.

"You were leading him on," he accused, his voice low and tense, a mixture of anger and something I could not quite place.

I felt a rush of indignation wash over me. "I was enjoying myself! Is that a crime? Or are you simply jealous that someone else finds me charming?"

"Charming?" He scoffed, stepping closer, his tone filled with disbelief. "You think this is charming? You are playing a dangerous game, my lady."

"Dangerous?" I laughed bitterly, crossing my arms defiantly. "What do you know of danger? You hide behind your armour and your rules. You do not understand what it means to truly live."

"Perhaps you should be careful what you wish for," he snapped back, his voice rising.

The air crackled with tension, and I stepped closer, our faces mere inches apart. "And perhaps you should learn to let go of your rigid ideals. Not everything is a threat, Gwayne. Not everyone is out to get me."

"Tell that to the men who would use you as a pawn," he growled, anger flaring in his eyes. "You think you're safe because you're a Lannister, but you're just as vulnerable as anyone else."

My heart raced a mix of anger and something deeper I could not quite name. "I will not be caged by you or anyone else. I refuse to live in fear."

For a moment, we stood there, the air thick with unspoken words.

And then, without warning, Gwayne surged forward, grasping my arms and pulling me against him. The kiss was fierce and unexpected, igniting a fire that burned away all the barriers we had built between us.

I responded instinctively, my hands finding their way to the back of his neck, pulling him closer as the world around us faded.

When we finally broke apart, both of us gasping for breath, I could see the surprise in his eyes, a mixture of confusion and desire.

"What was that?" I breathed, my heart racing in a way I had never experienced before.

His brow furrowed, and for a moment, uncertainty flashed across his face. "I... I don't know. I didn't mean to—"

"Of course, you didn't," I interrupted, my voice steadier than I felt. "You're just a man of duty, after all."

He stepped back, a whirlwind of emotions coursing through him. "You don't understand. This is... complicated."

"Complicated?" I echoed, my pulse still thrumming in my ears. "I thought you were the one who understood the danger I faced. But it seems you're just as lost as I am."

"I care about your safety," he replied, the anger in his voice dissipating into something softer, more vulnerable. "But I can't help but feel something more. And it terrifies me."

I paused, searching his eyes for the truth behind his words. "Why does it terrify you?"

"Because I'm supposed to protect you, not fall for you," he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper.

I stepped forward, closing the distance between us again. "And yet here we are. You have to choose, Gwayne. Will you keep hiding behind your armour, or will you let me in?"

He hesitated, the conflict in his eyes evident, but something shifted in his gaze. "I want to let you in," he confessed, the weight of his admission hanging in the air.

"Then do it," I urged, my heart pounding as I reached for him again, this time with a gentler touch. "Show me the man behind the guard."

As his hands enveloped mine, I felt a sense of warmth spreading through me, igniting something that had long been dormant. I knew that this was just the beginning.

Our worlds were colliding, and I could no longer deny the attraction that had simmered beneath our battles of wills.

In the dim light of my chambers, the shadows danced around us, whispering promises of what could be. My breath quickened as I leaned in, the air thick with tension and desire.

Gwayne met me halfway, and our lips brushed together again, this time softer, more tentative.

But it was not the softness of surrender; it was the beginning of something raw and wild.

I pulled him closer, and as his hands slid to my waist, I felt the world around us fade away, leaving only the two of us entwined in this moment of vulnerability and yearning.

The realization was jarring—this man, who seemed so inhuman in his detachment, was as affected as I was. For once, he was just Gwayne, not the unyielding guard, but a man, flawed and vulnerable.

And gods help me, I liked him that way.

We stumbled backwards, tangled in each other, as though the space between us wasn't meant to exist.

My room spun around us, a blur of shadows and flickering candlelight as we crashed onto the bed in a clumsy heap, laughter and breathless sighs punctuating the silence.

Clothes fell to the floor in haphazard piles, each piece shed like layers of guarded tension as his lips met mine again and again, each kiss searing into me as if he'd been holding back far too long.

Somehow, he ended up above me, straddling my waist, his hands trailing slowly down my legs, every touch more reverent than the last.

For someone I thought I despised just yesterday, he had an unexpectedly gentle touch, fingers tracing lines across my skin like he was afraid to miss any part of me.

And yet, the tenderness was mixed with a hunger that left me breathless.

I could feel the ache of his restraint, the careful control he held, until finally, our bodies met in a way that bridged the last of our barriers.

This wasn't just physical; it felt as though his very presence was wrapping around my soul, every movement, every shared breath weaving us closer.

"Gods... please don't stop," I whispered, voice catching on a desperate edge, as my fingers tightened in the silken sheets beneath us.

His rhythm was slow but relentless, a steady burn that built with every beat.

"I don't plan on it," he replied, voice rough and low, before his pace quickened just slightly, enough to stoke the fire building between us.

My hands slipped from the sheets, sliding upward to tangle in the wild mess of auburn strands I'd sworn I'd set ablaze just a week ago in a rage.

His mouth, parted in a gasp as I tugged, it had once been the source of insults, of bickering and sharp words—now, it poured out groans and soft curses, his expression transformed by something raw, something beautifully vulnerable.

The sound he made, half whine, half moan, as I tugged his hair once more, was enough to set me alight.

His restraint cracked, and the way he moved shifted, growing more insistent, more fevered as if he were as desperate for this as I was.

The air around us grew thick, filled with soft, breathless pleas and whispered names, sounds that held every ounce of feeling we'd tried to deny.

And somewhere in that haze of heat and whispered confessions, the last remnants of animosity dissolved, replaced by something achingly real, something I knew neither of us could turn back from.

For we were in too deep.

A/n - Worked four 13s in a row and now I feel like I need to be sedated

Gwayne tag list - @deniixlovezelda @randomnerdyfan @callsign-blue

#house of the dragon #house targaryen #hotd #hotd x reader #house of the dragon x reader #hotd one shot #hotd season 2 #house of the dragon fanfiction #hotd fanfic #hotd s2 #team green #gwayne hightower #gwayne x reader #gwayne hightower x reader #ser gwayne #ser gwayne hightower #gwayne x you #gwayne fanfic

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realstrap · 1 year ago

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Please help my partner, a black multiply disabled lesbian, get their autonomy back!

‼️URGENT ACTION NEEDED IN 48 HOURS ‼️

01/03/2024

my partner @800-dick-pics is a multiply disabled black lesbian in need of urgent funds for a service dog and the costs associated with travel!!

This is all so sudden and short notice, they happened upon this prospect while doing research and it fell into their lap, a puppy in a breed with the best temperament and size for their mobility needs. This is opportunity is huge for the independence of my fiancé.

For years now, my fiancé has been fighting with the medical system, I've seen them struggle to be believed by doctors due to medical racism, turned away and ignored at the ER, gaslight by ED clinics and multiple times I've physically caught them when they've passed out during a POTS episode. Their POTS EDS and CFS have rendered them housebound in this past year, unable to leave the house by themselves and it's gotten to the point where we both are afraid for their safety when they're alone in any capacity. I worry for them so greatly when I have to leave them for more than 20 minutes at a time because anything could happen.

This has been years in the making, even before we were together even. We've had to put this on hold for countless reasons throughout the years and at this point it can no longer be put off for the sake of my fiance' autonomy independence and quality of life. They're tired of not being able to hold a job or go out with friends or even just experience life outside of the walls of the house. This is incredibly important and this is our chance to change their life forever.

We need to meet this goal THIS WEEK, to be able to secure this opportunity including flight tickets, hotel room, training toys for the dog and food

We would not be asking if it wasn't so urgent, this can't be put on hold and all my fiance wants is to have a life again. Please help us if you're able, this opportunity means the world to my partner!

CA: $sleepyhen

VM: wildwotko

DM me for p@y pal

$0/2600 goal

#sorry we are poor #they got back to us super quick and were ready to do business immediately so the past 24 hrs have been nerve wracking!!#all i want is to see my partner thrive and be happy and get back to the things they love #please this is important

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mariacallous · 3 months ago

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John Roberts and his fellow Republican Supreme Court justices not only paved the way for Donald Trump to retake the White House, but encouraged him to seize dictatorial powers upon his return. Now, the Trump Court’s rightwing ideologues appear poised to green light many of his authoritarian actions, thereby enabling him to further destroy the foundations of our democracy.

But Roberts and his extremist compatriots on the Court face one serious problem: Trump also wants the justices to endorse his campaign against the authority and independence of the judiciary, potentially rendering the Court into a shameless stooge. As a result, the cost of the Supreme Court continuing to do Trump’s bidding may be to undermine the judicial power and authority that Republicans devoted so much effort to obtain.

Roberts prepares a throne

After voting against convicting Trump for his January 6 coup attempt, Mitch McConnell said there was no need for Congress to act because "we have a criminal justice system in this country. We have civil litigation. And former presidents are not immune from being held accountable by either one."

But Trump escaped such accountability — with the crucial help of John Roberts.

While much has been made of the delays in prosecuting Trump under Biden’s Attorney General Merrick Garland, the players that actually ensured Trump would not be held accountable for his assault on the nation’s democracy were the rightwing jurists on the nation’s highest court who effectively crippled Jack Smith’s prosecution through a combination of calculated delay and a ruling that undermined the rule of law.

First, the Court delayed its immunity ruling for months, and thereby held the Trump prosecution in abeyance. Trump’s initial assertion of immunity in October 2023 was rejected by the trial court in December of that year; but proceedings in the case remained entirely stayed until Trump’s immunity claim was heard and decided by higher courts, a process the Supreme Court chose to drag out, despite a plea from the prosecutor for expedited review. As a result of this likely calculated delay, the Supreme Court did not issue its decision on Trump’s immunity claim until July 2024.

Second, when the ruling belatedly arrived, it was an early Christmas gift for The Donald. Authored by Roberts, the decision not only made it a practical impossibility for Trump to be tried before the election, but also granted him a far broader ambit of immunity than his lawyers had initially even thought of asking for.

Roberts declared that a president enjoys “absolute” or “qualified” immunity from criminal prosecution for any action taken in his “official” capacity. That means that Trump actually could well avoid criminal consequences for using SEAL Team Six to murder opponents — a hypothetical that an appellate judge had used as a darkly humorous hypothetical to demonstrate the absurdity of Trump’s immunity claims.

Roberts’s immunity ruling not only gutted much of Smith’s case against Trump, it also sent a clear message: If Trump won the election, he could freely engage in even more egregious crimes, secure in the assurance that he would never face criminal accountability. As Justice Sotomayor put it in her dissent, the Court made the president into a “king above the law.”

As later events would demonstrate, Trump and his cronies got the message loud and clear.

I never thought leopards would eat my face

After Roberts and company cleared the way and Trump won last November, the new president took up the Supreme Court’s invitation by embarking on a brazenly illegal attempt to take autocratic power and void fundamental rights.

Despite the fact that Trump enjoys majorities of Republican yes people in both chambers of Congress, he has devoted little effort to passing legislation during his first months in office. Instead, Trump has followed the model of dictators and ruled by decree, issuing barrages of ��executive orders” in which he has asserted the right to run roughshod not only over fundamental rights, but also to violate to separation of powers.

With help from Elon Musk’s DOGE team, Trump is crippling institutions and programs whose existence is legally mandated and funded by Congress, like USAID and the Social Security Administration. Musk’s backpack-wearing thugs have even used force and the threat of prosecution to seize the buildings of statutorily independent government agencies that the president has no legal authority to directly control. Trump is also using extortionate threats to force private persons, institutions (including universities and law firms), and states and localities to bend to his will.

Because Republican congressional “leaders” are completely in Trump’s thrall and unwilling to challenge him even when he’s harming their constituents, it has fallen nearly entirely on the shoulders of the lower federal courts to place breaks on Trump’s illegal seizures of power. According to Steve Vladeck, to date, 39 different judges, appointed by presidents of both parties, have blocked illegal Trump actions.

Calling their bluff

Having entered office armed with Roberts’s grant of kinglike immunity, Trump and his cronies have responded to those judges’ enforcement of the law with expressions of anger and increasingly ominous threats.

As soon as judges began issuing rulings limiting Trump’s assaults on the Constitution, he and his cronies began threatening to impeach judges for ruling against Trump.

In response, Roberts released a statement solemnly declaring that "for more than two centuries, it has been established that impeachment is not an appropriate response to disagreement concerning a judicial decision."

This was not the first time Roberts responded to Trump’s dismissals of judicial authority and legitimacy. In 2019, Roberts rebuked Trump’s attack on an “Obama judge” for enforcing the nation’s asylum laws by stating, “We do not have Obama judges or Trump judges. What we have is an extraordinary group of dedicated judges doing their level best to do equal right to those appearing before them.”

But Roberts’s 2025 statement has already proven to be as ineffective as his 2019 one was. Rather than signaling any intention to back down, Trump shot back by declaring, "If Justice Roberts and the United States Supreme Court do not fix this toxic and unprecedented situation IMMEDIATELY, our Country is in very serious trouble!"

It’s clear Trump expects Roberts to follow up his defense of judicial independence by kowtowing to Trump, and repudiating the lower court judges who have been enforcing the nation’s laws. Trump’s confidence that Roberts and company will bend to his will is probably merited — even if stakes for the Court have never been higher.

A Trumpian dilemma

As Trumpers have racked up losses in the lower courts, they’ve begun demanding that Roberts and company immediately step in to give Trump license to continue forward with his power grab.

For example, the Court is now considering an “emergency” Trump challenge to a ruling staying his illegal effort to cancel millions of education grants because they are purportedly infected with “DEI” (that is, civil rights). Trump has also sought immediate Supreme Court review of whether trial judges properly issued nationwide injunctions against his patently illegal effort to erase birthright citizenship from the Constitution. And he just asked the Court to allow him to continue to send Venezuelans to a notorious Salvadoran prison without due process, on the dubious pretext they are wartime enemies.

While it’s unclear what the Court will do in those cases, Trump has good reason to believe a majority of justices will be sympathetic to his dictatorial cause.

Roberts and his fellow rightwing jurists have long signaled their partiality to the so-called “unitary executive” theory. This autocratic theory holds that the president has sole authority over the operation of every executive branch entity, including statutorily independent agencies. MAGA leaders have justified Trump’s actions on this theory, contending that any statutory limits on his authority to control each and every non-legislative and non-judicial component of the federal government is unconstitutional, and therefore void.

If this theory is taken seriously — and it is by rightwing ideologues like those on the Supreme Court — then a majority of the Court may end up ruling that Trump is not only free to fire members of the National Labor Relations Board and Federal Trade Commission (as he has already done), but he could also take over direct control of the Federal Reserve Board and personally set interest rates.

Yet there is one obvious problem with the prospect of the Supreme Court allowing Trump to move forward with his authoritarian project: The justices themselves could pay the high price of discarding what is left of their own already impaired legitimacy.

In recent decades, the Court’s rightwing justices have assumed ever greater power for themselves, including by drastically constraining Democratic presidents and legislators and hobbling landmark legislation such as central provisions of the Voting Rights Act. Indeed, McConnell and GOP donors devoted decades and millions of dollars to stacking all levels of the judiciary precisely in order to stifle Democratic elected officials and advance the Republican agenda.

Yet the Court’s own hard-fought seizure of power from the elected branches of government could well be out the window if Roberts and his colleagues accede to Trump’s current demands and give up any pretense of judicial adherence to the rule of law.

After all, how can the rightwing justices who control the Supreme Court expect a future president — particularly a Democratic one — to accept rulings limiting the exercise of their power from a Court that served as the judicial stooge of an aspiring dictator?

#THE MONSTER WILL COME FOR US ALL

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the-travelling-witch · 8 months ago

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more hcs of this bnha x hades au

Perhaps you're a young Olympian Deity, watching the prince of the Underworld slash his way towards the surface, stumbling and falling along the way but still never giving up. You'd never heard of Shouto before, never knew the Lord of the Underworld had children at all. Actually, that he had siblings would have been unknown to you too if Keigo hadn't let a tiny piece of information slip and you hadn't prodded him further on it.

Ever since then you couldn't help but watch the prince's escape attempts. Sure, you weren't the only one, well aware the older Gods and Goddesses, as well as younger ones like Izuku and Katsuki, were keeping an eye on him as well, all for their own reasons. To be honest, you weren't quite sure what Shouto's reasons for leaving the Underworld were in the first place, but you still felt for him, seeing how desperately he struggled against his father.

That was it, you thought. The reason you quietly sent your blessings, however small they may be, to the depths of the Underworld was because you felt empathetic. Yet, your immortal heart couldn't help but skip a beat when you imagined your messages being accepted.

Perhaps you are a Chthonic Deity serving the House, who's consequently spent a lot of time with and/or around Shouto. You had brushed past each other pretty much every day for centuries as you went about your bureaucratic duties and Shouto pretended to do the same. Of course you were aware he wasn't happy here, he never really tried to hide it after all.

Therefore, it didn't really come as a surprise to you when Shouto first ventured beyond the House and into Tartarus, it was more of a confirmation. Still, when you were talking to your brother Shinsou, who oversaw the Pool of Styx, you couldn't help but feel a twinge of concern for the bloody prince trudging by, leaving footprints all over the hall. Not because you were worried he'd fail, but because you knew he wouldn't give up trying until he succeeded, no matter how long it took or what it cost.

Shinsou made a comment as he passed, something snarky about what had gotten him back into the House so soon, but you'd be lying if you said you paid it much attention. Your focus was still on Shouto, who had paused and tilted his head, little drops of blood nearly imperceptible on the left side of his head but all the more obvious on his right, creating the impression his laurels were melting off his head. No matter the twinge in your heart, you knew you wouldn't try to stop him. No, you'd help him, even if it meant letting him go where you wouldn't be able to follow, as long as it meant he'd be happier.

Or perhaps you were mortal once, whether you were someone or no one in life of not much importance now that you dwelled in the Underworld. Death frankly wasn't as bad as people had always made it out to be, if anything the worst part was the monotony of it all. Day in and day out the same halls to wander, night in and night out the same regrets hanging over your fellow shades. Even new arrivals lost their novelty quickly in a place like this, especially when you were facing an eternity of it.

Unlike most mortals, however, you had been allowed to keep your physical form after death for reasons only the Gods could know. Not that it had changed much for you until now, but you made what you could of it, building something akin to a home for yourself.

It was hard to tell how long you had resided this way, the very nature of the Underworld rendering your perception of time quite useless. Until one day someone disturbed the monotony of your death like ripples on water. He was bloody, bruised and generally in a bad shape when he stumbled towards your home and, with nothing better to do, you took him in so he could rest. You knew he had looked familiar to you, that there was great power rolling off of him, but never would you have guessed it was the prince of the Underworld currently occupying one of your chairs.

That first time Shouto bid you goodbye fairly quickly, but grateful for your help nonetheless. With each appearance, however, he started staying longer and slowly opening up to you more. You couldn't recall what your previous thoughts on the Underworld royalty had been, but you liked talking to the prince a fair deal and you caught yourself looking forward to seeing him again, despite knowing you were probably just a passing acquaintance on his way to where he really wanted to be. You could understand the desire to be reunited with someone you had lost long ago, of course. And yet, every time you saw Shouto off, you couldn't help but hope he would pass by your home again, just one more time.

if you like my content, reblogs, comments and asks are always much appreciated ♡

➺ send in an ask to be added to or removed from my tag list

general tag list: @the-fab-fox (i don’t actually know if this is sth to be tagged over)

#┊holly’s potions ೃ༄#holly's bnha x hades au #idk i think there are a lot of cool constellations you could create in this au #shouto centric bc he's in the role of zag but honestly we know i'd do everything for god!keigo #bnha #x reader #bnha x reader #mha x reader #mha #boku no hero academia #my hero acedamia #shouto x reader #todoroki shouto #todoroki x reader #shoto x reader #todoroki shoto x reader #(i still have no clue what' the best way to tag this idiot is)#hades #hades supergiant

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ofgeography · 2 months ago

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Hi Molly! Congrats on your book and all of the exciting stuff happening in your corner; long-time listener/first-time caller here, it is fantastic to see you putting art of all kinds out into the world. If you're at all inclined, would you be willing to talk a little about how you got into the studio to record your albums? How did you choose your producer or studio/what was the process working with studio musicians like? How fleshed out were the demos that you brought in, in terms of instrumentation/polish/etc.? I'm very curious, as I'm slowly amassing songs I'd like to record, but have no idea where to start/what to expect. Thanks!!!

hello my sweet! i'm happy to talk about this, although i'm not sure how replicable my ~process is.

i originally started recording because at my mom's house, whenever she has a party, it almost always devolves into everybody playing music and messing around. and at one of these, my mom's friend john, who is a professional musician (slash deep-sea fisherman), was like, hey you're actually pretty good do you want me to introduce you to a producer i know who lives on the island (my mom lives on an island). and i was like.....sure. so in terms of "choosing" a studio or a producer i don't have any good insight for you because i was just like. introduced to a man named greg, who i happened to vibe with super well and everything just kind of worked out.

that being said! there are a ton of websites where you can put in your location and pick from profiles; the one i think has the best rep is SoundBetter.

most of my songs were pretty fleshed out, in terms of lyrics/melody/structure, and i worked with greg to be like, okay, now that i can hire people to do stuff, what would i want to build this song into? (for example, mile magnificent has an accordion in it. i do not play the accordion.) plus, i am good enough at the instruments that i play that i can make myself a demo that's like ... "this is how i want the song to go, and the vibe i'm looking for," but i certainly can't shred on guitar or whatever, so most of the songs (except a couple) i hired a guitarist to play it. or made my brother do it, because he's a very gifted instrumentalist (bastard).

but there were certainly bits where i was like, "i like the meat of this song but i don't love what i'm doing on the bridge" or whatever, and then it was a matter of messing around in the studio to figure out what worked better.

this also means there's songs where i'm sharing songwriting credit with (for example) greg, because he meaningfully contributed to changing something about the song. that's something we worked out based on vibes after the fact, but don't do that. that worked out for me but it's not like. an actual process you should follow. you should be clear with the person you're working with and they should be clear with you.

really the number one thing i think probably is important is you find someone to work with who you like. you could have, idk, jack antonoff or whatever, but if you guys don't vibe, it's going to be a bad experience, and you're probably not going to end up with music that feels authentic to you. so that's what i'd say in terms of choice.

final thing: i don't have a record label, which means that i paid for all of my music. greg very sweetly didn't charge me for studio time, but most people probably will, plus for whatever services they're rendering (musicians, mastering, production, etc etc). it's a sliding scale of cost, but obviously the harder you go the bigger the expense. i want to be transparent about that. i was able to pay to play because i was able to pay to play.

recording in a studio with a producer is one way to do it but it's an expensive way if you don't have a label (and even, frankly, if you DO have a label). and you don't make a lot of money streaming, so it's income you probably won't get back (unless you blow up!). i would say i make between $200 - $400 from streaming, every ... few months? and don't get me wrong, that's great, i'm very grateful! but the cost going in was like. $9k (about $3k per album). so given all of my streams, which is more than 2 million, even using the highest streaming revenue it took me 2 years to make back.

if that's not possible for you, there are TONS of ways you can do it yourself. it won't be the same experience! but the product can end up just as great, and honestly sometimes better. for example there's stuff like:

soundtrap (probably the best non-Logic Pro track builder, not free though)

audacity (no-frills, but free)

cakewalk (free! and very intuitive.)

all of these can help you record yourself. and sure, you CAN buy all the fancy microphones and stuff, but frankly, you don't have to. iphones & computers etc have gotten to the point where you can do really good work with just those. so i don't want the money stuff to discourage you, i just want you to go in with your eyes open.

i hope this helps!!!

#hey followers i am glad we had this talk #alchemyalice #i know we all hate being honest about money but i want to be transparent about this!!!#i could do this because i had the money to spend. there's a reason all your faves are nepo babies.

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thriftedtchotchkes · 2 years ago

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his favorite girl, part ii

pairing: joel miller x f!reader

summary: keeping things professional only works if both parties are in agreement. after a heated first lesson, it's clear you and joel aren't.

warnings: 18+ MDNI, no outbreak, guitar teacher!joel, age gap (30 years), slow-burn, smut, angst, m&f masturbation, mentions of regret and shame

word count: 3.6k

series masterlist | part i

Adrenaline hasn't stopped pumping through your veins since you left your guitar teacher's house. Joel's house.

It's hard to even think his name now that you know what it's like to moan it for him, to feel his body tense and tighten like nylon strings as you tune him to your pitch. The things that man could teach you with all of his experience and endless patience...wait, no. No.

How to play guitar—that's the only thing you need from Joel Miller. Nothing else. God, what the hell is wrong with you? That stupid daydream has been running through your head on a loop ever since you got home and it really shouldn’t be. It was a mistake, one that almost cost you your entire future, and yet you’re still so hung up on it.

On everything you learned during your short, disastrous guitar lesson, the intimate knowledge you’ll never be able to forget. Like the fingering for the chord he showed you, or that he makes the neediest sounds when his body's pressed up against yours and his fingers are so close to where you need him, inches away from—

Stop.

The freezing cold shower you just took is about to be rendered useless at the rate you're going, and tomorrow’s lesson won’t be far behind if you can’t get your shit together.

But you can’t stop yourself from wondering—how much of it was real? You toss your hair over your shoulder, ignoring the icy droplets trickling down your back, and the bruise you’d imagined he left isn’t there. Instead, the mirror taunts you, reflecting smooth, unmarred skin that only serves as a harsh reminder of your fuck-up.

You’re more disappointed than you should be. It would've been the only piece of physical evidence you had proving what happened earlier wasn't all in your head. That maybe he reciprocates even a fraction of what you feel. But it's for the best. Now you can move on and focus all of your mental energy on staying present tomorrow so he won't rescind his offer to continue your lessons.

You'll have to keep things totally professional. The diligent college student, eager to learn and dedicated to her studies—that’s you, all right. It shouldn’t be that hard to stay focused for one measly hour, not when those thick, talented fingers of his are so captivating and capable of so many useful things. Guiding you through the next few bars of that song, slipping beneath the waistband of your—

Fuck it, you're doomed.

There's no way you can handle this. He's just too distracting, and you're way too easily distracted. Judging by the way he reacted to your inappropriate behavior earlier, you're starting to wonder if he can handle it himself. He was a little too quick to touch you, to sit so close that you could feel every instruction he gave you rumbling in his chest.

That familiar heat’s starting to build in your belly, and you know it’ll boil over the second he’s within reach again. You have to get this in check before you see him tomorrow or you’ll be royally screwed, and not even remotely in the way you’d like to be.

But it’s getting harder by the minute. It’s all too fresh in your mind, and you can practically still feel the drag of calluses across your skin and the weight of his arm slung over your shoulder. His fingers twitching in your desperate grasp like he was just itching to trace a knuckle down the soaked fabric between your legs.

You don’t remember how or when you got into bed, but you suddenly find yourself lying on top of your damp, unfastened towel, your bare breasts exposed to the cool air of your bedroom, and your fingers grazing your hardening nipples as you snake them down your body.

The second your fingers slide through your embarrassingly wet folds, you're a lost cause. God, that's good. You're so wet for him, and he's not even here to see you, to feel what he does to you.

You press down on your clit and pretend it's his solid chest tucked against you instead of your shitty dorm mattress, and his rough fingertips swirling masterful circles around your slick nub before dipping achingly slowly inside you.

Shit, you're going to cum soon, so much quicker than you normally do. But maybe this is exactly what you need to get him out of your system. Maybe cumming as many times as you can to the thought of your hot, middle-aged guitar teacher is all it'll take for you to finally get over this stupid, dangerous schoolgirl crush. To get on with your life and earn your fucking college degree.

Joel Miller. You erupt around your fingers with his name hot and heavy on your lips, but it’s…not enough. It's fine, that's totally fine. You'll just go again. As many times as it takes.

But by your third orgasm in as many hours, you realize you’re only making it worse. The aching emptiness you feel every time you cum is almost unbearable. Even as you fuck yourself on three of your fingers, desperately trying to fill yourself up the way he would, it's still not enough.

It’s not him.

God, what are you supposed to do now? Can you really face him tomorrow knowing that you spent the entire night gushing around your fingers, pretending they were his?

And what if he tries to touch them again? Shit. Shit. You just keep making dumber and dumber decisions when it comes to him.

So...maybe you can forgive yourself for making one more. You know that you couldn't have imagined everything earlier. That dark, hungry look in his eyes when he told you flat out that he didn't pull away from you on purpose—he has to want you as much as you want him. Right?

He just needs a nudge in the right direction. A green light so he can push aside those polite, southern manners just long enough for you to both get what you need. Then, you can continue your lessons distraction-free.

After all, you did your finger exercises tonight just like he told you to, and teaching is always more effective with a little positive reinforcement.

Yeah, this will totally work.

Joel’s been rock hard ever since you left his house.

He’s still sitting on the couch in the same spot you occupied just a few hours earlier, his mind running a mile a minute, hands clenched painfully at his sides so he doesn't touch himself.

Christ, you're young. Much too young to be this desperate over or to consume his every thought the way you have since you shoved his hand between your thighs, moaning his name like his fingers were already buried in your tight cunt.

He can't do this. His own fantasies are starting to concern him. He's never this vulgar. Not since he was a stupid kid in high school, picking up girls and bragging about it to his buddies. But that's how you make him feel. Like a stupid, horny kid.

C'mon, dirty old man. Get your shit together.

This is why he never should've agreed to start taking on students. The second you walked through his front door, he should've known he was in for it. Those bright eyes, ever-observant and eager to learn, and delicate hands, clutching the handle of a guitar case much smaller than his own. He wanted to help you with your class, he really did.

Wants. He wants to help you, but he feels like he can't trust himself around you anymore, if he ever did in the first place. Still, he made his old bandmate—your professor, now, he guesses—a promise that he didn't intend to break. Not until he actually met the student in question and discovered, to his horror, that you were his every wet dream come to life.

When you picked up your tiny guitar, a baby version of his own Taylor six-string, and began to strum clumsily with your beginner's touch, he couldn't help himself.

All he could think about were those dainty fingers wrapped around his cock. Teaching you how to stroke him just right, his hand guiding yours up and down his length the way yours were shifting up and down the neck of your guitar as you hopped from fret to fret.

Shit, he's fucking hard.

It's not going away anytime soon, either. Maybe if he just...takes care of it. Jerks off, quick and dirty, thinking about the smooth pad of your thumb circling the head of his cock while he leaks precum onto your fingers. He'd cum so quickly imagining himself splattering his release across your plush lips, his name on the tip of your tongue.

His jeans are halfway down his thighs before he can think twice about it, and he hisses in a sharp breath when he finally begins to pump himself, tight and focused toward the tip just like he'd tell you to.

He was right. He's not going to last long. That's probably a good thing. The faster he can get you out of his system, the better, and then he can forget all of the things he did to you. He's more than ashamed at how quickly his balls start to tighten when he remembers how intimately you let him touch you. How fucking crazy you drove him.

The living room fills with the echoes of his stuttered groans and skin slapping against skin as he frantically fucks his fist, lost in the memory of his lips dragging across your bare shoulder and the heel of his hand grinding into your soaked, clothed pussy.

Then, he hears it so clearly through the haze of his pleasure—your voice whimpering his name, begging him to take care of you. He barely has enough time to tug up his shirt before he's cumming hard across his stomach and dribbling down his knuckles. Christ, you'd look so fucking good on your knees right now, sucking the release off his fingers.

Not good.

What the hell is happening to him? This desire, this need, it isn't who he is. And all of it over a beautiful girl. A very, very beautiful girl. He sighs, running his clean hand frustratedly down his face, fighting to ignore the cum drying uncomfortably on his skin.

It's not just that, and he knows it. It isn't your youth, either. It's...your passion. Your kindness and determination, even in the face of adversity.

It's you.

But he can't have you, no matter how much he aches to. You deserve better than an old, washed-up musician with bad knees and high blood pressure. You need someone who can really take care of you, and he's already decided that isn't him.

Come tomorrow, he'll keep things professional like he said he would. He'll keep his distance and teach you everything he has to offer. Be the guitar teacher he should've been from the beginning.

You're both adults, perfectly capable of controlling yourselves long enough to get through an hour-long lesson.

Yeah, this'll work.

You're late.

Not a great start to your second lesson, but then again, that seems to be your M.O. these days. Not this day, though. Today, all of that changes.

You take a deep, steadying breath before your fist connects with sun-bleached oak, and do your best to focus on the warm, mid-September breeze instead of the impatience and anticipation threatening to swallow you whole.

Now that you're back here, standing on his porch, you're beginning to realize you're actually excited to see him. The anxiety you felt last night has given way to a strange sense of relief and a fresh wave of want. It's like your body can sense him and all of the things you're about to learn and experience.

His broad figure comes into view through the foggy glass paneling of his front door, and then after a strenuous 24 hours, your guitar teacher is within reach again—Joel. His name is Joel. You’re going to have to get used to saying it without your breath catching in your throat or he’ll know. He'll see your intentions clear as day and you'll never get to moan it for him again.

“Hey, you, uh...ya made it," he says breathily, frowning down at his watch. He's panting, and there's a gentle flush spreading from his cheeks down to his neck, disappearing under the collar of his navy blue T-shirt. “I was startin' to get a little worried there."

You smile apologetically, turning to nod back at the piece of shit Chevy parked in his driveway. It's old as dirt and somehow always manages to act up when the weather gets too hot.

"I had some car trouble," you tell him sheepishly, throwing a disdainful look over your shoulder before facing him again. "I should've called. I'm sorry."

He shakes his head, offering you a small, if not subtly strained, smile in return. You can tell he's relieved you didn't call, even if he's too polite to say it.

"S'alright, m'just glad you're here now," he says tightly, shifting from one foot to the other as he continues to stand awkwardly in the doorway.

Well, this isn't good. You can take a pretty decent guess as to why he's acting so strange, but you're not sure how to even begin diffusing the situation. Inviting yourself in wouldn't be a terrible first step, but he already seems nervous as hell, and you're afraid he'll spook.

He's still thinking about yesterday. It's evident in his stance and the tension visibly building in his biceps and shoulders. What you wouldn't give to relieve some of that stress—but you can't do much of anything while you're still stuck at an impasse, sizing each other up for two very conflicting reasons.

Hiking your guitar case higher up on your shoulder, you gesture as delicately as you can to the door he's still hiding behind.

"Is it okay, um—should I...come inside?" you stumble over your suggestion, your words conveying none of the confidence and allure you'd hoped for.

Come on, buck up. Be the girl who made him question his self-control; the girl who made his eyes turn so dark, you thought you'd lose yourself in them and never find your way out. You meet those same eyes again with a playful darkness of your own.

"Or did you wanna continue what we started yesterday out here on your porch?"

He does startle at that, but luckily it's the push he needs to finally let you into his home.

"Y-yeah, yes. M'sorry, 'course ya can," he mutters, shaking his head as if he'd been in a trance the entire time. "Didn't mean to keep ya standin' there. Come, uh...Christ, come on in."

Good. Entranced is good.

He holds the door open for you like a perfect gentleman, and your chest drags across his as you squeeze past his large frame and into the entryway. It’s an unsubtle and potentially cheap move, but neither of you pretends it wasn’t on purpose. He sucks in a harsh breath, seizing up until you're past him and taking in the quiet comfort of his living room.

Last time, you'd been too distracted to notice all of the little details and odds and ends that make the space so distinctly Joel, but now that you're really paying attention, it's...charming. The stacks of CDs next to his guitar stand, some in cases and some not, and the varying brown tones of his shag rug and leather couch feel warm and inviting. Just like the man who spends his days and nights here.

Being here suddenly feels intimate in a different capacity than before. Heat begins to bloom in your chest instead of between your legs at the idea of creating music together, a variation all your own, heavily influenced by the history all around you. The abrupt shift takes you by surprise, but it's not unwelcome. If anything, it increases your sense of urgency.

So you let it draw you in, back to where your next lesson and, hopefully, everything you have in store for Joel will take place. That same cushy spot you dreamt about all night while you fucked yourself with your fingers, and that he, unbeknownst to you, lingered while he fucked his fist to thoughts of you.

Looking back over your shoulder, you catch him watching you. There's a curiosity there and an undercurrent of something darker that makes your stomach swoop. He's still flushed, even more so than before, despite his AC kicking to cut the heat and oppressive humidity you brought in with you.

But then he blinks and it's gone again. Left in its place are the kind, if not extremely guarded, eyes of your patient guitar teacher. He's so good at that. Maybe a little too good.

You twist around, heaving the soft case off your shoulder so you can plop down on the couch. He winces out of the corner of your eye when you land on his spot, and his fingers twitch restlessly at his sides as you pull out your guitar and set it across your lap. Lifting an eyebrow, you wait for him to make a move, but he seems stuck in place. Conflicted, almost, like he's fighting himself.

You need him closer. You need him to loosen up. Most of all, you need those thick, insistent fingers inside you before you lose your damn mind.

"Joel? You coming?" you ask expectantly, moving your hands into place over the frets and strings.

At that, he downright grimaces but nods nonetheless. He mumbles something under his breath that sounds a lot like self-admonishment as he putters across the room to pluck his guitar from its stand.

Instead of sitting beside you, he pulls up a chair in front of you, putting enough distance between himself and the couch so you can heed his instructions, but not be tempted to touch. Whether that's for his benefit or yours, you're not entirely sure, but you shiver at the thought. He notices.

"Y'need me to turn down the AC? 'Cus I can handle that real quick before we get started," he sounds a little too eager to get away from you again, so you hurriedly reach out to grab his hand before he can make his escape.

"Woah, hold your horses. It's totally okay. I'm not cold, I promise," you try to reassure him with a chuckle, attempting to soothe the palpable tension in the air. Those rough, time-hardened fingertips brush against the delicate skin of your inner wrist, and you instinctively tug him closer.

But he resists. He carefully pulls out of your grasp and sits back down, returning to a safe distance and refusing to make eye contact.

That's not a good sign. At all. You can't help but feel a little ashamed at his reaction. It was never your intention to push him, but you also hadn't expected him to be repelled by just the sight of you.

Maybe you misunderstood your last conversation? Or maybe it really was all in your head, even after you stopped daydreaming. It's entirely possible you only saw what you wanted because you wanted him. You bite your lip anxiously, shifting away to offer him more space.

"Hey, is everything okay? You seem kind of...off today," you press him hesitantly. "Look, if this is about yesterday—"

"S'nothin' like that. We agreed it was water under the bridge, right? Two adults keepin' things professional," he cuts you off, kindly yet firmly dismissing your concerns.

He meets your eyes again, and they're clearer, now. His voice, too—unwavering and more sure than it's been since you got here.

Oh. This is a reminder. A gently worded warning for both of you.

Okay, that's totally okay. It has to be. He's right, anyway. You keep forgetting how important these lessons are, and he's just being the reasonable, responsible adult who wants to keep you on track, no matter how nervous you make him.

Shit, you wish that didn't turn you on so much. You tell yourself to ignore it. Your mission's a bust, anyway, and he's clearly not interested. You ignore how badly that hurts, too, while you're at it.

"Yeah, of course. Totally professional," you repeat back dejectedly, and you will yourself to mean it. But he never makes it easy, does he?

"That's my girl," he smiles so, so handsomely, and you're forced to bite back a frustrated groan.

How he manages to look so genuine and innocent while he says things like that, you'll never understand. What's worse, you have no doubt he actually is.

Joel Miller. 56 years old. Your generous guitar teacher whose only goal is to share his craft in that syrupy sweet twang that sounds like the sweetest music to your ears.

Just your luck.

thanks for reading & stay tuned for part iii <3

(dividers by @saradika & @inklore)

#joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller smut #joel miller angst #the last of us fanfiction #tlou fanfiction #pedro pascal characters

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definitelynotabirthblog · 6 months ago

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1000 word quick drabble. I challenged myself to write imperfectly for an hour and post whatever came out. This is the result. Not too bad for something that hasn't had about a million edits.

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A CALLOUS CABBIE

The clutch on their car had been making very strange noises since Thursday. There is no way it would be fixed in less than three days, five including the upcoming bank holiday weekend. Bella's contractions started at 11pm on the Saturday night, only as painful as day two period cramps and twenty minutes apart at first, but by 3am on the Sunday morning, the contractions head steadily increased in frequency to every five minutes with the intensity of them now rendering her unable to talk when they peaked. It was time to go to the maternity unit, but with no functional car of their own, they were relying on the local taxi service to help them make the fifteen mile journey.

Brendon booked the the vehicle for as soon as possible using the company's app on his phone. Within ten minutes, a black Honda had appeared outside their house, the low rumble of the engine humming. Brendon swung Bella's hospital bag over his left shoulder and, supporting his wife with his other arm, walked her slowly out to the car. As she shuffled in, the driver took in the sight of her bump in the rear view mirror and frowned.

"I hope there won't be any accidents on that seat. A drunk puked on it last week and I've only just had it fixed" he huffed.

"We have sick bags in case. But she doesn't feel sick, do you baby?" Brendan asked Bella.

"That's not what I meant," the driver sighed. "I meant any... fluids. The last thing I need is any nasty stuff on my seat."

"My waters haven't broken yet," Bella insisted. "But if they do and I make a mess on your seat, we will pay for the cost of getting it cleaned."

"And what about the cost of the fares I'll miss while I'm getting it cleaned? Whose going to pay for that?" he argued back.

Brendon looked at the driver, speechless. Bella rolled her eyes and looked at her husband.

"Run in and get a towel to put under me sweetie."

Muttering under his breath, Brendon got out of the car and ran back to the house. Less than a minute later, he was back carrying a large fluffy towel. Bella lifted her bottom up and allowed him to spread it beneath her.

"Happy?" Brendon said, sarcasm evident in his voice.

"Ecstatic."

The vehicle revved up and started to move. For the first tenty minutes minutes of the journey, Bella was able to breath through the contractions as Brendon held her hand next to her. The cool night air brushed her face through the open window, distracting her somewhat from her cramping womb. As a particularly nasty pain cut through her as the vehicle turned on an intersection, Bella felt warm amniotic fluid engulf her crotch. Crying out as the contraction peaked, Brendon looked at his wife's drenched bottoms and gasped. The driver glared through the rear view mirror.

"What the hell was that?" he called back.

"Baby?" Brendon said, ignoring him. He looked at his wife, who glanced down at her pants and shot a panicked look first to her husband and then at the driver.

"Just a really bad one. It's going now."

But less than two minutes later Bella was roaring as another pain pummelled her uterus, head thrown back, hand snaking down to her crotch.

"Oh god, it's coming! Brendon, it's coming now!" she squeaked.

"Stop the car please," Brendon called, as he removed his wife's seat belt.

"Why?"

"Because my wife is giving birth!"

"I'm not stopping now. We're five minutes away. Tell her to cross her legs."

"Excuse me? I said stop the car! I need to call an ambulance!"

"And whose is going to pay for my missed fares when we have to hang around for an hour for it to come?"

"I'll pay you double. Just stop the fucking car!"

"No," he said plainly, taking the slip road onto the motorway.

"Brendon! Please! It's coming out!"

Bella's pleading brought Brendon down from his rage as she whimpered beside him, her hands cupping her crotch. He could see the patch of wetness had grown as more fluid leaked out of her. Car being driven at 80mph or not, he needed to act. Grabbing Bella's hips, he swivelled her body 90 degrees so she was facing him, her shoulders resting against the interior of the car door.

"Take my pants off!" she gasped. Brendon dragged her bottoms down her legs in one swift motion, exposing her labouring vulva. There, sat between two puffy lips and under the glistening jewel of her clit, was the centimetre square dark patch of their firstborn's head as her body forced it into the world.

"Oh my fucking god, I need to push!" Bella yelled, as she bore down. Fluid dribbled out from behind the swirls of the infant's hair as the centimetre patch of hair grew to an inch. Brendon held her legs open and instinctively she put her feet on his shoulders, bracing her legs against him as she pushed.

"You're doing it baby," he said, his voice breaking as he gently supported the taut perenium with his shaky fingertips. Bella's stretched pussy neared a full crown, her feet by his ears. Grunting with effort, she pushed like she was trying to shit a boulder, as her baby's head stretched her battered vagina to its limit. She shrieked with pain as their child's head popped out with a slosh of bloody fluid into its father's waiting hands. Pushing once more, a wriggling baby tumbled out onto the car seat, swimming in fluid. Brendon put the child onto its mother's chest, covering them both with his own jacket.

"How are we getting on back there?" the cabbie shouted, as he finally slowed his vehicle, the lights of the hospital shining through the cat windows.

"You'd better fucking believe we won't be paying for any damage you arsehole," said Brendon as his child cried, breathing oxygen into its lungs for the first time.

#birth fiction #birth kink #fpreg #labour kink #birth fic #fem birth #inconvenient birth #labor kink #giving birth #quick birth

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bennetsbonnet · 2 days ago

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The fact that 'Mr Darcy is autistic!!' is so widespread in Pride and Prejudice fanon is rendered all the more hilarious when you actually read the novel because... Mr Collins is RIGHT THERE infodumping away when Elizabeth visits Kent...

In Chapter 28:

Here, leading the way through every walk and cross walk, and scarcely allowing them an interval to utter the praises he asked for, every view was pointed out with a minuteness which left beauty entirely behind. [Mr Collins] could number the fields in every direction, and could tell how many trees there were in the most distant clump.

And in Chapter 29:

[Elizabeth] was but slightly affected by [Mr Collins's] enumeration of the windows in front of the house, and his relation of what the glazing altogether had originally cost Sir Lewis de Bourgh.

There is no neurotypical explanation for either of these passages, in my opinion. Mr Collins's special interest is Rosings Park and the De Bourgh family and given her enormous ego, Lady Catherine absolutely loves being the Regency era equivalent of Pokémon cards and Lego for the autistic clergyman who she patronises...

#pride and prejudice #jane austen #mr collins #lady catherine de bourgh #i do mean patronises in both senses btw #shitpost #but also not really #because he 100% is. i am not woobifying mr collins BY ANY MEANS don't misunderstand this post #he's still ridiculous and meant to be an absolute JOKE of a man #but... i know what he is #also idk why i said pokemon cards... never collected them myself but it's a pretty stereotypical autistic special interest lmao #nd things #my analysis

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discordiansamba · 2 months ago

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thinking about like. an aoex au but make it sci fi. humanity now resides in a series of eight space stations, after having to leave earth behind. each station is ruled over by one of the Baal (who would not be demons here, obviously). there used to be a ninth station, but it was severely damaged in an accident and rendered largely uninhabitable. all of its surviving residents were moved to other stations.

some key points!

yuri lives! she works as an engineer, helping repair the robots that maintained the ninth station. she's a single mother, living quietly with rin and yukio when the accident occurs- and rin very nearly loses his life and suffers critical damage to most of his body. so yuri does what any reasonable mother with a degree in advanced robotics would do, and makes him into a cyborg.

this is very illegal! by the way!

yuri moves to mephisto's station in the aftermath and changes their last names. she tells rin and yukio that no one can know about rin's secret, and she does her best to help rin blend into normal society. from the outside, he looks perfectly human!

(well, except for the tail that doubles as his connection port- but he can hide that easily enough.)

...this changes slightly when her childhood friend shiro shows up at her door. the last thing he knew, yuri's eldest child was on the verge of death- so imagine his surprise when finds that rin is both a.) alive and b.) wholly intact. yuri confesses what she's done, and pleads with shiro to not tell anyone.

shiro is horrified at first. his literal *job* is dealing with renegade robots and illegal cyborgs... and yuri is telling him that she's turned rin into one? what were you thinking? but eventually he comes to understand that rin is just... a normal kid, and that's all he wants to be.

he retires, and moves in with them to help protect both yuri and rin.

a lot of rin's pre-accident memories are shaky at best.

mephisto's station is just his true cross academy's architecture, but applied on a station-wide level, lmao. there's no true public greenspaces, but all their food is harvested from greenhouses on the station. it's very high tech, but at the same time, very much like living on earth.

(this is not true for all of the stations by a long shot)

yukio learns robotics from yuri! he wants to be able to take care of rin one day, even after their mom passes- seeing as rin himself doesn't have much of a head for robotics, ironically enough.

rin: my body might be like, 80% artificial, but my brain is 100% organic rin! for good and for bad!

around his first year of middle school, rin's family took a convenient trip to another station for a month and a half- but this is all a ruse. yuri was just adjusting rin's body to make it seem like he'd gone through puberty while they were away. this means there's a window of time in which rin gets to be taller than yukio.

(enjoy it while it lasts, buddy! no your mom will not rebuild your legs just to make you taller than yukio. that costs money, rin.)

rin runs on an internal battery with a relatively long lifespan, and uses his tail to recharge himself when needed. he does not and cannot eat, but still loves cooking regardless. it makes everyone else happy, so it makes him happy!

rin loves to wander around the station in his free time and uh. often ends up in places he should not be in. during one such escapade, he discovers a strange natural greenspace- a garden, filled with lots of tiny little robots that all tend to it.

in the center of the garden, there's a mysterious pod- and inside of it, is the most beautiful girl rin has ever laid eyes on. he touches the pod without thinking about it- and accidentally activates it, releasing the girl inside.

her name is shiemi, and she has a mysterious power that makes plants grow. rin decides to take her out of the garden- and discovers that she's an artificially created lifeform, meant to aid with terraforming should a new planet ever be found to house humanity. she was supposed to be in cold sleep until then, but...

(mephisto looking at rin and shiemi standing next to each other like. hmmmm. this could be amusing! very well! i approve!)

(the baal may or may not be aliens masquerading as humans. don't worry about it. i'm sure it's fine.)

#blue exorcist #the little garden tending robots are all greenmen!#and yes. one of them comes with shiemi when rin takes her out of the garden #rin: wait. mom. could you make it so I can fire eyebeams?#yuri: hmmmm #shiro: yuri. no.#(rin and yukio are SO suspicious of shiro at first. what are your intentions with our mother)#rin being that weird kid that you never see eat lunch lmao #is rin's connection port being a tail practical? a little bit! is it cute? absolutely.#aoex scifi au

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