#//five page essay edition
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anybody remember the stephanie brown essay I was working on under a research grant fully last summer? yeah it’s not done yet it super needs to be done and I’ve been avoiding working on it for weeks. someone tell me to just do it already
#the problem is. actually there are several problems#1) I’ve been out of the Batman/dc comics phase for almost a year so I don’t care that much about the topic#2) I am fifteen pages in and have not touched it in months so I’ve completely lost my train of thought#3) I can’t just reread it because I hate first five pages or so and I know I need to change it but I was trying to finish before editing#so now my only solution is I need to open up a new doc and completely restructure the whole thing by splicing together the existing writing#so that I can figure out where the hell im going with this and make sure things fit together better#unfortunately that sounds fucking exhausting#but I told my mentor I would have an update for him by the end of the week and. well. it’s the end of the week#I have to present it in April. I have to write and submit an abstract in March#the school gave me $1500 for this stupid essay and if I don’t have anything to show for myself.#well. I don’t know they can’t take the money BACK but it’s not a good look#and also I would feel bad#I did the research!!! i interviewed comic writers even!!! I just haven’t finished WRITING IT DOWN#and I KNOOOOWW once I get started it’ll be fine once I’m going I’m going#but STARTING is hard because I feel like I have to finish it in one go which makes it so huge and daunting#I’m like. slamming my head into a wall. just write a couple sentences Jess something is better than nothing#just start it you don’t have to finish just START just MAKE the new DOC#I know!!!!! that is what my therapist would say!!!! Jess you’re trying to oneshot it bc of your dumb adhd brain!!!!#stop looking at it like that and making it scarier!!!#but even tho I know that logically I’m still like oh I should put away the dishes o should make bread#I should work on my six different art pieces I should do laundry i should play with the puppy I should go for a walk I sh
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*deep breath* Okay. In that case, buckle the fuck up.
For all I know, there might be canon lore or word from the creator that entirely debunks this idea. If so, please feel free to tell me directly! I love discussion with other fans, and don't take it personally if a theory i back turns out to be incorrect!
(and honestly somewhere along the way I realized I DO NOT have the spell slots necessary to put my full thesis down, so sadly you're only getting the cliffnotes and some shitty visuals I made instead.) But before I get into it, I'd like to put a warning for those tempted to keep reading: This is the sort of pretentious plot twist spoiler that (depending on your tastes) might make the experience of MILGRAM a lot less fun for you just by knowing/considering it. As such, please use discretion before clicking on the read more. But! I don't think it'll spoil anything to state the basic premise.
The truth is deceptively simple: MILGRAM is a work of fiction set up so that us, the audience, get to influence the characters present in the narrative, thus directly influencing everything that happens, via the cast/crew reacting to our decisions according.
At this point, I wouldn't be surprised if you some of you think I'm joking or wondering how that in any way counts as a theory.
Part 1: A Cosmic Horror Story(ish) by Any Other Name
In which case, lemme shift the spotlight from the audience's perspective of Milgram to the character's experience of it:
While they don't realize it, the characters of MILGRAM are intentionally constructed beings, within an intentionally constructed universe. Which isn't to say that they, as characters, don't have thoughts and feelings. Their lives and experiences and crimes are just as real as everything else around them. But! Seeing as all of that is fictional, that's... debatable, at best.
They were all created (for the purpose of entertainment) by a force/entity that is basically all-powerful within their universe, but is almost entirely passive in nature. Or to put it another way: It's the cast/crew of MILGRAM that makes this whole narrative exist, but they're always gonna stay in the background of the story. The focus is always on the characters and how they deal with all this.
Past the force that created them, there is one other group of entities that exists outside the character's universe. It's these beings who actively engage with them, through means that go beyond the physical. ie; that us, the audience!! We vote, engage in theorycrafting, and talk about the characters to the point where oh shit they might be going a little insane from hearing us, actually.
Part 2: Other Helpful (and Very Shitty) Visual Aids, Without Context
Part 3: "Wait, so that means we shouldn't have been vot-" Lemme stop you there
With all this in mind, the conclusion most people would immediately come to would be "So this really was just the creators redoing the Milgram experiments, and our only ethical option is to not vote at all!"
Which, no.
Though we might largely have the most direct say in how things go down, the creators can still weigh in if we refuse to play by their rules.
For example, where you here when Haruka's 2nd Trial vote went down? Because, while I wasn't, I have seen the comments people posted during and after that time period.
That is to say, people were trying really hard to get him to a 50/50 tie stall, thus breaking the system - it was only right near the end that the poll hard shifted towards guilty.
Something similar (but a lot more shitposty) happened with Mikoto's first trial vote, too; apparently, the unspoken consensus was that everyone wanted Mikoto to be exactly 69% guilty (lol, never change folks). But, guess what? Right at the end - small shift towards innocent. Tragically ending The Meme Dream for everyone involved.
For all that we, the audience, are mostly in control of where things end up, the creators are more than willing to step in if we stop playing by their rules or don't take things seriously enough and shift votes one way or another depending.
Which means that all not voting does is put it in the creator's hands to decide - and, in that case, they could end up making the choice that you don't like.
So, for all it can feel icky for us voters to be C'thulu to the characters, depending on your outlook, trying to influence them can still be pretty important.
#ask#anonymous#MILGRAM#MILGRAM project#I don't have the energy to write out my five bajillion page essay on the details#also edited the tags and added an image after i felt a bit better about this#now please DO feel free to discuss this with me
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oooh i havent opened the achievements thing yet heres to hoping i get lots of diamonds
#essay is coming together btw. went back and edited the nonsensical parts. nearly to five pages now#we just gotta. conclude it and make a works cited page and a title page. then read everything over again#and maybe get my sister or mom to read it over too
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Linkrot
For the rest of May, my bestselling solarpunk utopian novel THE LOST CAUSE (2023) is available as a $2.99, DRM-free ebook!
Here's an underrated cognitive virtue: "object permanence" – that is, remembering how you perceived something previously. As Riley Quinn often reminds us, the left is the ideology of object permanence – to be a leftist is to hate and mistrust the CIA even when they're tormenting Trump for a brief instant, or to remember that it was once possible for a working person to support their family with their wages:
https://pluralistic.net/2023/10/27/six-sells/#youre-holding-it-wrong
The thing is, object permanence is hard. Life comes at you quickly. It's very hard to remember facts, and the order in which those facts arrived – it's even harder to remember how you felt about those facts in the moment.
This is where blogging comes in – for me, at least. Back in 1997, Scott Edelman – editor of Science Fiction Age – asked me to take over the back page of the magazine by writing up ten links of interest for the nascent web. I wrote that column until the spring of 2000, then, in early 2001, Mark Frauenfelder asked me to guest-edit Boing Boing, whereupon the tempo of my web-logging went daily. I kept that up on Boing Boing for more than 19 years, writing about 54,000 posts. In February, 2020, I started Pluralistic.net, my solo project, a kind of blog/newsletter, and in the four-plus years since, I've written about 1,200 editions containing between one and twelve posts each.
This gigantic corpus of everything I ever considered to be noteworthy is immensely valuable to me. The act of taking notes in public is a powerful discipline: rather than jotting cryptic notes to myself in a commonplace book, I publish those notes for strangers. This imposes a rigor on the note-taking that makes those notes far more useful to me in years to come.
Better still: public note-taking is powerfully mnemonic. The things I've taken notes on form a kind of supersaturated solution of story ideas, essay ideas, speech ideas, and more, and periodically two or more of these fragments will glom together, nucleate, and a fully-formed work will crystallize out of the solution.
Then, the fact that all these fragments are also database entries – contained in the back-end of a WordPress installation that I can run complex queries on – comes into play, letting me swiftly and reliably confirm my memories of these long-gone phenomena. Inevitably, these queries turn up material that I've totally forgotten, and these make the result even richer, like adding homemade stock to a stew to bring out a rich and complicated flavor. Better still, many of these posts have been annotated by readers with supplemental materials or vigorous objections.
I call this all "The Memex Method" and it lets me write a lot (I wrote nine books during lockdown, as I used work to distract me from anxiety – something I stumbled into through a lifetime of chronic pain management):
https://pluralistic.net/2021/05/09/the-memex-method/
Back in 2013, I started a new daily Boing Boing feature: "This Day In Blogging History," wherein I would look at the archive of posts for that day one, five and ten years previously:
https://boingboing.net/2013/06/24/this-day-in-blogging-history.html
With Pluralistic, I turned this into a daily newsletter feature, now stretching back to twenty, fifteen, ten, five and one year ago. Here's today's:
https://pluralistic.net/2024/05/21/noway-back-machine/#retro
This is a tremendous adjunct to the Memex Method. It's a structured way to review everything I've ever thought about, in five-year increments, every single day. I liken this to working dough, where there's stuff at the edges getting dried out and crumbly, and so your fold it all back into the middle. All these old fragments naturally slip out of your thoughts and understanding, but you can revive their centrality by briefly paying attention to them for a few minutes every day.
This structured daily review is a wonderful way to maintain object permanence, reviewing your attitudes and beliefs over time. It's also a way to understand the long-forgotten origins of issues that are central to you today. Yesterday, I was reminded that I started thinking about automotive Right to Repair 15 years ago:
https://www.eff.org/deeplinks/2009/05/right-repair-law-pro
Given that we're still fighting over this, that's some important perspective, a reminder of the likely timescales involved in more recent issues where I feel like little progress is being made.
Remember when we all got pissed off because the mustache-twirling evil CEO of Warners, David Zaslav, was shredding highly anticipated TV shows and movies prior to their release to get a tax-credit? Turns out that we started getting angry about this stuff twenty years ago, when Michael Eisner did it to Michael Moore's "Fahrenheit 911":
https://www.nytimes.com/2004/05/05/us/disney-is-blocking-distribution-of-film-that-criticizes-bush.html
It's not just object permanence: this daily spelunk through my old records is also a way to continuously and methodically sound the web for linkrot: when old links go bad. Over the past five years, I've noticed a very sharp increase in linkrot, and even worse, in the odious practice of spammers taking over my dead friends' former blogs and turning them into AI spam-farms:
https://www.wired.com/story/confessions-of-an-ai-clickbait-kingpin/
The good people at the Pew Research Center have just released a careful, quantitative study of linkrot that confirms – and exceeds – my worst suspicions about the decay of the web:
https://www.pewresearch.org/data-labs/2024/05/17/when-online-content-disappears/
The headline finding from "When Online Content Disappears" is that 38% of the web of 2013 is gone today. Wikipedia references are especially hard-hit, with 23% of news links missing and 21% of government websites gone. The majority of Wikipedia entries have at least one broken link in their reference sections. Twitter is another industrial-scale oubliette: a fifth of English tweets disappear within a matter of months; for Turkish and Arabic tweets, it's 40%.
Thankfully, someone has plugged the web's memory-hole. Since 2001, the Internet Archive's Wayback Machine has allowed web users to see captures of web-pages, tracking their changes over time. I was at the Wayback Machine's launch party, and right away, I could see its value. Today, I make extensive use of Wayback Machine captures for my "This Day In History" posts, and when I find dead links on the web.
The Wayback Machine went public in 2001, but Archive founder Brewster Kahle started scraping the web in 1996. Today's post graphic – a modified Yahoo homepage from October 17, 1996 – is the oldest Yahoo capture on the Wayback Machine:
https://web.archive.org/web/19960501000000*/yahoo.com
Remember that the next time someone tells you that we must stamp out web-scraping for one reason or another. There are plenty of ugly ways to use scraping (looking at you, Clearview AI) that we should ban, but scraping itself is very good:
https://pluralistic.net/2023/09/17/how-to-think-about-scraping/
And so is the Internet Archive, which makes the legal threats it faces today all the more frightening. Lawsuits brought by the Big Five publishers and Big Three labels will, if successful, snuff out the Internet Archive altogether, and with it, the Wayback Machine – the only record we have of our ephemeral internet:
https://blog.archive.org/2024/04/19/internet-archive-stands-firm-on-library-digital-rights-in-final-brief-of-hachette-v-internet-archive-lawsuit/
Libraries burn. The Internet Archive may seem like a sturdy and eternal repository for our collective object permanence about the internet, but it is very fragile, and could disappear like that.
If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:
https://pluralistic.net/2024/05/21/noway-back-machine/#pew-pew-pew
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Adoration's Abyss | Bakugou , Stalker Reader
synopsis: He was the untouchable star, and I was just another face in the crowd—until I wasn’t. What starts as admiration spirals into something far darker when love turns to obsession, and boundaries blur between devotion and delusion. You really are different from other girls… but at what cost?
w/c: idk i was hoping for 5k, i hope it reached
warnings: stalking
a/n: hey i wrote this while i was at the beach for five days. update on my life: been getting into poetry and essay writing again. finally had the balls to share my work with my friends and family lol
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The moment I saw him, the world folded itself into something smaller, something manageable, as if the chaos of existence could be trimmed to fit within the orbit of his gaze. Katsuki Bakugou: a name that rippled through crowds like a thunderclap, his presence igniting every room he entered with the ferocity of a supernova. He wasn’t just an idol; he was a phenomenon, a living pyre burning too bright for ordinary mortals.
And yet, there I was. Just another face in the sea of adoration, clutching my ticket to the meet-and-greet like it was a lifeline to salvation.
“Hi, Katsuki! I loved you in—”
He cut me off, sharp as a blade but not unkind. “In Beyond the Blast?” His voice was rough, gravelly—a symphony of jagged edges.
I faltered. Did I seem too predictable? Too common? A sheep in the flock of screaming fans? My heart plummeted.
“Pouts are overrated,” I said, forcing a small smile, my voice softening into something calculatedly vulnerable. “I want to be different. Not just like…other girls. I loved you in the Eclipsed show, but also in Burning Hearts, Live Loud, Infrno's Edge...” I trailed off, naming a more obscure project, the kind only the most dedicated fans would know. I even threw in a few lines about a candid interview he once did, where he spoke about how sunsets reminded him of fleeting time.
His expression shifted—slightly, almost imperceptibly. But it was enough. The ghost of amusement danced on his lips, and he said, “Maybe you really are different from other girls.”
Inside, I was roaring. Victorious. Outside, I laughed softly, demurely. “Maybe.”
I am so much worse.
When I left the meet-and-greet, I told myself it was enough. To stand in his presence, to hear his voice aimed in my direction—wasn’t that already more than most could hope for? But hope is a greedy thing. It feeds on itself, growing hungrier with every indulgence.
That night, I couldn’t sleep. His voice lingered in my ears like a song on repeat, the low rasp of it curling around my thoughts. I replayed our brief exchange in my head, editing and polishing it, imagining what I could’ve said to make him linger just a second longer.
And then, of course, I opened the scrapbook.
It started innocently, as these things always do. A collection of concert photos, magazine clippings, interviews. But now, as I flipped through the pages, it felt insufficient. Two-dimensional. Katsuki wasn’t just a face on a page. He was a force, raw and untamed, and these flattened images could never capture him.
I needed more.
When I heard about his upcoming promotional event, I didn’t hesitate. The tickets were sold out within seconds, but I had connections—or rather, I made them. A fan forum moderator owed me a favor, and I cashed it in without a second thought.
The event was in a sleek, glass-paneled venue that gleamed under the city lights. I arrived early, blending seamlessly into the crowd. I wore my best dress—not flashy, but memorable. Just enough to catch his eye again.
This time, I didn’t bother with the front row. No, I wanted to watch from a distance, to see the full scope of his energy. He moved onstage like a storm contained within the fragile frame of a man. His voice electrified the room, his words sparking laughter and applause.
But every now and then, his gaze flickered over the crowd, scanning faces. Did he remember me? Did his eyes pause, even for a fraction of a second, on mine?
I convinced myself they did.
It was after the event, during the afterparty, that things began to change. I wasn’t supposed to be there, of course, but slipping past security was easier than I thought. People underestimate how much you can achieve when you’re polite, invisible, and just persistent enough to not raise alarms.
He was there, naturally—leaning against the bar, his posture relaxed but his eyes sharp. A few people approached him, but he brushed them off with a curt nod or a smirk that didn’t quite reach his eyes.
And then, somehow, I was beside him.
“Hey,” I said softly, almost shyly. “I’m surprised you’re not the center of attention.”
He looked at me, and for a second, I thought he might not remember. But then his expression shifted—a flicker of recognition, like a match striking against stone.
“You again,” he said.
From that moment on, it was as though I had been given permission. Not by him, of course, but by the universe. Surely this was fate, wasn’t it? To have crossed paths with him twice, in places swarming with thousands of people?
I began to learn things. Little things, at first—his preferred coffee shop, the route he took to the gym, the kind of music he played in his car when he thought no one was listening. These were harmless details, gathered with the precision of a collector adding rare gems to their trove.
But soon, harmless wasn’t enough.
The first time I followed him home, I told myself it was a mistake. I had been walking in the same direction, and it was pure coincidence that his apartment building loomed ahead of me. But then I did it again. And again.
His building was tall, sleek, and anonymous, but I found ways to breach its defenses. A delivery uniform, a borrowed ID badge—small deceptions that felt exhilarating in their simplicity.
I never crossed the final line. I never entered his apartment, though I knew exactly which door was his. Instead, I lingered in the shadows, content to imagine the life that unfolded within.
But imagination, like hope, is a hungry thing.
It’s funny, the way routine can warp into ritual. What began as occasional glimpses became a nightly pilgrimage. I knew his schedule better than my own. His habits—oh, how they fascinated me. The way he left his balcony door slightly ajar, as if inviting the wind—or something else. The flicker of his apartment light in the early hours, suggesting sleepless nights.
Once, I saw him standing there, silhouetted against the glow of his television, shirtless and utterly at ease. It felt intimate, watching him like that. Almost sacred.
He would never understand how much I admired him.
I started leaving small things behind. Harmless tokens—an autograph request slipped under his door, a pressed flower on his windowsill. Gifts that could be explained away if he ever noticed. They were never acknowledged, but that was fine. It wasn’t for him to notice. It was for me.
One night, he deviated from his routine. The precision of his life had always been a comfort to me—a series of movements I could predict and follow like a choreographed dance. But that night, he didn’t go home after his gym session.
Instead, he stopped at a convenience store, and I, foolishly emboldened by months of watching, followed him inside.
He was standing by the drink cooler, scanning the rows of energy drinks with a scowl. His hair was damp, his hoodie slung low over his face, and yet he was unmistakable.
I wasn’t supposed to get this close. Not yet.
But he turned, and suddenly we were face to face.
“Oh,” I said, startled into breaking the sacred silence between us. “Hi. Fancy seeing you here.”
His eyes narrowed. “Do I know you?”
My heart thrummed like a caged bird. Did he recognize me from the meet-and-greet? From the afterparty? Did he know I’d been watching him all this time?
“I’m a fan,” I said quickly, keeping my voice light, casual. “We’ve met before, at your event. Twice, actually.”
His gaze lingered on me, sharp and assessing, and for a moment, I thought I saw suspicion flicker across his face.
“Right,” he said finally, brushing past me with the kind of indifference that only he could make seem regal.
But as he left the store, I caught a glimpse of something in his expression—something that wasn’t indifference at all.
After that encounter, I couldn’t stop imagining what he thought of me. Did I stand out to him? Did he wonder about me the way I wondered about him? The thought was intoxicating.
I found myself becoming bolder. My nightly visits turned into longer stays. I started leaving notes with no name, no context—just fragments of thoughts I thought he might find poetic.
“The stars envy your light.”
“Even storms pause to admire you.”
“You are the reason the sun rises.”
Each one felt like a confession. A prayer.
But then one night, the notes disappeared. When I crept back to his door the following evening, there was nothing waiting for me. No sign that he had read them, or even seen them.
Had he thrown them away? Or worse—had someone else taken them before he could?
The thought burned like acid.
The line between admiration and possession is thinner than most realize. I crossed it without even noticing.
I started taking photos—not of him directly, but of the spaces he occupied. His balcony, his car parked in the same spot every night, the shadow of his figure through the curtains. My phone became a shrine, each image a sacred offering.
But it wasn’t enough.
One night, when I was sure he wasn’t home, I found myself standing at his door. My hand trembled as I reached for the handle, testing it. Locked, of course. But locks are just puzzles waiting to be solved.
I didn’t go inside—not yet. But I stood there, breathing in the faint scent that lingered in the hallway. It felt like standing on the edge of a cliff, the abyss yawning beneath me, daring me to jump.
The day it all unraveled was unremarkable. A sunny afternoon, ordinary in every way—until I saw him again.
This time, he wasn’t alone.
She was tall, elegant, with a laugh that rang out like silver bells. She touched his arm as they walked, her presence so seamless beside him that it made my chest ache.
The world tilted, sharp and unforgiving.
How dare she? Didn’t she know? He wasn’t hers to touch, to smile at, to laugh with.
He was mine.
I followed them, of course. Through the crowded streets, past the bustling cafes and shops, until they arrived at a small restaurant. They sat by the window, their faces illuminated by the golden light of the setting sun.
I stood outside, watching, my reflection in the glass overlapping with theirs.
For the first time, I allowed myself to hate him. Not just her—him. For being so blind, so careless, so utterly indifferent to the devotion I had poured into him.
You’re supposed to be mine.
The thought felt foreign, even to me. But once it took root, it spread like wildfire.
That night, I found myself back at his apartment building. The familiar routine should have soothed me, but it didn’t. My heart was pounding, each beat a war drum, as I stared up at his window.
The light was on. He was home.
But I wasn’t standing there just to watch anymore. I wasn’t there to leave notes or flowers or to bask in the glow of his existence. No, this time, I had crossed the threshold.
I waited in the shadows until the lobby door opened. A tenant stepped out, their face buried in their phone, oblivious to my presence as I slipped inside. The elevator doors gleamed like a portal to another world.
His floor was silent. The kind of silence that feels alive, pulsing with expectation. My footsteps were soft, my breath shallow, as I approached his door.
The lockpick trembled in my hand, but I’d practiced this moment a hundred times in my mind. The faint click was both satisfying and terrifying.
And then I was inside.
It was everything I had imagined and nothing like it at all.
The apartment was minimalist, almost sterile, with only a few personal touches—a jacket draped over a chair, an empty mug on the counter. The air smelled faintly of him, a mix of cologne and something darker, more primal.
I moved slowly, reverently, like a pilgrim in a holy place. My fingers traced the edge of the kitchen counter, the back of the sofa, the spine of a book on the coffee table.
And then I saw it.
A framed photograph on the bookshelf. It was him, of course, but not alone. She was there, too—the woman from the restaurant, her head tilted against his shoulder, her smile soft and radiant.
Something inside me snapped.
The sound of the front door opening shattered the silence.
I froze, the photo still in my hand, as his voice echoed through the apartment.
“Yeah, I’m home,” he said, his tone clipped, probably on the phone. “I’ll call you back.”
The click of the call ending was deafening.
And then he saw me.
For a moment, neither of us moved. His expression was a kaleidoscope of emotions—shock, anger, disbelief.
“What the—?” he started, but the words died in his throat as his eyes dropped to the photo in my hand.
“I just wanted to understand,” I said softly, my voice trembling. “Why her? Why not me?”
His jaw tightened, his hands curling into fists at his sides. “Who the hell are you? How did you get in here?”
I stepped closer, the photo still clutched against my chest like a shield. “I’m the one who’s been there for you. Watching, supporting, loving you when no one else understood.”
His face darkened, the anger in his eyes hardening into something sharper, colder. “You need to leave. Now.”
But I didn’t move.
“You don’t see it, do you?” I whispered. “How perfect we could be. How much I’ve given up for you. She doesn’t know you like I do. She’ll never understand you the way I do.”
His voice dropped, low and dangerous. “Get. Out.”
But I wasn’t afraid—not of him, not of anything. Not anymore.
“I’m not leaving,” I said, my voice steady now. “Not until you see me.”
The argument escalated quickly. His anger clashed with my desperation, the two of us locked in a battle neither could win. He tried to push past me, to call for help, but I grabbed his arm.
“Don’t,” I said, my voice breaking. “Don’t do this to me.”
He wrenched free, his movements sharp and unforgiving. “You’re insane.”
The word hit me like a physical blow.
Insane.
After everything I’d done for him, everything I’d sacrificed, that was what he thought of me?
I don’t remember much after that. The emotions—rage, heartbreak, betrayal—all blurred together in a red haze. I remember the sound of something shattering, the photo frame hitting the floor. I remember his voice, shouting, but the words were lost in the chaos.
And then, silence.
When I came back to myself, I was standing in the middle of the room, my chest heaving, my hands trembling. He was gone—whether he had fled or whether I had…
I couldn’t let myself think about it.
The apartment felt different now. The air was heavier, the shadows deeper. I looked down at the shattered photo frame, the glass shards glinting like tiny stars.
I picked up the photo, carefully tucking it into my pocket.
It wasn’t over. Not yet.
Katsuki would understand eventually. He had to.
After all, no one loved him like I did.
The room is cold, sterile. The kind of cold that seeps into your bones, reminding you that you’re somewhere you don’t belong. A single light hangs overhead, casting harsh shadows on the walls, and the mirror on the far side reflects nothing but my own weary face.
Well, not just my face.
I know he’s there, standing on the other side. Watching me. Listening.
The officer across from me clears his throat, his expression caught somewhere between pity and disgust. “You’ve said enough. We’ve got everything we need.”
But I’m not finished. Not yet.
“You don’t understand,” I say, my voice soft but steady. “It’s not what you think.”
He sighs, flipping through the file in front of him. I catch glimpses of photos—my notes, my gifts, his shattered photo frame. Evidence, they’d called it. Proof of my “obsession.”
“Help me understand, then,” he says, leaning forward, his tone patronizing. “Because right now, it looks like you broke into Katsuki Bakugou’s apartment and—”
“I didn’t break in,” I interrupt, my voice rising just enough to startle him. “I let myself in. He left the door open for me. He knew I was coming.”
The officer’s brows knit together in disbelief. “And why would he do that?”
I smile, leaning back in my chair, feeling the faintest flicker of triumph. “Because he needed to see me. To finally realize who I am.”
The officer shakes his head, muttering something under his breath before standing. “You’re delusional.”
The voices outside the interrogation room are muffled, but I can still hear fragments of their conversation.
“She’s nuts. Every detail she remembers—it’s like she’s been living his life alongside him.”
“Obsessed, more like. Did you see the journal we confiscated? She knows what time he brushes his teeth, for crying out loud.”
Someone else laughs nervously. “Poor guy. No wonder he’s freaked out. She’s on a whole other level.”
But then I hear his voice—low, gravelly, and unmistakable.
“She’s different.”
The laughter stops.
“What do you mean?” another officer asks cautiously.
There’s a pause, and I imagine him standing there, arms crossed, that signature scowl on his face.
“I’ve had fans follow me before,” he says, his tone unreadable. “They scream, they cry, they cross boundaries. But this one… she’s worse.”
His voice drops lower, and I lean forward, straining to hear.
“She’s worse because she actually got under my skin.”
The officer returns to the room, his expression stony. “This is over. You’re being transferred soon.”
But I barely hear him. My eyes are on the mirror, on the faint outline of movement behind it. I know he’s still there. Watching. Listening.
“I’m not sorry,” I say, directing my words to him, not the officer. “I’d do it all again. For you.”
The officer exhales sharply, shaking his head as he gathers his papers. “You’re a real piece of work.”
He leaves, and for a moment, it’s just me and the silence.
And then the door opens again.
I feel him before I see him. The weight of his presence, the intensity of his gaze—it’s unmistakable. He doesn’t sit, doesn’t speak. He just stands there, arms crossed, his crimson eyes burning into me like fire.
“You really are different,” he says finally, his voice low and sharp.
I smile, the kind of smile that comes from knowing you’ve won something no one else ever could.
“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you,” I whisper.
He doesn’t reply. His jaw tightens, and for the first time, I see something in his eyes that wasn’t there before. Not anger. Not fear.
Something darker.
Something that looks an awful lot like acknowledgment.
End.
a/n: another reminder to never stalk people. i didn't write this to romanticize stalking, however, this idea's been weighing in my head and i knew i needed to write it down somewhere. here is somewhere. k bye.
#bakugou katuski x reader#bakugou x y/n#bakugou x you#bakugou imagine#bakugou fanfiction#bakugou headcanons#bakugou scenarios#bakugou#bakugou x reader#bnha bakugou#bakugou katsuki#mha bakugou#mha katsuki#bnha bakugo katsuki#bnha scenarios#boku no hero fanfic#boku no hero angst#boku no hero imagines#psychological horror#tw stalking
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Miss Professor
Pairing: Jason Teague x F. Reader
(Love triangle: Jason T. x Lana Lang)
Summary: Jason has to make a decision. You, or Lana Lang.
AN: Here’s the sequel to “Assistant Hottie.” Hope you enjoy!
Song Inspo: “Look at You” by Screaming Trees
Word Count: 5,200 Tags/Warnings: Angst, love triangle, hurt/comfort, fluff and a tinge of spice.~
Jason finds you in the bowels of the university library.
Out of four giant floors of books and computer labs at Central Kansas A&M (CKM), they just had to put the Writing Center in the non-proverbial basement. There you have to wear at least two layers at all times, despite the late-spring swelter outside.
Like now, when he enters the Writing Center lobby and finds you at your desk, tapping your red pen on your lip as you work on revising an essay. Jason smiles at the sight of your fuzzy red and green sweater over your jeans and ankle boots.
“You know, Christmas came and went, like, five months ago,” he teases.
You glance up at him as he steals a chair from your coworker’s desk. She’s conveniently been on break…for two hours now. Leaving you with a mildly enormous stack of essays to edit and leave feedback on.
“Yeah well, I’m running out of winterwear. It’s almost summer, for God’s sake,” you grouse. And yet, you shiver when another pass of the AC vent above your head hits your back.
Jason smiles, but he also shrugs off his jacket and drapes it around your frame. It’s lighter than what you’re wearing, but he hopes the added layer helps. You can’t help smiling up at him, though your brows end up furrowing.
“Oh, don’t do that, you’re gonna be freezing,” you protest. You try to take off the jacket, but Jason stops you by wrapping it snugly around your shoulders.
“It’s okay, I don’t plan on being here that long,” he replies.
You raise a brow. “Oh really?”
Jason grins. “You’ve got my British Lit. paper, right?”
You narrow your eyes at him, with a light grumble. “Some friendship this is. You only come to see me when you want something.”
Jason mock frowns at that accusation, but he plies you with raised brows and waggling “gimme” fingers until you relent. You reach back into your files with a sigh and hand him his ten-page essay, complete with your revisions and suggestions for the final draft.
“Here you go, freeloader,” you quip.
“Many thanks, Miss Professor,” Jason rejoins.
The nickname always manages to make your face warm a bit, no matter how you try to stamp down the butterflies in your stomach. It doesn’t help when he smiles at you like that.
His glinting green eyes soon dim, however, as he takes in the sheer amount of red marking up the pages of his essay. All 10 pages.
“Damn, woman. Was it that bad?” he asks.
“You’re actually getting better,” you say with a smile. “I’m seeing signs of improvement.”
Jason continues to flip through with a frown. “Right.”
Though when he actually starts reading your revisions, the familiar slopes of your handwriting, his disappointment begins to relent. You’ve made corrections here and there, but you’ve also written a lot of encouragements in the margins, like, “Good use of the word ‘solidarity.’”
And, “This whole paragraph perfectly explains your point. Just add a transition into the next section and you’re golden.”
Not to mention his personal favorite: correcting his typo on eggzagerate, and drawing a doodle of a fried egg above it. He doesn’t think you do that for all your customers.
It makes him smile.
Though he looks up when he hears you yawn. You try to stifle it, but he can see clearly now that you’re tired. It’s almost 9 p.m.
“How long have you been working?” he asks.
“Since I got out of my last class at 5,” you admit. Finally, you spot your coworker coming back from her break (and she’s still on the phone, chatting away to her boyfriend).
“Have you even eaten dinner?” Jason asks.
You shake your head, with a pointed glare at your coworker. “No time. I’ve been chained to this place all night.”
The girl gives you a fake smile when she returns to her desk and grabs one of the thinnest essays from the pile. After shooting her one last narrowed look, you give Jason your full attention. He’s trying to temper his smirk.
“Come on,” he says, nudging your arm. “Let me treat you to the Central Kansas delicacy of Chicken Finger Friday.”
You laugh at that; the university food court leaves much to be desired. You still have plenty of work to do, but you’re willing to push it off until tomorrow and take him up on his offer, if it means a hot meal and spending some time with your friend. It’s been a few weeks since it’s been just the two of you, hanging out.
After grabbing your backpack and clocking out for the night, you and Jason walk together across campus. The evening air is warm. It begins to defrost you as you two venture down the sidewalk. You smile to yourself and playfully bump into his side.
Jason shoots you a grin and bumps you back, though he grabs your arm when the heel of your boot catches on the edge of the sidewalk. You both fumble a bit and laugh.
You tuck a wily strand of hair behind your ear. Part of you wants to ask what he’s doing this weekend. Maybe he’d want to go to the lake with you, hang out on the dock, or go for a swim…
But of course, that’s when his phone buzzes. He fishes it out of his pocket and his brows raise. The text is from Lana, asking him if he can come to the Talon.
I really need your help with something.
Jason lets out a breath and looks up at you apologetically.
You know that look.
“Your girlfriend?” you ask, trying not to sound too disappointed.
Jason nods. “I hate to do this to you, but we’ve both been so busy, I haven’t seen her all week.”
And this is the first time this week that Lana has reached out to him first, wanting to see him… Well, she’s also asking for a favor, but she wants to see him.
“You know, one of these days I’d love to meet this mysterious girl,” you remark, lightly shoving his arm.
Jason smiles, but inside he’s clamming up. For obvious reasons, he hasn’t told you that he’s dating Lana Lang. Though it doesn’t make it easy to keep it from you, to lie to you. Over the course of the school year, you’ve become one of his closest friends here in Smallville.
You encourage him to explore his interests and keep focused in school, and you’ve often been a listening ear whenever juggling his classes and helping to coach the Smallville High football team stress him out.
And he’s done the same for you. With your time split between being a teacher's aid at Smallville High and working in the Writing Center to make ends meet between classes, you've done your share of venting, sometimes through frustrated tears. Jason's been more than willing to provide a strong shoulder to lean on.
Now, you don’t know that dating Lana is part of his stress, but he just…can’t afford to tell you.
It doesn’t matter that Lana’s 18, and he met her months before he took this coaching job. This is a small town, and he knows how people will talk if word gets out that he’s dating a high school senior. Not to mention, he’d get very fired.
“I’m sorry,” he says to you. “This seems important.”
Again, you have to hide your disappointment when you smile at him. “It’s okay. I should probably get back to work anyway—”
“Uh-uh. No,” Jason says, grabbing your arm when you start to turn in the direction of the Writing Center. "You’re done for the night. I wanna see you marching full-speed for those dry-ass chicken tenders.”
He nods toward the campus food court, making you expel a sigh.
“If I must,” you lament.
“And you’d better not keep working on your laptop,” he warns. “If you so much as crack open that Mac, I’ll know.”
He levels a finger at you as he walks away. You roll your eyes and head to the food court, with the promise of food just beyond the glass doors.
After a moment, you chance looking back at Jason. He catches your gaze, and he points two fingers from his eyes to your face in stern warning.
You giggle and shake your head at him, but you keep walking toward the food court.
Jason smirks in satisfaction. He continues on to the parking lot, and to his car.
When Jason gets to the Talon, he crosses paths with Clark, who’s just walking out.
“Hey, man,” Jason greets, with a jovial pat on the younger man’s shoulder. Though he can’t help but wonder why the guy is here at this time of night. “Little late for a coffee fix, huh?”
“Hey, Coach T,” Clark smiles. “Could say the same about you.”
Jason blinks at that. He cards a hand through his short hair and laughs it off. “Yeah, I was in the mood for a slice of your mom’s coffee cake. Any left?”
Martha Kent supplied the Talon with its baked goods, and they were most certainly worth driving across town for. It’s a pretty good excuse, if he says so himself.
Clark nods. “Yeah, should be.”
“All right. G'night,” Jason says. Clark nods and waves goodbye before he heads to his red truck in the parking lot.
Jason shakes his head and steps into the coffee shop, where he finds Lana alone. She’s cleaning up a large takeout bag from Gino’s, the Italian restaurant across the street. He silently takes note of it, but doesn’t yet comment when he kisses his girlfriend in greeting.
“Why’d you send up the Bat Signal on this fine Friday night?” he asks, wrapping her in his arms.
Lana smiles up at him. “Well, I’m probably going to be slammed all weekend with the shop, but I’ve got this huge speech for class on Monday and was hoping you’d help me practice.”
She pulls those doe-like hazel eyes on him, and Jason’s almost captured by them. This time, he lets out a small sigh.
“You know I’m always down to help you out. Always. But you know, we haven’t just hung out in a while now,” he points out.
Lana concedes to that with an incline of her head, but she still eases out of his arms to finish cleaning up.
“Yeah, I’ve just been really busy,” she says.
“I have too,” Jason replies. “But even with my crazy schedule, going back and forth from campus, don't I still make time for you?”
Case in point, he was willing to come out to her on the drop of a hat, late at night, and on the crunch week before his final exams. But he would be hard-pressed to remember a time when Lana went out of her way to see him.
Lana pauses, casting him a frown. "I'm trying my best, Jason. You know I'm graduating in a few weeks. Everything's ramped up to 11 this year."
Yeah, I know the feeling, Jason thinks, but after a moment, he caves with a nod, even though his gaze lingers on the Gino's bag.
“Have you eaten?” he tests. “Let me get us some takeout.”
He almost said, Let me take you out, somewhere nice. But he hadn’t been able to do that since before he got to Smallville. He’s beginning to wonder if he ever will again.
“Oh,” Lana says. Her eyes avert from his as she wipes down a table. “I already ate.”
Jason draws closer to her and dips his chin in order to catch her gaze. Eventually, she pauses and glances up at him.
“With Clark?” he asks.
Lana tightens up, just as he predicted. “Why would you say that?”
“I saw him when I came in,” Jason replies. He tilts his head at Lana, who never used to be a good liar. But ever since they had to start hiding their relationship, he’s noticed how good she also hides her thoughts and feelings around other people…maybe even to herself.
“Yeah,” she breathes. “He was here. But we were studying for finals, and we got hungry. That’s it.”
Jason shakes his head, but she grabs his hand with both of hers. He looks down at her tan, slender hands, and can’t help but be drawn back to her beautiful face.
“It’s not a big deal,” she says, as if that can dismiss the churning in his gut.
“Listen,” he says, rubbing at his face. “I know I’ve asked you this before, and I’m sorry but…do you still have feelings for him?”
“No,” she refutes, “I’m with you, Jason. How many times do I have to prove that this is what I want?”
She seems so annoyed and vehement that Jason has to believe her. He wants to, so badly.
Maybe too much.
The last straw comes just two weeks before the end of spring semester—with the coming of senior prom. Jason knows he can’t ask Lana, but she assured him that she wasn’t going.
He has a late class that night, but afterwards, he promised to pick her up and get dinner together in Metropolis. A nice date, a long-ass way out of town, so they’re unlikely to be recognized.
On the Friday evening, just hours before a high school dance, you and Jason sit together in the one class you have together: Introduction to Mass Media.
It only meets once a week, for three hours. Technically it’s an elective for both of you, but you’d told Jason to pick any class outside of his major that he was interested in. Anything to broaden his horizons, and you promised to join him. For some reason, he chose this one.
He thought it would be easy. Just a study of pop. culture stuff, with a mix of social media, maybe a dash of sports, if he was lucky. He’d actually been surprised with how much he was enjoying the segments on videography and broadcast journalism.
Right now, however, he's distracted. You can certainly tell, the way he keeps checking his phone.
“What’s wrong?” you lean over and ask in a whisper. He knows how anal Professor Jones is about cell phones in class. The man had a “contraband bucket” to collect them in, if he caught a student using one.
“Just letting my girlfriend know I’m gonna be a bit late,” Jason grumbles, though he’s looking at the screen. “Jones is droning on past the eternity mark, as usual.”
A man clears his throat above you and Jason. You both look up and meet the flat gaze of Professor Jones. He shakes the bucket in his hand with an arched brow. Already there's about three contraband phones inside.
Jason gives a wan smile. “Come on, Professor. We were supposed to be outta here 20 minutes ago anyway.”
The lines in Professor Jones’s face betrays one simple truth: he doesn’t give a shit.
“Bucket, Mr. Teague,” he says.
Jason’s lips press in irritation, but he’s forced to drop his phone into the waiting bucket. He doesn’t see two mixed text messages from his girlfriend.
You lay a comforting hand on Jason’s arm. “I’m sure she’ll understand.”
By the time Jason gets to the Talon, the lights are dark and Lana’s not home. Suspicion creeps in, making him feel a little crazy.
He decides to get back into his car and drive down to Smallville High. There the gym is decked out to the nines in some kind of underwater theme. It reminds him of his own senior prom a couple of years ago, complete with the punch bowl and cheesy snacks.
But soon enough, the nostalgia comes to a screeching halt.
A familiar ballad croons from the band on the stage.
"And how can I stand here with you, and not be moved by you? ...Would you tell me how could it be any better than this?"
He sees Lana on the dance floor, wearing one of the most beautiful dresses he’s ever seen. And she’s in the arms of one Clark Kent.
Jason's never hated Lifehouse so much.
On Saturday morning, before the Talon even opens, Lana opens the door to Jason while still wearing her robe.
“Hey!” she says, with wide eyes, though she lets him in.
“You seem real surprised,” Jason notes.
“Yeah, I mean, it’s early for you on a Saturday,” Lana remarks with a short laugh. But she still leans up to kiss him. She only manages to get his cheek, since he doesn’t bend down to meet her like he usually would.
She frowns. “Is something wrong?”
Jason doesn’t answer at first. The words are stuck in his throat. He gestures for them to move away from the glass doors, where anyone can peek in. So they travel up to her bedroom and close the door.
It’s not the first time he’s been in her room, though not much has ever happened on her bed. He’s waited completely on her signals for that one. Though now, he’s actually kind of grateful that their relationship has never progressed that far. It makes what he’s about to do easier.
“Where were you last night?” he asks. He figures they’d better start there.
“I tried calling you,” he adds, when Lana doesn’t immediately offer a reply.
“Well, I didn’t hear from you. I figured you were busy with your classes, so…I went to prom by myself,” she says.
Jason sighs. “You didn’t seem all that lonely.”
Her eyes widen. “What?”
Her confusion looks so real. A perfect face, and a damn near perfect lie.
“Look, I saw you and Clark on that dance floor,” Jason finally says. “Wasn't that just the perfect Hallmark moment?”
“Jason…” Lana finally starts to break. She doesn’t want to admit what’s broken, her gaze falling to the floor.
“No, let me say this,” he says. “Lana, I really put my all into this. I did whatever I could to be with you. To love you, to protect you. But in your heart, I think somewhere down the line you decided you don’t want that to be me.”
Lana’s eyes flood with tears, but she doesn’t deny it.
“I think it’s time to really call it quits this time,” Jason says, “for both our sakes.”
He can’t help but reach out to her. His thumb brushes her cheek. Lana’s watery gaze meets his as her lower lip wobbles. She grabs his hand.
“I’m so sorry, Jason,” she confesses.
He won’t say it’s okay, but he accepts that with a nod, and he kisses her cheek.
It’s a goodbye that’s meant to last.
Once he’s back in the relative safety of his car, Jason lets out a deep breath. He grabs his phone from his pocket on some unspoken urge; in that moment, he needs something. Someone.
He needs you.
You answer on the third ring, sounding sleepy on your day off.
“You’d better be on fire,” you say. Jason smiles at the sound of your grumpy voice.
“Hey,” he laughs a little, though he's surprised that it comes so easily. “You doing anything right now?”
“Besides sleeping?” you toss back. “…No. Not really. My life is boring.”
“Boring sounds nice right about now,” Jason says, more seriously than he meant to. “Wanna take a drive or something?”
You hesitate, just for a moment. Then your voice greets him again.
“Let’s go.”
When Jason arrives at your house, you come out to meet him. He gets out of his car, and already he looks wrong. He looks drained of all energy.
“What’s wrong?” you ask in concern, grabbing his arm when you’re close enough. His eyes find yours.
“We broke up,” he says.
It takes your brain a second or two to compute. (You’ve just finished your first cup of coffee, after all.) But then, you’re moving to wrap your arms around his neck in the tightest, warmest hug you can give.
He holds you back for a while, and you relish in the feeling of his hands smoothing around your back and pulling you in close. His chin tucks on your shoulder, and you rub his back.
“I’m sorry,” you say quietly.
He hums in response. Sometimes, what is just is.
He lets you drive him out to the lake near your house, in your beat up Volvo. This lake is your favorite place in the world, you tell him, as you two sit side-by-side on the dock. Your sneaker-clad feet dangle over the edge, next to his longer legs.
“So far,” he corrects. “There’s a whole lot of world out there.”
You smile. “Yeah, you gonna show me? Got a magic carpet tucked in your dorm somewhere?”
Jason laughs, and you’re grateful to see his smile so soon.
“Yeah, along with a dusty-ass lamp,” he says.
You smile, but you tilt your head at him. “Are you okay?”
Jason’s grin slips a little. “Yeah, I think so…is that bad?”
You bite your lip. “Depends. What was her name? I don’t think you even told me.”
Jason turns to you, and he sighs deeply. It takes him a moment, but he eventually answers while looking you in the eyes.
“Lana Lang,” he says.
The name rings a bell…and as it comes to you, it blares like a foghorn. Your eyes widen and your mouth falls open in shock.
“J-Jason…she’s a student,” you stammer. “Not like, us students. Like—”
“I know. We met before I got the coaching job,” Jason explains quickly, before you can blow up at him.
He can see you’re freaking out, trying to contain your reaction with a hand over your mouth. But the more he explains, the more you withdraw into a simmering silence. He can tell, however, that you don’t know how to feel about it.
“Do you regret it?” you ask.
It’s not the first thing he thought you would say, but it’s very you all the same.
“Well, being outmaneuvered by my own quarterback stings like a bitch, but I still think I’m better looking,” Jason jokes. Because that’s what he does when he’s uncomfortable.
Too bad that was the wrong answer.
You roll your eyes with a disgusted huff, and you pull yourself up onto your feet. You start to leave him there at the dock, but Jason hops up as well and grabs your hand.
“Hey, wait,” he implores. “Look, I’m sorry. And I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. It was just…easier.”
“Why, because you didn’t trust me?” you challenge. “Or because you felt guilty about what you were doing?”
The truth is, Jason doesn’t feel guilty. Not for his relationship.
“I was trying to protect her reputation,” he says. “I know how smalltown people think. She’d be the talk of the damn town. And for what? Because we’re two years apart?”
“And I’m smalltown, is that it? I’m sorry I’m not as evolved as you, Mr. Metropolis,” you snark. “Forgive me for being a lowly country bumpkin with some morals.”
“That’s not what I meant,” Jason says with an angry frown, throwing up his hands in frustration.
You shake your head at him and start booking it towards your car.
Jason follows. “You know you can’t leave me out here, right?”
“Just get in the car, before I change my mind!”
He obliges you, and it’s a painful ride back to your house. He really can’t believe you’re being like this. It’s the first real argument he’s ever had with you. He knew you might get upset, but he did think you’d be a little more understanding…
“Look, we met in Paris last summer,” he admits. And a hint more vulnerable, “I just…couldn’t help but fall for her.”
“I get it, Jason,” you reply. Your voice is flat.
“Just please don’t tell anyone,” he asks. “We’re done. She’s about to graduate.”
As mad as you are at him for lying to you, you begrudgingly see his point. You can also start to understand why he didn’t tell you.
But, regardless of how you feel, you don’t want him to lose his job. You know it’s the only way he can afford college.
“I wouldn’t do that to you,” you say, before you can reign yourself in.
Jason turns to you with a hint of a smile. “Thank you.”
It’s still awkward when you two get to your house. He turns to you, like he wants to say something that’ll most likely soften you.
You’re not ready for that.
So you kill the engine and get out of the car without looking at him. Jason takes the hint; he doesn’t say another word to you when he gets into his car and peels away.
The next weeks that follow are hard for Jason. As a member of the staff, he’s forced to go to Smallville High’s graduating ceremony.
He watches Clark and Lana graduate together with the rest of their friends. The two of them hug after she gets off stage, looking at one another with a moment of blushing smiles. It’s an inevitable look.
It makes Jason feel sick. He leaves as soon as he can, going back to languish in his dorm room. He lays on his bed over the covers with his hands folded over his stomach and his eyes closed.
He thinks about you.
He can see you in his mind’s eye, with a pen balanced between your teeth and your hair falling over to brush the pages you pour over.
He sees your fuzzy green sweater. Your smile. The shade of your hair, your eyes, your laugh, your furrowed look when you’re concentrating hard on revising a sentence.
The more he sees, the more he wants to call you. To hear your voice, even if you're just going to yell at him.
Jason sighs. He sits up in bed and has a thought that soon takes hold of his body, and has him swinging his legs over the edge of his bed and pulling his backpack closer.
He pulls out a folder for one of his classes and finds an essay you revised. His eyes scan over the encouragements you’ve left in the margins, along with the stray doodles. They still make him smile.
And it reminds him of the first note you ever gave him, which he keeps tucked in a small drawer in his desk. He tosses the folder onto his bed and goes to that drawer, where he finds your hastily written haiku.
Assistant Hottie
You flatter me, see through me
Smarter than he thinks.
You don’t know that those words have kept his head above water in times where he’s wanted to quit school.
Or even worse, in those times when he’s wanted to go to his father, tail between his legs, to ask for money and a job doing anything easy.
So now, Jason realizes that he needs to make another decision.
He gets out of bed, and he goes to see you.
Jason travels down to the basement of the CKM library, to the Writing Center, where you’re sitting at your desk as always on a Thursday night. You have a pile of essays stacked high next to you, and your forehead is wrinkled while you read a problematic passage.
The smell of coffee makes you look up first, before you realize who brought it. Your eyes widen at seeing Jason, along with his small smile and peace offering.
“Hey,” he says.
His voice washes over you, his eyes that always manage to disarm you, even now.
Despite your better judgment, you take the coffee from him and revel at its warmth. It has to be 60 degrees in this damn room (you’re one step shy of bringing your winter gloves next time).
You sip at the coffee and hum in delight at the taste of caramel and cinnamon—a combination that only your family, and Jason, would know you loved.
Your gaze flits up to his, more begrudging as you sigh.
“What can I do for you, Mr. Teague?” you ask.
Jason grins and takes your coworker’s empty chair to sit across from you.
“I’ve got a little haiku for you,” he says, handing you a folded piece of paper. You eye him in confusion, but you set down the coffee on your desk and take his second offering. You unfold it and read something that genuinely takes you by surprise.
Hey, Miss Professor
I’ve got a question for you…
Want to get dinner?
You can’t help but laugh. It’s most definitely not a haiku, but you also know that it’s his best shot. His smile is sheepish, making yours deepen.
“So, what’s your answer?” he asks.
You glance down at the page, then back at him. You bite your lip, and your heart clenches. Is this it? you wonder. Is he asking you out, for real? You can’t quite tell what he’s thinking.
“What kind of dinner?” you ask.
Jason’s grin fades. “What do you mean?”
“Is this our normal kind, where we roll out like we’re Thelma and Louise?” you ask, making him snort. “Or is this the kind where I need to change out of my dirty sneakers and brush my hair?”
He shrugs; his amused grin is back. “I mean, however I get you is all right by me.”
You nearly utter another sigh, but Jason surprises you yet again—by grabbing your hand.
“But, uh…I’d like this to be the kind of dinner where we try something new,” he says, licking his dry lips. He looks a bit uncertain, you think, hiding the fear of rejection. “Maybe you’ll let me do my Cary Grant impression and get you some flowers. Box of chocolates.”
The corner of your mouth twitches. “Chocolates?”
“Whatever it takes,” he says. His tone is joking, but he seems serious. You know him well enough by now to spot the difference.
“Whatever it takes, huh?” you ask.
Jason’s hand tightens on yours, but his eyes never leave you. He really is serious, and it makes your heart stutter and trill with warmth. It feels a lot like hope.
He leans in, his head bowing towards yours…but you lay a hand against his chest.
It stops him, until your fingers curl into his shirt.
Your gaze slowly meets his.
When he reaches for your cheek, this time you let him pull you in.
His kiss is sudden, but it’s still a gentle test. You take in a deep breath through your nose as your eyes fall closed. You press your lips against his, answering him. His fingers slide into your hair and drag down the back of your neck. It makes you shudder and tug him even closer by his shirt.
Jason’s solution is gathering you into his lap, where you take his face with both hands and kiss him with unfettered passion. The locked doors of your heart are swinging open, and it’s a sweet relief to be honest with each swipe of your tongue against his.
He’s gripping your hip, his fingers pressing into your thigh, while the other hand supports your lower back and presses you flush against him. As the kiss slows, so does your hand in his hair, more soothing now than gripping.
When your lips eventually draw apart from his, it’s with panting breaths. You stare into his eyes, as yours brim with relieved tears. You touch his cheek.
“I better not be a rebound,” you warn him. “I can’t take that, Jase.”
Jason shakes his head, holding you a fraction tighter. “No, believe me. That's the last thing you are."
You bite your lip, and he encourages you to release it with his thumb brushing across your lower lip. You've been on his mind longer than he can readily admit. Since the first day he met you.
"I know I haven't made it easy, but will you trust me on this?” he asks. "I really wanna do this right with you."
It takes you a moment to decide, but you do. You trust him.
So you nod and brush your fingers along the apple of his cheek.
“Okay,” you concede. "Let's do this."
Jason grins. “Oh, thank God.”
You giggle softly and hide your face in his neck. His chest shakes with a chuckle as he holds you back. It feels very right to hold you, he thinks.
Just as it's a relief for you to finally be in his arms.
“Where d’you wanna go for dinner?” he asks.
You laugh, a bit giddy as you cling to him and thread your fingers in his golden hair.
“I don’t give a damn.”
AN: Haha, I hope you liked this! ❤️ These one-shots are kind of AU, in that I don't get into the Stones of Power arc of S4 just for simplicity's sake.
I do have one more one-shot idea rolling around in my head for these two...the reader meeting Jason's infamous mother lol (Genevieve Teague, played by the fabulous Jane Seymour)!
Smallville Masterlist
Main Masterlist
Ko-Fi Me ☕
JT Tag List:
@sleepyqueerenergy @kazsrm67 @letheatheodore @agothwithheavysetmakeup @jacklesbrainworms @foxyjwls007 @wincastifer @ades106 @iamsapphine @simpforbuckyb @vanillawhiskeyflavoredkisses @roseblue373 @brianochka @branj19 @hazel-eye-coffee-shop-girl-blog @globetrotter28
@charmed-asylum @waywardxwords @deanwinchestersgirl87 @this-is-me19 @emily-winchester @mrsjenniferwinchester @jc-winchester @fromcaintodean @deanbrainrotwritings @jackles010378 @akshi8278 @rachiem4-blog @waters-2567 @jessjad @sweettimelady @iprobablyshipit91 @leigh70
@clinicallydepresso @lokigirl666 @xiphoidbones @rominaszh @skoveu @nyotamalfoy @kmc1989 @siampie @sanscas @kaleldobrev
#Miss Professor#Assistant Hottie Sequel#Jason Teague#jason teague x reader#jason teague x female reader#jason teague x you#jason teague fics#smallville#jensen ackles characters#jensen ackles#lana lang#smallville clark kent#clark kent#zepskies writes
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InterCommunication’91 “The Museum Inside The Telephone Network”
Tokyo's 1991 museum show only accessible by telephone, fax and modem, with works by Laurie Anderson, J.G. Ballard, John Cage, Merce Cunningham, Félix Guattari, Derek Jarman, Ryuichi Sakamoto, & many more https://monoskop.org/log/?p=19463
--
The exhibition organised by the Project InterCommunication Center (ICC), founded by the Japanese telecom NTT, was a pioneering project investigating the implications of networked communication for the museum institution. The exhibition was only accessible to home users by means of the telephone, fax, and in a limited sense computer networking. It was meant as a model for a new kind of an “invisible” museum. Later it was followed up by another ICC exhibition The Museum Inside the Network (1995). The ICC opened its exhibition space in 1997.
The works and messages from almost 100 artists, writers, and cultural figures were available through five channels. The works in “Voice & sound channel” such as talks and readings on the theme of communication could be listened to by telephone. The “Interactive channel” offered participants to create musical tunes by pushing buttons on a telephone. Works of art, novels, comics and essays could be received at home through “Fax channel”. The “Live channel” offered artists’ live performances and telephone dialogues between invited intellectuals to be heard by telephone. Additionally, computer graphics works could be accessed by modem and downloaded to one’s personal computer screen for viewing.
Contributors include Laurie Anderson, J.G. Ballard, Christian Boltanski, Pierre Boulez, William S. Burroughs, Merce Cunningham, Daniel Buren, John Cage, Jacques Derrida, Allen Ginsberg, Philip Glass, Félix Guattari, Pontus Hultén, Derek Jarman, Jeff Koons, Daniel Libeskind, Jackson Mac Low, Judith Malina, Renzo Piano, Steve Reich, Ryuichi Sakamoto, Akira Sakata, Paul Virilio, Robert Wilson, Tadanori Yokoo, John Zorn, a.o.
Edited by Urban Design Research Introduction by Akira Asada, Yutaka Hikosaka, and Toshiharu Itou Publisher NTT, Tokyo, 1991 259 pages
#laurie anderson#jg ballard#john cage#merce cunningham#felix guattari#derek jarman#ryuichi sakamoto#interactive art#william s burroughs
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40 Instances of Chaotic Academia in My First Semester of College (YAY!)
I've had this cooking for months now, so I hope it's somewhat enjoyable. If you don't think these things are chaotic academia, I would like to firstly make it clear that I am a student at a university pursuing a degree in English, so everything I do at school is kind of inherently academic. Some of these, though, I admittedly am just sharing because I find them funny or ironic. Yay for entertainment!
This list spans my entire first semester of college, so it is quite extensive and I've hidden it with the cut. If you decide to look through, I hope you can get a giggle out of my agony. Thank you for your time <3
Chatting eagerly with my creative writing professor as she moved to the next class she had to teach—she was probably slightly annoyed by my presence, but willing to humor me as we climbed down flights of stairs—about my desire to be a writer and professor like she is. I want her job. I want it badly.
Hanging out and studying on the Quad (a plaza of sorts in front of the campus's main library) and getting acorns THROWN AT ME by a squirrel
Writing an entire essay as I was attacked by the aforementioned squirrel. The style of essay was inspired by Ross Gay's novel, The Book of Delights, which I read for my creative writing class, and yes, the squirrel was discussed.
Reading a passage from my American Literature homework aloud to my roommate to see if maybe she could grasp what the fuck it was saying. I gave up on this reading after pouring over it for about twenty minutes with only the slightest comprehension. (I hate the puritans)
Entertaining myself after my roommate has gone to sleep by watching video essays
On that topic, finding a video essay that I wholeheartedly disagreed with, and was moderately peeved by, and still watching it until the end.
Cutting up an old Van Gogh-themed calendar and using the images as wall decor.
Hanging a poster print of The Kiss by Klimt on one wall in our living room, and across from it is an awful drawing I made of "Micarus."*
This one is kind of just chaotic and sacralige, but the magnet hanging on our fridge of what appears to be an ai-generated (I know, I know. It was in Five Below, okay?) image of Jesus dunking a basketball. On it are the words: "He Is Rizzen"
My inability to refrain from writing the most attrocious run-on sentences
Having about 15 tabs open at all times on my laptop. It's astonishing that it hasn't crashed on me yet (someone knock on wood for me please—none of the wood in my dorm is real)
Joining the only student-run publishing press in the country in prose & poetry editing and acquisitions. IM HAVING SO MUCH FUN.
Having friends over for my 19th birthday and making them play Clue because it’s my favorite board game. Then, after everyone went home, going to the club with my older sister just to dance
Spending all of my dining dollars on coffees and teas to sip on and get me through study sessions/morning classes
Writing an essay at a football game because I’ll be damned if I miss it but I’ll be even more damned if I fail a class
Going to the library to study only to get absolutely nothing done because I accidentally spent the entire time rambling
Cranking out a wonderfully-written, two-page essay in an hour the day it's due only to FAIL because I accidentally submitted it as a .docx instead of a .pdf and my professor took FIFTY PERCENT OFF for that.
Going out to coffee with my American Literature professor because not only is it an extra credit opportunity in the class I bombed the essay for, but also just because I want to talk about literature
Watching an entire video essay breaking down "Nature" by Emerson as I do my makeup before class
Acting like a victorian child dying of the plague because I got an upper respiratory infection that lasted like two and a half weeks.
Using one of the shelves in my closet to hold my books because I unfortunately do not have an actual bookshelf
Having four seperate items related to Edgar Allen Poe. I love that sad freaky man
Having Daisy Jones and the Six in between The Picture of Dorian Gray and Pride and Prejudice on the aforementioned “shelf”
Getting myself a journal from a local bookstore that looks like a fancy hardcover edition of The Great Gatsby
Stressing over my American Lit midterm and studying with two friends for it at a local coffee shop for like six hours.
Having to make a dramatic video inspired by a verse of “Song of Myself” by Walt Whitman. I made it the day it was due 🙂↕️
Going the ENTIRE semester without my glasses because I couldn’t find them, then finding them my first day home for winter break.
Going out to the gay bar with my friend, sleeping over at her dorm, and then binge-watching the entire Hobbit trilogy the next day as we analyzed all of the differences between the films and book
Attending a “gala” on a whim, not realizing it was being hosted by the local ballroom dancing group. i showed up tipsy and overdressed
Constantly complaining about the architecture of the buildings on campus because there’s one that looks really cool and has a lot of intricate architectural elements, and then the rest are mediocre
repeatedly visiting the oldest building on campus (which has been turned into a museum) not only for the history and aesthetics of it, but also partially just to hold the sword
changing my autocorrect settings so that my acronyms turn into (roughly) shakespearean english. (example: “omg” becomes “O, by mine own holy grace!”) i did this for no reason other than I Thought It Would Be Funny. my actions plague me to this day.
repeatedly pondering changing my minors (so far I have gone world lit -> creative writng -> creative writing + latin -> creative writing + world lit)
making tomb stone decorations for halloween of famous gothic/horror authors
a continuation of the previous one, accidentally writing "Bram Stroker" instead of Bram Stoker. who stroking they bram rn
sitting in a coffee shop and writing fanfiction that I will never publish on ao3 purely for my own enjoyment. i should have been studying
talking to random french people** about literature and poetry even though i was supposed to be talking about something else
trying various new coffee shops around town because i'm a freshman and i'm trying to find the spot
telling myself i was going to set aside an hour every day to read (in an attempt to finish the many books on my tbr) and failing after like two days
quoting (from memory) "The Raven" by Edgar Allan Poe verbatim to my boyfriend in the middle of the night because we were holding a flashlight under our faces like kids telling ghost stories
*Micarus was born from a discussion about Icarus between me and my roommate. She accidentally said "Micarus," and after a shared chuckle at the thought, followed it up with "Mickey Mouse when he flies too close to the sun."
**for my french 102 class I had to do a few "TalkAbroad" sessions which is essentially just a zoom call with a french speaker of your choosing
#college is so fun#mostly#kinda#chaotic academia#academia#dark academia#crack academia#beeby core#english major#university#literature#academia aesthetic
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my outsiders essay i wrote in eighth grade on "what is a hero? who is the hero in the outsiders? why?" (236 words, all quotes from the book):
my outsiders essay now (2k words, all nonsense but there’s a point in there somewhere):
Juliette Damthosefandoms
Transcribed by Mage Mutopians (because I’m lazy but I still edited it after. if there's typos blame mage they just typed every word i said)
12/23/2024
Hero Essay 2.0
Way, way back in spring 2014, when I was thirteen years old, I was tasked with writing an essay about what the definition of a hero is and who I think the main hero of the Outsiders story was. I said that there was only one character in that story and his name was Johnny Cade and he was “defiantly” the hero. After submitting that essay, there was a day where I was in a PPT meeting (because if this doesn’t make it clear that I have ADHD I don’t know what will), and I have a very specific memory of it being brought up to give me more instruction in adding detail to my writing. Now, I have spent way too much time putting entirely too much detail into my writing to the point where I do not believe in anything that is not a run-on sentence. (I am sorry for making you type this @mutopians.) (It’s okay @damthosefandoms <3) Anyway. In this essay, I will explain what I think the definition of a hero is after having spent many years obsessing over superheroes, which doesn’t apply to the Outsiders, but it could, if you write a 22k fic and not post it. (Drop the fic Julie-) (NO.) Anyway. Again.
A hero….What’s a hero? A hero is (I think I stand by whatever my original definition was) probably somebody who helps people who are in need or go out of their way to do things to do-Fuck it. I don’t know. If you’re going for the Batman definition, it’s Darry, because he’s taking kids off the street. This also works for Johnny because he took kids out of the building. To quote my essay from almost eleven years ago, “To start, Johnny ran into the church after Ponyboy. “‘Hey, Ponyboy.’ I looked around, startled. I hadn’t realized Johnny had been right behind me all the way.” (Pg.91-92) He wasn’t afraid to go into a fire to save those kids.” (Me, 2014). (insert Mage and Julie argument over the appropriate way to cite an essay from 2014 in MLA while Julie pets Mage’s cat) If we’re talking about saving people, Johnny fits the bill.
Moving on, I was rereading that essay and laughing at it so I posted it on Tumblr the other day and did a poll and you guys decided that, as of December 23rd 2024 at 3:18 PM EST, Johnny is defiantly the hero at 65.2% of the 23 votes. Soda and/or Darry have 21.7% of the vote. Other has 13% but nobody actually put in the tags who they thought the other heroes would have been so. I don’t know what was going on there. Ponyboy, I guess it’s my fault for making it biased because I called him the boring answer. But he didn’t do anything heroic so I stand by it. He has 0% of the vote. Not even zero point something. Just zero. So that’s apparently what the internet thinks. There’s five days left on the poll if you want to vote on that, but I don’t think that’s going to change. My theory is that the Johnny thing was winning because I made the joke about the typo earlier in the post and I think Soda and/or Darry are just because of musical fans bias, which I’ll get into in a minute.
(Right now, at this point, I asked Mage to put in a word count, because I’m having fun.) (Counting this part, there’s 601 words.) (I had to teach Mage how to enable the word counter on Google Docs just btw.) (In my defense it intimidates me when I’m staring at an already blank page)
What was the point of this again? (Julie then paused to pet my cat and say he was cute.) Where am I? We need to figure out who the hero is. In the musical, let’s talk about that, there’s a lot of bias. Giving Soda and/or Darry as an option didn’t help because I kinda knew that, as we’ve all grown up and reread the book in a different point in our lives and listened to the musical on repeat for six months straight and nothing else and except Christmas music recently and and the occasional One Direction song back in October (RIP Liam Payne), we all know how the story goes. Now that we’ve seen a point of view that’s not just Ponyboy’s and we’ve accepted he’s an unreliable narrator and we’ve all listened to “Finale (Tulsa ‘67)” we know what Ponyboy’s point of view is: “And now I look at what my brothers do for me. They’re the reason that I’m standing here right now. One thing’s for certain, I can say without a doubt. Those heroes paved the way so I could finally make it out.” (Outsiders Musical) (I’m not doing any other in-text citations now because I hate them and they’re stupid and if you’re reading this you know where it’s from. Goodbye.)
Anyway, Ponyboy sees his brothers as heroes at the end of the story. I think that now that we’ve all grown up enough to realize that Darry isn’t abusive and was just scared and that hitting Pony in the face wasn’t intentional, it’s just what siblings do, and if you’ve never slapped your brother before, you’re lying. Obviously in the context of the situation, it wasn’t cool, but sometimes the Cain instinct just takes over. Johnny even says I think later on in the musical that Darry probably didn’t mean it, and if the kid who consistently is getting abused is saying that Darry didn’t mean it, then Darry probably didn’t mean it. It’s also interesting that after it happens, during all of “Far Away from Tulsa,” Darry is still on the stage literally just sitting there on the floor staring into nothing like “what the fuck did I just do.” He did not mean it. Thirteen year old me did not understand this but I grew up and I get it now.
We can talk about Darry a little bit because I do actually think that maybe it could be him who’s the hero because if you think of it from a grown up point of view and not a thirteen year old point of view, he has so much going on and they don’t even realize how much shit he gave up for them. Some of them might, but they don’t appreciate it and should appreciate it more. Ponyboy realizes it at the end and that’s kind of the whole problem of their relationship. It took the whole plot for him to realize it. But, like, he literally could have gone to college and didn’t. To be fair, in the book canon, he didn’t get that scholarship, but in the musical he did. He had to drop out of school, he probably lost a lot of friends in the process, everybody is giving him shit and calling him a soc and being shitty to him and he’s just like…no wonder he’s no fun now, when he’s worried about Ponyboy running around and getting in trouble and risking social services getting called on him. Give the man a break. He’s twenty. He should be at the club. He got punched by his ex-boyfriend because Pony was out past curfew. So let’s say Darry is the hero of the story, and needs a break, and. You know. To not live in 1960s Oklahoma where if he’s gay, his brothers will get taken away.
Soda’s probably also got a little bit of hero in him, but didn’t get the opportunity to show it much. He probably had his big hero moment way earlier closer to when their parents died but that’s not explained in the book so yeah.. Rigjt now he’s just there for hugs and to keep his brothers from killing each other. Also maybe for sending that letter? But otherwise if you think about it, what does he do? And I’m a Soda stan, so I can say that. Although, I will give you, that the ADHD/dyslexia combo really does give demigod vibes and by the Percy Jackson definition of the word that makes him a hero. So. You know. Yeah. Also, he’s like the only thing keeping Pony from total self-destruction. He did step up a lot, too. He dropped out of school and got a job to help Darry pay the bills. He does so much for their family and is very underappreciated, and I say this as someone who only writes fics based around Soda. I’m just having trouble coming up with examples off the top of my head. This is hard. We’ve just written a 1300 word essay in under half an hour and I’m just talking off the top of my head while Mage types this for me so please excuse me for being stupid. Sodapop Curtis. I fuckin love that kid.
Let’s talk about Johnny again. Because he…what does he do? Johnny stabs Bob and Bob had it coming. I think in the book Cherry says that Bob had it coming. And I quote, “Maybe Bob asked for it. I know he did. But I could never look at the person who killed him.” (Julie gave in and checked for quotes but still will not put actual citations in.) (I wanted to read that line is my excuse.) It was gayer in the musical. That’s a lie, actually. Johnny and Dally were gayer in the book, but Johnny and Ponyboy were gayer in the musical. We all listened to “Faraway from Tulsa” and “Death’s at my Door.” You know.
BUT. However. I don’t care if I get crucified for this by musical stans. There is something to be said about the part in the book where (and I specify in the book because the book characters are very different than the musical characters and that context is important. It’s a different universe. Pay attention) they’re driving back from the Dairy Queen and it’s not just that, yes, Johnny stood up to Dally at the drive-in and told him to leave Cherry alone because frankly Dally was being a gross piece of shit to her (men are disgusting <3). Dally got mad at him because “I went out of my way to get you this and Johnny was like we’re going to turn ourselves in and didn’t care what Dally thought blah blah blah”. Johnny is a lot braver than we think and they argue like an old married couple (DALLY BEGS AND TALKS TO JOHNNY IN A VOICE PONY HAS NEVER HEARD BEFORE?). And Dally said that they were going to get in so much trouble, and Johnny said it was the right thing to do. He didn’t want Ponyboy to get in trouble. He knew going back and turning himself in was the only way to ensure that he didn’t screw things over for the Curtises.
Which, kind of the whole idea, is that everyone is trying to do what they can to keep the brothers together. Maybe the real hero was the rest of the gang. Like maybe that’s why Steve didn’t want Ponyboy to ever tag along if he knew there was a chance he and Soda would get in trouble. (Soda’s a lot closer to being an adult than Ponyboy is, so if he got in trouble and taken away and had to be on his own, he could, but Ponyboy’s got a lot longer until he turns 18. It would be a bigger deal for him to be put in a boys’ home than Soda, who is almost 17 and has a lot more freedom and would only be there for a year.) There’s this one part that, it’s in the book and movie where Two-Bit checks if Ponyboy has a fever by putting his hand on his forehead. It’s like they’re all watching out for them because that’s rule number one of being a greaser: stick together. That, and don’t get caught. They do that, help out, because that’s what the brothers do for them, like when Dally calls for help at the very end of the book, and Darry and the gang drop everything to go get him (and just to see him die, but, you know). That’s why Darry keeps the door unlocked. Pony says he could call Two-Bit to come pick him up in his car, but Pony decides to walk home alone anyway. But they’re always around. It’s about COMMUNITY!!!
In conclusion, I still don’t believe in conclusion paragraphs, the only one who’s not a hero is Ponyboy because he didn’t do jack shit. (I guess he did run into the church to save kids. And other things. But. You know. I don’t feel like talking slash writing about that right now.) Want a conclusion? Read what I wrote. The end.
#the outsiders#the outsiders musical#ponyboy curtis#darry curtis#sodapop curtis#johnny cade#curtis brothers#ohhhh you wanna hit ‘keep reading’ so bad#we had SO much fun with this#mage ilysm#my post
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Welcome to the very first edition of official Lease Bound Week Fanfest !
In honor of Chapter 12 reaching its end, we thought it would be nice to have a little festivity with our favourite ladies !
Lease Bound Week is a fan event scheduled for May 12th - May 18th !
This event is a collaboration of fanfic writers, fanartists, essayists and more !
Each day of Lease Bound Week has 3 prompts, you can incorporate all 3 prompts or choose just one for each day.
You can submit anything you like: fanart, fanfiction, essays, cosplay, playlists, fanvideos etc.
Once you’re finished with everything, tag your post as #LeaseBoundWeek2024 or as #LeaseBoundWeek and we’ll reblog your post afterwards.
Alternatively, you can send over your work via the submit button on the blog’s main page or click the submit button in the blog’s description.
If you have any questions or concerns, please don’t hesitate to contact us. Our ask box will always be open for anyone who needs help.
In the spirit of Rusty's Male Character Policy in the canon material, we will also be focusing on fanworks with female characters. (no AGPs, no Babygirl, no Jacob) ! Let’s focus on our favourite ladies !
What can’t I post?
Hate/bashing on a character
Pornographic work
NSFW
Sexswapping/Genderbent
Males, whether they identify as women or not
Reposted work
Now that the ground rules have been set, let's get to what you're all waiting for: The Prompts !
DAY ONE : Confession | Kiss | AU
DAY TWO : Break Up | Hugs | Unrequited
DAY THREE : Alexis Returns | Bittersweet | Gift
DAY FOUR : Storm Blackout | Soulmate Markings | Fix-It
DAY FIVE : Nightmare | Job!Swap | Only One Bed
DAY SIX : Blaire Redemption Arc | Jealousy |Goodbyes
DAY SEVEN : Fake Dating | Bad End | Isekai
For each day: all 3 prompts can be incorporated per day but you only have to choose one
If you're not sure which character to use or if you want some inspiration for interactions, here's a very useful gif that you can either screenshot or drag to get a random character to spark your muse !
We are so excited to see what you will come up with and hope you will enjoy this week of showing your love and support for Lease Bound !
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Detention
It was a quiet Friday afternoon in Volterra Castle, and as Marcus signed his name on the day’s last edict, he couldn’t help but smile. Friday meant the end of the work week under the new Volturi work/life balance guidelines, instituted five years ago by his beautiful mate, Y/N, thank you very much, and it also meant the end of the school week. Marcus always looked forward to Friday, now that he was a father, as he could not wait to spend the weekend doing normal human activities with his wonderful wife and darling daughter. They had been with him for just under a decade now, and every second spent with them filled in the cracks from a millennium of hurts, and he cherished every single one.
He looked down at his watch with a small frown, noticing the hour was later than normal, but it was quickly erased as the air around him shifted, and the light, airy scent of oranges and vanilla filled his senses. His daughter had just arrived home from school, and as was her custom, she was making her way to the King’s study to greet her father and uncles. She was moving quickly - too quickly - he thought, and suddenly he had a feeling that something wasn’t right. The intensity of the feeling actually scared him a little, and he had just risen from his chair to go meet her when he heard his daughter arrive.
Wham!! The door to the study was flung open heavily, causing it to bounce off the wall behind it. He could see his daughter was extremely angry, and her eyes blazed with rage.
“Uncle Aro!” She shouted, her eyes scanning the room in fury. “Where are you?”
Marcus looked to his right, noticing that his brother had indeed abandoned his desk, and was forced to hold back a smile as the man in question casually reentered the room from the adjoining balcony. Aro was doing his best to appear surprised to see the girl, but Marcus knew better than to believe the act.
“Ah, principessa! You are home!” Aro enthused, greeting the girl with a wide, happy smile. “How was your day?”
“You know how it was, Uncle,” she hissed. “You promised you would stop doing that!”
“Doing what, my heart?” Marcus asked, coming to stand next to his daughter, offering her a careful hug. “What has Aro done?”
The girl sighed, leaning heavily into her father’s embrace. “He helped me with my homework again!”
“Aro!” Marcus chided. “We’ve discussed this, brother.”
Aro said nothing for a moment, looking down to brush an imaginary piece of lint away from his jacket. “I had to do it darling, your essay was incomplete. I was only thinking of your grades,” he explained.
“Incomplete!!” The girl screeched. “It was fine before you tampered with it!”
“There, there, little mouse.” Marcus patted his daughter’s back in a comforting gesture. “Do you have the essay with you? May I see it?”
She nodded, untangling herself from their hug, and reached down into her discarded backpack. “Here. Read it, and you’ll see, Daddy.”
He took the papers from her hand and moved back over to his desk, turning on his reading lamp as he took a seat. He read aloud to the room.
Julius Caesar was a Roman general and statesman. A member of the First Triumvirate, Caesar led the Roman armies in the Gallic Wars before defeating his political rival Pompey in a civil war.
“A fine start, darling, well done.” Marcus praised her.
“Skip down to the last paragraph, Daddy. That’s where you see a last minute edit someone added.” She glared at Aro as she spoke.
Marcus looked down again and flipped to the last page of the report, focusing on the final lines, mysteriously written in flourishing red ink. The penmanship was familiar to Marcus. After having to read it for the last several thousand years, he would recognize it anywhere. He grimaced and read aloud again.
In conclusion, Julius Caesar was a pompous bastard who got what he deserved. He was an uncultured swine and a blight on society. Shakespeare’s play is nothing but gross exaggeration and, frankly, not worth the paper it’s printed on. The Italian school system needs to do better.
“Aro!” Marcus scolded, setting down the paper and giving the dark-haired man a disapproving look. “Shame on you, brother.”
“What?” Aro questioned. “Tell me which part of my statement is untrue, Marcus. You hated that asshole as much as I did!”
“Maybe so, but you cannot put those things in her homework. What will the teacher think?”
“She’ll think I’m being insolent and give me detention, that’s what!” The girl cried. “I had to write lines about not using inappropriate language in my reports and I have to read Romeo and Juliet as extra homework now!”
“Ah! How delightful!” Aro rejoiced, clapping his hands in excitement. “Now the Montague family, there was a family that understood diplomacy!”
“Daddy! Please make him stop!” The girl begged her father. “Tell him he can’t help me with my homework anymore, please?”
“Aro, brother, I have to agree. As much as you want to share your first-hand knowledge of historical events with our princess, you cannot do so by changing her homework. I want you to give your word; you won’t tamper with her work again.”
Aro considered Marcus’s words for a moment, looking into his niece’s pleading eyes before silently acquiescing. “I am sorry, little dove. I should not have changed your paper and I will not do it again. I was only trying to help, but I can see my help was not needed. Forgive me?”
The girl smiled at Aro, moving to his side to embrace him in a hug. “I forgive you, Uncle. And I’m sorry I shouted at you. I was just upset about getting detention.”
“Well, I’ll find a way to make it up to you eventually, love. “Do you want me to have your teacher killed?” He asked innocently.
“Aro!” Marcus scolded. “You will do no such thing!”
“We can discuss it later,” Aro whispered to the girl, smiling at the giggles spilling from her lips.
“Ok, Uncle Aro.” She kissed his cheek and then crossed back to her father to do the same for him. “I’ve got to go talk to Mama about our plans for the weekend, so I’ll see you two later. Love you!” She called as she darted out of the room, backpack in hand.
Marcus shook his head as he returned to his desk, packing away his books and ledgers, chuckling all the while. He looked over at his brother and gave him a wry smile. “He was a pompous bastard, Aro. You were right about that.”
“Of course I was, Marcus. Wait until she sees what I wrote in her report about Henry VIII.”
The End
#reader insert#marcus volturi#twilight renaissance#marcus twilight#aro volturi#aro twilight#the twilight saga#twilight#marcus volturi x reader#volturi kings
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What are the top five worst comments on your work?
I'm going to do the ones that are the most wtf and not the ones that hurt my feelings the most (although some of them did at the time). I've been writing for a while, and people are bananas.
The ones at the beginning of Displaced on ff.net. The critique was that I got the cost to sleep in a bed in a stable wrong. I would disagree, because it was the cost to sleep in 2 beds and the cost of 2 meals, which is not actually a thing you can buy in BotW. I edited to remove the amount and kept it vague, but I now regret doing that. The critique was that if I couldn't be bothered to get the details right, no one was going to like it. I was like, "Oh shit! There's no way I'm gonna get all these details right. I might as well quit now." This critique is now hilarious, given...*gestures around at Displaced.*
Condom-gate. So I researched how far back in history condoms were a thing. I spent way too long on this. I found that they go back much further than you'd suspect, and were made mostly of things like mouse skin, and while they had some success preventing conception they did not prevent STDs, partially because people would reuse them. (Screaming.) Confident in my research, I mentioned the condom. I did not say all of this that I had discovered, because I found it very gross, would ruin the mood, and it was not at all important to the story. Then everyone lost their damn minds thinking that I had included a condom made of latex with spermicide in it and ribbed for her pleasure or whatever. "You've made this unreadable" was one of the reviews. (Also, I'd like to point out that this story took place in a fantasy world where there's magic and shit. There is no "back then.") I edited the chapter by one word: a modifier saying what it was made of. The TV tropes page for the story says something like "Ned changed it to be historically accurate after people pointed out he did it wrong." I am still salty.
There was a critique on Doubt, which is a Zelda modern AU. The critique was "anachronisms are your Achilles heel." It was a modern AU.
The 1,500+ word essay on how I wrote Iroh abusive. I disagree. This was left on chapter 24 or something. They were very mad.
The comments on how Zelda should not be wasting her time with her childish nonsense and should instead be restoring the monarchy, missing one of the main themes of Displaced. One of these cited Meghan Markel???
Shout out to the anon that hates the awkward fail sex that I love to write. That was weird and very rude, but if they were talking about Soft Science I agree there was some awkward structuring there. But they specifically cited the Proposition AU, where there was sex, so IDK what they're on about.
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Syllabi are so inconsistent these days. One class has a final essay that is 25 pages long according to the Class Description, but the very same essay is 50 pages long according to the Course Structure. I've had a professor assign something at the beginning of the semester, which I worked on for weeks, only to have that professor decide to remove the assignment -- meaning none of the work I did would count toward my grade. I've even had a professor decide to assign a five-page essay on the second-to-last day of classes.
I think part of it might be Canvas? Before, you had to pass out paper syllabi to every student in the course. But now that the syllabus is digital, you can edit it whenever you want. It's like the difference between a contract and a handshake agreement.
The other thing is that professors are much more likely to work at two or more institutions at the same time. So, maybe they're copy-pasting syllabi when they teach the same course at different colleges? And then, they try to edit the syllabus in order to comply with the expectations of a specific department, but that also means there's effectively two syllabi for very similar courses, and they lose track of which students are supposed to do which assignments?
It's probably a combination of the new distribution model and the fact that professors are overworked and underpaid. But, man, I hate it. Even if I asked for confirmation of an expectation in email, that doesn't really protect me. Because every single class I'm taking has at least 20% participation. And I doubt I'll get a good participation grade if I also go crying to the dean about how a professor is treating the class. Sure, there's theoretically academic officers here to help me, but I've found that in practice they're more like suggestion boxes.
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10 questions for 10 writers
thank you so much for the tag @strangethings-everywhere ! secretly I've always wanted to do one of these
1. Is writing a hobby or a way of life?
Way of life for sure; I'm basically never not thinking about it. I start to feel awful and purposeless if I go too long without writing at least something.
2. A journal full of notes or a clean completed manuscript?
Clean completed manuscript, unfortunately. I wish I could be less persnickety about my first drafts but so far that hasn't happened. I do sometimes make extensive outlines though and those are always by hand, but they're usually pretty clean too :/ no scribbly scribbly for me
3. Who or what inspired your writing?
I've been writing since I was five years old and telling stories since I could talk, so I guess I'll say that when I was first reading chapter books I asked my parents why books always have a few blank pages at the end and they said it was so you had space to continue the story yourself if you wanted. They made it up on the spot and they don't remember saying it at all, but it's always stuck with me.
4. Which is worse: Someone you ‘idolize’ reading your first draft or listening to you sing?
Listening to me sing, 100%. I post my barely-edited first drafts on ao3 all the time lmao. But I also feel like with a first draft it's easy to say hey this is a first draft, if there's stuff you don't like I'm happy to hear criticism! Whereas with singing, that's just your voice. You can practice the song but at some point whether they like it or not just comes down to something about you that you can't change. (Although I am a hashtag classically trained singer so my feelings of needing to live up to that might not be universal.) (Don't ask me to sing opera for you because I don't actually like opera.)
5. Has writing from someone else’s POV changed your perspective?
I think most of the perspective changes that have come out of stories have been from reading for me? Like the first time I was really exposed to the idea of transness was a Harry Potter fic (suck on that, JKR) and that obviously really stuck with me. But I think the desire to write from queer povs really helped me come to terms with my own sexuality, maybe more than actually doing it. I guess writing narrative essays, which I do less frequently than straight up fiction, is usually a way for me to explore things I feel about myself and about the world.
6. Tumblr, AO3, LiveJournal, or FFN?
AO3 foreverrrrrrr. I was on ffn in my misspent youth and Very briefly on lj, but ao3 has been my home since 2014 and it would take a lot to get me to move.
7. AO3 word count? And are you satisfied with it?
646,046, and soon enough it'll jump another 100,000. Honestly not sure how I feel about that.
8. What movie/book gripped you irrevocably?
I will never not love Tamora Pierce's Tortall series. I know they're kind of dated and don't hold up in some places, but they've been in my bloodstream so long that they're basically a part of my understanding of the world. They shaped so much of my ideas on literature - how to create compelling characters and relationships, what makes a world believable, what fantasy even is - and honestly I think they're responsible for about 50% of my sense of humor and at least a quarter of my relationship to gender. They were my first fandom and in the end I'll always come back to them.
9. What’s the highest compliment you could ever be given, and have you been given it?
One of my plays deals with a very difficult emotional subject and is quite frankly pretty depressing the whole way through, and after the premiere a friend of mine came up to me and said "it was so so funny; I was laughing the entire time." That's what I always want my writing to do, not so much in fic but out in the world - I want to give people catharsis, and I hope they leave the reading or viewing experience feeling a little better than they did going in. And also I want people to laugh at my jokes.
10. What defines your writing style?
Can I say inconsistency? No but really it's definitely dialogue. I struggle with descriptive prose sometimes, but I never have to work at dialogue. I think it's my strongest area and people always tell me it's snappy (thank you Tamora Pierce). Other than that uhh... too many commas probably.
tagging @violasmirabiles @fregata-magnificens @kjxlll @borealopelta @uwu-dowoon @teaforarteza @icegreyrose @shadowquill17 @ris-d-deridex and using my 10th tag for anyone else who wants to participate!
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besides bungo stray dogs, can u rcm me some manga having thought-provoking theme like that
ABSOLUTELY I CAN!! here are some manga, book and movie recs for you, cause I couldn't help myself :>
MANGA RECS:
1: The Case Study of Vanitas (Vanitas no Carte)
I knowww it's a cliche that BSD fans must also enjoy VNC, but it's genuinely just AHH so good!! it currently sits at 62.5 chapters (10 volumes & 9 uncollected chapters) and it has a 2-season anime adaptation. it's the second manga series by Jun Mochizuki, who's also well-known for her series Pandora Hearts, and is still ongoing.
set in 19th-century France, our story begins with Noe, a young vampire, who's excitedly travelling to Paris for the first time. in his travels, he encounters the strange and enigmatic Vanitas, a human who somehow possesses the power of the Vampire of the Blue Moon- a feared being shunned by the rest of the vampire world.
we learn from the very beginning that Noe is recounting this story to us, and that he kills Vanitas with his own hands- but why? how? nobody knows, but we're bound to find out!
2. Attack on Titan
I doubt anyone was expecting me to mention this one, because it has quite a reputation for being gore-filled and action-packed, but when I say this literally changed my life I'm really not kidding (I wouldn't have this blog or be into anime at all if not for AOT!). it's a completed story, with a four-season anime (including 3 OVA episodes) and 139 manga chapters (in the main storyline; there are multiple spin-offs and 2 bonus mangas/light novels).
many years ago, the final remnants of humanity were forced to flee into a city surrounded by three giant walls. these walls are the only things keeping humanity from perishing at the hand of the titans, giant humanoid figures who hunt and eat them. but a young boy, Eren, wants nothing more than to see the world beyond the wall- until a titan taller than their walls breaks into the city, throwing humanity (and Eren's life) into disarray.
though it's true that a large chunk of this animanga is action, the lore is incredible. I can't say too much without spoiling, but the thought-provoking aspects aren't talked about nearly as much as I think they should be. once you've finished watching or reading, I highly recommend you watch this video, which is one of my favourite video essays of all time!
BOOK RECS:
1. Slaughterhouse Five
this is one of my favourite books of all time, and it's only 177 pages, so it's a super quick read! not only is it severely anti-war, but it's deeply though-provoking. I think about it every day. I quote it regularly. I'd recommend it to anyone and everyone, especially now, with everything happening in the world.
I honestly don't have words for how much I love it, so here's the synopsis on Goodreads:
Prisoner of war, optometrist, time-traveller - these are the life roles of Billy Pilgrim, hero of this miraculously moving, bitter and funny story of innocence faced with apocalypse. Slaughterhouse 5 is one of the world's great anti-war books. Centring on the infamous fire-bombing of Dresden in the Second World War, Billy Pilgrim's odyssey through time reflects the journey of our own fractured lives as we search for meaning in what we are afraid to know.
2. No Longer Human
there are so many editions of this, and I would recommend all of them- this is my other favourite book of all time, by the way. I may be barking up the wrong tree when I tell a BSD fan to read Dazai, one of the most accessible and relatable Japanese authors for a Western audience, but hey, I've got to remind you just in case you haven't given it a shot.
No Longer Human follows the life of Yozo Oba, a boy born into a big rich family, who constantly feels at-odds with the world around him. it's an exploration of mental illness, social isolation, self-expression, and compassion. I actually have an entire youtube video talking about it and how BSD-Dazai reflects Yozo as much as irl-Dazai, and it's my pride and joy so please go watch it!
MOVIE RECS:
Okay, I only have one rec for you, but this movie haunts me (in the best way possible):
Forgotten (기억의 밤)
I really need more people to watch this actually because holy shit it was amazing and nobody talks about it!! WATCH IT!!! PLEASE!!!!
Jinseok watches his brother get kidnapped right before his eyes, and it powerless to do anything. 19 days later, he returns, and... something is different about him. Jinseok is determined to uncover the mystery surrounding his kidnapping.
the twists in this are actually insane. I can't tell you anything aside from the synopsis without spoiling major plot points. if you only take one recommendation I bed you to take this one.
okay that's all bye!!
#asks#bsd#manga recs#book recs#movie recs#no longer human#slaughterhouse five#the case study of vanitas#attack on titan
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Surely an overview or essay on RPG rulebook length "ecosystem" with regards to player effort exists somewhere already and I don't have to reinvent it. Does anyone know of such a thing to point me to? Searching turned up this D&D book size rules count by Alexandrian but it's not what I had in mind.
Big name RPGs tend to be several hundred pages. Exactly what constitutes "big" is fuzzy when the stats from e.g. roll20 report that the majority of games registered are D&D 5e and everyone else put together is less than that, including "uncategorized", so lemme pick a few examples I'm familiar with.
D&D 1e clocked about 500 pages between PHB, MM, DMG. A few decades later, Pathfinder has a merged corebook that runs to about 600 pages. "Most" of the game is in a sense in the PHB which is 300 pages for D&D 3e and 5e, the MM is almost all examples no rules, the DMG has skippable rules and non-D&D-specific advice, but the design expectation is that you have them.
Chronicles of Darkness (formerly World of Darkness) has a 300-page corebook, but the corebook is kinda weak, it expects you to be playing mundane humans meeting GM-customized horrors, what most people get this game line for is one of the supplements like Vampire that runs to another 300.
Legend of the Five Rings (4e) has a 400-page core rulebook, for what it's worth, but I'm a little unclear on the supplement status. Shadowrun has ranged between 200 and 500 pages by edition. Warhammer Fantasy Roleplay, 300 pages.
Mutants and Masterminds (3e) and Traveller (Mongoose 2e) are both slimmer at 200-page books where one corebook is all you need, the other supplements for the line are truly supplemental and not stealth-cores. However, they both pay for their combination of brevity and flexibility by demanding more player effort (including GM) in building, resolving, designing, rolling, and making decisions during set-up. As much as I love them, they have more time between reading and playing.
A few games squeeze down past that to 150ish, then my experience is that there's very little in the 20-150 range, and below 20 there's quite a bit of short indie games, Skyfarer being one I have to hand. (PDF reader reports 21 page count, but that's with cover page and copyright page so 19.)
There's several gimmick RPGs that run to as little as 1 page but they start to blur the line between "roleplaying game" and "improv theater prompt, with a dispute resolution mechanic". (IMO, since people sometimes resolve things by coinflip outside of games, putting a coinflip-tier mechanic in your improv theater is insufficient to be a game.)
I feel like what one usually gets from under-20-page RPGs is a system that optimizes for easy reading that won't feel like work to learn and remember, at the cost of working to make up content.
The over-300-page RPGs, on the other hand, are work to learn, but they are systems optimized for easy content where the player picks a class and a feat and a skill, rolls the die the book says, and compares to the target number from the difficulty list from the GM reference section.
The 150-300 range seems to be either specialized for a narrow type of specific easy content, or expects one-time set-up work to create some content but gives you tools for that content so you can still follow the book. Assemble-your-own-kit games.
Speculatively, the 20-150 range is so underpopulated because it can't do either sort of easy thing. It is too much reading to pick up the idea and run with it, and it's not enough content to lean on.
To rebut the common "just make shit up" suggestion: I have already made up several pages of stuff and making up more than that as I lose interest is work. I pay for fat RPG books partly because they have done that work for me. The D&D Monster Manual is in this category: very little rules, very much work done for the GM to save on monster-making.
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