#(it has been getting worse for years and years and years!)

[usedtobecooler]

the sinclairs' new neighbour arrives out of the blue on a random friday night in may and subsequently becomes the object of eddie munson's desires.

tw: explicit sexual content, 18+ minors dni. virgin!eddie, oral male receiving, eddie's pov. pathetic amounts of pining. no use of y/n.

you've been around after every hellfire meeting for a month now, waiting with legs crossed and swinging from a fold-out table as you sit patiently for them to wrap it up, and fuck if you're not the most distracting thing eddie munson has ever laid eyes on.

you join in on the end-of-game conversations every week, a genuine little interest in the lilt of your voice as you ask questions and join in with the banter, which usually consisted of ribbing mike wheeler for being a little shit.

and, eddie's not dumb, okay? he knows you're only here because you're picking up the sinclair siblings every week, taking a bit of the load off steve harrington, who's been designated chauffeur for a year now, much to his own dismay.

but, sometimes, he thinks you maybe like being here and spending late friday evenings in their presence. and it's a nice little delusion for eddie to live in until he's home and safely tucked under his sheets, thinking of your cute laugh and your flirty smile when he slides a hand under his sleep shorts.

he's only a man. a pervert of a man, absolutely. but he'll feed into his delusions and feed into his daydreams, because it's not hurting anybody but himself in the confines of his room.

things are shadowy and hazy this particular friday, and eddie sure as shit is not on his game. he's stuttering and fumbling over his words, which wheeler is using to his advantage like the dickhead he is, mocking eddie with every fuck up with that stupid fucking face he makes.

eddie calls it a day earlier than usual because his head just isn't in the game damnit, and henderson claps him on the back on his way out, giving him this sincere smile which eddie kind of hates because dustin usually takes every opportunity to add himself into their shithead-ery.

oh god, he was worse than he thought. he needs to hang his hat up and give his job over to zombie boy byers immediately.

eddie doesn't get out of his head quick enough to realise that harrington arrived and left with all of the kids in tow, the sinclairs included.

so when you arrive at the door a half hour later, a confused look on your face, eddie's face fucking falls.

"damn, did harrington want his old job back that badly he kidnapped my kids?" you laugh quietly, all sincerity and jokes as you look around the empty room, eyes landing on eddie with a sparkle.

"it's my fault, i let everybody go early and i-" eddie groans, putting his hands on his hips then dropping them to his sides, "i didn't think. sorry, sweetheart."

sweetheart. why'd he fucking say that? someone needs to get the shotgun and put him down like old yeller.

eddie makes himself busy by packing away all his stuff, pointedly not looking in your direction because he's an idiot piece of shit, and who knows what other mess will come out of his mouth if he keeps letting himself look at you.

"you seem stressed, eddie," you observe quietly, a statement. you cross your arms behind your back, fingertips linking together, "is there anything i can do to help?"

eddie lets out this little self-deprecating laugh, a mirthless smile on his features, "unless you stop showing up here, no, there's nothing you can do."

a hurt look flashes across your face momentarily before it disappears again, masked over with a confused furrow of your brows, "oh. i'm sorry, have i done something wrong?"

eddie's fucking this up. he's a fucking idiot, who apparently can't talk to any girl who isn't ronnie or little erica sinclair.

"just, y'know, consuming my brain so much that i can't focus on anything else lately, so." eddie admits, deflated as he slumps into his chair and rolls his neck until he's looking up at the ceiling. his throat clicks audibly, dry and scratchy.

"oh." you say again, a relieved sigh escaping you as you kick a leg out to bash his shin lightly with the toe of your boot, "why didn't you say something? that's- that's okay. lucas kind of figured, he told me your moon eyes were annoying him."

eddie's kicking them all out. hellfire will be no more. he's sick of these damn kids.

he covers his face with his hands, rubbing against his two day stubble with calloused fingertips. a useless groan escaping him, "sorry, i wasn't trying to be obvious. girls don't. hmm."

eddie stops himself with a grunt, trying to narrowly escape the word vomit that threatens to spill out. he's nervously jiggling his leg, the chains on his jeans clattering together obnoxiously loud in the otherwise quiet room.

he feels your presence enter his orbit, the soft press of your hand on his knee stopping the motion of his jerky leg.

"don't be so nervous," you scold playfully, voice light like you're trying to hide a smile, "i'm not anybody to be nervous around. i like that you noticed me, that i'm somebody you're interested in."

eddie's hands fall away from his face at that, and he blinks blearily, head lolling until he catches sight of you crouched down in front of him, staring up with these gorgeous eyes that eddie just wants to get lost in.

"really?" he asks dumbly, brain short-circuiting at the sight of you knelt down like this in front of him, his stupid mind wandering into filthy territory.

"really." you nod, smiling up at him with this thousand-watt thing that he's sure could power the whole of hawkins, "i'm interested, too. in case i wasn't being obvious enough by hanging around here willingly every week."

you weren't obvious at all. not at all. or maybe you were and eddie's just a fucking moron.

"can i help relieve some of that stress now?" you ask, head tilted to the side in question, "i'm only down here anyway."

eddie's brain melts out of his ears, he's pretty sure. his tombstone is sure to say here lies eddie munson, killed by the insinuation of a blowjob.

"oh, you don't have to- you really don't have to, ha, your hands are on me, fuck-"

the conversation kind of fades out after that, and you're all action dropping from your deep squat to thud your knees against the floor softly.

and you're so pretty on your knees for him, eyelashes fluttering across the apples of your cheeks that are flushed and warm. eddie practically melts into his chair as you paw at his jeans, fluid motions and featherlight touches like you've done this before, and god he doesn't want to think about that right now, that you've done this for other guys before him. not when you're laid out below him and nudging in between his spread legs with pursed lips, spitting over the flushed head of his dick to dampen it further.

"you should- you should know i've never done this bef- fuck, fuck," eddie stutters over his words, fingers clawing into the arms of the chair when you begin mouthing hot and wet over the leaking slit that continues weeping pathetically with every lave of your tongue.

he tried, okay? he tried to tell you, but he's a weak man and - and you're fucking looking at him with these pretty, knowing eyes like you had a clue from the beginning, and fuck was it really that obvious?

he clenches his eyes shut, trying to will away the images of a neon sign over his head that scream eddie munson, adult virgin.

you start off slow and savouring, lapping at him with these kitten licks and mouthing down the bulging vein on the underside. eddie thinks he's delirious, because he's surely imagining the way you're inhaling the musky scent of him, moaning prettily as you do.

"mm, fuck," eddie groans quietly, hips shakily punching up when you finally sink down over the head of his cock properly with your lips wrapped tightly around your teeth, the wet heat of your mouth enveloping him in a way that makes him feel fucking insane.

he didn't know it would feel like this. his brain is gonna explode, scanners style.

your hand reaches blindly for his, guiding his fingers to slide into your hair, and his eyes fly open to meet yours, a pretty haze covering your orbs as you nod slightly to give him the go-ahead to curl his fingers.

"ha, you're gonna fucking kill me," eddie murmurs, but he's gently pulling ever so slightly from the root at the base of your skull, because he may be a virgin but he's not fucking clueless, right? he's read enough skin mags to know how to pull hair properly.

you whimper high pitched and your eyes finally flutter closed, letting eddie move you up and down with his firm hand as you alternate between sucking and drooling all over his length.

he's aware that he's looking at you like he's in love, okay? he can't help it. you're literally sucking the soul out of him, moaning around his girth and running your tongue over him like he's the best thing you've ever tasted. like he said before, he's weak.

"you- you're so good at this, oh my god," eddie's eyes roll back into his head when your free hand runs from where it's gripping the meat of his thigh to slide between his obscenely wide legs and cup his balls, rolling and squeezing them between your fingers.

the room is filled with the whining, high-pitched noises that eddie's really trying his best to hold in at risk of sounding like an absolutely pitiful virgin, and the wet noises of your mouth working over his cock, the slick slide of your fist jerking off what you can't quite reach.

eddie's stomach clenches, and holy fuck this is over too quick, but he can't find it in himself to be embarrassed because, because-

"i'm coming, you're making me come, holy fuck-" eddie's words die with a groan that sounds breathy and pathetic even in his own ears, his fingers burying so tight in your hair and pulling as he arches in on himself and jerks his hips in aborted little thrusts. he feels the plush of your lips brush against the wild, untamed curls at the base of his cock and he lets out a weak grunt, feels his length throb and spurt out another weak dribble of come at the sensation.

he's so delirious when he finally comes to that he's all but dragging you up from where your knees have to be aching on the floor, dragging you into his lap, and fuck sake his soft cock is still out and covered in spit and come and-

your mouth is on his in a hot press of lips and teeth and tongue, eddie's so out of his element here but the taste of his own spend on your tongue is as addictive as it is mildly disgusting.

"you got a mattress in the back of that van of yours?" you mumble between kisses, smiling into it.

"mhm, yup, a-ha," eddie nods wildly as he chases your mouth with his own, "i think i need some more stress relief. i hear burying your face between a pretty things legs helps."

eddie definitely does feel like he's dying when your thighs wrap around his ears and lock him in face-first.

and what a way to go that is.

[specialgradefckr]

thinking about bullying nerd!gojo.

shoving him against lockers. punching him in the arm, tripping him whenever he walks past, throwing his textbooks in the trash.

you sneer at him for being a nerd (you're in the same advanced classes), steal his fancy bento box lunches, make him carry your books between classes, even force him to be your errand boy.

he's asking for it, really. with those stupid digimon keychains on his bag -

"how did you know it's digimon?" "shut the fuck up, nerd."

his anime stickers -

"neon genesis evangelion? how can you like that anime? all the characters are so messed up!" "hehe, asuka best girl~"

and how he loaded up his stupid fancy walkman exclusively with anime openings -

"you wanna listen?" "no! hand it over to me or i'm telling the teacher."

nerd!satoru gojo who could very easily fight you off.

even though he's a bean pole (as you frequently point out), he's a lot stronger than you realize - hidden by his long sleeves and sweater vests and loose ("comfortable!") clothing.

oh, he plays weak in front of you. suguru gets a real kick out of it, but you're not any nicer to him.

"satoru, what the hell are you doing? just walk past."

you shoot the goth a scathing glare, "nobody asked you, edgelord freak."

"at least i have a style," suguru bites back. he's more than used to getting looks.

"yeah, and it's shit. fuck off."

"you-"

suguru is about to release an especially pointed remark on your lack of friends, perceived financial status, and general shitty personality that somehow managed to be worse than his idiot best friends', but satoru gives him an absolutely withering glare. icy.

"yeah, suguru," he parrots, "fuck off."

"you shut up!" you snap immediately, "i wasn't done with you!"

suguru doesn't know whether to laugh or cry.

this song and dance has been going on for years now, and you're all seniors.

"oh! yeah, of course, sorry," satoru beams at you, "you wanted to study together after school?"

you'd been threatening him to hand over his homework.

suguru supposes, in satoru's deranged mind, oversaturated with media references and calculus formulas, this might sound like a date.

"fine," you snap in exasperation, "however the hell you want to do it. just be there, all right?"

"of course! i'd never let you down!" he's nodding eagerly as you huff, release his collar, and stalk away.

"wait up!" satoru whines, gathering his books and trailing after you like a dumb puppy.

"fucking keep up, nerd, i'm not slowing down for you," you say, as you slow down for him.

for fuck's sake. it's a miracle two people this dense could even meet each other, and somehow, you're both in advanced classes.

if you don't fuck by the end of the school year, suguru thinks he's actually going to die.

[moonstruckme]

Hi Mae! I was in a car accident yesterday (car took most of the damage, I’m ok other than bruises and sore muscles) and the whole thing has been a whirlwind of insurance and hospital and half asleep crying. I was wondering if I could request James potter x reader for comfort in a situation like that? I’m going through it rn lol hope you’re having a good day :)

Oh I'm sorry lovely! I had a very similar thing happen a little over a year ago, it's sooooo exhausting even when luckily no one is seriously hurt. Thanks for requesting, hope you're having a good/better day too <33

cw: past car accident, no details but talk of general aftermath of police questioning, insurance, etc.

James Potter x fem!reader ♡ 799 words

The way James half-jogs up to the automatic doors of the hospital, seeming caught between walking and running, feels like someone is pressing down on the bruise of your chest. You wish you’d called him sooner. 

“James,” you call as he comes in, hating how your voice cuts through the taut quiet of the waiting area. It’s worth it for how his whole self softens when his eyes find you. 

He slows to a fast walk the rest of the way to you, the urgency slowly leaving him—which is appropriate, there is no urgency, everything has happened already—like an engine running out of gas. You stand as he nears, and both of you reach for each other before James hesitates. His hands stop midair, his brow tightening for a moment, before they come tentatively to your elbows.

“Hi,” he says, squeezing. “How bad is it?” 

“For me or the car?” you joke. 

“You.” James is feeling too earnest for joking, it seems. “Well, both of you. But you first.” 

You really thought you’d cry when you saw him. Worried you’d make a whole scene, blubbering and inconsolable, but you don’t seem to have any tears left. It makes sense, you suppose; you’ve cried a lot in the past few hours. First the slow, shaky kind right after getting out of your car, and then a real cry when a police officer had pulled you aside to get your version of events. (It had been embarrassing. She’d been nice about it, though.) Now, you wait for the tears to come, but for all your relief at seeing your boyfriend you feel rather dried up. 

It makes you wish, once again, that you’d called James sooner. You’d wanted to, of course, but you’d been nearly certain you’d be even less capable of holding yourself together if he were there, and there wasn’t much reason for him to be anyways. He was at work and you weren’t terribly hurt, so there was really nothing he could have done while you were talking to the police and the tow company and the paramedics and attempting not to drown in an overwhelm of insurance information. The only thing you really wanted him for was to hold your hand.

“I’m okay,” you say, the necessary preface. “A bit bruised up. My chest got the worst of it.” 

Unconsciously, your hand comes to your sternum as if to demonstrate, gravitating towards the center of the ache. James’ hand follows, seemingly just as thoughtless as it covers your own. He can’t see the bruise, but he makes a low, sad sound anyway. 

His care softens your voice. “They said my neck will probably hurt tomorrow, but it doesn’t yet.” 

“Oh, sweetheart.” James sounds really, truly heartbroken for you. “And the rest, it hurts a lot?” 

You shrug. What’s a lot? You know you could’ve had worse, much worse; still, you could do without that frightening soreness that comes with each breath. 

“It’s not too bad,” you say. “I could still hug.” 

It’s the question he’s been dying to ask, clearly. James’ arms are around you in a second, ardent but still gentle, palms pressing to the high and low points of your bag. It’s a good hug. You melt a little against him. 

James tucks his face into the side of your neck, like he’s trying to get as much contact with you as he can. “I wish you’d called me when it happened.” 

“You were at work.” 

“I’d have left work.” 

“There wasn’t anything you could do. I was fine, I just had to…” a little sigh escapes you, exhaustion creeping in now that he’s here “...talk to people. Insurance and all that.” 

James makes a soft, half-agreeing sound. His thumb strokes the base of your neck. “Still. I could have held your hand.” 

A new ache rises in the back of your throat, coming to join the rest. You wind your arms tighter around James. 

After a few, silent moments, he kisses your neck chastely and loosens his hold. “Ready to go home? Anything else you need?” 

You shake your head. “I’m signed out,” you say, so eager you feel like you could float out the doors. You hope you can entice James to lie in bed with you when you get home. You think you’ll sleep until tomorrow. “Let’s go, please.” 

“Alright, you don’t have to say please, sweetheart.” James curls an arm around your shoulders, pressing a smile into your cheek. “We can go. You need one of those wheelchairs for me to take you out to the car?” 

“Ha ha,” you say drily. “No.” 

“Just checking. Think maybe I ought to ask for one, just in case?”

“James. I will take your car home without you in it.” 

“Alright, lovie, I’m coming.”

[raebiis]

I was thinking about this last night, so I’ll share the idea I had here:

Organized crime- not (explicitly) the mafia bc that’s just gauche. But their roots are the same. This is temporarily from the love interest’s POV, so I’ll refer to them as MC for now. Also, this was more meant to be a sort of ‘warning’ to the MC but they’re drawn in anyway- it gets much worse when romance is involved… tbh I just love a good toxic relationship.

The MC (who I personally imagined as Al Pacino’s Micheal Corleone- a little fanfic just for me- but to each their own) is witness to an argument between two sisters. One is the ‘leader’ and the other is… not ignorant, but also not completely informed.

The other is a recovering addict who relapsed and the leader found out about it. The leader confronts the other and there’s an ensuing argument/one sided screaming fest while the other cries and tries to shift blame.

She blames it on her longtime boyfriend (there’s history there).

It’s a mistake.

“Oh,” leader says, suddenly calm. And why does she look a little amused? “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” cries other, unable to recognize the danger through her tears.

“Are you absolutely positive that it’s his fault?” Leader clarifies. “And this is how you want this to go?”

“Yes,” other insists.

“Okay,” leader says, and leans in to press a kiss to others head, “then just rest here and I’ll take care of it.”

And other would know better, should know better, if not for the relief of leader no longer being upset with her.

It’s only when leader pulls a gun from the drawer next to her that other catches on. But it’s too late, leader has already silently ordered the goons to keep other there and out of the way.

Other is begging, pleading, but her words fall on deaf ears. Leader brushes past MC on her way out, and MC turns to watch her out of the window.

Other’s boyfriend is outside, having just exited the shed out back. He looks up at Leader and begins to smile before she raises the gun- his face hardly has time to shift in horror before-

!!!

Leader takes her time meandering back to the house, other’s wails can be heard all the way down to the lake at the bottom of the hill the house sits on.

When leader enters again, MC can feel their heart racing and they take a measured step back. But leader doesn’t even notice them.

She sets the gun aside and goes to her sister, gathering her in her arms and shushing her tears.

“It’s alright,” says leader, “don’t worry. I’ve taken care of the problem. You can start to really work on recovery, now.”

And other blubbers out something that sounds a lot like a confession to having lied. Her boyfriend was innocent?

Leader’s smile is unsettling when she pulls back and cradles her sister’s crying face (she already knew). “Don’t say that, other. Because if he wasn’t the source of the infection?”

Her thumbs press deeply into the hinge of her sister’s jaw, and her smile is long gone by now.

“That means I’ll just have to cut deeper.”

And other has a look on their face- understanding, despair, and the unconditional love of siblings forged in fire. Other knows to forgive leader is to invite more pain, but how could she not? Leader is her sister, and her sister has been by her side all these years. And her sister isn’t always terrible. Most of the time she’s kind, generous, gentle…. That’s gotta mean something. It has to make up for all the times leader is cruel.

Doesn’t it?

(And, of course, we see the same happen to MC. They’ve seen the warning signs, but leader at her best is just so charming and so loving- how could they ever not love her? Why, even in her most wicked moments leader is only expressing the depth of their unfathomable love. Leader hurts them to save them. Right?)

fucked up hurt/comfort. the person who stabbed you tends to your wound. the person who killed your loved one helps you grieve.

[nymphomatique]

gold star student

professor!logan howlett x fem!reader

⋆·˚ ༘ * one bad grade is one too many, so you ask one professor logan howlett, phd. for some extra credit after class. inspired by this art.

cw: reader lowkey has undiagnosed adhd, u want that cookie so effing bad, oral (m & f), praise, some degradation, swearing (it’s logan), shaky power dynamics so it can be considered dub-con, non specific age gap, college aged reader, logan puts stickers on your face while you blow him, face slapping, semi-public sex, unprotected sex (wrap it up!!), finger sucking, spitting on the pussy, grey streak logan cause if he ain’t greying im not staying!!!, this is just me being horny idk what else to say i’m sorry yall

wc: 8k

❤︎ a/n: this was…. a labour of love to say the least. i hate the ending but fuck it we ball. enjoy <3

Ever since you were a child, anything and everything that had to do with academia had been the bane of your existence. Sitting at a desk for eight odd hours in a day wasn’t only grossly unappealing to you, but a mental challenge as well. You had found it hard to grasp onto concepts and new materials as well as the other kids, unable to focus on whatever spiel of the day your teacher went on about and still found yourself struggling in higher education. From kindergarten, to elementary, to middle school, to high school, up until now in your college years, you find that not only has your attention deficit gotten worse, but so has your motivation in academia in general. 

A floater student is what you would consider yourself, showing up to class once in a blue moon, rather busying yourself with doom scrolling in your dormitory or shopping off campus at the mall, only showing up during exam time and barely passing. your prognosis would be one of the many hyperactive disorders, but you never bothered to diagnose yourself officially. In high school, your parents didn’t make a huge deal of your grades, thanking a graceful god out there that you even got your diploma to begin with. At this age however, with tens of thousands of dollars being poured into your tuition, your mother and father have seemed to coil up even tighter in terms of frustration with your nonchalant attitude towards school. 

A report card from your fall semester riddled with C’s and D’s, emboldened and italicized as if to taunt you silently, was the final straw, the cussing you received was enough for a lifetime. At your parents' discretion, before the start of the semester you consulted with your academic advisor in suggestion of a course schedule that wasn’t a twelve hour day, and professors who would accommodate you with in the case of your late assignments and missing homework. 

All classes but one would be easy- you had been told. Your world history class and its professor had been the only one where you had been saddled with a hardball teacher, rate my professor describing one Logan Howlett, teacher of Modern World History in the Context of Classic Literature, as a man with a foul mouth and harsh grading asshole— with an excellent curriculum but horrible grade weighting, as described by your fellow student body, the mandatory attendance and participation accounting for twenty percent of your grade alone pulling a groan from you as your laptop screen stares back at you, the blue light emitting from it seemingly silently taunting you with the course course outline. Get used to looking at my screen. Three hours in an auditorium, every Wednesday and Friday for twelve weeks at nine in the morning with this douchebag.

You mentally prepare yourself for the exhaustion of the upcoming semester, shutting your laptop closed with a huff of annoyance before laying in bed, mentally preparing yourself for this seemingly infamous professor Howlett.

After a rather inadequate night of sleep, a zero sugar monster energy (gotta give in for the sake of your health where you can) and a double shot latte, you feel something that briefly resembles yet still distant from awake, you find yourself struggling to get comfortable in the stiff chairs in your lecture room. You’re glad you tucked yourself away in a seat in the corner, four rows back from the front, embarrassed that your peers are silently mocking your struggle. 

It’s some odd minutes to nine on the dot, and you’re rather proud of yourself for being able to make it minutes early rather than stumbling in twenty minutes late like you’re prone to doing. Face resting on your hand, cheek squishing your right eye closed, your left eye flits around the room to the other people present, and you wonder if anyone else is stuck in your current situation: burnt out student who didn’t have a choice but to take this class at the least convenient time possible, simply for your graduation credits. Unfortunate kismet, you think, if anybody else in this room also had the privilege to have been born with the unlucky gene you possess. 

Your eyes are heavy, the seconds tickering away at the speed of minutes, and you can’t help it when the last open eye you have flutters close. You hum to yourself, relishing at the feeling of finally being able to rest some more. the quiet shuffling of your classmates feet and the soft scrapings of their chairs, clock ticking so quietly that it barely registers in your mind. The ambient noise is like a blanket to you. It’s not more than five minutes, just a micro nap— you tell yourself, counting the seconds of each minute down silently. 45, 44, 43, 42, what minute is this?, 30, 29, 28, so tired, 22, 21, time to sleep…

Your eyes shoot open when you hear the auditorium door slam shut, blinking away softly the sleep in your eyes. your heart sinks for a minute and panic sets in— did you sleep through the whole class? On the first fucking day? You look around, eyes wide, and immediately sigh in relief when you’re greeted with a full hall. Conversely, you see everyone’s attention to the front of the class with materials out, so you trail your eyes to the front of the room and that’s when you see him, finally. Not his face yet, the wide expanse of his back and tail of his coiffed head facing you all instead. Your eyes trail down his body to his feet, clad in a pair of black combat boots, you can’t help but quirk up and eyebrow, bootcut jeans that seem to be worn in well, seemingly like they’re tailored to his long, very legs, then you see his jacket, which now you catch in time to see him taking it off to reveal a black t-shirt underneath and your breath hitches a bit. You can only see his triceps flexing as he maneuvers his jacket off, but you can just tell he’s covered in rippling muscle, his arms straining against the fabric of his shirt. You can’t help but wonder what he looks like, wondering if his face is as captivating as the rest of him. Your eyes flit over to the girl sitting two seats down from you, and you can’t help but smile a little at her expression, teeth chewing her bottom lip and eyes widened slightly and blinking in slow flutters, seemingly thinking the same things about this Professor Logan Howlett as you are; He’s obscenely sexy even though I haven’t even seen his face.

When you focus your attention back to the front, your face warms immediately upon finally seeing his– Professor Howlett’s face and fuck, you feel stupid for even thinking that he wouldn’t be even a fraction of attractive. His hair, oh god his hair, styled as if he just rolled out of bed and ran his hands through it once, maybe twice even, streaked with gray at his temples, peppering down into his sideburns and disappearing in his scruffy beard. His eyes are an enrapturing shade of hazel, almost brown, almost green, you squint a little to see the mix of hues better, cursing yourself for sitting so far away. His nose, button-like yet poses so masculine at the same time. His lips look so soft and kissable, framed perfectly by his facial hair as if it’s screaming at you to kiss there, to taste each other, let your tongues touch and whisper your deepest secrets to one another-

Gravelly and deep, his voice rouses you from your rather indulgent fantasy. “Good morning. Lively bunch this semester,” he quips and a quiet wave of laughter reverberates and echoes around you. Your chest tightens at the sound of his voice and you want to smack yourself silly for it. “Gonna spare you all the pointless introductions n’ ice breaking crap, yeah? We’ll go over the syllabus and get this show on the road.”

He’s curt, forward, doesn’t bite his tongue, you deduce. Not the jackass his reviews seem to pin him as, though it’s only the first class. They didn’t seem to mention how ruggedly handsome he was as well, you think and pull your lips taut as Professor Howlett, continues to read off the syllabus. Two essays, three quizzes, and a final reading comprehension exam. Attendance is mandatory Your eyes quickly flit to the back of your skull as he reads off that point. No makeups. No late work. No excuses. 

You feel your heart hammer in your chest a little, a sense of anxiety bubbling up in you at how much this class demands. It’s nerve wracking, super fucking discouraging to say the least given your track record, but you know you have no other choice but to commit fully and pass this class, so help your parents. You suppose you can find the motivation in a hot professor and at the very least, make an effort to roll out of bed and be presentable on the days you show up to his class. You exhale softly, hearing the shuffling of books and closing laptops to rouse you from your thoughts. 

“And don’t forget, first five chapters of tulip fever for next class,” his voice booms in the auditorium, fighting with the noise of students desperate to leave and head to their next class or back to their rooms. You flit your eyes towards your professor, arms crossed and muscles bulging against his shirt, casually leaned against his desk. His eyes meet yours for a moment and your breath hitches immediately. His brow quirks at you silently and you’re sure you might disintegrate on spot. You feel your face heat up and you break away the eye contact to rush out of the lecture, both exhausted and perpetually embarrassed, not having enough energy to handle feeling both. In your haste, you miss the way Logan's lip quirks up for a split second at you, rushing out the door with Tulip Fever and streaks of grey on your mind. 

You find you can’t keep your modern history professor off the brain since leaving the lecture hall that wednesday, ever so flustered. You thought about his thick arms back at your dorm, and how they might feel wrapped around you in a warm embrace. You thought about those graying temples, and the picture it would paint with his head between your thighs. You thought about him in your humanities class as your professor droned on about morality and its many philosophical perspectives, but you tune her voice out and think of his instead, wondering what it would sound like whispering sweet nothings in your ear. The level of yearning you’ve reached is bound to get you in trouble, hell it’s gotten you in trouble already— completely neglecting to finish the first five chapters of Tulip Fever like Professor Howlett had assigned, losing yourself in the work from your other classes. Friday had snuck up on you and you smacked your forehead for being so forgetful, the beginnings of discourage and a knot forming in your stomach. I’m a failure, I suck at this, I should drop out, I’m such a fucking idiot.

The thought of letting down a man you barely know has you berating yourself even further. You need to get a grip and quickly— he’s your teacher for God's sake. You suck in a breath, finding yourself sat in the same lecture hall your vivid fantasies found themselves being born in, laptop open as you’re frantically reading the Sparknotes summary minutes before class is set to start. Today, you chose a seat in the second row, still far off to the right side. You weren’t sure you could stay coherent with his gaze on you so heavy.  You tell yourself you picked this spot for a better learning experience, closer seats meaning less of a chance you fall prey to your fantasies, but deep down beyond the denial you knew better than to convince yourself of a lie like that. You sat upfront because you wanted to see Professor Howlett better, to pinpoint the hues of his eyes you couldn’t make out yesterday from so far behind. You wanted to trail your eyes up and down his muscular frame, taking snapshots of the hair on his forearms, the freckles on his thick knuckles, the veins trailing his big hands—

“Good morning, everyone,” a gruff voice speaks and you feel a ball of energy sits itself deep in your stomach, it’s him. You've missed the deep baritone of his voice, you realize. “Hope you all read up the chapters, yeah? We’ll be discussing ‘em today, and I am the asshole who picks on students to participate.” There’s a soft wave of grumbles from some, but your panic is quiet and you hope to a God in heaven somewhere that he doesn’t pick you, god knows you barely retained any information from your flash round of Sparknotes earlier.

“Like any book, the first few chapters were mostly exposition, character and scene setting stuff. Tell me, what does Sophia’s marriage and lack of heir signify to us in these times?” Professor Howlett asks, and you immediately avert your gaze to the grooves and scratches in the table in front of you. Please don’t pick me, please don’t pick me, please please please— “Yeah, you,” your head snaps up, heart hammering in your chest when you see him nod his head at some girl, some girl with too much fucking chest out, you spit, her hand raised high and smile plastered across her smug little face. Your brows pull together and you barely contain the urge to roll your eyes at her enthusiasm. 

“Thank you, Professor,” This fucking bi- “I think that- that while Cornelius and Sophia are often representative of the way marriage was a lot of the times something more transactional, her being unable to have a kid being a main problem- shows how a lot of times a marriage with no evidence of, um, consummation, is seen as practically null and void.” Your fist tenses against the desk at her answer.

“Little long winded, but yeah, good job..?” his voice lilts off, and you smile a bit knowing he doesn’t even remember her name. “Oh, um, Amber,” she sputters out. He nods at her response and continues asking questions about the book. You feel a little bad as class progresses, your unprovoked and unwarranted jealousy towards another woman over a man who’s simply an authority figure to you both, no matter how attractive, makes you cringe. What is he doing to you? 

“Good answers, guys. Glad you all did more than skim the book,” Professor Howlett muses, turning his back to face you all as he digs through his briefcase. You take this time to admire how broad his back looks, draped in a black polo shirt today that practically has you drooling. “The rest of you I didn’t pick on today aren’t unscathed unfortunately,” he says, a hint of amusement in his voice. He turns around and presents the stack of papers between his large hands to you all and he smirks, “Pop quiz.” 

A myriad of groans come crashing from all over the lecture hall right down to your ears and you silently join, hands falling down against your desk. You sincerely hope these weren’t going to be graded, praying that Professor Howlett possesses some sense of apologeticness, knowing that the definite zero percent you’d get on this would completely fuck over your overall average for the rest of the semester, subsequently giving your parents ample reason to rip you a fucking brand new one. 

Row by row, he passes a stack of papers for each student to pass down and he stops in front of you, seeing as you so conveniently sat at the end of the second row. “Nervous?” he asks, brow quirked and smug fucking look on his face as you look up at him. You quirk your eyebrow right back at him, “Hardly.” A group of papers fall in front of you and he breathes out a laugh, leaving you to pass papers to the next row. You lied like shit, you were insanely nervous, knowing you hadn’t retained a lick of information from your mini crash course nor the class’ discussion prior.

“No tech, no cheating. You guys know the drill, don’t make me catch you and have to chew you out. Twenty minutes and I’m picking ‘em up.” Logan says, walking down the aisle and back to his desk, his hulking frame leaning against his desk and his arms crossed up against his chest so tight that his biceps practically bulge out of his shirt. Or maybe, he’s just that toned, that any movement, minuscule or major, would have him threatening to rip out of his clothes. You’re practically fighting yourself in your seat, tearing your eyes away from his thick arms and heavy pectorals and down to your paper. 

It’s one page, front and back, ten questions. It wouldn’t be so bad had you actually read the book, considering you can’t even remember the name of the main character in the book. You bite your lip, trying so hard to rack your brain for something that resembles a coherent answer to these questions that will give you at least a 75%, knowing it wouldn’t skew your grade average completely off. What does Maria’s role stand to symbolize in the context of 1600’s Amsterdam?. You clench your  fist so hard around your pen you’re almost amazed that it doesn’t break under the pressure. You didn’t even remember a Maria in the book.

Twenty minutes of writing later, grasping at straws for potential points that would make you feel better than getting a big fat zero on your first quiz in this class, in his class, you’re walking to his desk to place your quiz in a pile with the rest of your peers, just as he’d instructed. You kept your eyes down the entire time, feeling too embarrassed to look at him after that silly excuse for banter you had attempted earlier. Hardly. Yeah fucking right. 

After your quiz, you had been dismissed from class, and you felt the anxiety set in almost immediately. The phone call you had with your parents that weekend over your classes and grades so far only worsened, the stern and subtly implied threat of coming back home to learn at a local college looming silently above you if you didn’t keep your grades up. You had obviously avoided mentioning the pop quiz you had, choosing not to set them ablaze at the mention of the fact that you most definitely failed that pop quiz. The stress of your grades instilled a new found productivity in you, in which you took initiative to read ahead of the assigned chapters and annotate as well as take notes for your modern history class, hoping to be prepared next time he’d ask a question. Your stomach churns at the thought of his praise, Good answer. Very good, kiddo. Like that idea. you imagined he’d say to you. You bite your lip as you study your western civilization notes, maybe he’d even indulge in you, call you his good girl, his good little student, something that Amber would never have above you. 

Monday and Tuesday went by uneventfully, as you completed your labs and started on your assignments when assigned. Tuesday night however, you had been anxious almost, or maybe excited— you weren’t sure, but you did know you wanted to be prepared for this class, to prove to Professor Howlett that you could handle his class, show him that you wouldn’t let him chew you up and spit him out so easily. You took the time before bed on that Tuesday to prepare your books in your bag, organize your notes, and even pick out an outfit, neatly folding it and leaving it on your desk chair. Grades be damned, you were beyond ready to prove everyone wrong, yourself included. 

You sat in the front row again, enraptured in the world of Tulip Fever, but really you would rather focus on Professor Howlett. He was all you thought about these days, especially at night when it was only you and the dark of your dorm to entertain you before bed. You hear a giggle next to you and you snap your head to the direction of the noise. Amber. A deep rumble sounds in front of you, someone clearing their throat. You look forward again and see your professor and your face heats up. “Welcome back to earth, sweetheart,” he muses, humour painted all over his face. Your eyes widen at the pet name he’s given you and you feel like sinking into your seat. “I need you here next time, yeah? Not in that pretty little head of yours,” he says, quiet enough so only you and the front two rows can hear. Your head spins. Pretty. He called you pretty. He continues his lecture like nothing else happened, leaving you dazed at his affection. His eyes flit to you briefly and he smiles, before walking back to the front of the class. 

Little moments like these pepper themselves throughout your lectures with Profess Howlett in between the assignments and lectures and raised hands. You’d catch him looking at the juncture of your breasts sometimes as you wore low cut tops, his lilting voice calling you precious pet names, sweetheart, kiddo, sweets. They all have your face warming. Heated gazes, stolen smiles, one off banter, you were convinced you were being delusional. One particular moment after class where you had asked for details on an assignment had you reeling for days. You went up to him after class to ask your question. His face was insanely close, you could smell the mint off his breath from the gum he was chewing during the lecture, feel his words fan your face, deep rumblings and focused glares as you were only inches away from his face. His lips, oh God his lips… so close, so soft looking, so pink, you had been so caught up in him the entire time. And he had noticed, his fingers coming up to your chip to raise your gaze. He did it wordlessly, eyeing you as you eyed him. His look daring you to say something. Challenge me. I dare you. But you didn’t— you couldn’t, you had tried to focus on something else, his musky woodsy scent, his greying stubble, anything, as he continued to explain your question to you. You walked out of his class that day with jello for legs, replaying the moment in your mind. 

Next class you had seen him he had given the assignments back, adorned with little gold stars on those who had grades higher than a B minus. Your paper had come back to you with an A minu, a little gold star next to your grade. “Boosts morale,” had been Logan’s explanation when a student had asked why the gold star. You smiled. Cute. 

You had felt like you finally found your groove, despite the hiccup you had at the beginning. Your first test of the semester approached, and you weren’t nervous, in fact you showed up to class early, getting a chance to get a good spot and watch Professor Howlett walk in and begin setting up. You had waved, a meek good morning in your own words and he returned a wink back. Your insides tugged at themselves. He had waltzed over to you in your seat, starting up conversation. “Nervous?” he asks, curt and short. You smile, “Hardly,” using your own words once more. “I’m gunning on a gold star. I studied extra hard.” Professor Howlett hums, smile on his face. “I look forward to seeing your work. I enjoy reading it,” he says. He leaves you with those words as he walks back to his desk, more students beginning to pepper in the classroom as the test hour approached. You had been so sure you did excellent on your test, studying for days and days beforehand. So when you got back your test, a C Minus staring back at you with a gut wrenching empty space next to your grade right where a star would be. Tears prick your eyes as you look at the grade, feeling so disappointed in yourself. This couldn’t be. It just couldn’t.

You had promptly stayed behind after class to speak to him, and it seemed like Amber had the same idea, her body close to his as she spoke lowly. She didn’t spare a glance back at you as she spoke to him, hand grazing his bicep as she walked away and past you. Your eyes rolled in your head and you walked up to Professor Howlett next. He’s in the middle of packing up his papers in his bag when you come up to him, and he glances up in acknowledgment before going back to what he’s doing. You breathe out and his brown quirks as he pauses and looks at you. “Yes?” he asks. “I… I would like to see you after class if possible to discuss my grades,” you say, fist curling and uncurling with nerves. ”Tomorrow afternoon come see me at my office,” he says, arms crossing. “Don’t be late. Don’t get your hopes up either,” he quirks. You chew your lip before sighing. “I’ll be there. On time.” 

And true to your word, you showed up promptly and on time. Your heart was hammering in your chest cavity so hard you felt like it would burst through your ribcage. Your lower lip found itself between your teeth, chewing at it tenderly. You had been staring at the mahogany colored door, finished with a shiny golden plaque, L. Howlett, PHD. carved within the surface of the precious metal. His name posed just as intimidating as he did. You’d been standing in front of his door for almost three minutes now, fingers skimming along the hem of your plaid skirt. The accompanying white tanktop and white cardigan hand made your subconscious intentions loud and clear, as some part of you, a delusional part of you, had hoped this school girl-esque get up would grant you some sort of leniency with Professor Howlett as you begged for him to give you a retake, a makeup assignment, something for God’s sake.

Any moment more of hesitancy and you would be late for your two o’clock appointment time, so you bring your knuckles up to the door to knock, twice in succession, when the door swings open in front of you. Your knuckle is almost met with Amber’s face, her shock seeing you just as evident as hers. She doesn’t let it linger however, as she casts a glance over her shoulder and muses a “Bye Professor. Thank you so much, I’ll see you in class Monday,” before looking back forward and right back at you, holding your gaze as she walks right out the door and past you, making sure her shoulder doesn’t miss yours. You scoff. Bitch. 

“Right on time. Come in,” he gestures, refusing to get up from his comfy looking office chair. As you walk around his office you take in the interior briefly. The mahogany furniture, the lingering smell of cigar smoke, evidence of his nasty habit sitting on top of an ashtray on his desk, the glass bar cart, adorned with various bottles of whiskey and gin, and a mini fridge sitting on its bottom shelf— filled with ice and garnish you assume. You eye his book cabinet, shelves stuffed with various literary titles, old and new, classic and contemporary. You find yourself impressed, but you shouldn’t be, his teaching— albeit rough, brutish sometimes even— is a testament to his passion towards books and literature. You smile a little as you sit down in the foam lined chair in front of his desk. You try not to think of who sat in it before you as you feel the residual warmth of it against your thighs. You take in Professor Logan, black t-shirt and dark blue jeans— casual, but damn if he made it look good. You eyed his arms, veiny and bulging out his shirt, before flickering your attention back to his face, framed by those greying temples you oh so loved.

“So?” He trails, redirecting his attention from his desktop to you. You swallow a little and sigh. “Um, I know that you said no… no retakes or anything, and I understand your answer if it’s a hard no,” you say, pausing to look at him to try and assess what he’s thinking, but you’re simply met with a raised brow and crossed arms as he leans back further in his chair. “But I… I was wondering if- Well, my parents, they said that If I have a grade lower than an A on my report card this semester I had to drop out and transfer locally, and I don’t want to make this a pity story but I… It’s only this class where I’m having trouble. And I know what you said but my last test really fucked my average and I-” your nervous ramblings are cut off by him raising his hand. Your lips clamp and you watch him, waiting for his impending words. He makes you sit in the silence and with your words, instead opening his desk drawer, rifling between what sounds like various loose pens and papers before taking a lighter out. Small, sliver, zippo style and engraved with meticulous swirls. He picks up the already cut cigar out the ashtray, placing it between his pink lips, and lights it— two experimental puffs of smoke floating your way and you get dizzy. 

“You don’t mind?” He asks only now, and you try not to roll your eyes and that façade of chivalry. “No,” you shake your head. “Thought so,” he smiles, smug. He puffs from the cigar once more before he places it down on the glass ashtray once again before he speaks up. “As it stands now if you tighten up for the rest of the semester you can pass my class with a B something, which don’t sound too bad to me, sweetheart.” Your gut twists with tension. A B isn’t what you need. You brows furrow and you open your mouth to speak, but he continues. “I would love to help you sweetheart, trust me I would. But that wouldn’t be fair to all the other students who come waltzing in here dressed just like you, begging for an A,” he drawls, picking up his cigar again and slotting it between his lips before he stands up and your breath hitches. “Wh- dressed like me? I didn’t-” you begin, confused at what he’s implying. Your eyes follow his moving figure, his steps taking him around his desk to the side of your chair, conveniently eye level to his groin. 

“But you did, didn’t you?” he asks softly, thumb coming to your chin to direct your gaze up to his eyes. “I don’t understand…” you murmur, skin beginning to warm at the rather inappropriate contact and position. Your chest heaves up and down beneath your cardigan and he surely notices letting out a soft chuckle. “You’re a smart girl. I’m sure you can put two and two together,” he continues, thumb rubbing softly back and forth against your chin before he drops his hand from you completely. Your eyes drop in sync to his limb, your mind racing a million thoughts a second. But… isn’t this what you wanted? What you needed? What you’ve dreamed of for weeks upon weeks? “Look at me,” he says, stern. And you do. “You listen so well,” he hums and you feel the makings of a fire ignite itself inside you somewhere deep. I’m being good. Good for him. “Kills you inside that you couldn’t get that shiny little sticker, doesn’t it?” he muses, looking down at you with mirth swirling in his eyes. You feel tears spring to your eyes at his words. He sees right through you. It did hurt. All you ever wanted to be was good for him. 

“We can fix that today. Tell you what, you be a good student for me, and I’ll be a good teacher to you, yeah?” he says, taking a puff from his cigar. “Nod your head like a good student.” And you do. Up and down, slowly. Your brain is fuzzy. This surely isn’t happening, is it? It couldn’t be. He walks away and back to his desk, propping his cigar down after asking it. He pushes a pile of papers from his desk, until he finds what he’s looking for. A sticker sheet. What is he…

“C’mere,” Professor Howlett gestures with a finger, simultaneously sitting back on his chair. Your legs are trembling under you as you get up and walk towards his side of the desk. Logan pivots his desk chair to the side as you walk over to him and you find yourself standing between his legs, quiet. “Take that off,” he says, flicking his head towards your cardigan. You let it drop off your shoulder promptly, standing only in your white tank top and plaid skirt. “Kneel,” he says, and you drop immediately. Pathetic. Your hands lay in your laps as you’re sat between his legs on your knees. Your breathing is as laboured as ever. You can’t believe this is happening— something that you spent nights dreaming of. Touching him, tasting him, feeling him. He reaches over to his desk and grabs the sticker sheet of gold stars, a fresh sheet of stars neatly arranged row by row. “You know what to do, don’t you sweetheart?” he asks, palm of his hand running against your face. You nod, reaching forward to the zipper of his dark denim jeans before his palm grabs your hand. “When I ask you somethin’, I want a verbal answer. Y���understand?” he says. Your voice feels caught in your throat. He’s so intense your head is spinning. “Y-yes,” you breathe. “Yes what?” he spits back and your heart hammers. “Y-yes, Sir.”

“Good girl,” he hums. He lets go of your hands, taking a sticker off the sheet and placing a small gold star right next to your left eye. Your face heats up at the praise and you almost let out a breath, but you don’t. Your hands go back to undressing Professor Howlett, fingers deft with his button and zipper. He lifts his hips up and helps you shrug his jeans down until they’re sitting on top of his black combat boots, clad only in black briefs. The heavy tent in his pants makes your eyes go wide but you persist, thinking of your grade on the line. With a tug at his boxer band his dick pops up over the elastic, and you pull down until the full sheath of him is bobbing freely. Your eyes widen a little at the sheer size of him, wondering how he could possibly fit inside your mouth let alone your pussy. He was long, eight inches you’d guess just by looking and insanely thick. He was heavy too— the length of him unable to stand up fully, bobbing haphazardly as he twitched from arousal. You looked up at him, and his gaze was steady. Expectant. You sucked in a shallow breath before grabbing his cock, warm to the touch. Your fingers barely touched. You’re hand jerked up once before Professor Howlett was grabbing your wrist, only to spit on his dick, the string of saliva landing on the shaft. “S’better. Go on,” he encourages, and you do— jerking him a little faster now with his spit lubricant, the sound of his slick skin making your pussy feel warm, wet. You jerk him faster, spitting in the palm of your second hand before you join your other, breasts bouncing up and down as you jerk him. Little grunts leave Logan, and it makes your tummy feel warm. You were making him feel— “Good, just like that, yeah. Use your mouth now,” he moans. You felt intimidated by his size, but you persisted still. You wanted to be his good girl.

You look up at him as your mouth opens, coy like a fish, and you wrap your lips around his tip. He inhales a sharp breath and it gives you some encouragement. Be good. Your head drops lower, lower and lower until your mouth his full and his tip is tickling your uvula, and you gag around him, sputtering spit all over him. You pull off his dick to cough and he chuckles at you. “Let’s try again together, yeah?” You nod, “Yes, Sir.” You reposition yourself, back on your knees in front of him. “Open your mouth and stick your tongue out, open real wide,” he says, tapping your cheek. It felt soft slap more than a tap however. But still, you open your mouth wide, tongue hanging out. “Juuust like that, yeah…” Logan groans, slapping the warmth of his cock on your tongue. “Breath through the nose,” he says, before putting the length of him in your mouth and pulling your head down on him, fist clenched in your hair. He pulls you down deep, further than you managed to reach alone and you gag, spit everywhere, but he pays you no mind. His curses under his breath before standing up out of his seat, your head craning up as his fist pulls at your nape. “Good fuckin’ girl,” he breathes, thrusting his cock in an out of your mouth. Your throat feels rubbed raw, tears pooling in your eyes but you hold on, hands gripping his thighs. “Take it, fucking take it,” he grunts. His hand disappears before placing a sticker on your spit-covered cheek and you whimper around his cock. Logan’s brows pull together and he laughs. “That turn you on? You like being my good little student? You like sucking off your professor?” he laughs, fucking your face with a deep pace. You muffle a Yes, Sir around him as his spit soaked balls slap against your chin and he laughs. Sticker after sticker covers the expanse of your face, a juxtaposition to your debauched mascara-streaked-spit-covered face.

Your throat is raw, but you’re relishing in the attention, the praise, the intensity of it. “One more mouthful, c’mon,” he grunts, pushing your head down even further down his cock and you squeal around him. Your eyes snap shut, focusing on holding your breath as he brings his dick deep down your throat until your nose is buried in his greying pubes. “So fucking nasty,” he drawls, deep groan leaving his chest. “Take it, be good and take it,” he says breathless, before he’s spitting his cum down your throat, leaving you no choice but to swallow his bitter semen. Your eyes wretch open lowly, watch Logan’s face contort in pleasure as he finishes in your throat and you whimper, squeezing his thighs tightly. “Good student,” he coos, pulling his cock from your mouth and it’s a relief that’s long overdue. Your first unobstructed breath is a deep one, and you’re slightly dizzy from the oxygen after having it restricted for so long. You don’t think about it for long before a hand is pulling you up off the floor, and before you know it, lips are on yours, tongue finding tongue. Your eyes close by themselves and you melt into the kiss, Professor Howlett’s lips soft against yours, but kissing you so roughly. Your arms grip his biceps, desperate for something to hold onto, anything to steady yourself with. 

The kiss breaks and your mind feels hazy. Your eyes open and you see Professor Howlett staring back at you, hands roaming your body. “Pr-professor…” you moan out after a particularly hard squeeze at your ass. “Logan, baby,” he says, kissing your lips once in a peck, and again as a sloppy embrace, his tongue swirling in your mouth and you keen into him. His hands pull at the back of your thighs and you jump up in his arms, wrapping your arms around his thick neck. He walks you a few paces, still stuck in an embrace, until he puts on you down on his desk. He breaks the kiss between you two before pulling the front of your tank top down, revealing your breasts to him, nipples pert. He wastes no time kissing and licking your chest, and you throw your head back in a silent moan. He sucks on your nipples for a minute, pinching and toying with your breast until your chest is heaving and nipples are raw. “What a sight for me,” Logan hums, and you feel shy under him like this. “Lean back and spread your legs f’me,” he says low, kneeling as you do as he asks. He’s eye level with your pussy, only covered by your skirt and white panties. He lifts the plaid fabric up and groans, the little wet spot of your pussy a delectable sight. 

Logan leans forward and licks the wet gusset of your panties and you let out a shuddering moan. “P-please, Logan…” you breath, too wound up to wait. He smirks and indulges in you, pliant and needy. He hooks a finger in the crotch of your panties and pulls them to the side, hurrying his face into your wet and waiting pussy. It’s an enrapturing feeling, having him suck and lick and taste your clit and folds like this, groaning into you and he praises you for having such a sweet fuckin’ pussy, baby. He sucks your clit roughly, before pulling back to spit on your pussy, rubbing his nose against your clit before flattening his tongue against your gushing slit once again. The streaks of grey between your thighs sends blood rushing downwards to the center of your arousal and you can’t help but run your hands through his salt and pepper hair. He licks and tongues you until your legs go numb, teasing your orgasm from you time and time again until you’re nearly in tears for him, ready to cum.

 “Please Lo- Sir. Please, Sir. Wanna cum, I’ll be good. Just-” your begging is cut short as two thick fingers push themselves in you and you throw your head back at the stretch. “You’re gonna come for me in a little, sweetheart. Be good for now,” Logan coos, kissing your inner thighs. You’re heaving as he curls and scissors his fingers inside you in a way that feels so unfairly good that tears begin to streak down your face, gold stickers peeling and falling off your damp skin; scattering down on the desk and falling on your chest. “G-gonna… Oh my God, Sir,” you squeal, just about ready to… Until his fingers deftly leave you. Before you can whine about this, Logan’s thick fingers covered in your slick push into your mouth and you groan. “Hush, baby. You’re about to feel real good in a little,” Logan hums, rubbing his cock, now hard again, up and down your wet and sensitive pussy, the head of him hitching your clit so good it hurts. His fingers leave your mouth. “Beg for it.” And you do. You’re a babbling mess under him. “Inside, p-put it inside me, Professor,” you moan, and Logan's resolve snaps, thrusting into you in one fluid movement.

You see stars, no pun intended, at the stretch of him. Your stomach feels full and you shudder, laying back down against the desk. “Tightest, sweetest fucking pussy I ever felt,” Logan coos, fingers pushing back into your mouth. His unoccupied hand grabs your leg and throws it over his shoulder and he begins to thrust in and out of you, knocking the wind out of you with every push in and out. Your intermittent moans turn into a symphony of cries as his pace increases and he’s fucking into you at a brutal speed. Your hands are grasped around the wrist of his hand that’s by your mouth, sucking his fingers to soothe the burning part of the pleasure. “That’s it, fucking take it,” he grunts, pushing your leg from around his should back until your knee was touching your shoulder. The new angle made the pleasure unbearable, every movement rubbing against your g-spot. Your eyes begin to close, your body shutting down seemingly as you begin to enter a pleasure comatose, the bubbling pleasure, the fingers in your mouth, it all feels like too much. But Logan doesn’t let you stay in that place for too long, his fingers leaving your mouth to slap your cheek, pulling back down. “I need you right here, know it feels good but I want you with me,” he says breathy, thrusts still never faltering. 

Without his fingers in your mouth your moans are free to be heard, your incoherent babbles of “s’too much,” and “so deep in me, sir,” floating in the air between Logan’s heavy breaths and obscene curses. You’re breasts jump with every thrust in you, your head bouncing up and down from the sheer force of his thrusts. “T-Tell me…” you stutter out, eyes fluttering. “Tell you?” he asks, grinding his hips up and deep, and you’re sure he’s grazing your cervix. You grip his t-shirt and keel. He gets what you mean. “Good girl. My good girl. You’re the best girl. You want another star, don’t you?” he breathes out, a hand moving down to your clit as he thrusts up and out, up and out into you. You whimper, his words and ministration’s overwhelming, “Yes, Sir. M’good. So good. W-want it. Please, can I have it?” you babble. You belly feels warm, and the heat bubbles with every brush at your swollen clit and thrust in your pussy. He lets go of the hand at your knee, spreading you open to grab a sticker from the sticker sheet. “Stick your tongue out f’me,” and you do, overwhelmed with this moment. You’re being good. You’re being good. You’re almost there, keep being good. He spits in your mouth and you moan holding it there and waiting for him to tell you what to do. “Swallow it,” he huffs, thrusts faltering. He’s close, you deduce. I don’t want it to end. Please don’t let it end. You swallow and stick your tongue back out to show him and he groans.

He puts the star sticker on your tongue, and he thrusts in you harder, tweaking at your clit as he does. Your body seizes and you melt into a fit of moans and grunts, and you finally cum, Logan fucking you through it. “Yeah baby, just like that. Kneel for me,” he says, pulling out of you. You lay up off the desk and fall promptly to your knees, watching him jerk himself to orgasm above you with your tongue out, gold star on the middle of your tongue. He grunts with deep Fuck! before warm ropes of cum spray your partially sticker-covered face and tongue. Your eyes close and you hum, relishing in the warmth. Logan wipes the cum from your eyes with his thumb and sticks it in your mouth, and you suck, no questions asked. “Good fucking girl.” 

The moments following are awkward. Logan tucks himself back in his pants, and pulls his jeans up and you’re left laying on the floor, coming down from your ecstasy high. The zip of his jeans breaks the silence and you’re looking up at him, soiled with cum, spit, stickers, tears and mascara. He walks to his bar cart and grabs the cloth hanging off the handle bar, and he hands it to you. You clean yourself up, and when you’re done you find his cardigan in his hands. You fix your tank top back over your breasts and pull the crotch of your panties back into place before grabbing it from him. “Thanks,” you say quietly. “See you in class on Tuesday,” is the last thing he says to you before you leave his office. Stunned.

On Tuesday, he hands you back your test with a new grade, an eighty, and gold sticker placed on it right next to the new grade. He glances at you as you look over your test, and smirks. You read the note he left in red ink on the back of the test, heart beating a little faster once you look back up at him. Good girl. 

send me an ask!

[coyoteprince]

In regards to US politics; It's always been about eugenics.

I've already survived the threat of death for being autistic + disabled. This is not a time of being paralyzed and hoping for the best, but of action before your disabled peers are killed. We are witnessing an attempt at a coup and I believe genocide.

Eugenics have always been around in the US government pretty much, but there has been a big push in recent years. I watched with hope during Covid that we- disabled people- would be taken more seriously.

Yeah, no, they want us dead more than ever. Disabled, trans, gay, poc, poor, non-Christian.

I genuinely have hope. I genuinely believe we can outlive this oppression. But I want people to notice the beginnings of eugenic cleansing before it gets worse.

Call/email your reps. Throw money- even just $3- toward a rando in need. Rest when you can. And if you're an abled punk-

Take a risk.

[wholemeallbread]

... TOXIC BOYFRIENDS AND EXES / ꩜

with ... nagi seishiro, itoshi rin, isagi yoichi x gn!reader

warnings ... cheating (rin), fem love interest (rin), lying (rin, isagi), parental issues-ish (isagi), nagi is just a bum (nagi), tiny emotional manipulation (isagi)

part one reo, sae, oliver

"SHE'S JUST A FRIEND" ꩜ ITOSHI RIN

you've known for quite a while that rin has had a... worrying childhood, to say the least. you're also aware that someone else has been his guiding light through his early teens, but is now long gone in the past. or that's what you thought. rin has been silent after hearing the news that his childhood "friend" recently moved back into town, but it's obvious that something else is going on.

especially when he's been visiting a certain house multiple times per week without telling you.

you've been aware of it for longer than he thinks. the moment you texted him "where are you?" instead of asking him to come home, he switched off sharing his location for good. he'll tell you he's just on a jog, but he's said it himself that he doesn't like bringing his phone because its too heavy. it becomes obvious when she starts coming to his games, waving and catching all of his attention while wearing one of his jerseys. you would know, because you accidentally stained one of them when you wore it.

even worse when his own brother that was miles away texted you, asking if you and rin were together. how did he even get your number? and why did rin not tell him you were already years deep into a relationship? oh, rin said he's stuck between the person he loves and the person he trusts? well, that shouldn't really be a question, should it? he should love and trust you, why is there somebody else that he could "pick"?

the break up was mutual. you could tell he was upset about it, but not as much as you, and you wonder why... maybe it's because he ended up in a relationship with said childhood friend only days later. you don't mean to pry in their business, but it's hard not to when you realise everywhere they go together, you've been with him before. this time, he's holding her hand, he's not hiding from the camera, he's smiling. rin has never smiled for you before. it hurts, it really hurts, but you're glad he didn't let things drag on. at least there's something left for you in his heart.

if he didn't love you in the first place, he should've just let you know from the beginning. it seems like you were some sort of test subject for his future.

BABY SYNDROME ꩜ NAGI SEISHIRO

nagi always puts in the bare minimum. you figured "maybe he puts in more effort for things he's passionate about?". well, one certainly is football; all of a sudden he has enough stamina to run a marathon and actually use his strength. since you're dating, he's passionate about you too, right?

keep lying to yourself. it's always you reaching out first, it's always you having to go to his house, it's always you waiting outside of his classrooms. on more than one occasion have you called him, been ignored under the thesis of "i'm too tired to talk, maybe tomorrow." and then being left on delivered for the next twenty four hours. and the cycle repeats over, and over, and over again. the last thing you wanted to end up being was a second reo (sorry to him, he's a lost cause) but when you're having to put his socks on for him like a toddler, unwillingly after he begs for help, that's where you draw the line. he's not a grandpa, and he's not sore. why would he need help?

it was unsurprisingly easy to break up with him. he let you go with ease, and it's not like he was going to argue to make him stay. one less person makes one less hassle, right? afterwards, it's inconvenience after inconvenience for him. now nobody wakes him up in the morning, or helps him with his missing homework, or does all of the work on group assignments so he can go "train". who's going to cook for him now? because it's not you or reo, and ordering takeaway is too much work.

nagi texted you to ask to get back together. you asked why. he said "it makes both of our lives easier". hell no.

MAMA'S BOY ꩜ ISAGI YOICHI

isagi is such a good boyfriend. honestly, you wouldn't be surprised if he was the one you ended up marrying. he's sweet, his parents are sweet, everything was perfect. was perfect.

you don't know where or when you messed up, but isagi's mom doesn't seem to like you that much anymore. was it how you got awkward and didn't know how to respond? no, usually his dad helps you through conversations. were you a bad influence? no, surely not. isagi knows his own standards, and sometimes his attitude is worse than yours.

nowadays, isagi looks a bit nervous when you ask to come over. your usual routine together was completely disrupted. you can tell he's subtly avoiding you or keeping conversations brief. he doesn't even hold your hand when you're walking around school anymore. this man willingly used to sprint from your period to the other side of the school just to make sure you got to your class safely, and now, nothing. and why is he wiping his hands with disgust when he's the one sweating buckets? he would've apologised if it was his fault, so it's something to do with you.

"hey, so... my mom doesn't want us together..." well, excuse you? he's stuttering, trying to come up with excuses, but you don't even want to hear them. having your healthy relationship broken up by his mom? and what if you married him hypothetically? would he willingly divorce if his mom said to do it? you know he still loves you, judging from his longing glances and half smiles in your direction. you know it wasn't completely his decision. but if he really loved you, then creating a barrier between the two of you when she wasn't even around didn't make sense at all. he would risk his life for you, but not disobey her loose commands.

on some random important day, valentines or whatever, he tries to ask you out. he wants to "start over". can you even be angry when he looks so remorseful? coupled with flowers, your favourite sweet treats and everything... oh, you swear you can see tears in his eyes. maybe you'll think about it.

[dreamingdormouse]

Back when Mr. Dormouse was in the Navy, he was for a couple years assigned to Pearl Harbor, as a nuclear mechanic on the submarine engines. (My husband is one of the most brilliant people I know, by the way, that's a very difficult job to get. But also it's hard work, long hours, lots of stress, and not very good pay.)

Shortly before I arrived to join him, his gross-motor twitches became more pronounced. They'd started when he was in training, and gotten stronger over time. He would be thinking about something or working on something, and abruptly his arm would flail out to the side, or his leg would kick like you'd found the right spot to tap with the little reflex hammer.

This was not as dangerous as Gallus's Dad without his glasses and with a gun, but still rather hazardous, as Mr. Dormouse quite often had a wrench in his hand, which was wont to go flying if his arm jerked!

His coworkers teased him about it in the friendly/mean way that is common in the military. He began the process of getting it checked out - the military, for all its flaws, has/had an amazing health care system.

The docs on base ended up deciding that

1) It's not Tourette's (which can manifest physically as well as the more well-known version of accidental cussing)

2) It's very similar, though, but, uh... not actually any of the things in our textbook?

3) Stress makes it worse

4) Sorry, Chief Petty Officer Dormouse, there's nothing else we can do for you

5) But you really shouldn't be in the military anymore

Well that was helpful.

Worse, commanding officers didn't care. Wouldn't hear of discharging him early. On the plus side, the submarine he was assigned to was in drydock for a year or more of preventative maintenance (if it was a car, it would've had an oil change, tires rotated, rust inspection, emissions test, the works), so at least he wasn't underwater like that, on multi-week trips, in a crowded environment 24/7.

The other engineer/mechanics around him knew he wanted to get a medical discharge. They began to joke that they should assign him to stand close to the officers, carrying a knife. Not in a threatening manner, oh no! Just as a tool. It wouldn't be anyone's fault if he just... twitched. And maybe then the officers would get the idea that this guy shouldn't be in the military?

Eventually somebody with some ability to sign papers decided to do so, and Mr. Dormouse was assigned to the equivalent of garden duty - a stint in the quartermaster's office. It took another 6-9 months before he got his discharge, because there wasn't a form for "IDK, I think it's Tourette's-adjacent, should we do another brain scan?" like there is for myopia or a heart murmur.

But at last he got out of the Navy and went to college for nuclear engineering, and it's been more than a decade. Not being in the military took away a lot of the stress, so these days he barely twitches at all. Sometimes it just looks like a full body shiver, and it happens a lot less frequently.

He does tell me that it is quite traditional to get stuck with the pin when a medal is being awarded, so it's possible that Captain Redacted lightly stabbed Gallus's Dad on purpose and as per custom. But it also might've been the whiskey. 🥴

The Hummingbird

The Story of my Father’s Very Brief military career.

Content Warnings: Military, guns, hummingbirds, Profanity, Lots of Profanity, spectacular incompotence, catholicism mention, alcohol mention.

As usual, all names have been changed or redacted to protect people’s privacy.

In the fall of 1969, my Dad was hit by a car and suffered a serious concussion, causing him to miss midterms and put his grade in a hole he wouldn’t be able to recover from, as this was the days before a lot of professorial accountability.  Like a sensible person, he decided to Withdraw for the semester and focus on recovering and maybe take a part-time job to pay for spring tuition, because you could do that back then.

“Son,” My grandfather asked, sitting on the couch with Dad shortly after he was discharged from the hospital. “What about your college deferment? I’m worried about you getting drafted.”

“Dad,” Dad said, filling in job applications. “I’m legally blind without my glasses!  I’d be a danger to anyone around me with a gun.  Even if I get drafted there’s no way in hell I’d pass the medical exam.”

“Don’t swear in my house.” Said Grandpa, under the entirely mistaken impression that the US Military was run with any sort of competence.

Literally a week later my Dad’s draft papers came in, and he reported to his local draft board, driver’s license and doctor’s note in hand to prove He Is Legally Blind Without His Glasses, only to be waved through without so much as a sideways glance by anyone resembling a doctor.

“They must be desperate.”  My dad concluded when he got home that night to pack.

The news was devastating to the family, as both his parents had siblings to WWII.  Grandpa was ready to beg, bribe and otherwise compromise his intensely catholic morals to get Dad out, and Grandma prayed to any available saint that would save her son from the fate of her brothers.  She had quite the collection of saints in her sewing room, some forty figurines and dozens more candles and images, along with some stained glass she’d made herself of saints, landscapes and animals, including a large hummingbird that lived on the sewing room window since they’d moved into the house.

Dad pleaded with them to not do anything they’d regret, and returned to the base for basic training.

Dad’s drill sergeant was a man whose real name was “Ross” but insisted on being called “Bulldog” or “SIR!” by everyone depending on rank.  Dad supposed this might have been a defense mechanism as Bulldog had an intensely jowled and acne-scarred face that did greatly resemble a fighting dog well past their prime.  The image was not helped by the fact that he was constantly smoking rose-flavored tobacco in a pipe that had seen better centuries, and consequently smelled like a terrible combination of trailer park and the women’s perfume counter at Macy’s.

Bulldog was also… not great about following protocol, which is a terrible failing in a Drill sergeant, but Dad supposed at that point in the war Bulldog had become horribly depressed by the sheer numbers of young men he was sending to their deaths and had kind of stopped giving a fuck about their safety and his own.

Which lead to an incident about three weeks into Dad’s training camp when in the middle of a Weapons Qualification lesson, Bulldog pulled Dad’s glasses off and bellowed “YOU WON’T HAVE THOSE COKE BOTTLES WHEN THOSE [incorrect slurs, because there’s no such thing as an informed bigot] BLAST YOUR ASS TO KINGDOM COME.” before stomping off to go change the paper targets, leaving Dad standing there with an M-1, squinting in what he hoped was the general direction of the targets.

To give you an idea of HOW bad my dad’s vision is, I once asked him at what distance things got blurry, and he responded by taking off his glasses, putting his hand up to his face, and slowly moving it back.  He stopped about eight inches from his face and nodded.  

“So I can see my hand from here but I can’t distinguish my fingers.  I think that green blob over there is your mother.”

“I’m in the living room.” called mom. “You’re looking at the blender.”

So it should come as no surprise that as soon as Dad heard someone shouting “Ready! Aim! Fire!” He did precisely that.

Hummingbirds are often mistakenly characterized as Delicate Little Rainbows that are a gift Direct from Heaven when the truth is they’re really Vicious Little Bastards thrown out of Hell for being too Nasty.  

You would be too if you could eat nothing but frappuccinos and the occasional chicken nugget, everything around you was at least the size of a pickup truck and regarded you as a tasty snack, and you were forced to defend your fridge from not only equally vicious rivals but goddamn insects that are bigger than you are.  

Being a hummingbird is awful under normal circumstances, and now there are maniacs with loud machines and projecties as big as you are stomping around and yelling and well-

At that exact moment, one of the nesting hummingbirds, having grown progressively more exasperated with the activity on the base, dive-bombed my father, hurling it’s tiny body directly into his ear and slicing the lobe up, and making him jerk slightly as he fired.

He missed Sergeant Bulldog by mere inches. Dad still isn’t sure if the Hummingbird caused him to miss or put him closer to accidental manslaughter, but it mattered little as Bulldog grabbed him by the head, shrieking in spittle-flying fury-

“ARE YOU FUCKING BLIND?”  He roared.

“YES!!” screamed my father, also hysterical. “SIR THAT’S WHAT THOSE ‘COKE BOTTLES’ ARE FOR SIR!”

Bulldog stopped, suddenly and uncomfortably confronted with the nature of causality.  He only let it stymie him for a moment.  “GET YOUR IDIOT ASS TO THE MEDIC, I’LL DEAL WITH YOU LATER!”

At the medical center, an extremely befuddled doctor dilated Dad’s eyes, took pictures because Dad had the worst case of myopia he’d ever seen and wanted to put him in a medical journal, and asked him:

“What the HELL are you doing here?”

“Very nearly shooting people sir.”

“Well, we can’t have you shooting people while you’re in the army!  I’ll get your medical discharge started.”

Dad decided not to comment on that statement, thanked the doctor, and wandered blindly back to his bunk.

It took them a full thirty days to process Dad’s discharge, perhaps largely due to the fact that actually FINDING the captain was a task for hercules- The man had an almost phobic aversion to his office and a tremendous love of whiskey so actually locating the man and early enough in the day that he was still sober enough to sign anything was a race against time and a battle against the wits of a man determined to get out of work, which is when humanity is at its peak intelligence.

In the meantime, it simply wouldn’t do to let dad bike the five miles back to his home and come back for the paperwork, nor let him sit quietly and not accidentally maim anyone, so he was put on garden duty.  

Supervised by recently-suspended-from-instruction Sergeant “Bulldog” Ross.

By the second day Bulldog had mostly run out of steam, perhaps out of a sense of really, whose fault was that? So He would mostly stand in Dad’s general vicinity, waxing philosophical on the nature of war, government and whatever else he could be crotchety about that day while continuously smoking his rose-flavored tobacco in his pipe.  Dad planted a frankly absurd number of flowers, trying to make a planted display that would spell out the name of the base in eight-foot letters, just in case someone has managed to miss all 824,594,359 signs beforehand.

On day five, perhaps attracted by the bright colors or the stench of artificial rose, the Hummingbirds found the new garden.

At first, it was timid little trips to the edge farthest from Dad and Bulldog, testing this new territory for both risk and bounty, but upon finding it full of sugary goodness, they became bold, getting closer and closer to Dad, zipping in as soon as he got up to get the next flat of flowers, then not waiting for him to finish planting them before they were up in his face, squeaking angrily for him to get out of the way of their lunch.

One male objected to Dad and Bulldog’s presence particularly strongly, dive-bombing and buzzing angrily at them, an ounce and a half of glittery impotent rage.  After a month, he’d gotten quite aggressive, and one day flew directly up to Bulldog’s face to chitter curses at him eye-to-eye, only for Bulldog to take out his pipe and blow a cloud of smoke at him, laughing as the bird tumbled over backwards in midair.

Agitated with the sudden noxious cloud, or perhaps merely a violent psychopath in its own right, the bird flew back, then straight up into the air for a good fifty feet before going into a dive, aimed directly at Bulldog’s face.

Dad doesn’t recall actually moving, only a sense that he ought to do something, and launched himself out of the dirt, arms outstretched to clap and force it off course-

“SHIT! What the hell was that for?”  Demanded Bulldog.

“Well, the hummingbird looked like it was going to attack you, Sir.  So I stopped it.”

“How noble.  What are you standing there like an idiot for?”

“…I think I caught it sir.”  Said Dad, staring at the tiny bill poking out from between his gloves.  The two of them leaned in close as dad very slowly opened his gloves and peered inside.

The hummingbird immediately forced it’s tiny head out to peep furious profanities at them both.

“How is it,”  Bulldog wondered aloud as the hummer continued to curse the both of them for the next seven generations. “That you can’t see to hit the broad side of a barn but can pull a shitty little bird right out of the air?”

“I’m wearing my glasses, Sir.”

Bulldog looked up at him, glaring with such intensity his face ceased to be a face at all and transformed into a dali-esque collection of wrinkles.

“Fuck you. Now go take that damn thing to the other side of the base so it doesn’t come back.”

“Yes sir.”  Dad nodded, nearly saluting out of reflex before remembering that he was holding a live and very angry bird.  It took him several hours to get to the other side of the base, with literally everyone stopping to ask him what the hell he was doing, well I have this bird sir and I was told to release it on the other side of the base- how in hell did your blind ass catch a hummingbird, well I had my glasses on- Fuck you, go ditch that thing already.

At three o'clock on the dot the very next morning, two MPs woke up my dad and told him he needed to report to the front office right away, no time to get dressed, right away right now.

They marched him directly to the main office, barefoot and in his Pajamas to be greeted by not only Sergeant “Bulldog” ross, but nearly every officer on the base, including the lieutenant and the Captain, all of whom were… attempting to stand at attention with varying degrees of success, most weaving slightly, some snorting with poorly-concealed laughter, and the entire room reeking of booze.

“GENTLEMEN!”  hiccuped the lieutenant, before shaking himself and continuing, “WE ARE GATHERED HERE TODAY TO HONOR OUR ‘COMRADE’ -snort, giggle- IN ARMS -louder derisive laughter- FOR HIS BRAVERY AND SERVICE IN THE FACE OF EXTREME DANGER-”

“IN THE BEAK OF EXTREME DANGER!” Howled one of the assembled officers.  

“-AND FOR HIS SERVICE IN DEFENDING AN OFFICER OF THE UNITED STATES ARMY.  I AM ~SO~ PLEASED THAT WE HAVE CAPTAIN [REDACTED] HERE WITH US TO PRESENT THIS MEDAL.”

He turned to the Captain, who took out a small box and motioned Dad forward.  Upon closer inspection, it turned out to be a chocolate box from See’s Candies.

“[REDACTED], in honor of your brave and frankly improbable service in the defense of Euge- sorry, Sergeant Ross, and the capture of a dangerous wild animal, we award you this medal-  The Flying Purple Bastard.”

He opened the chocolate box to reveal this*:

(Image Description: A piece of cardboard cut out approximately in the silhouette of a hummingbird, by someone with only a passing familiarity with what hummingbirds look like.  The cardboard has been haphazardly covered in tinfoil and cartoon eyes drawn on.  It’s attached to a scrap of ribbon and a safety Pin.)

Which was then pinned crookedly to Dad’s nightshirt, after accidentally stabbing him a bit, saluted him as someone attempted to play the bugle but made a rather melodious farting noise instead, then slapped Dad in the face with a manilla folder full of papers and shouted. “DISMISSED!”

“Dismissed, sir?”

“Those are your discharge papers.” Said Bulldog. “Get the fuck out of here.”

“Yes, Sir!”

At which point Dad biked home in the rain, and thus ends my father’s military career.

*Pictured here is actually The Flying Purple Bastard 2.0, as the original was destroyed when partially eaten and fully regurgitated by one of the cats.

If you’ve enjoyed this story, please consider donating to my Ko-Fi or Paypal, as due to health concerns, telling funny stories on the internet is my ONLY means of income.  Thank you!

[that-weird-thing-in-the-woods]

~{ Sup soo not much to explain but enjoy! }~

•The Bone Queen•

The JL [+ JLD] have been invited to one of the most important event in the afterlife.

The Winter Solstice Ball.

It’s a event that last 7 days and 6 nights and is hosted by The Bone Queen and their children and it is almost impossible to get invited as a Non-Ecto being, it was believed to be impossible but with the scroll in Superman’s hand has proved them wrong.

And this could be a chance to atone for the…Ecto Acts, that was a whole mess to deal with, entirety of the JLD had a heart attack at what they were hearing and it was handled so they didn’t end up in war with what was holding the multiverse together and could kill all of them if they felt like it.

But thankfully The Bone Queen and their children was able to calm down their (Grand)Father from starting war on their dimension and killing them all so for them to receive an invite is astonishing in of itself so they can’t mess is up and make a good impression on the Bone Queen and hopefully they will be able to get the favor of the Wrathful Prince and Mysterious Princess to make a peace treaty with The Bone Queen and The Ghost King.

-•—••••••••••••••••—•-

After two years of Danny being Phantom, his parents found out and they sold him out to the GIW for “Taking their son” and after a couple months of Danny being stuck with them, clockwork was able to get him out.

But with his responsibilities he won’t be able to take care of Danny so he wakes up his husband[they never actually got divorced before Pariah went crazy] and does something about said crazy and catches him up to what happened and that he got his ass beat by the very hurt child ghost.

So Pariah Dark starts to take care of him and over this time they grow close and become like father and son and everything chill with Danny healing up nicely and becoming the Bone Queen [ The Bone Queen/Bone King is the title of the winner of a fight with the Ghost King who doesn’t want to be the Ghost King ].

Until Dani and Dan [Who was shoved into a clone body] hurt worse then Danny was and on the verge of full disappearing and actively melting so they have to put their cores into Danny to heal them up.

And after Dani and Dan [Dawn and Dusk] are reborn and safe and healed up, Parish Dark decides to give their home dimension some justice and that’s how we got here.

-•—••••••••••••••••—•-

•Danny’s Appearance•

•Dawn’s Appearance•

•Dusk’s Appearance•

~{ and that’s it! Hope you gremlins like it byeeeee }~



[scary-grace]

Bloody Valentine - a Shigaraki x f!Reader fic

When you get to school on Valentine's Day, your biggest worry is how you're going to give chocolate to your lab partner and crush, Shigaraki Tomura, without him knowing that it was you, and when it all goes wrong, you can't imagine how your day could possibly get worse. But when a plague of zombies erupts within the halls of UA High and the evacuation leaves you behind, you find yourself trapped with Shigaraki, both of you left behind. You've been forgotten. There's no help coming. Forget being each other's valentines - now you're each other's only chance to get out of this alive. (cross-posted to Ao3) dividers by @kodaswrld

Chapter 1

You slink through the aisles at the convenience store, blinking sleep out of your eyes and wishing you’d gone to bed earlier last night. You knew what kind of day today was going to be, because it’s the same kind of day you have every day – busy. Rehearsal in the morning, before school starts, team practice as soon as the final bell rings, and in between, the heaviest class schedule it’s possible to take while still reserving at least a few hours to sleep. You should have gone to bed earlier. A lot earlier.

But you didn’t, because you never do, and now you’re here, buying Valentine’s Day chocolate on five hours of sleep. You know you should have made the chocolates by hand, like you did for your friends. It’s something you’re going to have to explain, if the person you’re planning to give the convenience-store chocolate to figures out it’s from you and asks why you cheaped out on him. You’ll have to think of something to say. In the meantime, you pick out the package with the least-ostentatious wrapping and the fewest fruit flavors and make your way to the cash register.

You aren’t the only person in line who waited until the last minute. The woman in front of you is balancing a tower of boxes of the most expensive chocolate the convenience store offers, and the girl behind you in a middle-school uniform is holding a tiny box with an enormous bow on top of it. The cashier’s a woman, too. She doesn’t question the woman ahead of you in line, but when you step up to pay, she looks you up and down with a sly smile on her face. “Who’s this for?”

Your face burns red. You haven’t admitted this out loud to anybody yet, but you have to start somewhere. “My lab partner.”

She chuckles and checks you out, and you wander off to one side, trying to store your loose change and hide the chocolate in your backpack at the same time. You overhear the conversation the cashier has with the middle-schooler. “Sorry. You don’t have quite enough for that one.”

“But it’s the smallest one!” the girl protests. She’s barely old enough to be in middle-school – not more than thirteen. “I looked at the price –”

“Sales tax,” the cashier says. You wince. “Go on. There are people waiting behind you.”

You hear the girl sniffle, and you still haven’t stored your change. You step back up to the counter and slide the coins across it, back to the cashier. “That’s enough, right?”

The cashier nods. You pick up the small box and hand it back to the girl, ushering her outside into a cold, mostly-dark February morning. “Thanks,” she says to you, but her mouth’s still turned down. “He’s my best friend, but all the girls like him – he’s going to get so much and mine’s so small –”

“Write something to go with it,” you suggest. “If you put a note on it it’ll at least look different from the others.”

“Is that what you’re going to do?”

You’re going to stealth-mode the chocolate into his locker and hope he guesses it’s from you – or at least hope that he doesn’t think it’s from somebody else. But you haven’t put much thought into it, and this girl’s best friend is probably a far cry from your lab partner, who’s capable of exuding an aura so grumpy and malevolent that first-years have been known to leave the building to get away from him. “Yeah,” you say, feeling only a little guilty. “Good luck with yours.”

“You, too,” she says. She heads for the metro stop; you store your chocolate away at long last, wrap your scarf a little more tightly around your neck, and start the walk to school.

UA High isn’t for everybody. It’s academically rigorous, to the point where the kids taking remedial classes there could still run circles around the advanced students from any other school, and it’s got so many class and extracurricular offerings that it could almost pass for a university. It’s prestigious to the max, and it’s also really expensive. Students who go there come from rich families, or else they’re on scholarship, their grades and participation reviewed at the end of every term to see if the scholarship will be renewed.

Nobody ever comes out and says which one they are, but it’s pretty easy to tell. Rich kids have class schedules that wouldn’t be out of place at a normal high school. Scholarship kids have schedules like yours. A schedule which begins bright and early at seven am with rehearsal for the school play. This year, it’s Romeo and Juliet, performed pop-opera style – next to no spoken dialogue, almost every piece of dialogue sung. The drama club doesn’t have enough good singers to make it work, so they pressed the choir into service. That’s where you come in. You’re not a good actor or the best singer, but your voice isn’t objectionable and you don’t make a lot of mistakes. That’s enough to earn you a part in the chorus.

And enough to make you an understudy – and the girl who plays Juliet is out sick, which means you’re stuck holding hands with Amajiki Tamaki as the director tries for the billionth time to coax some life into his performance. “Come on, Amajiki! This is a girl you’re holding hands with. The most beautiful girl in the world.”

Amajiki frowns. “I thought Rosalind was the most beautiful girl in the world.”

“That was last week,” Yamada-sensei says. You try not to laugh. “This week it’s all about Juliet, and unlike Rosalind, Juliet likes you. Get hyped! Okay, let’s take it from the top –”

Yaoyorozu starts playing the introductory notes of the song. Amajiki looks directly down at your joined hands and starts singing to them. “If I profane with my unworthiest hand this holy shrine, the gentle sin is this: My lips, two blushing pilgrims ready stand, to smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss –”

He’s on-key, which is a big deal for drama club kids, but just as wooden as ever. Off to one side, you see Yamada-sensei shaking his head. “Good pilgrim, you do wrong your hand too much,” you sing. Your performance is probably at least as wooden as Amajiki’s, but you’re not supposed to be here, anyway. “Which mannerly devotion shows in this; for saints have hands which pilgrims’ hands do touch, and palm to palm is holy palmers’ kiss.”

“Cut,” Yamada-sensei announces. “You’re killing me, Amajiki. Look at her for a second while you’re singing it. Chemistry is all about eye contact.”

“They don’t have chemistry,” Monoma, who plays Tybalt, announces from off to the side. “He and Kenranzaki have chemistry.”

That chemistry is probably the result of Amajiki being terrified of Kenranzaki, just like every other guy at school, but at least some sparks are flying onstage when they’re together. You’re not even sure how Amajiki ended up in the play when he’s got the worst case of stage fright you’ve ever seen. His hands are really sweaty. “Pretend it’s not me,” you suggest. “Pretend I’m the person you like, if you like anybody.”

“There’s an idea,” Yamada-sensei says. Amajiki’s face turns bright red. “Ooh, there it is! We’ve got something. Let’s move.”

“You have to do it too,” Amajiki says to you. “Pretend I’m someone you like. If you like anybody.”

“Fine,” you say. If Amajiki gets a good run-through, you get to go wash your hands. The piano playing starts, and you give it your best shot.

Your plan was to picture an actor, somebody cute but distant, but instead your lab partner pops into your head. Your face goes instantly flushed, probably even more obviously than Amajiki’s, because if you confessed your feelings to Shigaraki Tomura by singing them, he’d laugh you out of the school. If he were the one standing across from you right now, you’d be cringing in despair, knowing for a fact you’d already blown your chances, trying to enjoy the few seconds of holding his hands you got before he yanked them away. You definitely wouldn’t feel like singing about it.

Still, you get through your first lines, and manage to hold Amajiki’s gaze during his response. Saints and palmers have lips, et cetera – and then it’s your turn. “Ay, pilgrim, lips that they must use in prayer –”

“O then, dear saint, let lips do what hands do,” Amajiki says. His eye contact is a little too direct, a lot too earnest. Now you’re really uncomfortable. “They pray: grant thou, lest faith turn to despair.”

“Okay, that’s good enough for now. We don’t want Romeo to faint,” Yamada-sensei says. “That was a lot better, Amajiki. I could tell you were feeling – something. Go get some water. And you –”

He points at you. You cringe. “Stay put,” Yamada-san instructs. “Count Paris, you’re up. We’ve got some back and forth we need to run.”

Tetsutetsu, the first-year who plays Paris, hops up from his seat and comes to stand on the makeshift stage. All you can do is hope his hands aren’t too sweaty.

You stagger out of the rehearsal space at eight-thirty, desperate for a place to wash your hands, and Nejire, who was waiting for you outside, follows you into the bathroom. “I got a Snapchat,” she sings out, brandishing her phone while you run water over your hands. “You and Amajiki sound so good!”

Your heart sinks. “Somebody filmed it?”

“Just on Snapchat! It’s not a story or anything,” Nejire says. “Amajiki’s so cute when he’s blushing!”

“He looks like he wants to die,” you mumble. “How did he end up in the play, anyway?”

“He failed English last term.” Nejire lowers her voice. Amajiki’s a scholarship student, just like you, and you know what failing a class means. “Yamada-sensei convinced the principal not to kick him out as long as he made it up somehow, and since he can sing, being in the play is the best way.”

If it came down to being kicked out of UA or doing some extracurricular activity you really hated, you’d pick the latter without blinking. Nejire replays the Snapchat again while you dry your hands. “How come you were up there? I thought Kenranzaki was the lead?”

“She is,” you say. “She wasn’t here this morning. It was weird – she never misses rehearsals, and she didn’t even text.”

“People were missing from dance practice, too,” Nejire says, frowning. “Kodai and Hagakure didn’t text, either.”

“Maybe something’s going around,” you say. Whatever it is, you hope you don’t get it. You have too much to do. You dry your hands and straighten up. “Come on. I brought you chocolate and I don’t want to give it to you in the bathroom.”

Nejire has chocolate for you, too. She bought chocolate rather than made it, and because she’s not on scholarship, she can afford the really good stuff. You feel awkward handing over your homemade chocolates, but Nejire exclaims over them anyway. You know she’s sincere, because she can’t fake anything for more than a few seconds. “I bet we’re giving them to all the same people,” she says, beaming. “We still have a few minutes. Let’s go hand them out together!”

Your homemade chocolates look like nothing compared to Nejire’s expensive ones, but you’re not friends with your friends for no reason. They compliment Nejire’s generosity and your hard work, and hand chocolate back to you with enthusiasm. You manage to pass your chocolates out to three of your friends before homeroom – Keiko, Saki, and Hinata, girls you’ve known since your first day. The rest you’ll have to get on the run.

Other than homeroom, most of UA High’s classes are sorted by ability rather than by year, which means you’ve had the chance to make friends with second-years and first-years, too. Kyoka is a first-year, but she stands next to you in first-period chorus, so you’ve talked to her almost every day since the start of the year. She gets a box of chocolates. So does Camie in second period advanced calculus, even though she thinks you’re sort of boring and you think she’s kind of an airhead. You helped each other study for your final exams last term. You owe her.

You don’t sit next to any of your friends in third-period English class, but someone in that class is on the climbing team with you. You aren’t close enough to give him chocolate, but you’re friendly enough to say good morning. Spinner returns your greeting, but he’s looking apprehensively at your gear bag. “Wait, were we top-roping today? I forgot all my shit.”

“Coach will probably change it to bouldering if you ask her,” you say. Spinner’s the best climber on the team by a mile, but he’s not the most motivated, and Coach Usagiyama will do just about anything to keep him interested. “If not, I’ve got a spare harness in here.”

“Thanks.” Spinner breathes a sigh of relief. Or yawns. “If it wasn’t movie day in here I’d be screwed. I need a nap.”

“Same,” you admit. “Do you know which –”

“Ladies and those of you who are not ladies, take your seats!” Yamada-sensei booms as he slams the door of the classroom shut behind him, and you scurry back to your seat. Yamada-sensei skids in for a landing in front of the blackboard and switches to English. “I only have one question for you this fine movie day – rom-com or action?”

You vote action, and so does Spinner, but it’s Valentine’s Day and advanced English is mostly girls, so of course you lose. As the vote’s happening, though, you realize just how many people are missing from class today. Kenranzaki from the drama club, two people from Nejire’s dance team, and at least three from English class. Something must be going around. As the bell rings to signal the end of the class period, a terrible thought occurs to you. So many people are absent. What if Shigaraki’s absent, too?

Spinner would know. They’re friends. You stop by his desk as he’s waking up from his nap. “Hey,” you start, “do you know if Shigaraki’s here today? We’re starting a new experiment in chem lab, and –”

“He’s here. I saw him this morning,” Spinner says. “He’s probably going to be late, though. He’s late to everything.”

That gives you time to drop the chocolate on his desk, if you hurry. The thought makes you nervous. Spinner notices. “Hey, don’t worry. I’ll text him and tell him to hurry up.”

“No, don’t –” you start, but Spinner’s already got his phone out. You’re running out of time. You mumble an insincere thank-you to Spinner and book it to the lab, trying not to think about how Shigaraki will respond to the idea of you – you, through Spinner – bossing him around.

You get to chem lab first, ahead of everyone – all your classmates and Sasaki-sensei, too. You tuck your belongings under the bench you share with Shigaraki, pull the chocolate out of your backpack, and set it down on his side of the bench. Done. Your heart is racing, and he’s not even here yet – and once he does, he won’t even know it’s from you. Your high school experience hasn’t been a dream by any means, but this might just be the worst thing that’s ever happened to you.

It would be different if you had a crush on a nice guy, but Shigaraki Tomura isn’t a nice guy. He’s older than you, courtesy of being held back a year sometime in middle school, and while he has friends, every last one of them except Spinner has a reputation just like his. When you were paired up with him for chem lab at the beginning of the year, most people felt sorry for you, and they said so. But you were determined to make the best of it, not to get off on the wrong foot, and so you were friendly. It took two months for him to start being friendly back. For a given value of friendly.

He makes fun of you for being such an overachiever, such a perfectionist – but never for being here on scholarship. The first time he complimented you, it was vague and almost backhanded, but it had your heart racing for the rest of the period. When you finally swapped phone numbers, it took you three days to work up the courage to text him first. Sometimes Shigaraki leaves you hanging, but if you catch him at the right moment – usually at night, when both of you should be sleeping – you can draw him into a conversation. And he’s different than anybody else you know.

You know you’re a cliché, the stereotype of a good girl with a crush on the dictionary definition of a bad guy. But you don’t think that’s why you like him. You just – like him. And you remember something he said a while ago, when the two of you were complaining about couples hanging out in the hallways and blocking you from getting your shoes back, and he mentioned something about Valentine’s Day being even worse – everybody and their cat gets chocolate, and I just have to look at it. You read between the lines. The idea of bringing him chocolate was in your head way before you admitted you had a crush.

Your classmates trickle into the lab slowly, and once again, you register that there aren’t as many as usual. More than a few benches have an empty seat at one side, but Sasaki-sensei arrives thirty seconds before the bell rings, as usual, and starts taking attendance before the final notes ring out. He has the strictest attendance policy in school, and you watch the door anxiously out of the corner of your eye as you organize your pre-work for today’s lab. Acid-base titration. It should be an easy experiment to run, but not if you’re running it alone.

But you won’t be. A shadow darkens the doorway, then falls across your bench, and Shigaraki Tomura drops down in his seat next to you just as Sasaki-sensei calls his name. He doesn’t hear Sasaki-sensei, though – he has headphones in. You elbow him and he yanks them out, just in time for Sasaki-sensei to repeat himself. “Shigaraki Tomura?”

Shigaraki half-heartedly raises one hand, then lets it drop. Sasaki-sensei addresses the class, all business. “I see multiple absences today. If your partner is missing, pair up with someone whose partner is also missing. As usual, you will not be allowed to begin the experiment until I confirm the completion of your prework, and if you run out of time to complete the lab, you will receive no credit for the day.”

The familiar anxious shooting pains lance through your fingers. You can be as prepared as it’s possible to be, and Sasaki-sensei’s reminder of just how willing he is to fail you always scares you. Next to you, Shigaraki pulls a few crumpled pieces of paper out of his backpack, muttering under his breath. “Half the school’s out sick. He can’t cut us a break?”

You move your papers alongside Shigaraki’s, sorting them to make it easier for Sasaki-sensei to see that you’re both done, and take a risk. “I’m glad you made it.”

“Yeah, I figured. Spinner texted me,” Shigaraki says. You cringe. “This lab’s so scary you can’t do it alone?”

“I could do it alone,” you say, stung. It’s the kind of thing he usually says with a teasing note in his voice, but instead he’s strangely flat. He’s not looking at you. “It’s just weird, with so many people out. Did all your friends make it in today?”

“Everybody but Twice,” Shigaraki says. “He can’t shut up when he’s sick, usually – we all get a newsflash every time his body does something disgusting – but this time he hasn’t said a word.”

Kenranzaki didn’t, either. Neither did the girls who were missing from dance team practice. Shigaraki glances at you. “Is that really all it takes to spook you?”

“I didn’t say I was scared. Just that it’s weird,” you say. He’s in a mood today. Is it really just that it’s Valentine’s Day? “Are you feeling okay?”

“Why would you ask that?”

“Because you seem – different – this morning,” you say, stumbling over the words. You thought the two of you were past this. What did you do? “I just wanted to ask. In case there was something –”

“Something you could do?” Shigaraki finishes your sentence. He scoffs. “Nice try. I know what –”

“I certainly hope you do.” Sasaki-sensei looms over the two of you, scooping your prework off the desk. “Shigaraki, your handwriting continues to be atrocious. And you – how many times do I have to ask you to stop writing in 10-pt font? You’re going to strain my eyes.”

“You need better glasses, then, Sensei,” Shigaraki says, almost sneering. That sounds more like him. You can almost fool yourself into thinking he’s defending you. “Our handwriting doesn’t matter. Are we right or wrong?”

Sasaki-sensei glances over your work again. “If I docked points for illegibility, you’d both be on the verge of failing. But your calculations are sound. You may begin.”

You’d be more relieved if Shigaraki wasn’t acting so weird. The two of you start setting out your equipment. “I just wanted to know,” you start, “because I –”

“Shut up,” Shigaraki snaps. You startle. “What the fuck is this?”

It’s the box of chocolates you bought. He scoops it off the desk and brandishes it at you. “This was you, wasn’t it? What is wrong with you?”

“Who said it was me?” You don’t know how to cover up your shock, so you return fire instead. “Whoever it was –”

“I know it was you,” Shigaraki cuts you off.

“How?”

“Because it’s on my desk in fucking chem lab and you’re the only girl in here who talks to me,” Shigaraki says. He drops the box back on the table and shoves it towards you. “Unless you’re going to pretend I’ve got some kind of secret admirer –”

“Maybe you do!” Your voice starts to scale up, and you clench your jaw. You shove the box back across the table towards him. “It could be anybody who left that there. Why are you mad at me?”

“Because it wasn’t anybody. It was you!” An angry flush is crawling from beneath Shigaraki’s collar. He picks up the box of chocolates and drops it on your notebook. “Take this back or I’m throwing it away.”

“Somebody decided to show they like you and you’re throwing it away?” You’re shocked by the acidic note in your own voice, even as you make up your mind to never admit that you were the one who put it there. “You can be mad at me all you want, but you shouldn’t punish them for what you –”

“That’s enough, Station 11,” Sasaki-sensei snaps, from up near the front of the classroom where he’s correcting Yoarashi’s and Togata’s prework. “Focus on your experiment and stop distracting the others.”

This is the wrong class to try to fight with somebody in. You set the box of chocolates down exactly equidistant from you and Shigaraki and start testing the scale you’re supposed to use to weigh your reactants. Sometimes Sasaki-sensei calibrates them wrong on purpose just to throw people off. Next to you, Shigaraki’s sitting still in his seat, visibly seething. His face is still flushed, and when he opens his mouth, it’s to come after you again. “Fuck off with this ‘somebody else’ bullshit,” he says – quieter than before, but not by much. “I know damn well it wasn’t Toga, so that leaves you. You’re the only –”

He breaks off, curses, but you can fill in the rest of the sentence. You and Toga are the only girls he talks to. “And I guess you think this is funny or something, because –”

“Why would I think this is funny?” you hiss.

“Like I’d know. Like I’d ever know what the fuck is going on in your head! I thought –” Shigaraki breaks off again, this time without the cursing, and the look he turns on you is so disdainful that you can barely keep your composure. “You really can act, huh. That nice-girl thing you’ve been putting on since school started. You almost had me fooled.”

Your temper breaks free. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“You expect me to believe you’re stupid now?” Shigaraki laughs, so cold and derisive that your eyes sting. “I’m not falling for that one. I’m done almost falling for –”

“Is it really that hard for you to believe that someone might want to be around you?” As much venom as there is in Shigaraki’s voice, you can match it. He might think you’re a nice girl, but you wouldn’t have survived almost three years as a scholarship student at UA if you weren’t tough enough to hold your own with anybody. “I have to tell you, it’s hard for me to believe right now. If this is how you react to some stranger who cares, anybody who wants to be around you must be out of their mind.”

“Fuck you.”

“Fuck you,” you fire back. “Hate yourself as much as you want. I’m not just going to sit here –”

“No, you aren’t.” Sasaki-sensei looms over you, and your heart sinks so far and fast that you feel nauseous. He looks pissed, as pissed as you’ve ever seen him, his eyes narrowed and his arms crossed over his chest. “I warned the two of you once. Not only did you fail to save your lover’s spat until after class, you were both made aware of my policy on profanity at the beginning of the year, and the first-years across the hall could hear the two of you swearing.”

“Sensei –”

“Manners,” Sasaki-sensei snaps, and you fall silent. “To the principal’s office, both of you. And take your belongings. You won’t be coming back here today.”

He’s kicking you out. He won’t let you finish the lab, and if you completely miss a lab, your chemistry grade will plummet. Shigaraki might not care about his grades, but if your grades drop, you’ll be thrown out of UA with a semester left in your third year. “It wasn’t me,” you protest. “Shigaraki started it!”

“Based on what I heard, you were a willing participant,” Sasaki-sensei says. He throws Shigaraki a dirty look, but the vast majority of his disdain is reserved for you. “I expected better of you, at least. Get out.”

Shigaraki’s already packed up his things. He shoves his chair back and it lets out an awful screech as it skids across the tiles, but you’re frozen in your seat. Your heart is racing, and your eyes are starting to prickle and burn. No matter what you do, it feels like the wrong choice – refuse to leave, blame Shigaraki for starting this again, try to make your case? Sasaki-sensei drums his fingers against his forearm, waiting for you, and when you don’t move, he barks at you. “Now.”

Someone giggles, and the sound snaps you out of your paralysis. You whip around to find two of the first-years in third-year chemistry snickering behind their hands – Kaminari and Ashido, who get in trouble for talking every other class, whose grades are worse than yours, who are here on their parents’ money instead of on scholarship. You’re not going to stand here and let a bunch of rich brats laugh at you. You stand up, jam your things back into your backpack, grab the gym bag with your climbing gear, and storm past Shigaraki out the door.

You held it together in class, but now that you’re out in the middle of an empty hall, you’re losing the fight against your tears. At least you are until you hear Shigaraki’s footsteps in the hallway behind you. This is his fault. There’s no way you’re going to let him know how upset you are. You pick up the pace down the hall, then up the stairs, heading for the administrative offices on the second of the school’s five floors.

Shigaraki catches up to you on the stairs. He says something, but you deliberately shift your gear bag, drowning him out with the clatter that results. Then you pick up your pace again. Shigaraki’s legs are longer than yours. He catches up and repeats what he must have said earlier. “Are you happy now?”

You were right to drown him out. You reach the administrative offices ahead of him, but as you reach for the door, it bursts open outwards. Principal Nezu nearly collides with you, and you stammer an apology. It’s as if you’re not even there. Shigaraki, on the other hand, nets a remark from the principal. “If I find out that you’re involved in this, Shigaraki –”

“Involved in what? I got sent here from chem lab.”

“If I find out you’re involved, I’ll personally ensure that you’re sent to prison,” Principal Nezu snaps, and you can’t hold in a shocked gasp. Principal Nezu’s radio crackles, and he raises it to his mouth. “Yes. I’m on my way. Do nothing until I arrive.”

He motors off down the hall, walking even faster than you were. Shigaraki steps past you into the admin offices, and the door closes in your face. You stand there for a moment, stunned. You don’t know what’s going on, what incident Principal Nezu’s referring to, but you can’t imagine what would make the principal say something like that to Shigaraki. You know Shigaraki was in trouble in middle school. Based on the few things he’s said about what it’s like for him at home, you know it isn’t good. And you know that since he started at UA, Shigaraki’s been sent to see the principal for showing up late, for falling asleep in class, for mouthing off to teachers, for throwing a punch after someone else punched him first – but he hasn’t done anything that the other school troublemakers haven’t done, too. You can’t imagine Principal Nezu threatening to send any of them to prison.

It strikes you as really harsh. Almost mean, since whatever incident is going on started while you and Shigaraki were arguing in chem class. But as awful as what the principal said to Shigaraki was, there might be a silver lining for you. If Principal Nezu hates Shigaraki that much, it won’t be hard to convince him that what happened in chem lab was all Shigaraki’s fault.

You feel awful for even thinking it. You open the door to the admin offices and step inside, addressing the first secretary you see. There are twelve of them – with everything that’s going on at UA, Principal Nezu needs all the help he can get. “Sasaki-sensei sent me here to see the principal.”

“Principal Nezu just left,” Secretary Kurose says shortly. She’s always been nice to you before now. “He’ll see you when he gets back. Wait in his office. Shigaraki’s already there.”

He’s probably waiting for you to come in so he can start the fight back up again. You wonder what he said to Secretary Kurose to put that tense, frustrated look on her face. It can’t just be because of you, can it? “I saw the principal leaving. Is something going on?”

“Wait in his office,” Secretary Kurose says. The phone rings and she picks it up, shooing you away. You walk slowly, dejectedly. Partly because you’re hurt by how she talked to you. And partly so you can hear what she says as she picks up the phone. “Yes, the principal is on-scene. The other faculty have Chisaki restrained.”

Chisaki’s one of the biology teachers – anatomy, specifically, and he’s the youngest one on staff. The weirdest, too. They have him restrained? You step into the principal’s office and shut the door behind you, so lost in thought about whatever’s going on down in the anatomy lab that you almost forget what you’re doing here.

But you can’t forget for long. Shigaraki’s sitting in Principal Nezu’s chair, feet propped up on the principal’s desk. He leans to one side to peer at you, half a smirk on his dry, scarred lips. “Come here often?”

You grit your teeth. “Never.”

“It’s your first time. I bet he’ll be gentle with you.” Shigaraki’s smirk sharpens. He leans further back in the chair. “I had to lower this thing about two feet to be able to sit in it. Do you think Nezu hates everybody who’s taller than him?”

You sit down in one of the chairs you think students are probably supposed to sit in and drop your bags by your feet. Your phone buzzes from inside your backpack, and you extract it to find a text from Nejire. What happened??? I heard something went down in lab

I’m in the principal’s office :( you text back, and that’s when it really hits you.

You’re in the principal’s office because you got kicked out of class, because you were fighting with your lab partner, because you gave him chocolate, because you have a crush on him and it’s Valentine’s Day. You might lose your scholarship. You got rejected by the person you like in the worst way possible. And now you’re stuck in here with him until the principal gets back from dealing with whatever the anatomy teacher did. This might be the worst day of school you’ve ever had.

Nejire texts back – ten texts in a row – and you ignore them. Behind the desk, Shigaraki looks up. “You get service in here? I thought this place was dead.”

“I’m on the school’s WiFi,” you say. “Third-years get the password.”

“I don’t have the password,” Shigaraki says. You struggle not to roll your eyes. “I guess it’s only for teacher’s pets.”

“If not wanting to be in trouble all the time makes me a teacher’s pet, fine. I’m a teacher’s pet,” you say. Shigaraki scoffs, and your desire to burst into tears temporarily converts to anger. Anger makes you mean. “You know, you’re a way better actor than me. You did such a good job pretending not to be exactly what everybody said you are that I actually fell for it.”

You’re expecting him to return fire right away. You’ve left him an opening to call you stupid for believing any better of him, and any second now he’s going to jump on it. But Shigaraki stays silent, and without something to react against, your anger starts to fizzle out. All that’s left is hurt and confusion. “I thought we were friends.”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” Shigaraki says. “Except my friends are a bunch of assholes just like me, and none of them would pull the kind of stunt you did.”

“It wasn’t me,” you say.

Shigaraki’s jaw clenches. “I know it was you,” he says. “Why are you lying about it?”

“It wasn’t me.” You’re never going to admit it to him. You’re going to put this somewhere so far in the back of your mind that you’ll forget it ever happened, and every time you feel that pull towards Shigaraki, those butterflies, you’re going to remind yourself how you feel right now. “Why won’t you stop? You’ve already gotten me kicked out. Isn’t that enough?”

“Kicked out?” Shigaraki laughs at that. “I get sent here three times a week. They haven’t kicked me out yet.”

“You’re not on scholarship,” you say. Despair settles heavily over you. “I’m in the principal’s office and my chemistry grade is ruined – and they can kick me out for breathing wrong. Whatever you think I did, haven’t I paid for it?”

“They’re not kicking you out.” Shigaraki’s not laughing anymore. He takes his feet down off the desk and sits up in Principal Nezu’s chair. “When he gets back, you’re going to tell him I started it –”

“You did start it.”

“Yeah, and I’m gonna cop to it,” Shigaraki says. You blink. “It’ll be my fault, I’ll get detention again, and your record won’t get messed up. They’re not kicking you out.”

“Why do you care if I get kicked out?” you ask. “Do you need a lab partner that bad?”

Shigaraki’s jaw clenches. “No,” he says. “It’ll just be a pain to have to break a new one in.”

That’s what you’d thought he’d say, or something like it. Maybe this morning you’d have thought he cared, but by now you know a lot better. You slump down in your chair, cross your arms over your chest, and wait for the principal to get back.

Fourth period ends without Principal Nezu coming back, which means you and Shigaraki are now missing lunch. School lunches are expensive. You packed your own, like always, and you dig it out of your backpack and open it. Shigaraki takes his feet down off the desk and sits up. “You brought food?”

“Yep.”

“I want some.”

“You’ve got to be kidding,” you say. Shigaraki stares back at you, unrepentant. “I’m not giving you my food.”

“I didn’t say I wanted all of it. I said some of it,” Shigaraki corrects, like an asshole. “Share. Unless you’re done pretending to be nice?”

“Maybe I am, since you’re done pretending not to be a bully –”

“A bully?”

“You’re trying to steal my lunch.” You put it back into your backpack. Maybe he’ll leave you alone about it now. “Most guys give that up by seventh grade.”

“Yeah, well, I was in juvie in seventh grade, so –” Shigaraki breaks off suddenly, then glares at you. “Shut up.”

“I didn’t say anything,” you say – and then, from somewhere at the edge of your hearing, a sound hits your ears that’s got no business being in a school. “Did you hear that?”

“What? I didn’t –” Shigaraki’s head snaps up. “I heard that.”

So did you. Two screams, from two different people, and a moment later, there’s a third. A chill goes down your spine, and you hold still with an effort, even when the fourth scream rings out. “People don’t scream like that when they’re just screwing around.”

“No,” Shigaraki says. More screams. They’re getting closer. He gets to his feet. “Get out of the way.”

“What?”

Shigaraki doesn’t answer. He kicks Principal Nezu’s chair out of the way, knocks everything on the desk onto the floor, and starts shoving at the desk, to absolutely no effect. It’s so bizarre that it takes another scream to snap you back to awareness. “What are you doing?”

“Blocking the door.” Shigaraki’s voice is strained. “Whatever’s making people scream like that, I don’t want it in here.”

What could it even be? A school shooter, like they have in America? You’d have heard gunshots. Maybe it’s a crazy person with a knife running through the halls, or a rabid animal, or something. Now there are so many people screaming that you can’t distinguish anything about the voices – male or female, young or old, victim or perpetrator. Whatever it is, Shigaraki’s right. You don’t want it here either. You leave your backpack off to one side and join Shigaraki behind the desk, giving it an experimental push. Sure, it’s heavy. You can see why Shigaraki’s having trouble. You square up, plant your feet, and shove.

The desk skids forward, and you keep pushing. Shigaraki’s not doing anything to help, even though it was his idea, and when you turn to look, you find him staring at you. “Are you on steroids or something?”

“No, I’m on the climbing team. We have to work out.” You shove the desk again, thankful for the fact that Coach Usagiyama makes you and the rest of the team cross-train at least twice a week. “Are you going to help? It’ll be faster with two.”

At first Shigaraki just stares at you, but the screams are so close now, close enough that your ears hurt, and blocking the door was his idea. Shigaraki lines up next to you and starts pushing the desk, and together the two of you wedge it against the door. Almost as soon as you’ve pushed it into place, something thuds against it from the other side. You recoil backwards, but Shigaraki throws his weight against the desk, keeping it firmly shut. “Let me in,” Secretary Kurose pleads. “They’re coming!”

Who’s they? It doesn’t matter, not when she needs help. You grab the desk and pull back, only to catch Shigaraki’s arm squarely across your chest, hard enough that you’ll have bruises. “No,” he snaps at you. “Nobody gets in.”

“She needs help!”

“You think she’d help us? No.” The door handle is rattling, and Shigaraki shoves the desk against the door again. “She can run.”

“Please,” Secretary Kurose wails. “They’re –”

Her voice breaks into a high, wavering scream, and the door shivers on its frame as at least three people collide with it. Secretary Kurose’s scream reaches a new pitch, one that makes Shigaraki flinch and makes you jam your fingers in your ears to drown it out. But some part of you knows there’s no drowning this out. Not the scream that hitches and splits. Not the low growls and wet, meaty sounds of flesh being torn away. Not the rattling breaths that go suddenly, horribly silent.

You can’t see anything that’s happening, but some part of you knows exactly what you’re listening to. Those are the sounds of a person being eaten alive, and before you can even think, you’re throwing your weight against the desk just like Shigaraki is, desperate to keep whatever’s out there from getting in.

[plaidos]

hi, it's the tgirl who showed up during your twitch stream for support after having her world shattered by the realization she's a woman. i've so far been very privileged in my life but my parents are dropping me entirely after this semester of college and i've been terrified by the ramping up of transphobic legislation & general rise of fascism in the United States. thank you for talking about how things are in the UK, it's really been helpful in keeping myself grounded.

i hope things get better for all of us everywhere soon, and I hope I've not been too much of a bother to you either

i’m glad that i was helpful, but i think something needs to be said — you yourself said that you had lived a privileged life until now so I’m going to assume you are also white so i can see why you think i that the US has been getting considerably worse lately but like…. it hasn’t really changed that much, people are just able to talk about it on social media now. like, people my parents’ age/generation lived during racially segregated bathrooms; this stuff isn’t new at all, it’s just new to you because you’ve been thrown in the deep end of learning you’re a minority.

speaking of segregated bathrooms, it is absolutely scary that the US is implementing anti-trans bathroom bills — but these bills are only being presented as a resistance to trans rights progressing. twenty years ago in most places there didn’t need to be bathroom bills because nobody was gonna stick up for the tranny when we got kicked out of a bathroom. so in some ways this legislation only exists because people have conceded we exist and can’t just be ignored and easily put out of mind.

things seem rough right now but they’ve always been rough. there has never been in a time in recent history where being trans has been easy. and i promise, as dire as it seems out there, there has never been a better time to communicate, co-operate & collaborate with other trans women worldwide.

it’s going to be okay. like i said, you jumped in the deep-end. coming out as trans is like jumping in to a pool to get over the cold. you’ll acclimatise, i promise. and it’s actually better in here. even if it’s a little cold. you’ve always wanted to go swimming, after all, right? 😊

[valenteal]

The story of Anakin Skywalker is about how anyone can break under enough pressure. It isn’t a tragedy about an inevitable doom, it isn’t about how power corrupts or about how caring is dangerous. It’s about how no matter how good and kind and selfless and seemingly invincible someone is they still have needs and they can still be hurt.

Maybe this is because Phantom Menace is my favorite Star Wars movie and so I have rewatched it a million times, but for me Anakin is the most genuinely caring and selfless character in Star Wars. He wasn’t just an innocent kid (kids can be cruel and selfish and they’re usually better when they grow up not worse) he was compassionate and kind and despite growing up surrounded by some of the worst scum in the galaxy he knew nothing of greed. That says so much about his character.

Anakin’s fall to the dark side took over a decade of carful manipulation that culminated in cascade of tragedy and loss. It wasn’t an accident. Every bit of the emotional trauma, physical trauma, and mental trauma from the moment Anakin met Palpatine and on ward was planned. We don’t see the decade he spent between Phantom Menace and Attack of the Clones but immediately in the second movie we see how much Anakin has changed. Where he used to be confident he’s insecure, where he used to bold and fearless he is now arrogant, where he was once inquisitive he is now cautiously enthusiastic, where he used to build he now destroys. Every change in his behavior and outlook is the result of either the teachings of the Jedi Order which are pretty much the antithesis of his entire personality, the result of Sidious’s manipulation, or the result of the toxic attitudes of many Jedi towards him.

Now I know a lot of people have… misconceptions about what the Jedi Order is and what they stand for. It’s understandable, since I guess a lot of people think of Luke as an everything a Jedi is supposed to be but he is NOT, he wasn’t even taught their philosophy! Yoda and Windu and Luminara are everything a Jedi is meant to be. They take an impersonal approach to justice, they treat others coldly, they believe themselves to be above petty things like emotion and pain and human connection. There are Jedi who take a more progressive stance like Obi-Wan and Quinlan and Qui-Gon but you have to understand that they are not model Jedi and have their own struggles with the Order and its teachings. The Jedi code literally says “There is no emotion.” That is what Jedi strive for. And that isn’t even getting into the genocide or the politics. Focusing on how this affected Anakin. That’s what I’m doing.

Anyway, Anakin is a deeply emotional person. This is not a bad thing. It’s the source of his conviction and his empathy (which a surprising amount of Jedi lack). Anakin feels deeply, so he feels love and anger and sadness more keenly than Jedi who have worked their whole lives to shut off emotion. And he was never taught how to deal with it. The most the Jedi did was tell him to meditate, release his emotions into the Force, focus on the present or other platitudes that do not help! I would know. I’m also a deeply emotional person who feels things very keenly to the point where I had a full psychological evaluation when I was 6 years old. When a person deals with this it NEEDS to be addressed. I have wonderful parents who did everything in their power to help me from a young age and I still ended up suicidal! Anakin did not get help and was instead shamed for feeling so strongly and he ended up bottling it up. People complain about how he was “whiny” and I (a person who has also been called whiny) just go what the fuck do you expect?? Expressing his frustration verbally is literally the healthiest option he has! And we know what it looks like when he chooses other forms of venting! Anakin vented to Padmé almost immediately after reconnecting with her because she is literally the only person in his life who will listen to him (other than Sidious but he makes things worse on purpose).

So yeah. Sensitive people need to be taught how to deal with their emotions in healthy ways. Really everyone does but especially people with strong emotions.

But when Anakin isn’t overwhelmed by emotions he doesn’t have the tools to deal with, or surrounded by toxic people, or being actively manipulated by an evil dictator, that’s when you see who he really is. Which means pretty much all of Phantom Menace, a good chunk of the time he’s alone with Padmé, and… nothing else really. (I’m just going to say here that I am not including Clone Wars Anakin due to the purposeful butchering of his character. I still consider the show canon in everything but Anakin’s characterization in a lot of specific instances.)

Anakin has never been a selfish person. The things people perceive as selfish are his needs. He needs unconditional love. He needs Padmé because she is the only person who gives him that. Even without getting into his psychology and bpd and what a splitting episode is, it isn’t hard to recognize that when he places Padmé’s safety above other people’s it’s an act of self preservation more than self interest. He knows that he would literally go crazy without her. After years of being systematically isolated and traumatized she is the only thing keeping him together. In his desperation to save her and consequently his own sanity he lost both those things. But it’s important to note that he tried to do things right, that he went to Yoda for help, that he told Padmé so she could take her own steps to ensure her health. He did everything he could think of before getting desperate enough to go to Sidious. Not to mention he did everything right after discovering Sidious’s identity. It wasn’t until he was presented with a false dichotomy that boiled down to choosing his mentor and confidant of over a decade and his wife’s life or the man who has scored and distrusted him since he was child that he made the objectively wrong choice. And that was after not sleeping for weeks and having a traumatizing realization that triggered a splitting episode so he wasn’t in a head space to understand what was going on in an objective way.

So yeah. That’s my rant about Anakin Skywalker. If you want to comment or debate know that I will reply with an explanation of my thoughts that could be just as long as this post and that I will not stop until you do. You will not get the last word. I feel very strongly about this and if you’ve gotten this far you have to know that I have thought very deeply about this as well. I have heard every argument. You will not change my mind. I have done research. Engaging with this post to disagree will only lead to me expanding on this even more because this is really a brief summary of all my thoughts and feelings on the matter. If you’re just curious about the rest of my thoughts and feelings just ask.

Don’t try to attack my own morals and character because of this, I am NOT condoning Anakin’s actions or behavior, I am completely aware that he is a deeply damaged and unstable person. The point of this is not to deny that but to explain why Anakin is not naturally like that. The scariest thing about Anakin’s fall is that it happened to Anakin, a paragon of compassion and selflessness. Anyone put under the amount of pressure he was would go crazy. I doubt many people would last as long as Anakin did. He was insanely strong to resist for as long as he did.

[noxiousgrace]

I'm not sure who said it first, but the theory that krs is the red dragon has been on my mind for days now

And it would make so much sense if that was the case

Like what's a better twist than finding out the man who ended the white stars bullshit is also the same being who was used to start it all?

And the fact that krs was able to be affected by white stars curse is so much worse now

Imagine sherrit finding out her child was hurt by the same thing she created to protect him 😭

This also places immense suspicion on the god of death, i mean it never made sense to me that the white star was just able to "pass his curse around" like a sickly virus just because he stole someones body. It sounds more plausible to me that the god of death never added the rule "this curse cannot affect anybody else" and then used it as a loophole to curse KRS.

The curse was a punishment for an oath only dragon slayers have made, what the hell could be more targeted and specific than that??? And now you're telling me this random guy from raon has to live with it in korea cuz the white star took his body before that soul got to inhabit it??

The only person who can break a curse is the one who made the curse and the person who wanted it to be made (in this case the GoD and Sherrit)

And in the sealed test choi jung gun says "the god of death is trying to hold the curse back from affecting you"

Excuse me??? He can't dispel his own curse?? I don't believe that at all. Also krs had nothing to do with the white star since he was born, so why is it impossible to remove him from the effects of it?? The god of death had about 36 years to figure out how to make it go away, and he just couldn't?? I smell bullshit

Sherrit also said that the red egg was affecting it's surroundings before it was born, the dragon inside would've been powerful to extents she probably couldn't even comprehend

It makes more sense to me if the GoD just wanted to get rid of any competition/ "wrench in his plans" and used the excuse of protecting sherrits children to create the perfect scenario to take out 2 birds with one stone

GoD does seem kinda stupid when we see him but it's always the mfs with that kind of act that are the most suspicious, also he literally became a god?? If he can do that, then he's more than capable of setting up some kind of intricate plan to get what he wants

Anywho, there's also other things I've noticed:

1) never accepting park jin tae as king until he proved himself, krs has never submitted to anyone without a valid reason for doing so. Which would seem kinda weird cuz he spent 90% of his upbringing being beaten into submission. I've only ever seen an attitude like that in dragons or just stronger creatures in general (coincidence? I think not)

2) this has been stated before but his affinity with dragons is crazy + he's constantly being mistaken for one 😭

3) the GoD called krs a mutant, we don't know why yet but being a human with the soul of a dragon is a pretty valid reason to call someone a mutant. (Especially if that mutant was able to activate a small % of its attribute)

4) i don't have anything to back this up with, but instant being his attribute instead of a power he got on earth would be pretty cool, just using it for a little bit is enough to injure him because it's meant to be used by a dragon as powerful as the Red one.

----

Imagine eden finding out that the heart he ate to become a chimera belonged to the person who saved him 😭

Imagine the rest of the dragons finding out cale henituse is a "dragon" that will literally die from using his attribute because he's living in the wrong body 😭😭

---

Cales honest reaction to that information:

[ledesaid]

William (Billy) Joseph Batson Constantine?

12 years ago, John Constantine offered his genetics with the intention of serving others while putting his own interests first (he was a donor at a fertility clinic) and forgot about it.

Indeed, he also forgot when he pawned his firstborn in some pagan ritual to save his own neck...

Once and...

Again...

Oh, heavens! A fifth time?

Can someone stop this man?

Call it luck or chance, but his sample was used only once. An American couple turned to a fertility clinic and, by chance, their firstborn was born.

Yes, that firstborn.

William Joseph Batson always wondered why all sorts of bad things happened to him. From the premature death of his pet fish, to the variety of monsters that started living under his bed, and culminating with his inability to look at himself in a mirror. That didn't deprive him of his parents' love, fortunately, at least until a demon took them when he was seven.

Everyone believes they died, Billy doesn't... He remembers they were dragged to what that monstrous creature called hell... Billy searched how to get there on Google Maps.

He is absorbed by the system for the next two years, he is nine when he starts looking for answers on his own.

He's not starting from scratch, he still remembers what the demon said that night...

"The time has come, spawn of John Constantine."

The Internet told him what "spawn" meant, but there seem to be no traces of this Constantine except for an anonymous complaint, on an occultism forum, about his poor services and his "charming" personality.

An informational seed.

He starts with local fortune-tellers' houses, all charlatans... Continues with people from questionable cults and escapes before becoming the main dish.

Other terms appear along the way: alcoholic and gambler.

He's eleven years old when his tour around the country takes him to a show by a certain Zatanna. He does the usual routine... Sneaks into her dressing room and waits...

He's already an expert at waiting.

Billy: John Constantine. He's harder to find than cockroaches. I've been looking for him for three years... They say he's my father... Do you know him?

Finally, for the first time in three years, he finds someone who knows him and has his number. It only took two more cities, of stalking the magician, for her to call that man...

That man... The one responsible for everything.

But when he sees him, his stomach churns as he notices their clear resemblance. Billy looked a lot like his mother, but the handful of the man's genes was evident.

He doesn't scream when a portal appears in the dressing room. He's seen worse and smellier ones.

John: Hello, love, is everything alright? You don't usually call first... I brought a good bottle of...

And the man also realized. Of course, he did, he knows... whispers his tortuous mind.

Billy: Finally, you are John Constantine...

John: And you must be the reason why my firstborn trick stopped working.

Billy gets angry and lunges at the Englishman. With one knee on the blond's stomach, he takes advantage and grabs him by the collar of his trench coat. He shakes him violently and shouts all he's been holding back for so long.

Billy: I've met at least five principalities, I've been chased by things I still can't comprehend, and they took my parents when I was seven... You're going to fix this now!

Billy starts to sob as he steps away from the man and leans against the dressing room door.

John: Would you believe me if I said I'm sorry?

He's not sincere, Billy knows it and also knows that his voice is nothing more than a sign of his defeated certainty.

Billy: No, you are everything they said you were...

[technofeudalism]

hey, i'm not from wisconsin but i know way too much about things that don't have any relevance to me and this is one of those things.

this is a decent guess but basically it comes down to the usual thing that high schools value more than anything else: sports. the split took place in the 70s because the varsity team got too big. keep in mind that if these two schools were combined again, it would be the largest high school in wisconsin. as a result, they have the resources to field two varsity teams in each sport. thus, combining the schools now would mean cutting a lot of potential talent and losing a lot of benefits. the students would be more likely to enroll elsewhere, for example, and they are already suffering from an enrollment issue.

this article is from 2012 and does a pretty good job at spelling out a lot of the problems (framed as positives because capitalism, i guess) that have only gotten much worse in the last 10~ years.

“It’s an economic juggernaut,” said Mark Conrad, associate professor of legal and ethical studies at Fordham University’s school of business. “If you think about where people are on Friday nights in areas like the South and Midwest, they are at their local high school football game. It’s no wonder the market for high school sports has expanded.” Conrad said the fan devotion that’s fueling the business expansion is comparable to what some people feel about a company like Apple. “People love their iPhones and iPads and it’s like a religion to them. It’s the same with high school sports.” The money began slowly pouring into high school sports in the 1980′s when local networks, along with ESPN, started featuring high school events, especially football. Budget cuts, even before the recession of 2007-09, forced many schools to seek out lucrative deals. But for some schools, the funding keeps flowing in from all sides-public and private. For instance, a $60 million state-of-the-art high school football stadium that seats 18,000 – the money approved by voters in a local referendum - opened this past summer in Allen, Texas. Meanwhile, shoe company New Balance paid $500,000 last year to help refurbish an existing high school football stadium in Gloucester, Mass., as well as getting the stadium’s naming rights. Similar high school stadium naming deals with local businesses have been made across the U.S., including in Lakewood, Ohio ($320,000) and Noblesville, Indiana ($575,000). Broadcasting rights and money are also expanding. Last summer, the New York City public school system negotiated a two-year, $500,000 contract with the MSG Varsity Network — a network — to broadcast all types of high school athletic events.* And the California Interscholastic Federation just signed a 15-year deal with Time Warner Cable to broadcast high school football playoff games, for $8.5 million.

remembering that time i met someone who attended high school in west bend, wisconsin and they told me how their school district works. to them it was completely normal while i was wondering if they were messing with me.

their schools are conjoined twins???

[librarylocal]

what if you were a university athlete for a sport you didn’t really care about, just trying to get through your stressful biomed degree, when in your second year the one and only freshman recruit to the team is some asshole with barely any experience who is pretty transparently lying about just about everything about him. but somehow your teammates like him and he even worms his way into your twin brother’s inner circle which, okay, fine, you can try your best to ignore him. except this guy will not stop causing problem after scandal after incident, and he doesn’t stop there, no, he starts meddling with your personal life and your relationships for the sake of the sport you dgaf about. by now this weird little freak you can’t seem to get away from is the bane of your existence, and you think it can’t possibly get any worse — but then, after all this, you gradually come to the horrifying realization that your aforementioned twin brother, who everyone including yourself assumed was incapable of feeling anything positive towards anyone, especially a pathological liar with ties to the mafia, is madly in love with this freshman and possibly has been for months. now picture you are aaron minyard