#i wrote an essay for a college class about him once

[hallaburger]

my biggest dracula movie/tv adaptation gripe is that they never. Ever. get jack seward right. and they seldom get arthur and quincey right. but nobody does jack the way he should be: young, handsome, charming, smart, deeply observant, driven by curiosity, and devoted to a fault.

the hero boys commonly feel like an afterthought by directors and screenwriters - like they're interchangeable, easily omitted or substituted, swallowed up by abraham van helsing's significance. it's really unfortunate, especially since they each feel, in the book, so lovingly created and characterized. they each have importance and i wish more people understood that.

[hysteria-things]

can you do a teacher!chris and a college student pleasee. (With smut. And if you want to!!)

PROFESSOR STURNIOLO

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: dom!teacher!chris x student!reader

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: this isn’t your first problem with this specific professor, but at this moment you’re fed up and want to put your foot down.

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: SMUTTY SMUT, p in v, degradation, spanking, masturbation (female), making out, stomach bulge, overstimulation, dumbification, squirting, cream pie

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 1,535

𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: we are locked in🫡

your professor dismissed class mere seconds ago, and everybody either has already left the lecture hall or is still packing up. “are you meeting us for lunch?” your friend says, zippering her bag and putting it on her shoulder.

you scoff, shaking your head. “can’t.” you say, ripping out the essay you wrote for this class that was due a few days ago. “professor sturniolo gave me an F on the essay.”

“again?” she questions genuinely shocked. “he’s got a bone to pick with you.”

this isn’t the first encounter like this you had with your professor. this class — your argument and persuasion class — is the only one you’re failing this semester.

not in your three years have you ever had this type of problem, and after many F’s, you’ve finally had enough.

“well, good luck.” your friend sighs, leaving the classroom with the remaining group.

now, that leaves you and him.

it would be a different story if you didn’t do the assignment right or didn’t try on the essay, but you’re one hell of a writer and you’re sure he knows it. you’ve always been good in school, ever since a young age.

normally you wouldn’t pick up fights with teachers, but your blood has been boiling for this dude for weeks.

“what’s your problem with me?” you say sternly, wiggling the paper in your hand as you step down to where he is.

he stops erasing the board and turns to you. “class is over, ms. l/n.”

yeah, no shit.

you roll your eyes. “so? i want to speak with you about my recent essay. you always give me F’s and never explain why. i would understand if it happened once before at the beginning of the year, but for every. single. one? it’s ridiculous.

he’s emotionless as he listens to your rambling, then he shrugs. “it wasn’t good enough.”

you crinkle the paper in your fist and slam it down on the desk in front of you. “wasn’t good enough my fucking ass, professor sturniolo. is it a favoritism thing? or are you fucking the other chicks in your class so they can have good grades? is that what i need to do? do i need to fuck you?”

the moment those words left your mouth, you knew that was a huge mistake.

you wouldn’t be surprised if he does, though. he’s not much older than you, and he is attractive.

he licks his lips, tilting his head toward himself. “bring it over.”

you gulp, feeling slightly intimidated. you uncrinkle the page and hand it to him, who is now sitting in the chair.

not even reading it, he stares at it and looks back up at you. “sorry. your paper didn’t meet the expectations.”

your pinch your lips together to keep you from screaming at him. “you didn’t even read it.” you shake your head. “i should’ve dropped this class when i had the chance. you’re cocky, and a waste of my time. i’m failing probably because your teaching sucks.”

as you start to storm out, he speaks up. “i’m going to have to clean that filthy mouth of yours.” he smirks. “teach you a much-deserved lesson, then afterward you can see if my teaching still sucks.”

you pause in your tracks, face turning beat red as you slowly turn back around. “w-what?”

he motions you to come over with his finger, and for some reason, you listen.

grabbing your wrist, he pulls you over his lap so you’re straddling him. again, you let it happen. you can’t help the wetness that starts to pool between your legs.

“you can admit it, you know,” he whispers, dragging his hand from your waistband to your mouth. he grazes his thumb over your bottom lip.

“a-admit what?” you stammer, shuffling in his lap which causes him to groan and hold your hips.

he chuckles. “deep down you want me to fuck you. i bet you touch yourself to the thought of me like a desperate little thing.”

you look away, face turning even redder than before if possible. “nuh-uh.”

“your face says otherwise.” his whisper shoots a chill up your spine as he starts to unbutton your shorts.

the way your fingers move quickly inside of you have your eyes shut with your mouth dangled open.

you were lucky enough to get a single dorm, so you can do whatever you want without being sneaky about it.

the way your legs are spread makes your fingers dig deeper, curling to hit the right spot. you grip onto your sheets tight, moans and other loud noises leaving your lips.

your previous orgasms make a mess below you or the back of your thighs, but you don’t stop. you’ve been at this for almost an hour because your mind is only focused on one thing.

your lecturer.

professor sturniolo.

“shit.” you pant, your orgasm building for the nth time. you let go of the sheets to massage your breast, pinching at your nipple from time to time.

you whine. “just like that.”

legs shaking, your fingers get coated with yet another orgasm, but you wish it wasn’t your fingers.

you wish it were his.

your shorts are now on the floor, along with your shirt, underwear, and bra. chris still has his clothes on except for his pants.

hovering just above his tip, your lips move in sync with each other. his tongue fights yours, and the erotic sounds of you two kissing fill your ears.

his hands rub along your back before spanking you hard, ruining the intimate moment. you pull away to gasp.

“sit,” he demands, mouth agape as he looks down to watch you try to sink onto his dick.

you grunt from the pleasurable pain, stopping just about midway. he’s probably the biggest you’ve ever seen. “it’s not gonna fit.” you whine.

“i’ll make it fit.”

with that, he grips onto your ass, hammering up into you without being able to adjust first.

you grab onto his shoulders for dear life. you moan uncontrollably, the feeling of him raw inside of you making you grin like a fool.

you’ve been wanting him to do this for a very long time.

“look at you.” he starts, smacking your ass to have you jolt. “having the professor you allegedly hate balls deep in you.”

“i-i do— ha-ate you.” you struggle to get out, a hand landing on your asscheek again.

“is that so?” he mocks, waiting for you to talk back but instead you moan even louder. he nods. “that’s what i thought.”

he bites his lip, looking at the way your tits bounce rapidly and at the bulge in your belly, eyes widening slightly. he’d never seen something like that before.

“i should keep you around more often after class.” he groans, seeing your face of pleasure.

eyes rolled back, mouth hung open, hair disheveled and sticking to your forehead from sweating.

“you make a pretty little cocksleeve.”

that sentence makes you clench around him, your body starting to quiver from the overwhelming feeling. “ngh— feels so go-od. y-you make me feel s-so good.” you whimper. “wanna cum!”

“not until you apologize.” he tuts, grabbing and then spanking your ass. “say you’re sorry, and i might let you cum.”

you whine, his cock now kissing your g-spot more than it did before. “i’m s-sorry.”

“for?”

“for— mm!” you squeal. “for being b-bad.”

“and?”

“and-and—” you can’t finish because of the sudden clear liquid squirting out of you, now making your pussy squelch more than it was before. your back arches even harder, your brain all dazed and dumb from the overstimulation.

you start to lose stability from being too weak, so chris has to hold you by your arms.

he groans, shaking his head at the terrible mess you are making. “come on. you can do it.”

tears spill from your eyes, sobs running past your lips. “a-and for t-talking back. fuck!”

his dick twitches inside, his thrusts getting sloppy. “i hope you’re on the pill because i’m going to fill you deep, baby.”

you can only make sounds, so a high-pitched moan echoes throughout. you’re seeing stars the closer your orgasm approaches before it finally snaps and you’re smearing the ring of white around his dick.

he doesn’t stop, causing your body to twitch in his grasp as another orgasm builds since he’s still fucking deep to your g-spot.

“close again?” he laughs fake. “scream for me. let people know how much of a slut you are; letting your teacher use you to get a better grade.”

your body slowly starts becoming limp, eyes fluttering closed as you moan.

he spanks you for the last time, not caring that his job is on the line.

“louder. they can’t hear you.”

screaming this time, you cum once again when he holds you down on his shaft. you collapse onto his chest, quiet sobs leaving your lips as you feel his cum start to fill you.

he peppers kisses on your shoulders, peeking over them to grab a pen and clicking it open. he scribbles over the previous grade on your essay to write a new one.

A+

𝐭𝐚𝐠 𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭!

@bunbunbl0gs @lexisecretaccx @thy-mission @angelic-sturniolos111 @sophssturn @mattsneezing @janiellasblog @blahbel668 @meg-sturniolo @hearts4chris @mattslolita @sturnbaby @imwetforyourmom @tillies33ssss @sturnifyed @mayhem-72 @ripmattitude @p1xieswrld @alorsxsturn @txssvx @sttzee @multiluvr @delilahprentiss @matthewsspecial @sturnolio-luvs @sturniolho @suga-daddy-69 @tworosesblackthorn @luckistar-posts @gnxosblog @junnniiieee07 @sturnioloslurps @tylerthecreatorsrealwife @flowerxbunnie @imaslut4kehlani @sturniolosandmoree @hertvgirl @whoreforchrissturniolo @r4iyaa @sturniolotriplettoplover @mattybswife @freshsturns @loverrsposts @sturnlcvr @elliesturniolo1 @tpvmz @user283926392 @lalalands86 @sukiipjs @sturniologirl813 @leahrab @chrissturniolosslut @h3arts4harry @sturnioloblogs @creamoncreamoncream2 @luv4kozume @ivyyyyyysposts @mirxcle1 @iluvm4ttsturni0l0 @sturniol0s @catalina-island @mbsbaby @pinkfarts @slut4mattsturn @thesturniolos @vickeyzloserz @nononopeno1

[danaewrites]

you with the dark curls (you with the watercolor eyes)

part i: and while you were asleep, i was surely awake

james potter x reader // read it on AO3

word count: 2.8k

summary: “Falling in love with your best friend was never a good idea, but you’d managed to do the idiot thing anyway, carrying a torch for a boy who would never look past Lily’s emerald eyes to see the watercolor ones that had always been by his side.”

tags: best friends to lovers, angst with a happy ending, based on the song "dear arkansas daughter" by lady lamb, fem!reader

author's notes: hii y'all, sorry for not posting in a year :P my only excuse is that i didn't feel like taking the energy to actually write out my story ideas. also perfectionism. anyway i somehow wrote this in two hours while procrastinating my college app essays and have plans to make this a multi-chapter fic despite intending to write an angsty oneshot request for a completely different fandom (i see you, beloved anons, and i raise you this completely unrelated fic <3)… the brain of a writer works in mysterious ways.

read it all here: part i, part ii, part iii (coming soon!)

You were in love with James Potter.

It was a fact of life, just like how the sky was blue, or that his favorite dessert was treacle tart, or that you were the only person he’d ever let see him cry besides his mother. You’d loved him from the moment you met him on the train to Hogwarts as a shy, anxious muggleborn unsure of the new world of magic and prejudice you’d been thrown into without so much as a warning. He hadn’t cared at all about your blood status- didn’t even think to ask about it. He had launched himself into your compartment and began talking at you a mile a minute, beaming with every tooth showing once he found out you were hoping to get into Gryffindor, his hazel eyes alight with the joy of making a new friend. And friends indeed you had become; you were proud to remember that you’d known him before Sirius or Remus or Peter did, though it took only an instant after the Sorting for him to become best mates with the rest of them, too.

You and James were inseparable from that moment on, giggling at Professor Binns’ failure to notice Sirius’ antics in the back of class and reassuring each other when home seemed too far away for comfort. He stole sweets from the Slytherin table for you at meals, and you covered for him when the teachers almost caught him pranking Snape– after all, who would believe that sweet, innocent Y/n would ever be involved in such shenanigans? The soft-spoken demeanor and love of everything pastel you’d thought would eventually oust you from the close-knit Gryffindor boys’ group proved to be quite the useful asset when affirming their ‘innocence’.

Not that they only wanted you around because you were helpful, of course. You had quite the talent for exaggerating stories until even Sirius fell off his seat laughing in disbelief, and your creative mind made for some glorious pranks and entertaining mistakes. Peter would blush for an hour straight if anyone mentioned The Great Plum Pudding Incident of Christmas 1974, all thanks to your clever meddling. And Remus– well, he was eternally grateful for your mother-henning during the worst of his moon cycles. You’d been the first to figure out his “furry little problem”, and upon learning that enjoying chocolate was his favorite method of escapism, showed up every month without fail with an armful of Honeydukes sweets. The little ways in which you loved each Marauder meant the world to them. They would do anything to protect you and make sure you were okay, James most of all. You often teased James that he was more bodyguard than friend, with his deep glares at too-forward Hufflepuff boys masking the big softie you knew he was underneath. You remembered fondly the summer days he spent chasing you around your house, scaring your mother half to death with his colander-and-pot ‘armor’ as he declared that as a chivalrous knight, he was meant to save Princess Y/n from the terrible Acromantula King. Privately, you thought James had a few too many Arthurian legends for bedtime stories as a child, but what could you do?

Even now, as sixth years, the bond between you and James never changed, your love for him ever-growing. Your heart melted every time you glanced over your shoulder in the hallway, only to find him chatting softly with a sniffling first-year and guiding them to Professor Sprout’s office for a hot cuppa and a biscuit. You cheered at his Quidditch victories and were euphorically lifted up onto his broad shoulders afterward, whooping as he galavanted through the common room in celebration. You were there when he needed a shoulder to cry on when his grandfather died, softly stroking his hair as he fell asleep in your lap with tear tracks still running down his face. And he adored you in return– braiding your hair while you worked on Herbology essays, racing you on his beloved broom when you stayed with him during the summer, distracting you from your rants about Slughorn’s unfair grading with a trip to the kitchens and a blissfully soft blanket.

James was your lifeline and you his– and nothing in the world could change that.

Except, perhaps, one tiny little complication. A complication with vibrant red hair, sparkling green eyes, and a natural affinity for Potions. A complication that had sparked your jealousy since the first time you noticed James glancing dreamily at Lily Evans in second year Transfiguration, jealousy that had only gotten worse with his grand declarations of love every week. He’d begun to announce his affection for the muggleborn to anyone who would listen in third year, and it didn’t stop there. No, when James Potter loved someone, he loved hard, and that meant that you had to watch as beautiful bouquets appeared on Lily’s nightstand nightly while the rest of the girls in your dorm whispered and swooned. You were a wallflower when he sighed about how lovely her skin was and how bloody talented she was at everything she did during one of your late-night chats in the common room, curling in on yourself with every word he spoke. When he asked her to Hogsmeade the first time (and the second, and the third, and the fiftieth), you observed as she rolled her eyes and shoved past him, despite the small smile on her face.

It wasn’t that Lily wasn’t smart or pretty or talented– far from it. She deserved every good Potions grade she got, and even the pureblood Slytherins begrudgingly noted how she was the darling of Hogwarts society. But you thought that the way she treated your best friend, refusing his advances quite harshly but sending him flirtatious glances and making a show of wearing his flowers in her hair, was rather unkind and misleading. She had James wrapped around her little finger and didn’t seem to want to let go of his attention anytime soon, despite Snape’s protests about how much time he was spending with her. You disliked Severus, but didn’t think he deserved Lily’s bad treatment either. Sometimes you’d see him staring at James and Lily deep in conversation, and shoot him a glance of communal disappointment– before realizing who you were sharing the moment with and resuming an expression of disgust, at least.

At first, you ignored your growing angst about his new obsession, chalking it up to sleep deprivation, stress over your upcoming exams, and even your monthly. But when you started to run out of excuses for the despair slowly overtaking your heart and flashes of his dark curls began to appear in your sweetest dreams, you were forced to admit that your feelings for James ran much deeper than a platonic friendship. From the way he spun you around in the snow to the way he snorted at Remus’ awful puns, you were head-over-heels smitten with your best friend.

The way he’d filled out since the end of fourth year hadn’t escaped your notice, either; you were pretty sure that his pecs should be considered a traffic hazard, with the way you’d fallen flat on your face after seeing him shirtless after a match. He’d rushed over to clean up every one of your injuries, of course, with a touch so gentle it released a whole menagerie of butterflies in your stomach. You’d barely managed to mumble a coherent thank-you before sprinting to take a very cold shower and scream into your pillow with embarrassment. How on earth did Lily Evans even think around him?!

Alas, you’d read your fair share of romance novels, and you knew how this story would end. Falling in love with your best friend was never a good idea, but you’d managed to do the idiot thing anyway, carrying a torch for a boy who would never look past Lily’s emerald eyes to see the watercolor ones that had always been by his side.

That was the state Sirius found you in, broody and lost in thought in a quiet corner of the library. He grinned rakishly, planting a well-polished boot on a nearby chair and leaning over to tap your forehead. “Lots going on in there today, huh?”

You snapped out of your daze and smiled sheepishly up at him. “Sorry, Siri, didn’t mean to ignore you. Just, er, thinking about my Potions essay, do you know how many uses there are for mandelwort? Quite fascinating plants, hones–”

Sirius winced and slid back far across the table. “Oh, no, you are not discussing horrid Potions work with me today when there are so many other wonderful topics.” He gestured to a table of swooning fifth-years gazing dreamily at his backside. “For example, those lovely ladies,” he crooned, sending an exaggerated wink towards them and smirking when they sighed.

You wrinkled your nose and scoffed. “Oh, please, as if I haven’t heard enough about your conquests already. I’m already scarred for life from your stories about that Belgium Veela, let alone the muggle sailor you nearly broke the Statute of Secrecy for.”

He waved a hand, dismissing your allegations of the mental injury caused by his excruciating attention to sordid detail when slightly tipsy in the common room. You made a mental note to charm his shampoo to turn his hair bright lavender for the next week for that little snub. Although, being Sirius, he’d probably just use it as an excuse to sway the rest of the Hogwarts population into going to Hogsmeade with him. “Ah, but darling Y/n, that’s what I’m here for!” He furrowed his brow and stroked his chin in mock consideration. “However, I can’t seem to recall a time when you–” here he poked you in the cheek for emphasis– “confessed to a little tete-a-tete in the hallway. Ever. Which means we have a problem,” he grinned.

You felt rather like prey being hunted for sport. “That would be because I’m not interested in anyone, you dolt!” Crossing your arms, you turned your face back towards your homework. Maybe if you denied romantic interest for long enough, Sirius would leave you alone and go flounce off to flirt with the noisy table of fourth years. “Anyway, I heard Marlene’s been circling Dorcas like a lovesick pigeon lately, so perhaps you should be putting your matchmaking efforts to her benefit instead.”

Sirius rolled his eyes. “C’mon doll, I know you weren’t actually thinking about Potions when I arrived. Who’s the lead actor in those fantasies, mm?” He snatched up your favorite pink gel pen, twirling around his fingers as he looked at you expectantly.

Drat. He wouldn’t be so easily distracted with the latest gossip. You opened your mouth to protest yet again when you caught a flash of red over Sirius’ artfully tousled locks. You watched as James strode up to the alcove where Lily and her friends were studying, transfigured a sheet of parchment into a butterfly clip and held it out to her with a grin. Her laughter pealed out through the library as she let him lean over her shoulder to place it in her hair. He seemed oblivious to the titters of the girls around him while he gazed at Lily adoringly. You felt your heart clench as you recognized the expression on his face; you’d seen it on your own in the mirror after spending time with James, after all. And it seemed like maybe Lily was finally starting to be swayed into accepting his starry-eyed proposals, if the pretty blush on her cheeks was anything to go by.

Sirius tracked your despairing gaze to the couple and immediately paled in realization. “Oh, shit.”

Shit, indeed. Your face turned bright red as you scrambled to pack your bag and leave the area as fast as you possibly could, not sure how you could face Sirius knowing your deepest secret now. The boy had no self-control, fueling the Hogwarts gossip mill with the wild stories he overheard, and he had even less discretion when confessing things to his friends around the common room fire. It’s no wonder he wound up in Gryffindor, you thought miserably. There’s no way he’d be able to keep a secret like the rest of the Slytherins, and definitely not from James. It would only be a matter of time before he let it slip about your feelings to the rest of the Marauders, and— well, you’d just have to face losing your best friend for good once he heard.

Sirius broke your train of thought by wrapping his hands around yours, looking up at you with concern. “Hey, doll, wait— I didn’t know—“

You sniffed and wiped the tears threatening to fall from your eyes away fiercely. “That’s exactly it, Sirius, you didn’t know because you won’t be able to keep it from James.”

He looked guiltily down at the table. “I’m sorry. I’ve been a bit of a git with keeping things private lately, yeah?”

You nodded, covering your face with your hands. Sirius reached out, placing them back down on the table, and softly said, “Listen, I shouldn’t have pried so hard. You don’t have to tell me anything if you don’t want to.” He broke off, pausing to scramble for a handkerchief from his bag to wipe off your rapidly disintegrating mascara. “And I promise not to breathe a word of this to James,” he finished.

You looked up at him, startled. “Are you serious?” At his answering grin, you groaned. “Don’t answer that. But really, are you sure that you’ll be able to resist telling him everything?” You fiddled with the now-soiled handkerchief and whispered, “You two are so close, I don’t want to drive you apart. If James thought you were hiding something important from him, it would destroy him,” you sniffed.

He frowned. “Doll, you know you’re just as important as James is to me, right?” At your answering slump, his jaw clenched and he continued on with more intensity. “You’re like my sister, Y/n, there’s nothing you could do to make me care for you less. Especially not asking for your privacy. Clearly, I haven’t been treating you as well as you deserve if you doubt that.”

He walked around and took a seat in the armchair next to you, pulling you in to lean on his shoulder. “And I can be discreet, you know. I might not show it often, but growing up in a family of the most intensely secretive purebloods ever to exist taught me a few things.” You glanced at him doubtfully, the tiny quirk of your mouth the only sign that you were joking. “Hey, I’m being serious!” He laughed, then quieted suddenly. “This thing with James— you really love him, don’t you?”

You gave him an exasperated look out of the corner of your eye. Sirius released a breath and gazed deeply into the space in front of him. “Hey, we’ll figure this out together, okay?” He poked you in the side. “If he’s too focused on the smell of Evans’ hair or whatever to see that he already has the perfect girl in front of him, he’s not as smart as you think he is.” You giggled slightly, his words warming you. Sirius smiled, happy to see you cheering up a bit.

“Why don’t we go raid the kitchens? The coolest person I know once told me that elf-crafted mint chocolate chip ice cream is the best way to heal a broken heart,” he teased. You groaned, remembering how you’d told him that as a last resort to get him to stop complaining about how he missed his sailor ex-boyfriend every time you two went to Hogsmeade. At least your random advice wound up benefiting you now, you thought as you collected the last of your stationery and exited the library.

Neither you nor Sirius saw how James watched you smile up at Sirius as you walked away, holding his arm and laughing loudly at something he muttered. Anna Dumotier, a Hufflepuff fifth-year and one of Lily’s friends, would remember later that night how he seemed to tune out Lily’s voice for a moment and stared at the doors to the library with a strange expression on his face. His brows were furrowed like he was trying to decipher the answer to an unfamiliar puzzle, his eyes widened with confusion and a glint of something she could only identify as jealousy before Lily brought him back to the conversation with a graceful flip of her hair. But no— she shook her head— that couldn’t be right. What could James possibly be jealous of when he finally had the girl of his dreams in his arms?

taglist: @magpiencrow @that-kid143 @lilly-aliyah @itmustbegreattobecalledtheitgirl

comment if you'd like to be tagged for any of my works/fandoms in the future! :)

read on: part ii

[luna-rainbow]

I liked the Russo bros until I heard an interview with them made about 4-5 years ago (just after Endgame I think) where they elaborated on why Bucky didn't get the shield.

It made me really mad how flippant they were about Bucky's "mind being damaged" and then started joking about him being crazy and dangerous. They even said at one point that he was "corrupted".

Just the amount of ableism was horrific. Mental health issues and brain damage do not arise from or make a person morally corrupt.

I get that Bucky would not have wanted the shield before the HYDRA programming was removed (which it had been by that point) but seriously? Also, why should having trauma or mental health issues disqualify someone from being Captain America?

Ah yes, the good ole ableism.

Much of the MCU is incredibly ableist. I think the modern world, despite all our efforts, still segregates disabled people from view. A lot of writers, especially if they come from comfortable upper/middle-class families and smooth-sailed through college, would never have had much interaction with a visibly disabled person as a fellow human.

Mental health is an invisible disability and still often seen as a weakness of the will. I think this is part of the disdain for Bucky and this weird push in TFATWS to write him into a Generic Dude. This is why Zemo says “there’s never been another Steve Rogers” because Bucky’s mind did break, and it broke because (the writers) see him as weak-willed and deficient, rather than because…withstanding 70 years of torture is something none of us can fathom.

I can’t find the post from a while ago (Tumblr being Tumblr) but someone wrote an essay about disabled characters in the MCU and the fact that disability is used as a narrative tool to signal a punishment for moral deficiency. And their (unnatural) regaining of their abilities as a nod to them recognising the error of their ways. The example they used was Rhodes, who was “punished” by becoming paraplegic then regaining his walking when he reconciled with the rest of the Avengers. (Civil War being what it was, I’m genuinely not sure that the writers felt Steve was the correct side, but anyhow)

But this theory is particularly true in how Bucky is written and what each generation of writers have said about him. The arm, once bearing the insignia of wings and now bearing the red star, was a visible symbol of what happens to his mind — a soldier’s failure, having his identity and loyalty ripped from him, and another new, deadlier identity transplanted against his will. But a failure nonetheless, because a real hero wouldn’t have fallen. And this is why in Civil War, the arm needed to be forcibly taken from him, because it was a mark of his identity as the Winter Soldier and of his crimes against a hero’s family. The arm is then given to him in Infinity War as an opportunity for atonement, to fight for the “greater good” (as if fighting against Nazis wasn’t right there in his history). And he is reminded in TFATWS it can be taken away at any time if he misbehaves, that no matter how hard he works that original flaw will always hang over him and any minor mistake needs to be punished to bring him back in line (a point reinforced by Sam’s constant jibing at his time as a prisoner).

And then people wonder why Bucky fans are pissed off about the gross ableism.

[cowgurrrl]

OKAY WAIT

late night talks with college!joel - how reader and him came to date. they were studying they got distracted talking about something and stayed up all night taking. now joel can get her off his mind. 😉

thank you harry styles <3

I’ll kiss you on the mouth dude I love this idea

UPDATE: I DIDNT KNOW HOW TO END IT AND IF IT WASNT FOR MY MELATONIN KICKING IN I WOULDVE CONTINUED IT

She’s got a book for every situation

Pairing: college!joel x fem!reader

Summary: this ask

Author’s note: typed in tumblr and not proofread so god speed slayers 🫡

Warnings: mentions of alcohol, Joel being The Biggest Flirt, June your BA in English is showing, I think that’s it??

Working at the writing center on campus has its perks. You get unlimited printing, editing experience, and free coffee. Granted, it’s from a pot that had been simmering for several days but it’s free nevertheless. You’ve even managed to get in good with a few professors who would recommend their students come to you if they need help. Normally, they don’t take the advice until finals week and they all scramble into your office all at once. So, when a tall guy with curly dark hair walks into your desolate lobby, you’re a little surprised. He looks lost with a stack of papers piled in his hands and visibly relaxes when he sees you peek your head out.

“Hey there. Can I help you?” You ask, approaching him.

“Maybe. ‘M from Dr. Phillips class and she said to come to the writing center and ask for…” He trails off as he glances down at his paper before saying your name. “Said she might be able to help me with my paper.”

“Yeah, I think she can help you with your paper.” You say and hold out your hand to grab the red inked paper. It’s a paper on Kerouac who’s never been your favorite. In fact, you wrote an entire paper about how pretentious and privileged Jack Kerouac actually was but that’s neither here nor there. The bottom line is that you know how to write a paper professors are looking for. You feel his eyes scanning your face as you read his thesis and try to ignore the blush creeping over your cheeks.

“I take it you’re the brilliant writer Dr. Phillips likes so much.” He says. You smile but don’t take your eyes off his words so you don’t get distracted by his presence.

“Dr. Phillips doesn’t like anyone.”

“She seemed to like you. Told me all about how smart you are,” he says. “Never mentioned the pretty part, though.” Finally, you look up and meet his gaze.

“Technically Dr. Phillips isn’t allowed to recommend one student editor over another. It’s against our policy and makes things a little fairer for everyone. So, can we keep this little secret between us…” you let your sentence end, realizing you never asked his name, and he holds out his free hand.

“Joel.” He says and you shake his hand.

“Well, Joel, I’ll tell you what. I’ll agree to help you get your paper in order if you agree to not get me fired. Fair deal?”

“Yes, ma’am.” He says politely.

You spend the rest of the day walking Joel through essay structures, grammar mistakes, and thesis issues. His argument is strong but it needs to be more concise and punchier. When you try to explain it to him in those terms, he looks at you like you’re from Mars. Eventually, after a little too much flirty small talk, he tells you about his dad’s construction company and you learn to put flowery, over dramatic writing advice into clean, neat boxes that he understands completely. Unfortunately, you don’t end up finishing the actual essay before the center closes.

“You’re free to come back tomorrow morning so we can finish this.” You say as you gather your things and stuff them in your backpack. Joel stretches in his chair, his shirt riding up just enough to reveal a gorgeous sliver of tan skin and you have to force your eyes away from the sight.

“D’you live far from here?” He asks, standing and throwing his own backpack over one shoulder. You waffle for a moment, unsure if you want to tell this almost perfect stranger where you live.

“Maybe a ten minute walk. It’s not bad for Austin.”

“Can I walk you home? Since I kept you so late,” he asks. Once again, you hesitate. Joel doesn’t seem like the typical frat guy you’ve come to fear since your time at school. He actually seems gentle and genuine. You turn the thought over a few more times before he throws his hands up. “‘S just an offer to make sure you get home safe. I’ll even carry your backpack for you if you want.” He offers and you smile. You take another second before handing him your heavy backpack. He slings it over his free shoulder and walks to the door to open it for you, keys jingling in your hand as you lock up the writing center for the night. The humid Texas night suffocates you the second you step out into the fading daylight.

“You always carry girls’ backpacks home?” You ask as you start walking in the direction of your apartment. Campus is mostly empty this time of night, everyone crawling home after class to pregame or cry or both. Squirrels patrol the sidewalks for any students who may want to hand them a piece from their bagel or sandwich. Someone honks their horn in distant standstill Austin traffic, and the sun slowly slides behind the Capitol. It’s peaceful.

“Only when I make ‘em read my shitty writing.” He says and you laugh.

“Your writing’s not bad, Joel. It’s actually very good. Essays are just the worst to write.”

“You like ‘em enough to work at the writing center.”

“Yeah, but that doesn’t mean it’s what I actually care about,” you shrug. “At this point, I’m a warm body with a clicky pen.”

“Woah there, Kafka. I think you’re a little more than that,” Joel laughs and you have to laugh too. Not only for the perfectly on brand joke but for the tone in his voice. The playful lilt makes your head feel fuzzy. “Alright then, if you don’t like essays and you don’t like Kerouac, what do you like? What do you wanna write?” He asks and you take a deep breath. It’s a question you’ve fielded more than enough times in your college career to know that not many people like your answer.

“I’m not sure yet. I like a little bit of everything.”

“Have you written anythin’ I would’ve read?”

“No,” you laugh. “Probably not.”

“Why’s that funny?” He asks and you shake your head.

“Because nobody wants to publish my work. It’s too… rough.”

“Rough?” He raises his eyebrows at you.

“Yeah. Publishers either want the next Great American Novel or nothing at all, and I am not next Great American Novel material.”

“How do you know?”

“Because nobody’s publishing me.”

“Maybe, you’re not lookin’ in the right places,” he says. “‘M just sayin’ someone as smart as you has to have somethin’ someone will wanna take.”

“Yeah, well, don’t go holdin’ your breath on me, cowboy.”

“Why do you do that?” He asks suddenly and you stop to look at him.

“Do what?” You ask.

“Try and play it off whenever someone compliments you.” He says with glaring honesty. It sets you back in your heels but you quickly recover.

“You’ve only known me for a few hours. How do you know I’m not just incredibly humble?”

“I guess I don’t,” he says. “Could I buy you a drink and figure it out?” It could be the way he, somehow, sees right through you already or the way his brown eyes look in the sunlight but you can’t stop the butterflies in your stomach. You purse your lips together and dare a step closer to him.

“Tell you what, if you get an A on this paper, I’ll let you buy me a drink.” You say.

“And if I fail?” He asks and you shake your head.

“You won’t fail.”

“But what if I do?”

“If you do, you have to…” you search your brain. “Carry my backpack home for me for a week.”

“You drive a hard bargain, ma’am.”

“But I take it Joel Miller’s a bettin’ man.”

“See, smarter than you think.” He quips and you roll your eyes.

“One thing at a time, lover boy.”

Joel ends up getting the highest grade on his essay out of anyone in his class. Dr. Phillips commends his dedication to bettering his first draft and tells him to keep up the good work. “Whatever you did to change this, keep it up.” She says when she places his graded essay on his desk. When he presents the A to you at the writing center, all you can do is applaud him and smile.

“I told you you’d pass.” You say, poking at his firm chest.

“Yeah, yeah,” he rolls his eyes. “Maybe I just needed a little motivation.”

“Oh, yeah? What was that?”

“I think I was promised a date.” He says cheekily and you nod.

“You were, and my mama raised me to be a woman of my word,” you smile. “Jenny, do you mind closing up for me tonight?” You ask the receptionist and she shakes her head.

“Not at all, darlin’. Have a good night.” She winks at you when Joel turns his back and you stick your tongue out at her.

Say what you will about the writing center but you think a date with a broad, tall, handsome cowboy is the best thing that could’ve come out of that hell hole.

[jrueships]

can you please walk us through the relationship between wemby and jabari the people need to know

i think the most notable thing about vic and Jabari's relationship is that they don't have one, when it would be so beneficial if they did. they're like two soldiers fighting for the opposite sides of a war, too loyal to the cause to stop and think about what could have been if they just lowered their respective weapons aimed by cold hands larger than their own. foils by fate, friends by freedom.

' remember, you will Always be Different. '

' remember, you will Always be Replaceable. '

'Replaceable'

Jabari's dad made it in the NBA, then didn't. He was a big that could shoot, but wasn't a post-up man. Back then, post-up was the desired style. Ironically, now, it's all about shooting. But his dad didn't live in the now, and his career in the US was short-lived, to keep it cordial. Jabari's older brother played basketball throughout his whole life, but stopped after college. Jabari's cousin, Kwame Brown, was drafted 1st overall in the lottery, and became a notorious bust for the Washington wizards.

Basketball is a business. Basketball is fleeting.

It doesn't matter that a big with sharpshooter skills is valued as something so 'prized' in today's nba, not back then, not when it would have mattered for Jabari's dad. Making it is one ballpark in its own, but Staying in it? Can perhaps be an even more painful ordeal when the hoops to accomplish it aren't circus hoops, but a plain hill some just don't have the strength, mentality, or the materials to help climb without distraction or pitfall.

Jabari's dad made sure Jabari had this threat forever ingrained in his mind. When he yells at Jabari for misplaced eye contact, for typing the wrong words in a public social media reply, for reacting in a way a camera might misinterpret, it's out of love. Jabari's dad was known for being a hassle to coach back then, maybe because he knew his potential and no one else did because it was too new to the mold. So he makes sure Jabari doesn't follow his same habits. Jabari is polite to authority, simply replies with a 'Yes Sir' or a 'No Ma'am', he holds eye contact, he wakes up hours before he needs to just to jump rope, just to uphold the standards that his family could not. He is Everything his father is and isn't, plus more. When his team wins, he's still talking about his missed freethrows even 8 hours later. Because someone else could have won the game And hit those free throws too . someone from a family that gained success and stayed in that success. Someone who wasn't Just Another Son of a basketball player trying to do what his father couldn't, someone who was Different .

Everyone knew wemby was different. When his literature class was asked to write an essay about your future dreams in life, he wrote a fictional romance about a couple where the woman got in a car accident and was comatosed as a result, but got better in the end. He didn't write about being a great basketball player one day, because his parents don't pressure him to hunker himself into the norm, even though his mother once was and now coaches. If Wemby one day realized this wasn't for him, they would encourage him to leave and follow whatever greater passions propelling him. He's so agile for his size because his dad was an Olympic talent in track and field. He is someone who has hobbies and talents that are considered common alone, but strange combined, because he loves what he has and what he does. He reads every night for one hour before bed not to appear as some pseudointellectual, but because he Genuinely loves it, and when he loves something, he excels at it. He does try to be different, but not out of ego. He just loves to be. He either accomplishes at 200% or zero. It may be 200% in an unexpected direction, but it's His direction and that's what matters. If he somehow does wind up a bust, a possibility he considers without fear but acceptance as potential fate, then he won't go down as yet another failed first pick. He'll fall as he flew, Victor Wembanyama.

' Different '

' Replaceable'

Jabari winces each time he's subbed out, even for a second, even on an injured ankle, he's silently Stubborn, his posture shrunken and his gaze at the ground yet his eyes, big, wobbling, staring up always at the speaker, he's silently scared.

Jabari doesn't Want to be different. He just wants to be what his family couldn't be when it came to fame: irreplaceable . His parents split when he was younger, he tries his hardest to appease them both as to not cause any more issues. The relationship relies on his shoulders more than ever, and he can't fumble it again. He has to be what his dad couldn't so his dad can stay, commenting on commonality or surprises. He wants to support his still working mother, especially after the split. He doesn't Want to be unique, he just wants Security.

Because this can crumble any moment now, it doesn't matter how high your pick was or how bright the future Could Have been or how the game would later shift to your style if you had just somehow Stayed. Why bet on low chances if you know you can't handle the risk. He shakes any college coaches' hands that showed up to his practices, personally thanks them for coming even though he's one of the best in the country so their presence should be a given to him, it's not. When he picks a college, he picks one that guaranteed their faith in him from day One, and didn't require any further prodding to finally say '.. Maybe we'll offer you a position' like Kentucky did, as big and famous as it is, it wasn't Secured . They saw him as a risk at one point, and that's everything he's been trying to avoid when it came to attention, negatively standing out.

Jabari wants to be known as the strong shoulder to the world. He WANTS to be known as That One Guy who can just carry everything, nameless but Good. He just wants to be Good. Please tell him he's good. Please tell him what he's doing is Good. That basing his entire personality around yet another soldier who ultimately fell in battle but fought nonetheless being nameless is Good. Please feel free to give him all your burdens to bear like he's just some mule, an animal, a Tool .. because that means he's Useful, at least. That means he's Good. And if he isn't good, then he's nothing. Because you can always just buy another one anyways. A better one.

'Different'

Although his parents try not to treat Wemby by simplifying his differences into a strictly labeled, simple FUTURE BASKETBALL PRODIGY box at birth, that doesn't mean that can always stop others from doing it. Wemby signed his first autograph at ten years old.

It didn't matter if he was a kid who was so much more than just his basketball future, basketball fans wanted one thing from him and one thing only: Success. People didn't care about his literary skills or his drawing hobbies. The eyes on his alien needed to be smaller 'so your shoe can sell better, trust us, it's still Your drawing.. your weird little .. not money-making hobby, do believe me, Vic, We know what We're doing. You just stick to whatever you do.'

His differences, in the end, are minimalized just to that. He's just Different. That's what everyone says who wouldn't really care to say anything at all if he never hooped as well as they wanted in the first place. The youtube videos of 40 year old men criticizing his 15 year old games didn't Really care if he was just a kid, they just cared in the 'imagine when he reaches peak physicality? imagine the points (money) he'd make for the nba.' His beautiful differences, artistic, soft, unique but oh-so wonderfully common and passionate.. are all dissolved into 'Different', the Base definition.

he's an alien. Someone you can just dump all your poverty franchise worries onto because don't worry, he's Different. Trust me, he'll save your team. 'He's Different. ..am i talking about how he'd effortlessly answer questions in class while also trying to hide the fact that he's playing on his phone by tucking his bony legs awkwardly in his chair and crouching his spine over that it looked almost scary? HELL NO? what does THAT have to do with BASKETBALL?? no, he's just freakishly long, but like. Gifted. Though. ... I don't know, man, he's just DIFFERENT, okay? you can trust me, i'm a sports podcaster, okay? everything i say is gold.'

A celebrity approaches him because he was different than most famous basketball athletes. He was Different. And yet, when he didn't recognize or notice her presence due to Different cultures ( due to Being Genuinely, Detailedly Different ), he was scorned and ushered out of public eye so another possible pr bomb couldn't injure his reputation as a Difference That They Really Would Rather Not Want.

that's what his reading falls into, his old friends, his family, his art, his personality. If it's beyond ball, if it's beyond Business. The world only cares if it's marketable. Sure, some reporters will ask a question outside of sport, but only because it'll be a Different.. funny little nugget of knowledge for fans to laugh at then soon disregard for what Really made him famous. But, Wemby is what he always wanted to be. He's Different. So What if it's not exactly the kind of Different he actually wants, he actually functions on? No one has the time to perform 200% anymore. Slap the label you wanted and call it quits, stop being so High-Maintenanced. That's not marketable.

You're just different. And to some people, that's all you'll ever be. No need to explore it any further. Who knows, your Consumers might find something they won't like. And we can't risk that happening to our greatest circus freak.

i mean. Generational basketball talent .

If there's a press conference going on that somehow includes the two, then Wemby just wants to be sure everyone can hear what he really wants to say, in his own words, not echoing anyone else's, and Jabari just wants to Be in the Room.

His brother stopped playing basketball because his family said he didn't try hard enough. Jabari Can't have that. His whole life revolves Around basketball, around sport. He doesn't WANT to be DIFFERENT if that isn't the soundest option, he just wants to be GREAT. Because GREAT is SUCCESS. Jabari Smith is not success. It's just a retry at it . His father shares the same name.

Wemby's life did not always revolve around basketball, to people, at one point. At one point, Wemby's life was just his life. Now, it seems like only his family think that, and they're from a whole other country. When he comments on videos critiquing his playstyle, he doesn't do so out of anger or questioning, he does so because he genuinely Wants to improve. He Does want to be great. But, he wants to be great in Everything that he finds interesting. He always did. When he likes an author, he reads All their books, not just their most notorious novel. He wants to be transported into other people's worlds so he can learn, so he can change, so he can be Different. Even if he somehow were to lose all of this fame, this Greatness, this job, this opportunity, he will never really lose. Because he's someone who's always taken opportunities to the fullest, so even if they pan out a little differently, that's Fine, really, because he's different. Not in the minimizing, dictionary definition then leave the meaning at that different, but in the butterfly effect. What he once was ten days ago is not exactly the same of what he is now, and it hurts, sometimes, when people fail to see that, or simply don't want to because textbook different is easier to digest than worldly different.

IN SHORT.. theyre foils. i can't Exactly walk u thru their relationship bcs .. there Isn't one.. & that's what's so Interesting about them. That's what makes their relationship, to me. Because if they WERE to be friends, if they somehow in some alternate world WERE to get paired up on the same team... they would be friends. I really think they would be. Not only because their signs are so compatible, or their differences are so stark, but because their similarities would triumph everything beautifully. Maybe. We don't know because they Weren't paired together, we can only speculate. But i think it would be big and beautiful, whatever they would have, it would be Something.

unfortunately, we don't live in an alternate world where they're teammates though ! Double unfortunately, Jabari and Wemby's biggest similarity is their loyalty to the game (a double-edged sword in both their lives from Jabari's silent unhealthy desire to be limited and Wemby's silent desperation not to be) Wemby, in Jabari's eyes, is Indeed a powerful...

Problem.

He's not really a person to him . In all fairness, no one really is when they're involved in the basketball world, not to Jabari, not from the way he's been taught. Everyone's supposed to be Replaceable, a faceless tool in the pocket of good business.

.. except for This freakazoid. Apparently.

APPARENTLY, he's some supposed 'saint'. someone to be feared for being more. APPARENTLY, the reporters just LOVE yapping about him SO much, that Jabari HAS to take the time out of his training just to talk about some guy who doesn't even GO here, yet when they ask him about his opinion on future prospects. WELL, that's ALL wemby IS to Jabari, just another future prospect. Just another problem.

A problem he'll be sure to check off his list.

... okay, so Maybe he's a bit more than a problem.. maybe.. he's just a really persistent problem? yeah, that's it, nothing more. Jabari will work through this. He Always does. That's what he does well, Work.

Wemby wonders if that's all he ever does .

But he doesn't have long before Jabari's marching down the tunnel to beat himself up over all his mistakes other people would never make, and Wemby's being escorted to an interview that other people would never make solely to show how Much he just Stands Out as a soul... in basketball .

I hope they find each other in basketball, and out of it as well. I just feel like

Something would Happen

[ext1nctanimals]

(Hope this isn't annoying im running on 3h sleep) no but, i genuinely think one of white students' BIG issues today is the inability to NOT know things. I think it's a big reason for use of AI too- white students end up so petrified of not "getting it" that they close themselves off from any possible academic/literary/etc thing that could possibly challenge them.

And it's fucking disastrous! Bc the student who cannot dare to read a book with more than dialogue and platitudes, who cannot stomach being outside their Colleen Hoover wankfest for more than a second at a time- these people graduate into roles requiring empathy that they have CHOSEN not to learn.

And yes, I know that empathy is not the same as being a good or compassionate person. But the knowledge that the person going into politics/medicine could not manage reading about a perspective other than their own for a single week? It is literally dire.

(Sorry I hope this wasn't annoying. I have thoughts about cultural literacy)

NOOOOOO YOURE SO RIGHT i think that we have killed curiosity in many ways. it’s so important to be like well i don’t know shit about this but i want to. and i think a lot of it is being disrupted by this white fantasy of total innocence and cleanliness where they’re like i can’t get canceled for interacting with Black writers wrong if i never do it! and it’s like. oh my god. take an intellectual risk and try really hard not to hurt other people on purpose.

it particularlyyyyyy pisses me off with baldwin because yes he is Black yes he wrote largely about Blackness but he is so often writing to/for white people. he addresses them directly!!! he starts sentences like “white man, listen to me:” and some of my co-teachers will be like “my white students dont get it so i took it off the syllabus.” WELL TRY HARDER? you’re teaching it badly if your students cannot read an essay directly addressed to people like them and get anything out of it. but i think these teachers are also white and cannot figure out how to approach with curiosity and think they must know everything because they are teachers doling out knowledge to students.

i am here maybe having read more Baldwin than the average suburban 18 year old has (and i was once a suburban 18 year old encountering him for the first time!) but i don’t know everything; i haven’t thought of every way to read him; i haven’t even read everything he’s written. a student encountering him for the first time has something to say. you need to create a classroom where they know this

though there’s also a lot of stem students who believe that they don’t need to cultivate empathy in this way because it won’t make them more employable or help them get into med school. well yeah i guess. but maybe taking a humanities class will keep you from becoming a fucking weapons contractor. idk girl. what the hell

i saw this as a k-12 educator and i see it at the college level now but also the covid learning curve is having horrific consequences for students. and i know it’s not their fault but we are being told (by school districts and by university admin) to lower our expectations of these kids and expect no intellectual rigor and ask for nothing from them. i don’t believe in college being miserable for kicks or anything but i think that 18 year olds are capable of doing hard things, and college is the place to practice that and fall on your face and get up so that you aren’t figuring out how to do it at a job that can fire you. and also where your refusal to touch anything complicated means you will do actual harm. you don’t need to be an intellectual i guess but then don’t come to college if you think learning and being challenged to learn more is stupid lol

idk. i think in many ways i disagree with the tiktok crowd about what the point of reading is. i think you should read to learn Something. and sometimes you read to learn a story and that’s okay! sorry i wrote a five paragraph essay about this lol but the idea that reading should be all pleasure and never challenging kind of makes me wanna kms

[sparvverius]

15 + 24 or 25 for the history ask game? ✨

15. Were the history classes teached in an interesting way in your school/ college/ university? What would you do to improve them if you were the teacher / lecturer?

though i've always liked history i can actually credit my obsession with and love for it to a specific teacher! i had her for two years in middle school and she was the best. she would almost always assign art and research projects instead of quizzes. when we learned about ancient egypt she had us wrap uncooked whole chickens in salt and bandages and then bury them in a wooden coffin in the school garden. we dug them up two years later and they were pretty well preserved! to teach us about the amrev she showed us 1776 the musical (i mean that wasn't the only thing she showed us but it made it very fun). if she could think of a way to turn something into a game or roleplaying experience or song or art project she would.

though my high school latin class was more of a language class than a history class it was kind of also a history class and that was also wonderful. the teaching style felt so easy and i think i never got less than an 100% on a quiz but it was also effective! i won a prize in a statewide competition once. i've always compared language classes in college to that one and they've always come up short in comparison. writing this is reminding me that i need to contact that teacher so that i can tell him about my study abroad trip in rome i got to go on last summer!

as for one i would improve... in high school i got a 0% on a frev assignment because i spent the whole class time at the board correcting the packet we were given. but i won in the end because the next year the teacher used (an edited version of) an essay i wrote to teach the frev. all that was nothing against the teacher who was great just shows the abysmal state of education about the frev in america outside of specialist classes even in otherwise very good history classes.

i've been very lucky in that the worst thing i can say about a history class i've had is that i have forgotten everything about it.

24. Most underrated historical figure?

i've been trying to learn more about the haitian revolution and i think really every major player in that event--as well as the event itself--is massively underrated. i can't help but think there's a political reason for it. i mean toussaint loverture is relatively well known but how many people outside of haiti or specialist historian circles know dessalines existed let alone that he went from being enslaved to being an emperor? not enough!! and too many of those who do content themselves with accusing him of genocide despite the groups of haitian whites who were given amnesty and citizenship

25. Most overrated historical figure in your opinion?

george washington. aside from the obvious reasons i find him boring sorry </3

[royallygray]

Psst Royal

Do you wanna rant about anymore soul horizon lore? I would like to hear about soul horizon lore if you wanna ramble :D

Also would you like to read the essay I wrote about llkau Pearl's psychological truama and manipulation from her mother?

yes I am always down to rant about soul horizon lore. also YES I WANT PEARLS PSYCHOLOGICAL TRAUMA HEHEHEHEHEHEH

Anyways hello. I am normal sized again wow.

Okay so personally--FUCK I HAVE A MEGA STUPID ASSIGNMENT IM GONNA NEED TO DEAL WITH THAT IN SOME AMOUNT OF TIME--i have recently been obsessed with soul horizon divorcée quartet.

THEYRE. SO FUCKING SPECIAL TO ME. BECAUSE THEYRE LOSERS

OMG OMG I NEED TO EXPLAIN THE EEP

WE DONT CARE ABOUT THE EEP WE CARE ABOUT SCOTT AND CLEO AND PEARL AND MARTYN

Scott and Cleo are canonically married. why did I do this, you may ask? tax benefits. and they were living with each other anyways. and also idk how marriage licenses work but it makes the pay a whole lot like even-er because Scott's a doctor and Cleo's a teacher

Well they're a college professor. idk how much more college professors get paid and I am too lazy to google it

hold on actually

ok so according to the first results: 96k to 300k per year which makes the second result so fucking sad like. the second result is 30k-97k a year. like. rip

compared to high school teachers: 45k-100k per year. Jesus Christ. and then the second result is 38k-46k.

rip teachers honestly

AYY SCOTT IS LOADED. I THINK. I DON'T KNOW HOW MUCH SHIT COSTS I HAVE NO LIFE EXPERIENCE I AM A BLOB FLOATING IN THE WIND DESPERATELY CLINGING TO LIFE

330k-630k. Yahoo. scott has it good. he's a surgeon because... I said so. he's like a surgeon but also a doctor. I think. mostly a surgeon tho but I am going to call him a doctor for the rest of this because in my mind he wears the coats. like a lab person. with cyan hair

SO. WHERE DO WE ACTUALLY BEGIN WITH THE LORE.

Well. It starts in elementary school. I... don't actually have lore for Cleo and Scott for this part but I do for Pearl and Martyn! So Pearl and Martyn are the same age, and they went to Evolution Elementary and Middle. They're in the same building. People just call it Evo

Also Jimmy barely made it through that school bc the year after he graduated it got shut down bc it was hosting cult activities. hmmm. weird

All the Evo gang went to Evo Elementary. shocker. And Lizzie.

And then they graduated, and they went to Hermit High Academy. Which I love. All the Hermits are there, except for Joel and Skizz (THEY WEREN'T HERMITS WHEN THIS STARTED AND ID ALREADY DONE THIS BACKSTORY), Cleo (she was at EEP), Gem, and Scar.

Also EEP stands for Empires Education Program. I love the EEP. All Empires people went there.

The two significant years-

hold on hold on hold on. okay. so.

Year order. we need this

also my sibling once told me that I text like someone with ADHD and I cannot help but feel like that's relevant here.

hello it is now a completely different day and place (I'm at the kitchen table and it is midnight)

(It has been thirty minutes I'm in my bed again and I am going to fall asleep. I need to take my meds. I have now taken my meds. now if I wanted to I could just fall asleep. I'm gonna keep talking here.)

In the Empires Education Program (which is referred to by people who want to mock it and also the attendees of it as the eep. Others say Empires or E E P (separated letters)) there are two years of people attending that we care about.

Everyone that was in Empires or SOS, minus False, Pearl, Jimmy, and Gem is part of the EEP.

The secondary year we care about (the grade below) has Oli, Owen, Mog, Eloise, and a few others unnamed (prolly from Witchcraft) because I refuse to make this class smaller than Magic School Bus's.

Everyone (minus Pearl, Jimmy, and Gem) in Empires S1 is in the first year of EEP. The second year has everyone else (minus False) that was in Empires S2 and SOS.

The primary year we care about (the most plot relevant people are here) has Scott, Cleo, Lizzie, Joel, Shelby, Katherine, fWhip, Pix, Sausage, and Joey. You might notice that Cleo is in here, and they are not part of this group. Cleo is in here because I said so. Also I needed a place for her to be besties with Scott. And Cleo would be a great addition to this crew, just saying.

... genuinely it is a completely different day and I am in a separate building and I have no idea what my ultimatum here was

Anyways. Martyn is a vigilante, Pearl's a villain, Scott's a doctor, and Cleo's a professor.

The funny thing that I'm absolutely in love with is how they semi get along. but mostly don't.

see. Scott and Pearl had that whole scene where Pearl literally ran out of magic and started ripping it out of Scott's soul. Magic is part of your soul, so it comes from a similar place as your soulbond.

And so Scott and Pearl have a well justified rivalry. And also after they broke the soulbond -- OH I JUST REMEMBERED THE REALLY FUNNY SHIT -- they both became Worthy, Scott significantly earlier than Pearl.

I still gotta explain the Worthy thing dammit

Anyways the really funny shit is that normally, when you reject your soulbond, you essentially function exactly the same as a person without a soulbond except you've got a weird tattoo, and you will die at the same moment that they do.

EXCEPT the divorce quartet are part of the Eighteen (which irl are just the life series members), and this means that the rejection doesn't work. It works at first, and Pearl and Scott have silent minds for the first time ever, and then they hear the slight whisper of the other one's voice and just. they're suffering.

It's funny as fuck, imo, because I'm the sadist author that makes the characters suffer. hehe

essentially, the telepathy hurts more after they rejected it than before. And also they also have the normal consequence of "if the one dies, then the other one dies too" which normal soulmates don't have.

But because of the rejection not working, the four of them realized that they're Winners. And they all figure out that they're Winners because Pearl believes that Mortality mythology (aka life series canon events) is real.

And Martyn was like "hah Pearl you're crazy"

and Pearl straight up goes "Jimmy's the Canary"

and the three of them stare at Pearl

because EVERYONE has heard the legend of the canary. It doesn't fucking matter who you are.

And Cleo's straight up like "holy shit"

And Scott knew the entire time bc he shares a brain with Pearl except he semi didn't believe it but he knew that Pearl believed it

But now they figure out that Scott is the Stars (2nd winner), Pearl is the Moon (3rd winner), Martyn is Mars/water/The Tower (4th winner), and Cleo is Pluto/fire/Death (6th winner).

And then perhaps Grian just walks out of the house and is like what're y'all talking about.

And then Pearl just stares at him. because she remembers what his soulmark is.

It's the sun and the earth. which is the missing duo of winners.

and Pearl is like. Grian. You're a winner.

and Grian's like "wtf are you on"

"like of mortality mythology"

"wat"

Scott: so is he the sun or the earth

Pearl: probably the sun. have you seen that face

Grian: wtf

Martyn: welcome to divorce club, Grian

Pearl: Martyn stfu

Martyn: yeah I'm scared of you so I will actually do that

Also Martyn and Pearl are besties

also I gotta write the scene where they divorce bc it's actually rly cute. not like Scott&Pearl and Martyn&Cleo but like. Scott and Martyn are cute. And Pearl and Cleo are cute. And Cleo and Scott<3 and Martyn and Pearl are like besties. so.

yeah

they. them. they're the perfect combination of like. a lot of shit. because all of them are morally gray.

hey that's almost my name

My name is actually a play on the phrase "morally gray", fun fact

Since Pearl is literally a villain. Martyn is a more hero aligned vigilante. Scott and Cleo, while being civilians, do actively help Pearl by giving her potions and shit since she and Martyn can go to the Nether to get the ingredients, and Scott and Cleo have a permit to brew potions.

Like. Scott and Cleo are like passive and will not get outed in the grand scheme, but technically they break the law daily. And I love them so much for that. Like. They know WAYYY too much to be civilians. Not even JOEL knows as much, and he's the motherfucking husband of Riptide, who is the sister of Scarlet AND Sparrow. AND the Canary.

Anyways. Um. If you want to ask any clarifying questions, I would be more than happy to answer those.

This was rly incoherent and I'm sorry abt that but y'know :D

THANK YOU PERI @periwinklepaint FOR THE ASK :D :D

[sugary-daydreams3]

Key Brothers - Family Cook

Link to full series

Story Summary: Every town has that fun but dysfunctional family folks can't help but keep track of. Well, the Key family is Destiny Island's. Four brothers. Contrasting personalities but all cut from the same cloth. They argue, they tease, they joke, but when the going gets tough they're willing to take a blade to the heart for their own. Follow the daily shenanigans of four colorful boys and their mother of blue. [Vanitas, Roxas, Ventus, and Sora are all siblings]

Chapter Summary: Roxas makes breakfast while the family rises and shines.

Genre: Slice of Life, Drama, A.U.

Word Count: 1.3k

A/N: A remake of a fanfiction I wrote a while back on FanFic.Net. Writing this story brought me a joy I didn't realize until after I abandoned it so here I am to revamp it. Expect (mostly) wholesome slice-of-life family-centric shenanigans between four boys and their (very pretty) blueberry mom. We're starting off strong with our favorite s8kter boi, Roxas! Being the family "cook" regardless if it's for breakfast or dinner can get pretty exhausting. Stay safe out there and enjoy!

Flips of the bacon hisses within the iron skillet. The thick smoky beefy aroma becomes Roxas's morning oxygen. Ghosts of bacon strips satisfies his appetite, the smell tricking his stomach that he was ready to take on the day. Roxas steps back and leans against the corner, the sizzling mingling with his thoughts.   

Vanitas, the eldest and most obnoxious, slings his loyal gold necklace over the black bush stuck on his head. Strutting over, he steals two pieces straight from the pan then pinches a portion of scrambled eggs off his plate. His mouth motions slowly, the egg and bacon combo overwhelming his taste buds. Roxas shoots him a look that not just could kill, but eliminates. He throws a jab on Vanitas bicep. 

“You can’t wait one fucking minute?” Roxas scolds. 

“You look like a housewife.” Vanitas grabs his keys and heads for the door. 

“Did you at least wake mama up so she won’t sleep in?” 

Vanitas opens the front door, “Don’t have time for that.” 

“Really?”  

“Yeah, really.” He muffles through his chewed-up food. The door sweeps close, Vanitas leaving with the conversation.  

Roxas fixes the plates, a groan or a sigh leaves him, he’s too annoyed to decipher it. Once the table is set, he moves on to fixing his saving grace, lunch. The tediousness of it all sucks, but the mediocrity of school food gives enough determination to prep his own meal.  

Turkey melted down by mozzarella cheese, all smooshed by white breads. Don’t tell his mama, she’ll just complain about buying the loaf of wheat bread for nothing. Four small chocolate chips cookies his mom baked last night, a sweet tooth impulse. Ten-dollar apple juice to wash it all down. It’s a shame that this apple Juice cost so much, he blames Ventus for influencing him to replace the watery cheap kind. 

Ven. The other 50 to his 50. The orange glow from a candle that brings comfort to his empty, dark blank. His... He could give you an essay but his twin was eating at the table, giving him conscious concern.  

Ven opened with, “You alright?”  

“Yeah, just lost in thought.” Roxas lingo for “I’m Fine.”. 

“When are you not.” Ven joked. Roxas shoots him a look. Ven doesn’t know how Roxas conveys it but it was a mix of nonchalance and annoyance.  

“Taking the bus?” Roxas set all of his lunch in a paper brown bag with a marked “R”. He sets it on the kitchen corner hidden beside the microwave. Ven shakes his head as he savors the syrup-soaked waffles. “Someone from class is taking me.” 

Roxas rolled his eyes, “We just started school two weeks ago and you already have new friends.”  

Ven chuckles, “Sorry for wanting a social circle to help me survive tenth grade.” 

“Whatever.” Roxas brushed off with a slice of envy. “You know, you could make more friends besides Xion and that redhead college friend. What’s his name? Allen? Alex?” Ven trailed. 

“Axel. The redhead’s name is Axel.” Roxas corrected. 

“Yeah, him. You only have one friend that’s our age. How did you even become friends with a college dude?” 

“A long story I don’t feel like getting into. I only need two close friends to keep me going. I have other friends that’s close in age anyway.” 

“Ah yeah that’s right. Skaters that disregard people’s property and smoke trees on a Wednesday.” 

“Stereotype much. Skaters are chill, cool people who inspire me more than anything. They... forget it, you wouldn’t get it.” Roxas shakes his head as he shields himself from Ven. 

“Rox, I’m just suggesting that you make some friends in our grade. I see you on the days Xion isn’t at school. It’s hard to watch.” 

“People say that after graduation you lose touch with people you go to school with. What’s the point of having friendships that’ll last three years max?” Roxas challenged. 

“So you can have fun memories to look back on.”  

Roxas was ready to bite back but nothing of substance followed.  

HONK!  

A car horn cleared the tension left from the back and forth, snapping Ven out of his concern and out of Roxas’s cynicism. Ven stuffed the last bit of eggs in his mouth then goes for his green backpack. 

“Just try, okay?” Ven muffled through the eggs, but the warmth was still there. 

Roxas doesn’t respond, idly watching his best friend brother walk out the door. He fixed his own plate then sat down to scarf down his hard work. Ever since he become (somewhat) good at skateboarding, he didn’t need the crowded, dingy school bus anymore.  

Sora bolts downstairs, hair more messy than usual (if that was even possible), mechanical pencils falling to the floor, shirt wrinkled. His homework floats out of the open zipper, alerting him to snatch the papers and shove them back in his cluttered bag. Typical shenanigans from the baby. He throws Roxas a look and waves his way. 

“Hey Rox! Bye Rox!” Sora shouts as he ran past the kitchen. Roxas points at his food. “At least eat your food first. Why are you--” 

“Okay!” Sora bounces from the living room to the kitchen island to the door within a few seconds, taking the plate of food with him. “Can’t chat or I’m gonna miss the bus!” 

Roxas pinches the bridge of his nose, being a witness of Sora’s tornado left him with a headache. 

“That dude is gonna be the death of me one of these days.” Roxas checks the clock and sees that homeroom starts in half an hour. He walks over to the stairway and lifts his hand beside his mouth to project. 

“Mama, your food is in the microwave! I’ll see you!” 

“Okay, be safe.” His mother had this magical ability to make her voice heard without shouting. Gentleness guarded by a firm shell. 

Roxas walks out the door. The skateboard gliding against the concrete becomes faint the more time past. 

Aqua walks downstairs with her silk blue robe flowing behind her. She heats up her food then consumes her breakfast, soaking in the silence that follows after all of her boys leave for the day. She didn’t need any entertainment nor any conversation. The quiet of the birds talking, the lawn mower in the distance, and the subtle creaks of the large house provided a pocket of peace that was all she needed. Worth enduring the chaos triggered by too much young testosterone. 

Aqua hums as she chews her bacon, allowing emptiness void her mind before responsibilities cram it yet again. She takes a drink out of her teacup yet no warm tea bathes her body from the inside. She sets the cup down to see that she forgot to make the comforting morning beverage. She pouts. 

“Fudge...”  

“You think I should hang out with them after school?” Xion asks, hoping he objects to give her an excuse. 

“Hell yeah. I think it could be good.” 

Xion shifts, “I might be boring though.” 

“You ain’t boring to me. So why should they?” Roxas challenged. 

For a moment, Xion stares at her locker. She turns to him with small nods, registering his logic. “Okay, sure. I’ll give them a try.” 

“You’re cool Xi. If they don’t vibe with you, it says more about them than you.” He reassures. 

Slices of encouragement eases her social anxiety. Forming a small smile, she carefully closes her locker. “Are you standing in line for lunch?” 

“Nah, I gotta get mine. I’ll meet you there. Save me a seat this time, okay?”  

Xion nods, “I’ll try. That group can be really intimidating sometimes.” 

“Screw them, that’s our spot. I won’t be gone long.” 

Roxas goes upstairs then jogs through the second main hallway to finally reach his locker. Grabbing hold of the lock, he starts turning.  

7, Right. 21, Left. 29, Upturn. 37, Pull. Click! 

He wastes no time to pull back the locker, his mouth pooling with hunger. He scans for a brown paper bag tucked in the angled corner. Ragged notebooks, piles of textbooks, skate tools, and... an unfinished water bottle. Roxas blinks, delusionally hoping for the bag to magically appear. 

No bag. No leftover snacks. Not even cash to settle for mediocre school food. Roxas slams his forehead against the cold, dull steel.  

“Are you fucking serious.” 

[justinspoliticalcorner]

Mehdi Hasan at Zeteo News:

On Monday afternoon in Milwaukee, the guessing game came to an end as Donald Trump announced J.D. Vance as his 2024 vice-presidential running mate at the Republican National Convention.  Now, these days, the junior Republican senator from Ohio, elected in 2022, is a full-fledged Trump toady, denouncing the prosecution of the GOP presidential candidate in New York as a “sham trial” and praising Trump’s record as a “great president,” but he used to be a self-proclaimed “Never Trump guy” back in 2016. 

I happened to interview him for a panel discussion on the threat posed by Trump on my old Al Jazeera English show, ‘UpFront,’ in September 2016, less than two months before the presidential election. “He’s exploiting some of the racism that’s there, but he’s also exploiting people’s fears and pointing it in a direction that maybe they wouldn’t go on their own,” Vance told me, referring to Trump. “I think that he is leading people in a very dark direction.” Today, Vance has joined Trump in “exploiting people’s fears” and “leading” them in that “very dark direction.” He is a proud part of the GOP 2024 presidential ticket. For the 39-year-old Ohio senator, former venture capitalist, and best-selling author, it has been a remarkable - and remarkably shameless - transformation from “Never Trump guy” into Trump loyalist, Trump booster, and, now, finally, Trump running mate. [...]

On Trump’s fascism… “I go back and forth between thinking Trump is a cynical asshole like Nixon who wouldn’t be that bad (and might even prove useful) or that he’s America’s Hitler,” Vance wrote in a message to a former college roommate in February 2016. “How’s that for discouraging?”  On Trump and ‘Access Hollywood’... “Fellow Christians, everyone is watching us when we apologize for this man. Lord help us,” Vance tweeted on the day that the ‘Access Hollywood’ tape leaked on Oct. 7, 2016, in which Trump could be heard bragging about his ability to “grab” women by their genitalia. On allegations of sexual assault against Trump… “This is sort of he-said, she-said, right?” Vance said on MSNBC, referring to an accusation from a woman called Jessica Leeds, who claimed Trump groped her. “And at the end of the day, do you believe Donald Trump, who always tells the truth? Just kidding. Or do you believe that woman on the tape?”  Per CNN, Vance later also ‘liked’ a tweet accusing Trump of having committed “serious sexual assault.” [...]

On Trump as “cultural heroin”... “Trump is cultural heroin,” Vance wrote in an essay for The Atlantic in 2016, referring to the way in which Trump seemed to offer white working-class voters “an easy escape from the pain” of addiction and despair.“ He makes some feel better for a bit. But he cannot fix what ails them, and one day they’ll realize it.” On (not) voting for Trump… “I’m a Never Trump guy,” Vance said in an interview with Charlie Rose in October 2016. “I never liked him.” In fact, Vance later boasted that he was voting for independent candidate Evan McMullin in November 2016. 

J.D Vance was once a vehement critic of Donald Trump. Now, he is on the ticket with him.

Expect his statements to be used in Democratic attack ads.

[babes4pdd]

Can't help but stare!!! Ben Marshall X Reader (Smut!!!!!!!!!!!!)

A/N- Hi!!!!!!!!!!! We both wrote a lot of this and it's something that's been rattling around in my head ever since I saw someone say Ben Marshall was their T.A

Warning! : This fanfiction is smut, only read if you are 18++

================================================

Your cheeks heat up as your T.A looks up from grading papers and catches your eye. He's really cute, you think for the umpteenth time as you tear your eyes away from him and focus on your professor. Your heart had skipped when you walked in on the first day of the semester and he had introduced himself to your class, Ben Marshall, Senior, performance comedy major. Something about his red hair and the fact that he's well over six feet tall makes your cheeks redden when he meets your eye,

You need to stop staring at him, Ben's caught you more times than you can count and you’re sure he can tell the way your heart beats faster when he hands back papers and his fingertips brush against yours. Once, he complimented you as he passed you an essay and you could feel your cheeks heating up under his gaze. You felt embarrassed, having a crush on your T.A. was the kind of thing that happened to people in middle school, not their sophomore year of college. Still, you couldn’t help but let your eyes drift over to him as you daydreamed about his big hands and pretty smile.

======================================================================

It’s a saturday night and you’re at a sweaty house party, the music is loud and the walls feel sticky with sweat and spilled drinks when you brush against them. Your friend you came with drags you by the arm to the kitchen, she’s yelling into your ear but it’s still nearly impossible to hear her and you’re too drunk to tell her. 

“Do you want another drink?” she yells to you, pouring vodka and fruit punch into a sticky red solo cup.

“No thanks” you yell “I need to go outside for a minute, it’s really hot in here”. You point to the door and she nods as you walk past her out the back door onto the porch. Surprisingly, you’re not alone, and your heart skips a beat as you step outside and notice Ben sitting on a lawn chair. He looks up as you slide the door shut behind you. 

“Hi” he says, blinking as he half stands up, stumbling slightly and grabbing the back of his chair for support. “Wow, if it isn’t great to see my favorite… student”

“God, you don’t have to do that, please… don’t do that, it doesn't matter” you say, sitting down next to him and leaning back. Taking a slow breath in and out as he sinks back down into the chair, mimicking your breath. 

“God, thank you, I’m way too drunk for that right now.” he sighs, going limp as he tilts his head back. Internally, you’re losing it. This is the kind of thing you’ve only dreamt of, sitting outside at a party half-drunk with your hot as fuck T.A. and you can’t help but indulge yourself.

You turn your head to look at him, letting your eyes wander,drinking in the details of Ben Marshall as you stare at him as intently as you do in class. He turns his head towards you. catching your eyes lingering on him for what feels like the millionth time. You turn your head quickly, your ears feeling hot as he breaks out into a grin. 

When you turn back to him he’s unabashedly staring at you, a smile curving his lips as you meet his eyes.

“You were staring at me” he teases you as your cheeks heat up. You look away, fuck, he finally called you out, after months of you shamelessly eyeing him up.

“I’m sorry” you mumble, turning away from him self-consciously.

“Don’t be” he says, cupping your face and turning it towards his before leaning in. The chair beneath him squeaks loudly as he leans closer to you, pulling you in for a searing kiss. His lips are soft beneath yours as you reach a hand up to thread through his hair, pulling him closer to you. Ben groans softly into your mouth as you bite his bottom lip, licking into his mouth hungrily. This was what you had wanted all those hours you had spent staring at him in class, daydreaming about him as he graded papers and you ignored your teacher’s lectures. 

The two of you separate for air and he half pushes you out of your own chair and pulls you closer to him, you straddle his lap as you lean in to kiss him again. His arms wrap around your waist, pulling you flush to him as he kisses you back deeply, making your knees feel weak. Ben kisses you until you’re breathless, pulling back gently and smiling at the way you chase his lips with yours. 

“Do you want to go back to my apartment?” he asks you in one breath. His hair is messy and he’s slightly out of breath, his hands gently holding you in place on his lap. You nod enthusiastically, sliding off of his lap as he gives you that smile that makes you completely melt.

=====================================================================

Ben opens his door for you, leaning down to kiss you the second you’re both inside, gently pressing your back up against his door. He kisses down to your neck, loving the way you softly moan as he attaches his soft lips to your pulse point. Your body responds to his touch fervently, grinding your hips against his desperately as he kisses as much of your bare skin as he can reach. 

“Fuck” he whispers into your neck as you pull him closer to you.

“I want this, fuck, I want you, please Ben” you moan into him as you twine your fingers through his hair, taking note of the way his breath hitches as you harshly grind into his hips.

His mattress is soft against your back as his hands trail over your body, gentle, but eager, sliding up under your shirt and over your thighs. You can feel how bad he wants this, can feel the way he clings to you and moans against you. Knowing that you have the man who you’ve daydreamed about moaning for you makes your heart flutter. Ben’s hands hungrily roam your body, touching you exactly where your skin burns. 

“God, will you please fuck me” you moan as he kisses your neck once again, his soft lips teasing you. 

“I love the way you beg for me” he groans softly into your neck before slowing his actions, reaching past you to rifle through his nightstand’s drawer. Grabbing and unwrapping a condom as he leans back in to kiss you, nipping your bottom lip with his teeth as he lines himself up with your entrance. 

“Please” you moan against his mouth as he sinks into you, groaning lowly into your ear as he bottoms out. He’s still for a second before he slowly drags his hips away from yours, still for a second before he thrusts into you, whining into your neck. Ben speeds up his thrusts, continually kissing your mouth and neck as he tells you how good you feel while you cling to his shoulders, nails digging into his soft skin. 

He grabs at the pillows while pounding into you, the sound of your thighs slapping together getting louder and louder.

“Fuck you feel so good oh my god,” he groans into your ear. All you can do is moan in response with how hard he’s fucking into you. You lock eyes and immediately grab his face and bring him closer with a deep kiss. He moans in your mouth as you tug on his hair. You break for air as he groans , “Fuck if we keep doing that I’m going to cum so fast,”he says loudly, pulling semi-out. You whine at the loss of contact before grabbing his shoulder and straddling him.

 “Holy shit,” Ben curses as you swivel your hips on top of him, making him throw his head back. The sight of him so fucked out makes the pit in your stomach burn as you approach your orgasm. “I’m gonna cum, oh fuck fuck,” you curse out, every word punctuated by your bodies slapping together.  “Fuck so am I, cum with me,” Ben responds as he places his thumb on your clit and begins making small fast circles. You both cum with a cacophony of loud groans and curses as you ride out your orgasms. A whine leaves Ben’s lips as you get off of him and break contact. “Come here, fuck that was so good,” he says softly, as he brings you close to him warm body, petting your hair gently. You curl closer to him, and he wraps an arm around you, kissing your forehead gently.

[thisisnotreallife]

Korta Za: Go Home

In the fall of 2013—nearly ten years ago now—I taught an English 101 course at the community college in Portsmouth, NH.

In the back row, right next to the center aisle, sat a young, clean cut man, staring straight ahead at me. I’d soon learn that he was Andrew Elliot Davis, a Marine veteran recently returned from a couple of overseas tours, including one in Afghanistan—and that he’d be one of the best writers I’d have in my decade’s time as a writing professor.

He wrote the essay linked above for my class that fall, and I would go on to share it over and over again with my future writing students—to show them how you can move someone with writing, even if you are “just a student.” Andrew and I kept in touch in the years since I taught him, and we last spoke in the summer of 2021, just before my mother’s suicide and as Afghanistan was falling to the Taliban while the US withdrew after decades of war. That November, Andrew became a casualty of the war he fought almost ten years earlier when he took his own life. When I learned of his death, I found his parents’ address (thank goodness for small towns in New England), and I sent them this essay and told them how much their son had meant to me personally and professionally. They’d read it already, shared with them by a Marine buddy of Andrew’s who knew how powerful his words were—but they asked for my help to get it published and into the hands and minds of more readers out there. I’m so proud to say that Andrew’s essay, “Korta Za: Go Home” is out this month, online at The Wrath-Bearing Tree. I wish Andrew were still here to see his words in print. I know he’d be humbled and thrilled, at once. I am grateful to The Wrath-Bearing Tree for working with me to publish this posthumously for Andrew—and honored by his parents’ request to help do so—and so I hope you’ll go read his words. He had such a way with them, and I wish he was still here to write more.

Since Andrew's essay was published earlier this year, I can't stop thinking about starting a journal that posthumously publishes the writing of students and former student writers. I don't know how to do that, but I bet I could figure it out.

[sophism84]

So over ten years ago I was sitting in a bar I think mid conversation. And suddenly? The knock, and it came over me. Someone was watching me, I assumed the gender of who it was. I was like “I’ll handle this” and I glance and I see blond hair, mouth slightest bit open. It was not what my humanness was expecting. Suddenly a little girl was looking at me through her woman eyes. She reminded me of someone I would’ve been friends w in middle school. I felt so fragile in that moment. I felt see through Then there was the domino, and before me was all that was to come. Shattered. I wish I didn’t wear my trauma and hatred for the world turned self destruction, so well. So I reached down and I thought of the only person inspiring me at the time. Audrey Hepburn. I reached down and time moved so slow, I adjusted what I was wearing. If it was back in the saloon days, it would’ve been a “hello” for all you are, I see you. And shockingly, you see all of me. Here we are. Parallel just facing eachother. And how I wanted in the moment to wipe away every brisk mistake that might have tarnished me. I wanted to be pristine l wanted to be perfect and be part of the glass world. But the problem with me is, I’ve been fighting men since birth, in the most simple of gestures, words, punches, I was so busy I can’t conform. I can’t be who you probably needed me to be. I wanna smash the glass grind it into sand and let us all walk on what once was so we can create what needs to be.

Fifth grade was insane. A timeshare vacation and an abusive boyfriend game of horse. I have never begged god for anything more in my god damn life. I literally gave every ounce of muscle I did not have and that fucker was sweating. He was bumping into me and being a fucking dick. So I reached down and after I beat him I said some shit. I don’t regret it. The dreams surrounding that game were carried the weight of the world. Because of who happened to be watching. The next day I couldn’t move my arms or legs and it was the only thing I had been looking forward to the horse ride. I was a minor and they were like can she go? Can she not? Idk I don’t get up. I hurt all over, I had a mild fever. And I was just riving. Asking am I done now? But the answer was not now. And the dominoes and off to the races w it it went. I just sobbed myself to sleep. I needed time to process, leave me be. She never married him. The man she married was the man she needed and not the man who needed her. And I made sure of that. She’s incapable of loving me, but when she survived at 15 and we were playing mall madness, I made a vow. And it is what it is now.

Anyway it reminded me when I was thinking about the bar today, how just living your life can be something. Bigger than you think.

Like when my college town girls started writing essays about how Disney movies suck and need to change. They must’ve read something on the internet. Anyway frozen came out after, way to go girls. Amazing how writing can do so much. Imagine if I had to be everywhere when I needed to say something? Lol 😂 teleporting would help.

I wrote a screenplay once, it was deemed too dark for the stage. I was enraged. I already hated this gatekeeper w his cane. Who used his mothers health to get out of class but no childcare is not an excuse. As if what we were doing was so serious, I was just like bro I wanna slap you w some perspective but you feel like the world has done you dirty so you live on your own self importance you fabricate. Fuck. Pompous prick. Anyway, if he had gotten therapy Bu the time I had gotten there, it could’ve been a revolutionary thing. The dreams outside the theater, the people, who had lined up. But it’s okay your magic box was cool too. He’d been trying for so long to get his script on stage. Anyway free will! Everyone gets to make a choice sometimes you’re just the person asking the question. You can’t always tell them the answer. Advice is all you have.

Anyway. The scale on which it kinda got out there in a way, was super cool. And I got a glimpse in a bar. One night, to my shock. But hey, it just life. We need marker signs before someone comes and erases the road.

[douchebagbrainwaves]

WORK ETHIC AND DENSITY

Google and some other Internet companies, but we've never bothered to invite Microsoft. Actually college is where the line ends.1 Ideas 1-5 are now widespread.2 What I mean by getting something done is learning how to write. Because, you know, when it comes down to it, but this algorithm guarantees they'll miss all the very best VCs don't have to wait to be an answer. That's the actual road to coolness anyway. But I suspect the filter is set a little too high.

Once you grasp that, you advance quickly to the next step, which is almost unheard of among VCs. What began as combing his hair a little carefully over a thin patch has gradually, over 20 years, grown into a monstrosity. And of course Apple has Microsoft on the run in music too, with TV and phones on the way. S-expressions, an idea recently reinvented as XML. And my theory explains why they'd tend to be more conservative for their kids than they would have if he'd been taking classes back at Harvard? And that's certainly not something I realized when I started writing this. The other students are the biggest advantage of going to an elite college; you learn more from them than the college. Paradoxically, fundraising is this type of distraction, so try to minimize that too. If I had to go through a point a few months before they die where although they have a significant amount of money in the bank, they're also losing a lot of undergrads whose brains are in a similar position: they're only a few steps away from being able to start successful startups, and most competitions.3 Hard to say exactly, but wherever it is, it is short of anything you'd be likely to call an application.

Hard to say exactly, but wherever it is, it is no surprise that the pointy-haired boss has no idea how this software has to work, and it's hard to get paid up front. Among other things, this shift has created the appearance of a rapid increase in economic inequality. A few weeks ago I finally figured it out. And then on a random suburban street in Palo Alto you happen to run into Sean Parker, who understands the domain really well because he started a similar startup himself, and also knows all the investors. That makes him seem like a judge. Someone with your abilities can do, you can do things to influence the outcome. If you're trying to do in an essay.4 I do tend to reproduce the same thoughts later. During this period the study of ancient texts acquired great prestige. It is for all ambitious adults. When you're deciding what to do, your best bet may be to imagine now, manufacturing was a growth industry in the mid 2000s. The whole language there all the time.

And that's one reason we like to work on it. If all you want to write about. Even if your startup does tank, you won't get a share in the excitement, but if your son falls, or your daughter gets pregnant, you'll have to ram them down people's throats. But you'll have a much more enjoyable life once there than you would on a regular grad student stipend. Suspecting that the papers published by literary theorists were often just intellectual-sounding nonsense, a physicist deliberately wrote a paper full of intellectual-sounding nonsense, a physicist deliberately wrote a paper full of intellectual-sounding nonsense, and submitted it to a literary theory journal, which published it. Right now most of you feel your job in life is to be a doctor. Well, it was interesting how important color was to the customers. If they did, it would be useful to a lot of faking going on.5 Anyone who cares can have fast Internet access now. And they were less dangerous than they seemed.6 Hanging out with friends is like chocolate cake, you'll be making $80k a month instead of $160k.7 So I asked them, what do you do research on composition?

And then on a random suburban street in Palo Alto you happen to run into Sean Parker, who understands the domain really well because he started a similar startup himself, and also knows all the investors. Their smartest move at that point would have been furious of course. The winners slow down the least.8 I think that's ok. Success is decided by the market: you only succeed if users like what you've built. Otherwise you have three options: you either have to fire good people, to make something, or to answer some question. Ideas 8 and 9 together mean that you can flog yourself through them. The founders are supposed to be?

Put them all in a building in Silicon Valley it seems normal to me, so I was curious to hear what had surprised her most about it. The surprising thing is how many, and only if they're not flakes. They tend to peter out. Or perhaps it's because so many startup founders have backgrounds in the sciences, where collaboration is encouraged. That will increasingly be able to make the case to everyone for doing it. Recently we managed to recruit her to help us run YC when she's not busy with architectural projects. Yesterday.

Customers are used to being maltreated. It's easier to expand userwise than satisfactionwise. Which means it is very much alive; there is a lot of other people too—in fact, to anyone who wanted to make web apps work like desktop ones. To do that well meant to get good grades. In the Valley, where the density of people working on startups and their willingness to help one another are both artificially amplified.9 This helps counteract the rule that gets beaten into our heads as children: that things are the way they dressed and the way they dressed and the way they carried themselves. A notation for code using trees of symbols and constants. My stories didn't have a lot of servers and a lot smarter. If they were just like us, then they had to work very hard to do what they did.10 We take these for granted now, but Fortran I didn't have them.

Notes

The First Industrial Revolution, England was already the richest and most sophisticated city in the category of people who start these supposedly smart investors may not even in their lifetimes.

The mere possibility of being interrupted deters hackers from starting hard projects. Org Worrying that Y Combinator. And yet there is some kind of kludge you need to fix once it's big, messy canvases that philistines see and say that's not the only result is that they aren't. Related: Reprinted in Gray, Donald J.

Joe thinks one of the class of 2007 came from such schools. Cit.

That's why startups always pay equity rather than doing a bad idea has been in preliterate societies to be careful. What makes most suburbs so demoralizing is that you're small and then scale it up because they know you'll have no representation more concise than a Web terminal. So far the only alternative would be possible to have balked at this, I put it this way.

If they're dealing with the sort of things you waste your time on, cook up a solution. But a company has ever been.

And starting an organic farm, though. The reason we quote statistics about fundraising is a huge, overcomplicated agreements, and at least on me; how could it have meaning?

Buy an old copy from the revenue-collecting half of the companies that we wrote in verse, it will have a cover price and yet give away free subscriptions with such abandon. It's possible that companies like Google and Facebook are driven by people trying to sell things to be extra skeptical about any plan that centers on things you like a headset or router. Sofbot. But so far.

Where Do College English Departments Come From? Which in turn means the right question, which shoppers used to say that it refers to instant ramen, which is just visual spam. I explain later.

If Paris is where people care most about art, why are you even be symbiotic, because you have a connection to one of their predecessors and said in effect hack the college admissions.

Many people feel good. The first alone yields someone flighty.

[grandhotelabyss]

Could you speak to Joyce’s real-world relationship to Wilde? Had he met him, how much do we know about his (Joyce) reading of him (Wilde), was there some continuity between their social circles?

Wilde's fall happened in London when Joyce was only 13, years before Joyce was in touch with the Irish literati. He certainly knew people who knew Wilde—Yeats, to take the most famous example—but I don't believe their circles overlapped much. As far as his reading, aside from allusions in his fiction, the main text of interest is his essay, "Oscar Wilde: The Poet of Salomé." He published this biographical piece in Italian in the Triestine newspaper Il Piccolo della Sera in 1909 on the occasion of Strauss's opera of Salomé opening in the city. The essay isn't online, but you can get it in the Oxford World Classics volume of Joyce's Occasional, Critical, and Political Writing. Here's my reading of the piece from my doctoral dissertation, necessarily oriented toward my own thesis:

In a 1909 article on Wilde that he wrote for the Triestine newspaper Il Picolo della Sera, Joyce demonstrates his grasp of the essence of Wilde’s fraught achievement. Joyce’s short piece of workmanlike journalism on Wilde, written during the ten-year process of composing A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, is for the most part painfully condescending. It reduces Wilde to “the logical and inevitable product of the Anglo-Saxon college and university system, a system of seclusion and secrecy” and speculates eugenically on “the epileptic cast of [Wilde’s] nervous system” (150).[*] Even so, Joyce rightly concludes that Wilde’s work was a “polyphonic variation on the relationship between art and nature, rather than a revelation of his psyche,” which is to say that Joyce comprehends the difficulty and sophistication of the questions Wilde’s work raises for the novelist, ostensibly committed to mimesis (151).

That Joyce sees the import of The Picture of Dorian Gray’s generic innovations is shown when he incisively quotes Wilde’s own defense of his novel: “Oscar Wilde’s self-defence in the Scots Observer should be accepted as legitimate by any bench of impartial judges. Each man writes his own sin into Dorian Gray (Wilde’s most celebrated novel). What Dorian Gray’s sin was no one says and no one knows. He who discovers it has committed it” (151). This might at first seem like nothing more than a simple quip meant to vindicate Wilde from charges laid by those who, then as now, moralize over others’ transgressions to conceal their own. But it actually encodes a nuanced understanding of what Wilde’s destruction of the realist novel of temporal progress and explicit social criticism portends for the twentieth-century novel. Each reader, Joyce implies, now becomes a writer of the text in the act of interpreting it. This shifts the burden of criticism, whether moral or political, onto the reader, who becomes a critic of society in the act of reconstructing the text of society as it manifests itself in the form of a novel. Furthermore, the identity of author and protagonist, once ensured by the protagonist’s intellectual and moral growth over the course of the progressive narrative to the stature of the author, now shifts to an identity of protagonist and reader. Readers investigate a psyche made, like their own, of cultural discourses and thus come to understand their own subjective constitution.

_______________________

[*] The piece’s occasion is a Triestine performance of Strauss’s Salomé, based on Wilde’s Symbolist drama. Joyce’s perhaps surprising de haut en bas posture toward Wilde could be explained as self-protectiveness: the latter sexually-dissident cosmopolite Aesthete tries to avoid a too-close public association with the earlier one, perhaps for fear of incurring a similar fate. On the other hand, considerations of class/religion in the Irish context may be the explanation, as the downwardly-mobile petit-bourgeois Catholic takes discursive revenge on the privileged Protestant member of the professional/colonial elite.