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mostlysignssomeportents · 1 month ago

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Canada’s ground-breaking, hamstrung repair and interop laws

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/11/15/radical-extremists/#sex-pest

When the GOP trifecta assumes power in just a few months, they will pass laws, and those laws will be terrible, and they will cast long, long shadows.

This is the story of how another far-right conservative government used its bulletproof majority to pass a wildly unpopular law that continues to stymie progress to this day. It's the story of Canada's Harper Conservative government, and two of its key ministers: Tony Clement and James Moore.

Starting in 1998, the US Trade Rep embarked on a long campaign to force every country in the world to enact a new kind of IP law: an "anticircumvention" law that would criminalize the production and use of tools that allowed people to use their own property in ways that the manufacturer disliked.

This first entered the US statute books with the 1998 passage of the Digital Millennium Copyright Act (DMCA), whose Section 1201 established a new felony for circumventing an "access control." Crucially, DMCA 1201's prohibition on circumvention did not confine itself to protecting copyright.

Circumventing an access control is a felony, even if you never violate copyright law. For example, if you circumvent the access control on your own printer to disable the processes that check to make sure you're using an official HP cartridge, HP can come after you.

You haven't violated any copyright, but the ink-checking code is a copyrighted work, and you had to circumvent a block in order to reach it. Thus, if I provide you a tool to escape HP's ink racket, I commit a felony with penalties of five years in prison and a $500k fine, for a first offense. So it is that HP ink costs more per ounce than the semen of a Kentucky Derby-winning stallion.

This was clearly a bad idea in 1998, though it wasn't clear how bad an idea it was at the time. In 1998, chips were expensive and underpowered. By 2010, a chip that cost less than a dollar could easily implement a DMCA-triggering access control, and manufacturers of all kinds were adding superfluous chips to everything from engine parts to smart lightbulbs whose sole purpose was to transform modification into felonies. This is what Jay Freeman calls "felony contempt of business-model."

So when the Harper government set out to import US-style anticircumvention law to Canada, Canadians were furious. A consultation on the proposal received 6,138 responses opposing the law, and 54 in support:

https://www.michaelgeist.ca/2010/04/copycon-final-numbers/

And yet, James Moore and Tony Clement pressed on. When asked how they could advance such an unpopular bill, opposed by experts and the general public alike, Moore told the International Chamber of Commerce that every objector who responded to his consultation was a "radical extremist" with a "babyish" approach to copyright:

https://www.cbc.ca/news/science/copyright-debate-turns-ugly-1.898216

As is so often the case, history vindicated the babyish radical extremists. The DMCA actually has an official way to keep score on this one. Every three years, the US Copyright Office invites public submissions for exemptions to DMCA 1201, creating a detailed, evidence-backed record of all the legitimate activities that anticircumvention law interferes with.

Unfortunately, "a record" is all we get out of this proceeding. Even though the Copyright Office is allowed to grant "exemptions," these don't mean what you think they mean. The statute is very clear on this: the US Copyright Office is required to grant exemptions for the act of circumvention, but is forbidden from granting exemptions for tools needed to carry out these acts.

This is headspinningly and deliberately obscure, but there's one anecdote from my long crusade against this stupid law that lays it bare. As I mentioned, the US Trade Rep has made the passage of DMCA-like laws in other countries a top priority since the Clinton years. In 2001, the EU adopted the EU Copyright Directive, whose Article 6 copy-pastes the provisions of DMCA 1201.

In 2003, I found myself in Oslo, debating the minister who'd just completed Norway's EUCD implementation. The minister was very proud of his law, boasting that he'd researched the flaws in other countries' anticircumvention laws and addressed them in Norway's law. For example, Norway's law explicitly allowed blind people to bypass access controls on ebooks in order to feed them into text-to-speech engines, Braille printers and other accessibility tools.

I knew where this was going. I asked the minister how this would work in practice. Could someone sell a blind person a tool to break the DRM on their ebooks? Of course not, that's totally illegal. Could a nonprofit blind rights group make such a tool and give it away to blind people? No, that's illegal too. What about hobbyists, could they make the tool for their blind friends? No, not that either.

OK, so how do blind people exercise their right to bypass access controls on ebooks they own so they can actually read them?

Here's how. Each blind person, all by themself, is expected to decompile and reverse-engineer Adobe Reader, locate a vulnerability in the code and write a new program that exploits that vulnerability to extract their ebooks. While blind people are individually empowered to undertake this otherwise prohibited activity, they must do so on their own: they can't share notes with one another on the process. They certainly can't give each other the circumvention program they write in this way:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/10/28/mcbroken/#my-milkshake-brings-all-the-lawyers-to-the-yard

That's what a use-only exemption is: the right to individually put a locked down device up on your own workbench, and, laboring in perfect secrecy, figure out how it works and then defeat the locks that stop you from changing those workings so they benefit you instead of the manufacturer. Without a "tools" exemption, a use exemption is basically a decorative ornament.

So the many use exemptions that the US Copyright Office has granted since 1998 really amount to nothing more than a list of defects in the DMCA that the Copyright Office has painstaking verified but is powerless to fix. We could probably save everyone a lot of time by scrapping the triennial exemptions process and replacing it with an permanent sign over the doors of the Library of Congress reading "Abandon hope, all ye who enter here."

All of this was well understood by 2010, when Moore and Clement were working on the Canadian version of the DMCA. All of this was explained in eye-watering detail to Moore and Clement, but was roundly ignored. I even had a go at it, publicly picking a fight with Moore on Twitter:

https://web.archive.org/web/20130407101911if_/http://eaves.ca/wp-content/uploads/2010/Conversations%20between%20@doctorow%20and%[email protected]

Moore and Clement rammed their proposal through in the next session of Parliament, passing it as Bill C-11 in 2012:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Copyright_Modernization_Act

This was something of a grand finale for the pair. Today, Moore is a faceless corporate lawyer, while Clement was last seen grifting covid PPE (Clement's political career ended abruptly when he sent dick pics to a young woman who turned out to be a pair of sextortionists from Cote D'Ivoire, and was revealed as a serial sex-pest in the ensuing scandal:)

https://globalnews.ca/news/4646287/tony-clement-instagram-women/

Even though Moore and Clement are long gone from public life, their signature achievement remains a Canadian disgrace, an anchor chain tied around the Canadian economy's throat, and an impediment to Canadian progress.

This week, two excellent new Canadian laws received royal assent: Bill C-244 is a broad, national Right to Repair law; and Bill C-294 is a broad, national interoperability law. Both laws establish the right to circumvent access controls for the purpose of fixing and improving things, something Canadians deserve and need.

But neither law contains a tools exemption. Like the blind people of Norway, a Canadian farmer who wants to attach a made-in-Canada Honeybee tool to their John Deere tractor is required to personally, individually reverse-engineer the John Deere tractor and modify it to talk to the Honeybee accessory, laboring in total secrecy:

https://www.theregister.com/2024/11/12/canada_right_to_repair/

Likewise the Canadian repair tech who fixes a smart speaker or a busted smartphone – they are legally permitted to circumvent in order to torture the device's repair codes out of it or force it to recognize a replacement part, but each technician must personally figure out how to get the device firmware to do this, without discussing it with anyone else.

Thus do Moore and Clement stand athwart Canadian self-reliance and economic development, shouting "STOP!" though both men have been out of politics for years.

There has never been a better time to hit Clement and Moore's political legacy over the head with a shovel and bury it in a shallow grave. Canadian technologists could be making a fortune creating circumvention devices that repair and improve devices marketed by foreign companies.

They could make circumvention tools to allow owners of consoles to play games by Canadian studios that are directly sold to Canadian gamers, bypassing the stores operated by Microsoft, Sony and Nintendo and the 30% commissions they charge. Canadian technologists could be making diagnostic tools that allow every auto-mechanic in Canada to fix any car manufactured anywhere in the world.

Canadian cloud servers could power devices long after their US-based manufacturers discontinue support for them, providing income to Canadian cloud companies and continued enjoyment for Canadian owners of these otherwise bricked gadgets.

Canada's gigantic auto-parts sector could clone the security chips that foreign auto manufacturers use to block the use of third party parts, and every Canadian could enjoy a steep discount every time they fix their cars. Every farmer could avail themselves of third party parts for their tractors, which they could install themselves, bypassing the $200 service call from a John Deere technician who does nothing more than look over the farmer's own repair and then types an unlock code into the tractor's console.

Every Canadian who prints out a shopping list or their kid's homework could use third party ink that sells for pennies per liter, rather than HP's official colored water that cost more than vintage Veuve Cliquot.

A Canadian e-waste dump generates five low-paid jobs per ton of waste, and that waste itself will poison the land and water for centuries to come. A circumvention-enabled Canadian repair sector could generate 150 skilled, high-paid community jobs that saves gadgets and the Earth, all while saving Canadians millions.

Canadians could enjoy the resliency that comes of having a domestic tech and repair sector, and could count on it through pandemics and Trumpian trade-war.

All of that and more could be ours, except for the cowardice and greed of Tony Clement and James Moore and the Harper Tories who voted C-11 into law in 2012.

Everything the "radical extremists" warned them of has come true. It's long past time Canadians tore up anticircumvention law and put the interests of the Canadian public and Canadian tech businesses ahead of the rent-seeking enshittification of American Big Tech.

Until we do that, we can keep on passing all the repair and interop laws we want, but each one will be hamstrung by Moore and Clement's "felony contempt of business model" law, and the contempt it showed for the Canadian people.

Image: JeffJ (modified) https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Tony_Clement_-_2007-06-30_in_Kearney,_Ontario.JPG

CC BY-SA 3.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/

Jorge Franganillo (modified) https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Duga_radar_system-_wreckage_of_electronic_devices_(37885984654).jpg

CC BY 2.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0/deed.en

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godslino · 11 months ago

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PIECE BY PIECE | minho first date series. friends to lovers.

pairing: minho x fem!reader word count: 6.2k genre: college au, mutual pining, fluff, angst warnings: drinking, referenced injury (very minor) summary: minho, on a drunken whim, asks you out on a date.

a/n: finally!! the minho part!! i’ve been sooo excited about this one since i first got the idea. i hope you guys enjoy! once again any and all feedback is appreciated, happy reading <3

“Dude, I think it’s clean.”

Minho looks up from where he’s scrubbing the counter, eyes narrowed. So what if it’s his third time going over every surface in the kitchen?

“Are you going to help me or are you just gonna sit there and make more crumbs?”

Jeongin’s eyebrows shoot into his hairline. He holds up his hands in surrender, the bag of chips in his lap crinkling. “I’m just saying. You’re acting like she’s never seen the place before.”

That’s the problem. You’ve seen his place. Minho has to stop the shudder that threatens to overtake his body at the thought.

“So you’re not helping? Great. Get out.”

“I live here!” Jeongin whines. “Why do I have to get out? You can’t banish me like this.”

“I can and I will. Now leave. I have two hours to make sure everything is ready and I am not going to vacuum for a fourth time.”

“Yes mom,” Jeongin rolls his eyes as he unfolds his legs from underneath him.

He stops just short of the kitchen counter, points an accusatory finger at Minho’s disheveled figure still hunched over an imaginary stain.

“For the record, Chan hyung would never do this to me. He loves my crumbs.”

Minho throws the scrub daddy at him.

🏠

The night it happens, all it takes is approximately three shots and a pep talk from Hyunjin for Minho to finally find the nerve to ask you out.

“You’ve got this,” the younger boy says, words slurred, his hands steady on both Minho’s shoulders. The bass thumps loud in the other room, drowned out by the walls of the kitchen until it’s nothing but garbled nonsense going in one of his ears and out the other, vibrations low in his chest.

“I’ve got this.” Minho repeats, the thrum of alcohol already spreading to his fingertips. He feels warm, light on his feet. His limbs are starting to loosen up and his insides are turning to jelly. He might even be floating.

“You look hot.”

“I look hot.”

“She’s gonna say yes.”

“You’re gonna venmo me twenty dollars.”

“I’m gonna venmo you twenty dollars.” Minho parrots before he can even process what he’s saying. Changbin, who’d been watching the entire thing unfold from where he stands with his back pressed against the sink, snorts.

“Wait, what the f—”

“Go get her!” Hyunjin screams, pushing him through the door of the kitchen with one last pat on the back, “And send me my money!”

Minho stumbles over himself, just barely able to stop in time before he goes crashing into a group of people. The living room is crowded: there’s furniture pushed up against the walls, bodies pressed front to back in the middle of the floor, a makeshift DJ stand in the corner where Chan is controlling the music from his laptop, drink in hand. Minho catches his eye from across the room, the glow of the LEDs reflecting off the toothy grin he shoots his way, dimples on full display.

“Hey!” Minho feels someone grab his arm, and he turns to find you staring up at him. “Where’d you go? You said you were gonna get a drink.”

Minho follows your eyes down to where you’re staring at his empty hands. “I—uh, well. I ran into Hyunjin and we took a few shots.”

The pout you give him does nothing but spur on the fluttering of his chest, his brain still hyper aware of the way your hand was resting on his elbow. “Shots? I want shots!” you whine, and Minho has to avert his gaze from staring at your lips when your pout only worsens.

“How much have you had?” he tries to ask over the music. There’s a shitty pop song playing, high pitched and wonky. If he remembers in the morning, he’ll make sure he berates Chan about his DJ-ing abilities.

“What?” you scream back, tiptoeing to bring your mouth closer to his ear.

Minho is only a man. A man who's been in love with you since the moment you accidentally spilled your coffee all over Hyunjin in the quad during freshman year. He remembers that day well, remembers the way your eyes went wide and your lips parted. He also remembers the way he wished it was him with the large wet stain on his shirt, that way it was him that was offered to have his lunch bought as an apology.

He’d never admit it, but sometimes really late at night, when the moon is high in the sky and he’s feeling oddly sentimental, he counts his lucky stars that Hyunjin had been in a relationship at the time. Minho doesn’t know what he would’ve done had he been forced to watch the two of you hit it off—some form of arson, presumably. Anything to take the edge off. But because of the fact that Hyunjin was not trying to have his head cut off by said girlfriend at the time, he invited Minho along as some sort of collateral damage. That’s when the two of you became friends. Kind of perfect if you ask him.

With the jumbled mess of butterflies in his stomach that he gets whenever you’re near him, and the threat of the alcohol slowly seeping through his skin, his brain short circuits the minute your breath grazes the shell of his ear. When your hand follows not long after, fingers gripping the nape of his neck to hold him in place, he almost passes out.

“Min? What’d you say?”

Minho is rendered completely useless by you. Absolutely ruined. Your existence has thrown his entire plan to woo you off course and now his mouth is opening and closing like a badly programmed robot. Pathetic. Nuts and bolts for brains.

By the grace of God (or some other higher being that Minho’s never bothered to believe in until this very moment) he finds his voice, but not before you’re pulling back with a confused look on your face.

“I asked how much you’ve had to drink,” he says, straining against the music.

A saccharine sweet grin that has him seeing stars spreads across your face, “Not enough!”

Minho is not an enabler. Never has been, never will be. There was one time, back in that fateful freshman year that also introduced the two of you, that he let Hyunjin get blackout drunk. A terrible decision on his end, if the earful he got from Chan the next morning was anything to go by. And as if that wasn’t enough, he was finding remnants of the resulting hacking session for the following week. So yeah, never again.

But while Minho isn’t an enabler, he is smitten, and the way your hand feels wrapped around his wrist as you drag him into the kitchen has his soul threatening to leave his body. He thinks that maybe he could do anything as long as you asked. He also hopes you can’t feel the way his pulse is rabbiting beneath his skin, right under the press of your thumb.

“There’s, like, nothing here.” you say as you rummage through the cupboard near the window, nose scrunched and a frown on your face.

Minho laughs, rounds the kitchen island to crouch down and open the cabinet under the sink. “That’s because you don’t know where to look,” he smirks, pulling out a fresh bottle of tequila. “Also, Chan hyung is greedy. He knows people like you will go scavenging his supply if he isn’t careful.”

“I resent that.” you frown, taking the bottle from him. “Besides, people like me deserve to have fun too.”

“Mhm, sure.” Minho says, grabbing a solo cup. He holds his hand out for the bottle, pours just the right amount before sliding it over and following it up with a can of coke.

“A man after my heart.” you joke, holding your cup up to him in a mock toast before downing it in one go. Minho watches with so much focus, fighting against the way his head spins. He doesn’t even know if it’s the alcohol anymore, it might just be the effect you have on him. Dizzying—you flip his entire world on its axis in the best way possible.

Minho’s gonna be seeing your exposed neck in his dreams later, he’s sure of it—it’s branded into his memory.

“That…is so fucking bad.” you giggle, holding your cup out. “Another one.”

Minho clicks his tongue. “I don’t know…”

“Pleaseeee Min,” the lilt in your voice sounds oddly familiar. Minho holds his breath just in case you—yup. There it is. There goes that pout again.

It’d be so easy for him to lean down and kiss it right off your lips. He could blame it on the alcohol, maybe, but then that takes away from how he actually means it.

He sighs instead. “It’s gonna cost you.”

“An arm and a leg?”

“What? No—I meant some water.”

“Oh. Okay.”

Three shots and a full bottle of water later, Minho knows you’ve hit your limit. Cheeks flushed pink, a dopey grin on your face, pupils blown wide. Even in this state, Minho is certain that you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

“Anotherrrr,” you slur, waving your cup in his face.

Minho shakes his head. “No can do. You’re cut off.”

“Please,” you whine, placing both hands on his shoulders, “I’ll do anything.”

Minho, completely taken back by the sudden closeness of your body to his, freezes.

“Anything?” he asks before he can stop himself.

This is stupid. You’re drunk. There’s no way you’re going to remember anything in the morning, much less within the next thirty minutes. He’s pretty sure that you’ll lose control of all your senses soon, which is why he’s already texted your roommate Jiwoo to unlock the door so he can carry you inside. Nothing he hasn’t done before.

“Anything,” you repeat, eyes going cross-eyed where they’re fixing on the mole he has at the tip of his nose.

This is stupid. But then again, so is Minho. A big, stupid fool that blames everything on the fact that he’s so in love with you it hurts. This might be the only chance he gets to shoot his shot.

Minho takes a deep breath, says something similar to a little prayer that’s more like Hey, if anyone’s listening, help a guy out, and hopes that the twenty bucks he sent Hyunjin works.

“Go on a date with me.” he says slowly, wincing when your eyes snap up to meet his gaze.

Well, there’s really no going back from that. The only thing that could possibly grant him redemption now is banking on the fact that you don’t remember anything in the morning.

Minho waits with bated breaths, watches as your eyes search his for a long while. He waits for the anger, the disgust, the visible repulsion that he starts to think might happen the longer the silence continues.

He’s about to backtrack, quickly conjuring up an excuse about how Oh, haha, gotcha! when your hands suddenly drop from his shoulders. You grab the cup, your chin tipped upwards, and hold it out for him to fill.

“Okay.”

“O…kay?”

“Yeah. Okay. Pour me another one.”

The next morning, when Minho all but drags himself into the kitchen in search of water and something to soothe the throbbing in his head, he nearly spits a mouthful at Jeongin, the poor guy too busy eating his cereal to realize he’s gotten a front row seat in the splash zone.

Y/N [10:34am]

when do you want to do that date?

🏠

Are candles too much?

Minho has options: clean linen, lavender breeze, ocean mist, warm vanilla. He really just needs something to get rid of the smell of cleaning spray.

He thought that having a night in for a first date would be ideal—less pressure, no unwanted attention, a bathroom that he can run into when he starts to hyperventilate if you smile at him for too long. But now that it’s happening, he’s convinced that every surface of his and Jeongin’s shared apartment will scare you away if anything so much as looks off-putting.

Minho is, to put it simply, freaking out. All the other times you’ve been over to his place were on a completely platonic level. Movie nights with all the other guys in tow, dropping off food that you felt generous enough to buy every once in a while, one time because you’d accidentally worn Minho’s jacket home from a party and needed to return it to him.

But this is different. This is a date. Minho’s not dreaming—he already pinched himself a dozen times in the bathroom mirror, tiny red marks on the inside of his forearm to prove it. He’s going to open the door, invite you in, cook for you, and then proceed to resist the urge to tell you how beautiful you are for however long the night continues on after that. He can practically hear Jeongin’s laugh in the back of his head, sneering at how pathetic his inner monologue sounds right now.

He needs to find another stain to scrub.

By the time you’re knocking on his door, Minho has changed his outfit seven times. Sweats were too casual, a button up was too fancy. Should he not have done his hair? No, that’s just lazy, the way his fringe is swept up and out of his forehead adds a nice touch that doesn’t scream Hey! I’m trying to woo you! You’ve never been the type to be impressed by grand gestures and shows of confidence anyways, he knows that well.

One time, when a guy from one of the frat houses hired the campus quartet to sing a song for you in the quad as he stood there with big beady eyes and a bouquet of roses in his hand, you’d all but ran from the scene, Minho following close behind as you called out to him over your shoulder. It’s one of his fondest memories. As soon as the two of you made it around the back of the science building, you’d doubled over in laughter, the both of you in disbelief at what had happened. Minho has had that information tucked into the deepest parts of his brain ever since, saved just in case he needed it.

(Later that night, in the safety of his own bed, he’d laughed maniacally at the situation. Something about watching you reject another guy filled him with a sense of joy he couldn’t explain. He just hoped he was never going to be on the receiving end of it.)

He does a quick once over of the kitchen: double checks that all the ingredients are out, blows a speck of dust off the glass stovetop, spins the tiny floral arrangement he bought so that it’s sitting at just the right angle. When the doorbell rings, the chime bouncing off the walls of the apartment, he visibly pales.

He has to reel it in, to remember that it’s just you. You might not even be here with any intentions other than to fulfill your end of the deal; one date in exchange for the extra three shots he poured you the other night. Minho takes a deep breath, grips the doorknob with conviction, and decides that he’s determined to show you the way you deserve to be treated. The opportunity is there, and he’s gonna take it.

As soon as the door swings open, every nerve that had somehow crept its way into his brain disappears, the sight of you standing on the other side immediately sending the anxiety scrambling and replacing it with fondness instead.

“Hi,” you smile, and Minho sees images of you coming home to his apartment flash across his mind. After class, after work, in the winter when it’s cold and your nose is tinted pink, on rainy days where the ends of your hair are damp and you have a wet umbrella in tow. He could get used to it. He’s so in love that it hurts.

“Hey,” he breathes out, stepping aside to make way for you, “Come in. Are you hungry?”

“Starving, actually. Been saving myself all day since I don’t always get to have your cooking.” You hop on to one of the stools, your attention momentarily stolen by the flower arrangement. One point for Minho.

I’d cook for you every day, he wants to say. But that’s weird, right? So instead, “Well then I guess today is your lucky day.”

“Yeah, I guess it is.” You say softly.

Minho can’t see you with the way his back is turned, hands moving to grab out the knife and cutting board, but if he could he’d see the way your eyes are staring softly at his back, the ghost of a smile on your lips.

Conversation flows easily after that, despite Minho’s original worries about it being awkward. You’re not necessarily treating it as a date, and he isn’t really either. It feels more like a glorified hangout, just the two of you spending time together with the added glances and smiles that normally wouldn’t be there.

Minho finds it easy to get lost in you. He finds himself craving to know more about your day, about the things that’ve been on your mind lately and the hobbies you’ve picked up. Most of the conversation is a continuation of stuff that’s fallen through the cracks during the times you see each other, but he doesn’t miss the way you ask about him too, your eyes shining with genuine interest. It makes his heart slam against his ribcage.

“How are your cats doing?”

Minho looks up from the cutting board, follows your gaze to where it’s fixed on the scattered pictures that litter his fridge. “They’re good,” he says, smiling down at a head of garlic, “My mom sends pictures all the time. She says they claw at the door to my room when they miss me.” He smashes the garlic under the knife’s blade by hitting it with the heel of his palm. “It’s cute.”

“You’re cute.”

Minho, in a very flashy demonstration of what it means to be cool, calm, and collected, slices his thumb mid-chop.

“Shit.” he mutters, dropping the knife.

It’s not that bad, just a little nick, the surprise was mostly what scared him. He probably doesn’t even need a bandaid. But despite how small it is, nothing stops you from hurriedly walking up to him and taking his hand in yours, his thumb held closely to your face for inspection.

“Are you okay?” You turn his hand over between your fingers, the soft pads of them against his calloused ones. Minho is dumbfounded, struggling to find the words to say.

“Yeah—um, it’s fine. My fault. I was distracted.” He stammers out, pulling his hand back and holding it up. He wiggles his fingers, making a show of bending and twisting his thumb that, at most, has just a small cut on the side. “See? Perfect.”

Your face relaxes, and then you’re laughing. Why are you laughing? Either Minho looks like a complete idiot or he’s suddenly the funniest person in the world for being clumsy and reckless and almost ruining the night by losing a finger. Whichever one it is, he doesn’t care, as long as he gets to hear that sound again.

“Let me help cook, please? I know you said you would do it all but clearly you’re a threat to the integrity of this meal.” You say, bumping your hip against his to move him away from the cutting board.

Minho scoffs. “I wouldn’t have done that if you didn’t catch me off guard.”

“So what? You admit that I make you flustered?”

Oh.

Minho wasn’t prepared for this. He wasn’t prepared for the—the flirting that’s clearly happening. You’re flirting with him, right? Why else would you have called him cute or given him that suspicious side eye after you asked that question?

You and Minho have joked around like this before, but it was always empty with no real feelings attached—as far as he could tell. You’re a naturally friendly person, getting along with others comes easy to you. He’s seen the way you talk to the other guys and has always just assumed he was no different in your eyes than they were. Sure, there were moments where maybe your hand lingered on his arm for a little while after he made you laugh, or the two of you would steal glances across the room. Sometimes when Hyunjin said something stupid you’d both catch the other’s eye and make a face, just another funny way of proving that you were both on the same wavelength most of the time. It’s kind of why Minho is so taken with you—he’s never met anyone that gets him the same way.

Reluctantly, Minho puts his pride aside and allows you to help. And as it turns out, you’re actually really good at cooking. Minho doesn’t have to instruct you much, and before he knows it you’re both working like a well-oiled machine, scooting past one another as you switch places between the stove and the sink, reading each other’s minds without even having to ask.

“Taste this.” You say, holding the spoon up to his mouth. Minho leans forward, front teeth poking out, and brings the spoon into his mouth. You cup your hand under his chin to catch any droppings, watching in anticipation as he smacks his lips together.

His eyes light up, big and brown and twinkling under the light of the kitchen. “Perfect.” He smiles.

“Oh you have—uh,” you stop him with a hand on his forearm just as he’s about to turn back to the sink, your other hand hovering next to his face hesitantly, “It’s just, um, your—here.”

Minho’s eyes go wide when your thumb swipes against the corner of his mouth, your touch feather light. It’s so intimate, the only sound being the music playing low from the speaker on the counter. He’s half convinced that you’re able to hear his heartbeat, blood pumping loud in his ears.

“You had some sauce…on your face.” You say shyly, your palm still pressed to his cheek.

“…Oh.”

Minho’s never really looked into your eyes from this close up before. He’s always known they were beautiful, the shape of them soft, full of nothing but the world. He can see himself in them from here, and, selfishly, he hopes you can see yourself in his, too.

He might be imagining it when your gaze flicks down to his lips for just a fraction of a second, but there’s no time to unpack any of that when the sauce starts bubbling over the edge of the pot, spilling on to the burner as loud sizzling and smoke fills the kitchen.

It’s chaos. The bottom of the pot is burnt and there’s only so much of it that’s salvageable. He only bought the exact amount of ingredients too, because this is a self-proclaimed no-food-waste household (as explicitly stated in the napkin contract he has with Jeongin, much to his dismay). So, hooray for conscious consumption of goods!

At the end of it all, there’s no one to blame. You’re both guilty of…whatever that was.

Minho tries to reassure you that it’s okay as he dials the number for the pizza place just down the street, simultaneously shutting down all your attempts to pay as an apology. It doesn’t matter to him, he’d do anything as long as it means he gets to spend time with you. At the end of the day, it’s another memory that he’ll hold close to his heart.

“Listen,” you say, swallowing down a mouthful of pizza, the both of you seated on his couch with a half-eaten box of pizza open on the coffee table, “I know you wanted to cook and all—which, by the way, I’m still sorry—but this is so good. However I’m sure whatever you made would’ve been better.”

Minho chuckles. “Stop lying,” he wipes his hands on a napkin, “I can guarantee you that whatever I cooked wouldn’t be as good as this anyways.”

“Stop selling yourself short, Min. You’re good at everything you do.”

The words fall from your lips so easily, like it’s something you’ve convinced yourself of long ago. Minho’s never been the type to bounce around from one thing to another, always choosing to stick with it until he has it down to a science. Cooking is one of them. Jeongin can attest to all the times Minho has berated him with tasting his latest dishes, chasing him around the apartment with a spoon. The words tighten themselves around his heart.

“I’m not,” he rolls his eyes, “But nine times out of ten, grease and mozzarella cheese are gonna win. I know that for a fact.”

You laugh, and the conversation gradually diverts into a debate about the top ten best greasy foods in existence. You’re heated, half kneeling on the couch with a finger pointed at him as you plead your case for onion rings, when your eyes go past Minho’s head and settle on the shelf of games in the hallway.

“You have games?” you ask, suddenly giddy with excitement as you hurry over to inspect the selection.

Minho watches with fond eyes, collects the plates and napkins to throw away. “Yeah, most of them are Innie’s. We don’t really use them. Sometimes when we’re drunk, other times when we’re bored and decide to wager money for fun.”

You hum, not really paying attention. Monopoly, Chutes and Ladders, some decks of cards, Uno—you scan the shelf until your eyes light up at what you find hidden at the bottom.

“Min! Can we play Jenga?”

“Jenga?” Minho asks, re-entering the living room. The coffee table is clear now, and he sits between it and the couch, his back against the cushion. “Isn’t that kind of boring? We have other stuff there.”

“It’s only boring if you play it the way it’s supposed to be played.” You roll your eyes. Minho turns to you when you situate yourself on the floor beside him and only momentarily contemplates running to the bathroom when your knee knocks against his. He’s been holding it together pretty well so far, however The Sauce Incident had him ready to book it if anything had gone further.

“Well how else are we supposed to play it?” He frowns.

“We make up our own rules.”

The pieces scatter across the wood of the coffee table, clacking as you diligently begin putting them together. “This is a date, right?” You ask, stopping for a moment to turn and assess his response.

Minho stills. He genuinely forgot the grounds on which tonight had even happened in the first place. Spending time with you makes him forget everything else. And, despite his fears in the beginning, being on a date with you has felt so natural that it almost seems like you’ve done it a thousand times before.

Your eyes meet. For a moment, Minho lets himself wonder what it’d be like if he went for it right then and there. “Yeah,” he says slowly, unblinking, hoping you can see the sincerity on his face, “A date. One of the best ones I’ve ever been on, actually.”

He almost cries out in victory when your face flushes pink. “Now who’s a liar?” You ask quietly, going back to piecing together the game.

Minho has learned something new tonight: he really likes seeing you flustered.

“Why do you ask?” he decides to cut you the slack, “Or what does this being a date have to do with Jenga rules?”

He waits as you finish the stack, your tongue sticking out in concentration. You’re so cute. Minho mentally pockets that image for safe keeping.

“Sorry, okay, it’s done. But basically, if we pull out a block, we get to ask the other person a question.”

“And if the tower falls…?”

“Hmm,” you think for a moment, chewing on your bottom lip, “Oh! I know. If you lose you have to tell me why you asked me on a date.”

Minho’s stomach flips. “Okay. If you lose you have to tell me why you accepted the date.”

Something unreadable passes over your face, but it’s gone in an instant. You hold your hand out for a shake, and Minho wraps his fingers around it gently.

“Deal.”

“Why are you taking all of the middle pieces?” Minho pouts.

The two of you have gone through a couple turns by now, throwing out random questions for the better half of fifteen minutes. Favorite colors, childhood foods you wouldn’t eat, the best memory you have from high school. Minho’s learned a lot, has fallen for you a lot more. But that was always a given. It’s impossible not to when he can feel the warmth from your body where you’re seated next to him, your presence overtaking all of his senses.

“Because I’m trying to win,” you laugh, putting your freshly pulled piece at the top. Just a little crooked, too. To piss him off. “Favorite movie?”

“Ponyo. Easy. My turn.”

“Seriously? Why Ponyo?”

“One question at a time, princess.”

He means it as a joke, really. He doesn’t even realize what he’s said until after the fact, the nickname making your heart skip a beat. Minho notices, the corners of his lips tugging downwards as he suppresses a smile. He manages to flick one of the side pieces until it gives way.

“What’s one thing you regret?”

“Ooh, getting deep I see.” You laugh, taking a sip of your soda. There’s a long pause, and then, “I regret spilling my coffee on Hyunjin that day.”

Minho’s brow furrows. You…regret it? He runs through all the possible reasons in his head. Surely it can’t be because you regret becoming friends with them, friends with him, right?

“Why?” He chances.

“One question at a time, princess.” You echo, laughing at his shocked expression.

You remove the last middle piece. “On a scale of one to ten, how would you rate our first date?”

Minho’s brain is going a thousand miles a minute. “A ten. Wouldn’t trade it for the world.” He says it fast, wastes no time in moving forward to remove his own piece. He doesn’t even notice that your cheeks have gone pink again, too busy itching to ask his next question.

“Why do you regret spilling your coffee on Hyunjin?”

Minho watches you, lets his mind wander to the worst possible thing you could say in this situation, and mentally prepares to book it to the bathroom.

You take a deep breath, “I regret it because I wasn’t supposed to spill it on him. I was supposed to spill it on you.”

Wait, what?

Minho blinks. “What are you talking about?”

This is humiliating for you. A terrible thing to have to admit. Up until this moment, you’d thought that this information would follow you to your grave. You press the heel of your palms to your eyes, “This is so embarrassing,” you groan.

Minho pulls one hand away. He’s not really sure what to say, mostly because he’s confused, but, “You can tell me.”

“I had…” you start, looking up at him slowly, “A plan. With Jiwoo.” Minho nods for you to continue. “I’d seen you and Hyunjin walking through the quad a few times, and I thought that you were cute, but I didn't know how to approach you. So I did something stupid and decided that I would literally just crash into you. But I fucked it up.”

I thought that you were cute. The words echo in Minho’s ears like a bell. All this time, all those stolen glances and lingering touches, all the ways you would make hope spike in his chest that maybe you felt the same—they were real.

“So you, wait—” Minho shakes his head, “So you’re telling me that all this time…”

You roll your eyes. “Yes, Min, really. All this time.”

Minho’s never been skydiving, but he imagines that this is what it feels like. Free falling—his soul hurtling towards earth at a horrifying speed, slamming back into his body right here in his living room with a force so strong it would knock him off his feet if he wasn’t already sitting on the floor. You were interested in him first.

Wordlessly, you lean forward, pulling out a piece with practiced ease. Minho waits with bated breaths.

“Can I kiss you?”

Minho feels like he might pass out. “Am I dreaming right now?”

“You didn’t pull out a piece.”

He scrambles forward, clumsily nudging a piece on the side that ends up sending the entire tower toppling over. You smile at him, soft and sweet. “Looks like you have to pay up with an answer. You know, since you lost.”

Minho doesn’t care. “Because I like you,” he breathes out, “I asked you on a date because I like you. I like you so much, ever since I saw you that day. And, funnily enough, I’ve always wished you’d spilled that coffee on me instead, too.”

The confession feels like a weight lifted off his shoulders. He’s spent so long pining after you, laying awake at night thinking about how this would go down if he ever got the chance. He never expected for it to happen like this, much less for you to possibly feel the same.

Panic slowly starts to rise in his chest when you don’t respond. He watches as you reach an arm over, build a small tower out of a few pieces, and then knock it over. You turn to him with a small smile, “Oops, I lost too.”

Minho is so in love with you that it hurts.

“I accepted the date because I like you, Minho. I’ve just been waiting for you to ask.”

He doesn’t think twice before he’s surging forward, cupping your face with one hand and kissing you with a tenderness that has you melting into his touch.

There’s no fireworks behind his eyes, no big bang or grand display of whatever it is that happens in the movies. But there’s a warmth, it starts out small in the center of his chest and spreads throughout his entire body, lights his skin aflame and travels all the way to his fingertips. You’re like that. A gentle presence, someone who worms their way into the very essence of his being and burrows into the deepest parts of him, like it was never his to begin with. Kissing you is slow, and deep, and right. He wouldn’t want it any other way. Minho doesn’t ever want to stop.

He lets his other hand fall to your waist, pulls you closer until you’re practically straddling him with his back against the couch, your knees on either side of his hips. Minho lets out a long, drawn out groan when you tilt his head back farther, his lips parting and allowing you to lick inside of his mouth. It’s so good. So good. He can’t believe he ever lived without knowing what this felt like; lived without ever having you this close before.

After a while, Minho reluctantly pulls back, holding you by the shoulders. When he looks up, your eyes are half-lidded. You look utterly debauched, cheeks pink and lips swollen from how hard they’d been pressed against his own. “We should probably slow down.” He tries hard to convince himself, too. “Talk about it all, you know? I don’t—this isn’t a one time thing for me. I don’t want it to be. I like you. I want you to know that.” He says softly, reaching up to tuck a piece of hair behind your ear.

You lean into his hand, smiling when he flattens his palm to let your head rest there. “You’re like, so perfect that I want to kiss you until you forget your own name.”

Minho’s ears go red, his head falling forward until it rests against your collarbone. The feeling of his breath against your skin makes you laugh and run a hand through his hair, rubbing at the back of his neck fondly.

“This is gonna be so bad now that you say stuff like that.”

“Bad? No, I think it’s cute. You’re cute.”

“Shut up,” he whines, but there’s no bite to it. Not when he can look up and press a kiss to your lips. A dream come true. The entire world in his hands, exactly where it was always meant to be.

🏠

In the morning, when Jeongin comes back home, one hand covering his eyes just in case, he calls out,

“Everyone better be dressed! Or else I’m ripping up that napkin and making a new one with No fornicating on the furniture added into the fine print.”

When he doesn’t get a response, he rounds the corner, and finds the two of you nestled into the couch. Minho’s back is pressed into the cushions, his arms wrapped tightly around you as you nuzzle your face into his neck.

Jeongin huffs out a laugh, sends a quick text to Hyunjin that reads: Negative. Clothes are still on. But they’re so cute it’s almost sickening.

He snaps a picture to send to the group chat, grabs a piece of cold pizza, and retreats to his room.

Yang Jeongin Fanclub

jeongin: [Attachment: 1 image]

chan: AWWWWWWW

jiwoo: i’m gonna cry

changbin: dude is that the good pizza from down the street?

hyunjin: FINALLY

hyunjin: wait

hyunjin: does this mean i have to send back his $20?

[tags: @palindrome969 @summergirlsmj @n1staytiny @strwbrrychannie ]

#lee know x reader #first date series : minho #lee know fluff #lee know angst #skz x reader #lee know fanfic #skz fanfic #lee know fic #skz fic #lee know fanfiction #skz fanfiction #stray kids x reader #stray kids fanfic #stray kids fic #stray kids fanfiction #lee know #godslino #first date series

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mydearlybeloathed · 5 months ago

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── 𝐈𝐕𝐄 𝐆𝐎𝐓 𝐆𝐀𝐃𝐆𝐄𝐓𝐒 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐆𝐈𝐙𝐌𝐎𝐒 𝐀-𝐏𝐋𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐘

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: being a mermaid, it's part of you nature to bring the object of your affection gifts in the hopes of swaying their gaze. how do these pirates handle your onslaught of treasures?

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: nami, luffy, and sanji x mermaid!reader

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 1.7k (.6k luffy, .4k nami, .6k sanji)

𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭: mermaid!reader, continuation of this fic, requested

LUFFY

When you first began to court Luffy via your pod’s traditions, you quickly realized you’d have to improvise; Luffy had no clue what any of your actions meant, no matter how obvious you made it.

You brought your captain countless gifts, ranging from perfect pearls to slightly chipped sand dollars, and each time all he did was smile, thank you, and skip away to add your gift to his growing collection.

This time, however, you would make sure he understood, lest your sanity slip away.

He sat criss crossed on his special seat, the mast of the ship, and you stood on the deck with a pretty pink and blue conch shell in hand. Hopeful eyes set on the man you admired, you failed to notice Robin coming up beside you. She hummed softly, startling you. “Oh, hi.”

“He’ll like that one.” Robin smiled cheekily. “But you want my advice?”

“Please.”

A chuckle left her as she looked on at her captain. “Be as straightforward as you can. Ask him what his feelings are.”

Blinking widely, you gazed back at Luffy. That surely seemed easy enough. Steeling yourself with a sigh, you nodded once and trudged forward, up the stairs to the foredeck and all the way up to where the masthead met the deck. Words rose to your lips and fell short, breath caught by the way the wind and sun sat around him like good friends. Luffy sat leaned back on his hands, eyes gently shut, easy smile on his face. You couldn’t dare to break such a moment, not till you nearly dropped the shell and let slip a little yelp.

Luffy reacted instantly, tilting back his head to see what was the matter. He grinned upon seeing you, sending jitters through your belly. “Hey!” His eyes lowered to the conchshell tight in your grasp, jabbing a finger at it. “What’s that?”

He already knew it was for him; Luffy grew to look forward to your random gifts, treasuring them in his quarters and spending a little time each morning just admiring them.

You glanced down at your gift, mustering up your courage and hoping beyond hoping that he’ll finally understand. “It’s for you. I found it this morning.”

Found was an understatement. You’d scoured the seafloor all morning to find something worthy of bestowing upon your love. Luffy beamed even brighter, if possible. “Really?” He slid off the mast and landed right in front of you.

Luffy’s eyes shown like stars, his lips slightly parted as he ghosted his hands over the silky surface of the shell. You passed it on to his caloused hands, skin sparking as his fingers slid against yours. You stood transfixed upon him and how gently he handled the gift, turning it this way and that to see every nook and cranny, leaving no part of it unknown. A sharp ba-dump ba-dump echoed in your chest.

“It’s great,” he breathed, raising his eyes to peer into yours. Soft wasn’t a word one would use to describe Luffy. Brash and loud, yes. But not soft. Yet, there was this secret shadow of him that was softer beyond compare, only revealed in moments of deep distress… or right now, when you hand him a piece of your heart.

You felt a soft prod at your back, hand lunging back to catch a phantom wrist. You quickly released Robin’s hand, whipping around to spy her, but she was nowhere in sight. Puffing your cheeks, you swiveled back just to find Luffy leaning close over your shoulder, eyes squinted. “What’re we looking for?”

“N-Nothing.” Gazing into his face, you coiled your fists. “Luffy, I have a question.”

Instantly, all his attention was on you, pleasantly awaiting. “Mhmm?”

“I… I was wondering… do—do you—do you like… tangerines?”

Luffy blinked a little blankly, before shrugging a shoulder. “Yeah, I like ‘em. What an odd question.” He ruffled up your hair and hurried off. “I’m gonna add this to my collection. Thanks a bunch!”

“Yeah… no problem.” Cupping yoru face in your hands, you groaned disparingly. Cracking open an eye, you found a single arm sprouting from the deck rail sporting a thumb’s up of comfort.

NAMI

The gifts had been a constant before you and Nami made it official, but after? Nami was running out of room to keep all the nick-nacks you showered her with. She’d never tell you that though, the smile on your face each time you offered up a gift a treasure in itself.

So Nami settled for becoming the ship’s interior decorator, making it a project to find the best places to present your increasingly beautiful finds.

Hanging from the wall in the galley was a giant piece of seaglass wrapped in fishing net. On the kitchen table an array of shells sat in a decorative bowl. Each of the boys had a whole sand dollar they were not allowed to touch on the their bed table.

It took you a few weeks to notice it, with the decorations growing over time, but when you did a surprised yet excited beam took you face. You noticed the solid pink clam shell you’d found a month ago among the table decorations, immediately whirling on Nami with a bright smile. “I found that, didn’t I?”

She was worried you’d be upset with her decorating, but now you coudln’t have looked happier. Nami’s cheeks reddened as she laughed, nodding. “You did. I thought I’d put some of your treasures around so we can all admire them.”

You shot up from the table and bounded off. “How many more are there? Did you hide them?”

Nami watched misty eyed, heart warm as the sound of your voice echoed back to the galley. Robin chuckled behind her hand, winking when Nami caught her eye. Nami blushed deeper and, flustered, got up to chase after you.

After that, she really set out to hide the gifts you brought her, tucking them between books and pans. Your search grew to be a calm sort of game. You would be lying in a hammock by Nami’s side, her reading a book aloud, when you lazily pointed to the bookshelf and murmured, “There’s the blue one I got last week.”

The whole crew even joined in after a while, and a board was set up in the galley to tally the scores. Even after four months of the treasure hide-and-seek, you came out on top with the most finds, and if someone dared to come close to taking your title? Well, you reminded them that you have two rows of razor-sharp teeth, and suddenly you were champion once again.

SANJI Sanji treasures each and every gift you bring him, to the point where his nose starts to bleed every other trinket. He doesn’t love the gifts a normal amount, okay. He will set them up all over the kitchen and randomly point them out to anyone nearby.

“Look at that one! She had to have dove down so many depths to get it. Ah~”

“Mosshead, get your slimy, bottom-feeder hands away from my seashells.”

Everyone knew to treat your gifts to Sanji with immense care, and that fact sent a wave of pride through your heart. You sat at the kitchen counter watching him cook, lining up the shells just to admire them, every once in a while making them into the shape of a heart and sending him into cardiac arrest.

Oh, but the gift he’s most proud of? It’s the one he wears round his neck every single day.

The first pearl you brought him was a small thing, around the size of a pinky, and you handed it to him shyly while saying you couldn’t find a bigger one to display. Sanji barely breathed, rolling it in his palm and just thinking of how lucky he is to have you, that you would dive down into the sea just to find him the most beautiful treasures.

Yes, it was part of your culture, so part of this was customary to you, but after each of his lovely reactions your gift-giving grew into more of a habit of the heart, eyes always peeled for any trinket Sanji might enjoy. So when you noticed how he held the pearl with such care, the milky white of it looking so nice against his palm, you got an idea.

Every single morning for the next two months you gathered pearl after pearl, keeping them in a little box under your bed. Sneakily, you even managed to take the original pearl from the ring box Sanji kept it in. The scare it gave him when he awoke, turned to his bed table, and his prized gift from his lovely mermaid was missing?? He was inconsolable, so much so that you rushed to give him his gift a day earlier, giggling as you cut off his apologies.

“It’s okay,” you beamed, handing him a small paper wrapped object. “I think this will fix it.”

You bounced on your heels as Sanji sat down at the counter and delicately handled the paper, revealing the pearl necklace within. For the longest moment, he said nothing at all, only staring down at it blankly. You ducked to catch more of his expression, worrying your lip between your teeth. “Do you like it?”

Sanji’s lips ticked upward, eyes holding so much affection you could feel it hit you as he raised his gaze. “I love it. Thank you, my love.”

You couldn’t hold back the magnitude of your smile, reached to help him put it on. As soon as the cool pearls hit his skin, he felt a sense of wholeness only you could explain. He ran a finger over the necklace, wiping away a trail of blood with his wrist, and turned to take you in his arms.

From that day forth, he never took the necklace off.

Sanji never wasted a moment he could show it off, unbuttoning the tops of his shirts so it was more visible. You were more than pleased by this, hanging off his arm as you swept through markets, casting every admiring woman a lethal glare before reaching to toy with the pearls around his neck.

Let’s just say the gift satisfied a more possessive part of your nature you did your best to hide from your lover.

𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭:

@100520s

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bluecollarmcandtf · 8 months ago

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Bros, Bros, and more Bros

I made a mistake! My cousin told me about this fortune teller that cast a spell on him. Apparently, it made every man he ran into act like a fatherly figure in his life. I had an awesome dad, but I've always struggled to connect with guys my own age, so I tracked the witch down and begged her for another spell. She eventually came around, but the effects aren't quite what I expected...

"Sup, dude! Wanna skip and hit the park?"

My eyes stretch wide to take in the sight of my own father, carrying a skateboard over his shoulder like it's the most natural thing in the world. He's been acting like this for weeks; not washing his hair, barely even washing himself, and constantly wearing that stupid cap backwards. He's lost any sense of his old self!

"Dad, it's Monday. You've got work," I reply, not wanting him to piss his boss off.

"Work blows!" he sneers, "I hate wearing this stupid tie, and I'd rather hang with you, bro."

I sigh as my father tosses down his skateboard and extends a palm, pulling me into a cliche bro-hug where he claps me on the back. My dad used to give out hugs all the time, but it was never as performatively masculine as this. All this stupid curse did was turn my father into an 40 year-old frat guy.

"You're going to work," I say firmly, "And I'm going to school. We can play videogames or whatever when we get back later tonight."

"Bruuhhh!" he groans, "Fine. I'll catch you later, dude. There's pizza in the fridge if you want."

The idea of leftover pizza this early in the morning makes my stomach ache. My dad used to cook an entire meal every morning, complete with fruits and veggies. Now, he'd probably settle for a bag of chips.

The man leaves the skateboard behind and grabs his suit jacket, pulling it on with an attitude. He gives me one last head nod before bounding out of the house, hair flowing behind him. I imagine it's only a matter of time before my dad's boss is fed up with his new persona. I can't imagine a bro-personality is very conducive to getting work done in a corporate office. Hopefully, he'll mature soon.

With an empty stomach, I saunter out of the kitchen and walk to campus. I'm grateful to live close to the university. Hopefully, my curse won't get in the way of my day.

"Hey, how's my favorite student doing, bro?"

My professor yells and breaks into a goofy grin at the sight of me. I close the door to his office to give us a bit of privacy. Mr. Carlton only acts like this when I stop by, so his colleagues would be shocked to see such a drastic shift in his usually stoic personality.

"I'm good, Professor Carlton," I say, "I wanted to check on my grade for this course."

"No need to be so formal, dude," he smiles, clapping me on the back, "You can call me Daniel. Want a drink? I have some bourbon."

"I'm good. I really just-"

"Relax, bro," my professor says, shoving a glass in my hand, filled to the brim, "This is good stuff. I save it for special occasions, so sit down! Kick your shoes off! I don't care!"

The department head pulls off his suit jacket and leans back in his chair, propping his feet up on the desk and stretching his arms behind his head. I'd never seen the man act so unprofessional, but ever since the curse, he's started treating me like his closest buddy.

"Professor...sorry...Daniel, I just wanted to hear about my grade."

"I got you, bro!" he laughed, "Just keep doing what you're doing. I don't care if you don't show up!"

My shoulders relax. That's what I want to hear. It's not that I don't want to attend his lectures, but the last time I did, he started acting like a jackass in front of the entire class of 50 students. His presentation went from ancient monetary systems to ratings of best celebrity nip-slips. It's a miracle he didn't get fired!

"Ok, good. I have to go," I say checking the time, "And you have class in 20 minutes."

"Shit, I know," he groans and gulps down the rest of his booze, "Another day another dollar, I guess. When can we hang out, man? Tonight? I really wanna hang out with my guy."

"Nope, sorry!" I tense up and grab my backpack, "Good luck with the lecture."

"Right on, bro," he holds a sad hand up for a high-five, swallowing the rest of the drink he poured me.

I give my tipsy professor a halfhearted clap and scamper out of the office as quickly as possible. These interactions make me cringe so hard when a grown man acts young and cool for me. It's especially awkward to see such a respected individual sink to such a low level. What would we even do if he came over?

"Dude! Long time, no see!"

In the hallway, I run into the football coach and two of the team's best players. The three of them look like they're getting back from an early morning conditioning session. They're all sweaty, panting, and happy to see me.

"Oh, hey," I muster, feeling increasingly less cool around these jocks. I hate to admit it, but guys like this wouldn't give me the time of day before I got that bro-curse.

"Hey, man! You gotta come hang out with us," the brunette grins, "The team's still changing, but you're cool to come in the locker room!"

"Yeah, bro!" the blonde quickly adds, "We'd love to have you in there!"

My heart pounds faster and faster. This is why I've never been able to connect with guys my own age. I find myself boning up every time they look in my direction. Now that these two athletes are practically begging for me to join them in the locker room, my erection is bursting out of my pants!

"We can take care of that too," the coach suddenly mentions, pointing a finger at the tent I'm trying to hide in my crotch.

"What?" I stammer with a dry mouth.

"What do you think bros are for?" the coach continues, clapping his two players on the back, "My boys would be happy to help a brother out!"

The two football jocks nod. It feels like I'm dreaming, and I don't know what to do. Before I can decide, the two athletes have approached and grabbed me by the arm. Their grips are firm, and I realize I'm being escorted into the changing room whether I like it or not!

"Who's this guy?"

My stomach drops as I enter the locker room, finding an array of footballers in different states of dress. They all glance up at me with confusion, like I'm not supposed to be there, but then their faces soften. The gypsy's magic sets in, and they don't see a stranger when they look at me. They see their bro.

"Oh, it's you, bro," the same jock says, letting down his guard. I think I recognize him as the quarterback.

"Oh yeah, dude!" the massive lineman stands up and pulls me into a sweaty hug, "Glad you're here!"

"That's right guys," the brunette at my side says, still holding me tightly in place, "Our best bud is here, and he needs some attention."

My face flushes as I suddenly remember the problem poking out between my legs. By now, the entire football team is staring at it. If anything, it's only become more rock solid.

"Let me take care of that for you, bro," the quarterback says, grabbing my crotch without any hesitation.

"Move, I'll do it," says the lineman, pushing the quarterback out of the way and getting on his knees. He opens his mouth wide and-

"Shut up, all of you!" the coach suddenly roars! The locker room falls silent: these athletes are really well trained. "If we're gonna do this, we're gonna do it right. Line up!"

"Yes, coach!"

The jocks back up and form a line in front of the lockers. Even the blonde and brunette that were holding me, release and join the rest of the team on the bench. Suddenly, I'm standing with the coach, looking at an entire team of well-disciplined football players. My throbbing erection is very apparent and pointing right at the small crowd of muscular men.

"Our bro deserves to be kept satisfied, right?" the coach slams a hand on my back.

"Yes, coach!" they shout back.

"So we don't just want to get our boy off once and move on, now do we?" he punctuates his question with another slap, this time lower on my back.

"No, coach!"

"We're going to set up a system for us to get him off whenever he needs it!"

"Yes, coach!"

The broad-shouldered and balding coach gives me one more slap, clapping me on the ass this time while staring into my eyes. "I'm gonna have my boys take turns sucking you off, bro. You just tell me which one's your favorite. Sound cool?"

I manage to mumble my assent, and with one look from coach, the quarterback is on his knees crawling towards my crotch. He pulls down my pants and unleashes my aching hard-on. "I got you, bro," he says, before putting his mouth to work.

After a few minutes, the coach pulls the jock off my pole and orders the linebacker to get busy. Before long, it's the brunette's turn, then the blonde's. I cycle through all 30 of the team's exceptional players, and I've gotten off more than just a few times. It's impossible to choose a favorite.

At the end of it all, the coach pushes the last player aside and says, "My turn, bro," before opening his mouth as wide as he can.

The entire football team watches as I spend the next 15 minutes just filling their coach's eager throat. When I'm finally done, I feel completely spent. I swap numbers with each jock and am repeatedly promised that they will be available whenever I call, but it isn't enough. They want to hang out with me now. They want to go out and party. I find it too difficult to say 'no' to a group of 30 eager athletes, so I let them sweep me up and take me to the nearest bar.

Needless to say, we end up causing a bit too rowdy of a scene.

"I got a complaint about a bunch of college idiots causing a ruckus. Would that be you?"

The officer was all business when he first walked in the bar. My football bros were dancing and yelling, barely even paying attention to the policeman scowling at the wild scene in front of him. He looked pissed, and his glare only softened when it found me.

"Woah, didn't know you were here, man," the cop says, cracking a slight grin on his hardened face.

"Well, I am!" I cry, feeling the effects of all the drinks my bros had been buying for me, "You should forget about work and party with us!"

"You got it, dude! Screw this badge!" the officer yells, pulling me into a tight embrace. I guess the bro-curse even works on law-enforcement!

Just like that, I'm dancing with a policeman in the middle of the dance floor. He doesn't have any moves, but he loosens up after we get some beer down his throat. The football team loves watching the cop party right alongside them. Apparently, this guy has broken up many of their parties in the past.

"Drink! Drink! Drink!"

The officer gulps down his seventh beer and slams the glass on the floor. It breaks, but the shattering is largely drowned out by the music. His onlookers go wild, but I can see the intoxication on his face. Beer is plastered around his mouth and dripping down his neck to soak into his uniform. I doubt this man has ever been this drunk in uniform before.

He stumbles over and throws a muscled arm over my shoulder, "Come here, bro. Let's do some shots or something!"

"I think it might be time to call it a night, officer," I yell in his ear.

"Oh, screw that!" he whines, "And don't call me officer! It's so formal!"

"Ok, what should I call you?"

"I dunno..." he mutters, "Buck! Call me Buck. That's what my wife calls me."

I roll my eyes at the mention of his wife. Of course this guy is taken. He's a complete stud of man. I've always liked a guy in uniform.

"How'd you like to come home with me tonight, Buck?" I ask sheepishly.

He lights up, "Bro, I thought you'd never ask!"

The cop grabs my arm with a wicked grin and stomps his way towards the door, dragging me along like I'm the prize he won at a fair. The players on the football team all stare at him with envy, mad that he's stealing their new best friend away for the night. I could see how badly each one of the jocks wished they were the one having a sleepover with me tonight.

"Hop in, I'll drive," officer Buck slurs his words and gestures to the police cruiser with his free hand.

"I think I'll handle the driving, if that's alright," I say, "Just hand over the keys."

"Anything for you, bro."

"Looks like someone got lucky!"

"Oh my God. Dad you're still up?"

"Bro, you said you'd play videogames tonight and then you never showed! What was I supposed to do?" he retorts, unbothered by the late hour or the cop hanging on my arm.

"You have to go to work in 4 hours!" I scream, "And you haven't even changed out of today's work clothes! What are you thinking?"

"Chill, bro," my dad says, turning to the drunk policeman holding my hand, "Take him to the bedroom and show him a good time. I'm sure you were going to, but the dude could use some extra help relaxing tonight."

The sound of my own father encouraging the man I brought home to 'show me a good time' makes me question everything again. My dad just witnessed his son bringing home a cop that's the same age as him. He doesn't even care! I want to tell him to grow up and be the man I used to know, but Buck is already jerking on my arm.

"Let's go, bro," he mumbles lowly, using his strong arms to drag me into the bedroom.

"Enjoy your new cop friend, bro!" my father calls and I hear the sounds of his videogames start back up.

I barely have time to worry about any of it. Has this curse gone too far? Will my dad make it to work tomorrow? Does Buck have a wife I need to worry about!?

It all goes away when I'm thrown on the bed. The intoxicated officer flips the lights down low, and stumbles in front of me. He may be drunk, but he is certainly not a disappointment. The cop stares down at me as he rips his state-issued hat off and unbuttons his dark uniform shirt, all the while moving his hips to the beat of gunfire from dad's videogame in the living room.

With his hairy chest exposed, he crawls on top of me and whispers in my ear, "Where do you want me to start? Us bros gotta look out for each other, don't we?"

#gay bros #male transformation #hypno story #gay ai art #gay hypnosis #gay mind control

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lovers-rck · 11 months ago

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little drabble about ellie and reader as the lady and the tramp (we all know who is the tramp)

☆

"c'mon" ellie says, a greasy fry resting between her lips "get the fry"

you frown your eyebrows, but direct your hand towards ellie's lips anyways. she moves before you could grab the fry in her mouth "not like that"

"with your mouth" she continues. you look at her, your hands leaving the keyboard of your computer

"what?"

"get it" ellie moves the fry between her lips, making faces to encourage you to do as she wants "c'mon"

"we aren't in the lady and the tramp ellie" you say, rolling your eyes and turning your attention back to the computer, resuming your task.

the light in your dorm is dim, you can hear people coming and going down the hall, talking about exams and subjects, complaining about teachers and longing for vacations.

"i know" ellie says, swallowing the potato and spinning around in the swivel chair "perhaps, they ate spaghetti, not fryes"

you smile slightly at the clarification. ellie had come to your dorm about 20 minutes ago, complaining about how hard her last assignment was and how her professor hated her, emphasizing the fact that she was sure it was because of that one time she fought with him in the middle of a debate. and with a tapper of fryes under her arm.

"i stole them from the kitchen" she told you when you asked, her lips in a pout and her eyebrows furrowed.

"cmon, get it" she repeated, placing another chip in her mouth "just for fun. i'll give you 20 bucks."

you looked back at her. you considered it for a moment, knowing that ellie wouldn't stop bugging you until you did, and you really needed to finish this assignment in time for your exam.

And something about being so close to her mouth made your stomach tingle.

"okay" you say, giving in to those puppy dog eyes "you are so weird".

she smiles "i know"

"I only do it for that 20 bucks" you reply, pulling your chair closer to ellie. but you knew that ellie didn't have 20 dollars. not even 5.

ellie rolls her eyes and nods, inviting you to proceed.

you try to think about how this is not normal behavior between friends as you move towards her mouth and feel the air from her breath against your face. the fry separates you and her by about 8 centimeters, so there is a bit of space between your faces, though not enough to avoid a nervous twitch in your stomach.

as your lips are about to grab the greasy chip, ellie pulls back, preventing you from catching it "ellie!" you exclaim, watching as ellie laughs uproariously.

"sorry, sorry!" she says, feeling your hand push her and almost knock her off the swivel chair "i had to do it. i'm sorry. now i'm serious."

when ellie gets back into her normal position, you move yourself to get close to her face again, trying to avoid the way ellie's eyes are staring at you with utmost attention, piercing your pores.

as your teeth are about to hunt for the food, ellie is quick and puts the whole chip in her mouth, causing you to stumble and end up with your lips on hers.

you feel ellie's salty lips against yours, greasy and warm. she rushes to rest her hand on your jaw, preventing you from pulling away from her but still giving you the chance to do so if that's what you want.

but you don't.

you reciprocate her kiss, which is not a kiss as such, as your lips only remain against each other for a few seconds, without moving, before they separate.

things are silent for a few seconds. you lick your lips, feeling the taste that ellie left you.

"we could agree that this is the modern version of lady and the tramp" ellie says, a playful tone tinges her voice and you can't help but giggle, feeling a warmth come over your cheeks.

"you idiot" you reply

ellie laughs and places another fry in her mouth "you didn't get it. try again".

you smile and move in again. the game goes on for five more rounds, five rounds where you fail to catch the fry and five rounds where you end up kissing ellie.

#ellie x reader #ellie williams x reader #tlou

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corroded-hellfire · 6 months ago

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Prompt Day 13: Sex, Drugs & Rock n Roll

Word Count: 1000

Rating: T

Pairing: (All in relationships that are talked about) Eddie x Reader, Jeff x Barb

CW: Language, talk of sex

Summary: The guys make a bet to see who can go the longest without sex

This is for my girls @munson-blurbs @the-unforgivenn @rip-quizilla and @word-wytch. The idea for this fic came from an extremely entertaining conversation about the CC guys’ sex lives 😂

@corrodedcoffinfest

“I could so be high and not have chips.”

Eddie, Jeff, and Frank chuckle, knowing Gareth’s claim is wholly false.

“I don’t think you could even give up chips sober,” Frank says.

The four friends are at Jeff’s apartment, getting high while watching Weekend at Bernie’s.

“What?” Gareth asks, brushing his hands together to get rid of chip dust. “You think I don’t have any willpower?”

“Out of the four of us? You definitely have the least,” Eddie says before taking another drag.

“That’s bullshit.”

“Wanna bet?” Jeff asks.

“As a matter of fact, I do,” Gareth declares.

“On who can go the longest without chips?” Jeff laughs. “Dude, you’re the only one who would go into withdrawal. We’d kick your ass.”

“Fine,” Gareth says as he gets off the burgundy couch. He stumbles over to the television and switches it off.

“Hey!”

“What the hell?”

“Dude!”

Gareth’s doing his best to stare them down and Eddie doesn’t have the heart to tell him it’s not working.

“What’s something we all like, huh? Be a real test of willpower?” Gareth asks.

“Music?” Frank suggests.

“Nah, that’s unavoidable. Grocery store? Music. Elevator? Music,” Eddie points out.

“Oh.” The way Gareth’s eyes light up after he says it makes the guys worried. “I know exactly how we can test who has the best willpower.”

“And what’s that?” Jeff asks.

“I’ll even lay down twenty—no, fifty dollars on this bet,” Gareth says.

“Just tell us,” Eddie whines.

“I wager I can go the longest without having sex,” Gareth says with a self-satisfied smirk.

“Dude, really?” Eddie asks. “You want us to give up sex?”

“What’s wrong, Eddie?” Gareth taunts, crossing his arms over his chest. “Don’t think you could do it? Don’t have the willpower?”

“No, I just like fucking my girlfriend,” Eddie says with a laugh.

“I’ll take that action—er, bet,” Jeff says, surprising Eddie.

“What?” Eddie practically shouts.

“I mean,” Jeff starts with a shrug, “it does seem like a fair test. We all live with our girlfriends.”

“I’m in,” Frank says. “Fifty down for me, too.”

“Means it’s just you who’s out, Eddie,” Gareth taunts. “I’m starting to think you're wussing out on us.”

Eddie rolls his eyes and takes another hit.

“Jesus, fine, I’ll do it. What’re the rules gonna be?”

“Everyone puts fifty in,” Gareth starts.

“And no one tell their girl,” Jeff adds. “This is about our willpower.”

“Yeah, that’ll be fun.” Frank’s voice drips in sarcasm. “Ally wants to have sex and I reject her.”

“Just pretend to fall asleep on the couch,” Gareth suggests with a shrug.

“You really think you can keep your hands off Annie?” Eddie asks Gareth, an amused smirk on his face.

“No rule about my hands not being on her.”

“Okay, yeah, that should be clarified,” Jeff says. “When we say, ‘no sex,’ what exactly does that entail?”

Gareth tilts his head from side to side as he thinks about it.

“No vaginal, oral, or anal,” he decides. “No hand jobs. Basically, your girlfriend can’t get you off in any way and you can’t get her off.”

“We’re idiots for doing this,” Eddie complains.

“Feel free to forfeit and be the loser,” Gareth taunts.

“I could use that extra $150 bucks,” Jeff says. “Weren’t you looking for a new guitar, Ed? This would help.”

“Fuck,” Eddie sighs.

“So, we’re all agreed?” Gareth asks. “Fifty bucks in for each of us. Starting today, we see who can go the longest without sex.”

The three others confirm their assent—and just in time.

The front door to the apartment opens and Barb steps in.

“Hi, guys,” she greets as she sets a few grocery bags down.

“Hey, Barb,” they hum in unison.

“What’re you up to?” she asks.

“Watched Weekend at Bernie’s,” Jeff says, pushing himself off the couch to go kiss his girlfriend.

“Still going to that bar where the manager wants you guys to play? To finalize things?” Barb asks.

“Yep,” Eddie replies as he stands up.

Gareth looks down at his watch, then says, “If we leave now, we can get pizza first.”

“Yeah, go get pizza,” Barb says, giving Jeff’s arm a loving squeeze. “I’ve got plenty here I can have for dinner. Just have to unpack it first.”

“Let’s get Surfer Boy,” Gareth suggests as he heads for the door.

The guys mumble their agreement and Barb gives them a wave as they head out.

“Have fun, boys.”

A chorus of “bye Barb” echoes before they’re all out and Jeff closes the door behind him.

Barb unpacks her bags, keeping an ear out for cars leaving the parking lot. This is the second time the slightly open window has been used to Barb’s advantage in the last ten minutes.

Once all the food is put away and Barb has checked that the guys have left, she shuffles over to the phone on the wall. She dials your number and impatiently waits for you to pick up.

“Hello?”

“Hey, it’s Barb,” she says.

“Oh, hey! What’s up?” you ask.

“I heard our men having an interesting conversation when I got home. I don’t think they realize how loud they talk—or that they had a window open.”

“Oh, God,” you say with a laugh. “What’re they up to now?”

“They’ve made a bet with one another to see who can go the longest without sex,” she says. “And they’re not going to tell us girls about it.”

A giddy gasp comes from the other end of the phone as you think of all the possible ways you could have fun messing with Eddie on this.

“Oh, Barb,” you croon. “I think we need to call up Ally and Annie and do some lingerie shopping.”

“My thoughts exactly,” Barb confirms. “So happy we’re on the same page of making this bet as hard as possible for them.”

You chuckle.

“I know four women who are suddenly going to become the biggest teases these guys have ever seen.”

#eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #corrodedcoffinfest #eddie munson x y/n #gareth #jeff #frank #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson imagine #eddie munson fanfiction #eddie munson fic #CCF

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telestoapologist · 25 days ago

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Hey y'all, I need you to do something very important for me.

So my best friend, Dani, is having some bad money problems right now. Why am I putting this here? He's the one who originally got me into playing Destiny 2, so without him, I wouldn't have this blog today!

youtube

Commission Details and Script

You know how many people are following this blog? A whopping 802! You know what bot's goal is? $800+! So even if you can't afford a commission or decide on what to ask for, if everyone could chip in at least a dollar, bot would have the minimum covered!!

Calix's Story: Calix was a stray whom Dani's roommate brought home. He's old, and has a heart murmur- whom the vet suspects is the reason why he's a stray (people fuckin' suck, huh?). We all know vet bills are normally unfairly huge, and Dani wants to make sure he gets the best care they can give him. I often hear him in the background in call meowing or purring while being held. He's a very sweet, rusty old man who deserves all the love in the world and to not be alone or cooped up in a shelter in his seniority.

The extra money will be going to future vet visits, as well as other important expenses such as groceries. I love my friend so much, and I hate seeing him struggle, especially when he's already got enough on his plate to worry about.

Spreading and reblogging this would also mean the world. The more exposure, hopefully the better. Thank you for your time. <3333

#destiny 2 #art #commissions open #cats #signal boost

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goldfades · 15 days ago

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𝐂𝐑𝐀𝐒𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐓 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐏𝐋𝐄 ───── LUKA DONCIC

free palestine carrd 🇵🇸 decolonize palestine site 🇵🇸 how you can help palestine it's crucial that we stand in solidarity with those who need our support. right now, the people of palestine are facing unimaginable hardship, and it's up to all of us to do what we can to help. whether it's raising awareness, donating to relief organizations, or supporting calls for justice and peace, every action counts. we can amplify their voices, shed light on their struggles, and work towards a future where every individual can live with dignity and freedom. your support can make a difference! FREE PALESTINE!

⟢ ┈ 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 | 1.6k

⟢ ┈ 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 | (request for my lovely jo, @wanderlusturous) you, a hotheaded wnba star and your equally chaotic courtside boyfriend luka dončić take turns being menaces on and off the court, earning the title of Crash Out Couple with every tech, shove, and courtside screamfest

⟢ ┈ 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 | banter, luka being an instigator, it's kinda cute

The first time you meet Luka, he’s not quite a household name yet—but he’s well on his way. The smirk, the aura, the almost reckless abandon with which he commands the court—it’s all there. You’re sitting at a bar in Manhattan after a grueling Liberty practice, sipping on some overpriced cocktail that tastes like regret and stale citrus, when he strolls in, all easy confidence and mischief. You’re vaguely aware of who he is—because, duh, basketball—but you don’t care. Not about his growing fame. Not about the headlines that tend to follow him like a stray dog.

At first, it’s just banter. He comments on the Liberty cap perched on your head like he knows something. You volley back, sharp and unbothered, because you’re you, and nobody gets to talk slick without catching a little heat. You don't even realize you're flirting until he pulls out that grin, all teeth and menace, and asks for your number like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

You give it to him—mostly because you’re intrigued by the audacity.

The rest, as they say, is history.

Fast-forward a couple of years, and the “Crash Out Couple” is practically an ESPN institution. You’d roll your eyes at the nickname if it weren’t so hilariously accurate. You, with your unapologetic on-court antics, and Luka, with his penchant for egging on entire benches, were practically made for each other. There’s a viral video that resurfaces every few months, some grainy courtside footage of Luka heckling refs while you jaw at a six-foot-four forward breathing down your neck. The caption reads, “Soulmates.” You both pretend to hate it, but the truth is, you kind of love it.

The media has their narrative: the fiery, unrelenting WNBA star and the NBA's most charming troublemaker. But what they don’t see is how it started—how the two of you fit together in a way that no one else ever really could.

Before you were dubbed half of the league’s favorite chaotic duo, you were just a girl with a chip on your shoulder and a game so good that even your doubters had to sit down and shut up. You grew up on New York asphalt, weaving through defenders who didn’t care if you were 13 or 30. You’d seen it all—trash talk, cheap shots, elbows that left bruises—and you didn’t just survive it; you thrived in it. You weren’t Sabrina Ionescu good in college—you were Sabrina Ionescu-adjacent, a little grittier, a little rougher around the edges.

By the time the Liberty scooped you up, you’d already perfected the art of letting people underestimate you. On the court, you were all business—sharp elbows, sharper words. Off the court, you weren’t much different.

And Luka? He had the same energy, just dressed up in a European accent and a billion-dollar smile.

So when the two of you finally crossed paths, it wasn’t fireworks or love at first sight or any of that fairytale nonsense. It was a slow build, a series of exchanges that started as friendly competition and escalated into something neither of you could ignore. You pushed him; he pushed back. You taunted; he laughed. And when the time came, he showed up for you the way you didn’t even realize you needed.

The arena hums with energy, a pulsing beat of chatter, sneakers squeaking on hardwood, and the occasional blare of the PA system announcing players warming up. You’re on the court, loose-limbed and laser-focused, bouncing a ball between your hands as the Liberty logo gleams under the bright lights. The crowd’s a blur, faces blending together, but you know exactly where Luka is without looking.

He’s courtside, leaned back like he’s sitting on his own throne, wearing that damn smile that always means trouble. He’s dressed low-key—a hoodie and jeans—but the way he carries himself, you’d think he was the one suiting up to play.

“You look nervous,” he calls out, loud enough for half the court to hear.

You roll your eyes, dribbling lazily as you make your way toward him. “Why would I be nervous? You’re not the one guarding me.”

He raises an eyebrow, feigning offense. “That’s a shame. I’d shut you down in five minutes.”

“Five?” you fire back, smirking now. “I’d have you in foul trouble in two.”

The assistant coach whistles sharply, breaking the moment as you’re called back into the fold. You turn, already putting him out of your mind, but not before Luka leans forward, his voice following you.

“Just don’t get ejected, okay? I want my money’s worth.”

You don’t look back, but your grin gives you away.

The game starts, and it’s clear from the jump that they’re gunning for you. You’re no stranger to being a target, but tonight it feels personal. Every time you touch the ball, there’s a defender glued to you—sometimes two, sometimes three. They’re in your face, hands swiping, shoulders digging into you on every drive.

It’s annoying, but you don’t let it show. Not yet.

You’re still finding your rhythm when the first cheap shot comes—an elbow to your ribs during a fast break. You stumble, barely, and the ref doesn’t call it. Luka is on his feet instantly, arms raised as he shouts something in Slovenian that’s definitely not family-friendly.

You wave him off with a quick glance and grit your teeth, setting up on the next possession. They want to frustrate you, throw you off your game. Fine. Two can play that.

By the second quarter, it’s obvious they’re not letting up. A hard screen sends you sprawling, and when you get up, your expression is thunderous. The forward who set the screen smirks, muttering something you can’t hear but understand perfectly. You take a step toward her, jaw tight, but your teammates pull you back before the whistle can blow.

From the corner of your eye, you catch Luka laughing, leaning into the drama like it’s his own personal soap opera. He’s clapping now, shouting something about “that’s my girl!”

It’s all fuel. Every shove, every sneer, every comment—you take it, you feed on it, and you channel it into the next play. You cut through the defense with surgical precision, drawing fouls and making them pay. By halftime, you’ve put up enough points to silence most of the chirping.

But Luka? Luka’s louder than ever.

When the buzzer sounds, you jog off the court toward the locker room, passing by Luka on your way. He’s waiting, still grinning like he’s enjoying this more than anyone else in the building.

“Having fun yet?” he teases, leaning over the railing.

You stop, towel slung over your shoulder, and level him with a look. “Oh, I’m just getting started.”

He throws his head back, laughing, and for a second, you forget how much your ribs hurt.

By the time the third quarter starts, you’re running on pure adrenaline. Your body aches, your jersey clings to your skin, and the defenders are still swarming you like vultures over a carcass. But you’ve got that look in your eye—the one that tells everyone, including Luka, that you’re done playing nice.

They keep testing you, and you keep answering. Elbow jabs in the paint? Fine, you’ll fight through them. Double teams in the corner? Bring it on. But there’s only so much a person can take before they hit their breaking point.

And that point comes when you drive to the basket, slipping past one defender before the next one—a towering forward with about four inches and twenty pounds on you—steps into your path. She doesn’t go for the ball. Instead, she throws her shoulder into you with enough force to send you stumbling back.

The ref blows the whistle, finally calling the foul, but you barely hear it over the rush of blood in your ears.

The forward grins, smug, like she’s gotten away with something. And that’s it. You snap.

Without thinking, you shove her—hard. Hard enough that her sneakers screech against the hardwood as she stumbles back a few steps, eyes wide with shock. The crowd erupts into chaos, the kind of noise that rattles your bones.

She comes back at you immediately, barking something that you don’t catch because your teammates are already between you, dragging you back while her team does the same. The refs are blowing their whistles like it’s a lifeline, trying to regain control.

And Luka? He’s on his feet, losing his mind.

“That’s what I’m talking about!” he yells, clapping his hands so loud you can hear it over the chaos. “Push her again! She deserved it!”

You glance his way, and the sight of him is almost enough to make you laugh. Almost. He’s leaning so far over the railing it looks like he might climb onto the court, his hoodie halfway off, gesturing wildly as he yells something in Slovenian that probably translates to “start the fight!”

The announcers are having a field day. The crowd is on their feet. Social media is already typing up their captions.

But you? You’re still locked in, eyes blazing as you stare down your defender, silently daring her to come at you again.

The refs eventually restore order, handing out double techs for good measure, but the damage is done. The entire arena is buzzing, and you can feel the shift in momentum.

You walk back to the bench, chin high, and when you sit down, Luka catches your eye again. He’s grinning like he’s never been prouder in his life.

“You really gave them their money’s worth,” he calls out, voice practically dripping with pride.

You grab a water bottle, smirking despite yourself. “You’re welcome.”

The rest of the game plays out like a blur. The other team never quite recovers, and the Liberty take the win. By the time the final buzzer sounds, your name is trending, along with Luka’s, under the now-iconic title: Crash Out Couple.

↳ make sure to check out my navigation or masterlist if you enjoyed! any interaction is greatly appreciated !

↳ thank you for reading all the way through, as always ♡

#luka doncic #luka doncic x reader #nba basketball #luka dončić #dallas mavericks #luka dončić x reader

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fleuriosa · 24 days ago

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𝐌𝐎𝐕𝐈𝐄 𝐍𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓

gn!reader x platonic!core four (and wes, amber, anika, and liv)

summary: you and your group of friends decide to spend the night together and watch movies at sam and tara’s apartment

content warning: swearing, mentions of food (popcorn, skittles, m&ms, chips, and nachos)

word count: 903

author’s note: helloooo this is my first proper drabble!! i hope you all like it :)) btw this has not been proof read

“can we watch a slasher film, or just something in which people get their guts spilled out?”, mindy pled. “i don’t wanna watch that stupid-ass comedy that chad keeps suggesting.”

chad gasped, clearly offended by mindy’s remark. “night at the museum is not a “stupid-ass” comedy! it teaches you shit and also, who doesn’t like ben stiller??” liv glanced at her boyfriend, not being able to contain the chuckle she was struggling to keep in. “now what are you laughing for?!?”

“larry wasn’t the best character in the movie, jed was.”, commented liv. “are you kidding me? owen’s role was as small as his character!”

well aware that the bickering occurring in the living room was going to continue for a while, sam got up from her spot on the couch and went to the kitchen to get snacks for you and the others. tara and amber were painting each other’s nails, while you, wes, and anika were engaged in a game of uno. “plus four??!! fuck you wes!!” anika exclaimed, annoyed that her chances of winning decreased because of wes. yes, whenever you and your group of friends hang out, there’s always be yelling. despite that, you always seem to have the best time, feeling comfortable and safe with them. “the colour changes to red, here’s my sample card, uno! anddddd i win!!” both you and anika roll your eyes at wes’ victory, not excited about having to give him 10 dollars each.

as you were handing wes yours and anika’s his money, sam was still busy scavenging for snacks in the pantry. she only has three big bowls, which means that she can only pick three things. your eyes flickered to sam from your seat, the confusion on her face evident. since you didn’t have anything else to do, you decided to go join her.

“well, popcorn’s a must, that’s for sure.”, sam nodded in agreement. “mhm, but i’m not able to pick between chips or nachos and skittles or m&ms.” you bit your lip, considering your choices carefully. “let’s do popcorn, nachos, and skittles.”, you decided. sam gave you a playful thumbs up at your response. you both took the packets out of the pantry and started pouring their contents into the bowls.

after, you and sam went back to the the living room. jus then, tara and amber had just finished painting their nails, and anika, wes, and liv were chatting with each other about who knows what. but there was still one problem.

“chad, mindy, are you guys seriously still struggling to pick a movie?”, sam said. she went to the kitchen ten minutes ago, thinking by the time she’d come back they’d have decided which film to watch. “it’s not my fault that she’s some horror freak who- oh popcorn!” chad tried to argue back, but the golden popcorn seemed to have hypnotised him, at least it looked like that because he took a big handful before you and sam could even put the bowls on the table and shoved it right in his mouth. “now we know how to make chad shut up, by giving him popcorn.”, amber remarked teasingly with a smirk, causing tara and liv to burst into laughter. “hey”

“just do rock, paper, scissors, this is taking forever.”, anika groaned. “ugh, fine!”, replied mindy. they both turned so they were now facing each other, and after a minute, you heard something, or rather someone.

“NOOOOOOOO”, chad yelled, startling you, but also enlightening you about who won the battle.

“ok mindy, what do you wanna watch?” tara asked while taking a few skittles in her hand, eating them one by one. “hmmmmm, let’s watch psycho.” mindy responded, causing chad to groan. “whatever…”, he tried to maintain his bugged demeanour, but the small grin creeping up on his face was quite visible.

“oh, shit! we have to rent it.” anika pointed out. “sammmmmmm??” all of you looked at her with the sweetest smiles, none of you wanted to spend your money. besides, sam’s basically the mom of the group, therefore, it’s her responsibility.

sam was clearly not amused, but what choice did she have? “alright…..”, she mumbled while grabbing her phone from the centre table.

after she rented the movie, you all sat on the sofa together with a bunch of cozy blankets and pillows. you sat next to mindy and tara, covering your legs with one of the quilts and placing a pillow behind your head. tara gently took the bowl of nachos from wes’ hands and offered you some. you happily accepted, shooting her a soft smile and then receiving one back yourself.

“hey, after this, do you all want to play twister?” wes spoke suddenly. “yeah that sounds fun!” liv replied, hums of agreement from the rest of you following. “let’s just hope that tara won’t sprain her ankle again this time.” chad added with a chuckle, making tara frown at him in a light-hearted manner.

“guys shut up, it’s starting!” mindy exclaimed. anika then nudged her shoulder. “what?!”, mindy gave her a puzzled look, making her giggle. even mindy did after seeing her impish expression.

everyone was now quiet. it created an atmosphere where it felt as though the nine of you were the only people on earth. the cacophony of noises emanating from the streets gradually diminished, fading into an almost distant memory as the picture on the screen started.

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physalian · 9 months ago

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8 Signs your Sequel Needs Work

Sequels, and followup seasons to TV shows, can be very tricky to get right. Most of the time, especially with the onslaught of sequels, remakes, and remake-quels over the past… 15 years? There’s a few stand-outs for sure. I hear Dune Part 2 stuck the landing. Everyone who likes John Wick also likes those sequels. Spiderverse 2 also stuck the landing.

These are less tips and more fundamental pieces of your story that may or may not factor in because every work is different, and this is coming from an audience’s perspective. Maybe some of these will be the flaws you just couldn’t put your finger on before. And, of course, these are all my opinions, for sequels and later seasons that just didn’t work for me.

1. Your vague lore becomes a gimmick

The Force, this mysterious entity that needs no further explanation… is now quantifiable with midichlorians.

In The 100, the little chip that contains the “reincarnation” of the Commanders is now the central plot to their season 6 “invasion of the bodysnatchers” villains.

In The Vampire Diaries, the existence of the “emotion switch” is explicitly disputed as even existing in the earlier seasons, then becomes a very real and physical plot point one can toggle on and off.

I love hard magic systems. I love soft magic systems, too. These two are not evolutions of each other and doing so will ruin your magic system. People fell in love with the hard magic because they liked the rules, the rules made sense, and everything you wrote fit within those rules. Don’t get wacky and suddenly start inventing new rules that break your old ones.

People fell in love with the soft magic because it needed no rules, the magic made sense without overtaking the story or creating plot holes for why it didn’t just save the day. Don’t give your audience everything they never needed to know and impose limitations that didn’t need to be there.

Solving the mystery will never be as satisfying as whatever the reader came up with in their mind. Satisfaction is the death of desire.

2. The established theme becomes un-established

I talked about this point already in this post about theme so the abridged version here: If your story has major themes you’ve set out to explore, like “the dichotomy of good and evil” and you abandon that theme either for a contradictory one, or no theme at all, your sequel will feel less polished and meaningful than its predecessor, because the new story doesn’t have as much (if anything) to say, while the original did.

Jurassic Park is a fantastic, stellar example. First movie is about the folly of human arrogance and the inherent disaster and hubris in thinking one can control forces of nature for superficial gains. The sequels, and then sequel series, never returns to this theme (and also stops remembering that dinosaurs are animals, not generic movie monsters). JP wasn’t just scary because ahhh big scary reptiles. JP was scary because the story is an easily preventable tragedy, and yes the dinosaurs are eating people, but the people only have other people to blame. Dinosaurs are just hungry, frightened animals.

Or, the most obvious example in Pixar’s history: Cars to Cars 2.

3. You focus on the wrong elements based on ‘fan feedback’

We love fans. Fans make us money. Fans do not know what they want out of a sequel. Fans will never know what they want out of a sequel, nor will studios know how to interpret those wants. Ask Star Wars. Heck, ask the last 8 books out of the Percy Jackson universe.

Going back to Cars 2 (and why I loathe the concept of comedic relief characters, truly), Disney saw dollar signs with how popular Mater was, so, logically, they gave fans more Mater. They gave us more car gimmicks, they expanded the lore that no one asked for. They did try to give us new pretty racing venues and new cool characters. The writers really did try, but some random Suit decided a car spy thriller was better and this is what we got.

The elements your sequel focuses on could be points 1 or 2, based on reception. If your audience universally hates a character for legitimate reasons, maybe listen, but if your audience is at war with itself over superficial BS like whether or not she’s a female character, or POC, ignore them and write the character you set out to write. Maybe their arc wasn’t finished yet, and they had a really cool story that never got told.

This could be side-characters, or a specific location/pocket of worldbuilding that really resonated, a romantic subplot, whatever. Point is, careening off your plan without considering the consequences doesn’t usually end well.

4. You don’t focus on the ‘right’ elements

I don’t think anyone out there will happily sit down and enjoy the entirety of Thor: The Dark World. The only reasons I would watch that movie now are because a couple of the jokes are funny, and the whole bit in the middle with Thor and Loki. Why wasn’t this the whole movie? No one cares about the lore, but people really loved Loki, especially when there wasn’t much about him in the MCU at the time, and taking a villain fresh off his big hit with the first Avengers and throwing him in a reluctant “enemy of my enemy” plot for this entire movie would have been amazing.

Loki also refuses to stay dead because he’s too popular, thus we get a cyclical and frustrating arc where he only has development when the producers demand so they can make maximum profit off his character, but back then, in phase 2 world, the mystery around Loki was what made him so compelling and the drama around those two on screen was really good! They bounced so well off each other, they both had very different strengths and perspectives, both had real grievances to air, and in that movie, they *both* lost their mother. It’s not even that it’s a bad sequel, it’s just a plain bad movie.

The movie exists to keep establishing the Infinity Stones with the red one and I can’t remember what the red one does at this point, but it could have so easily done both. The powers that be should have known their strongest elements were Thor and Loki and their relationship, and run with it.

This isn’t “give into the demands of fans who want more Loki” it’s being smart enough to look at your own work and suss out what you think the most intriguing elements are and which have the most room and potential to grow (and also test audiences and beta readers to tell you the ugly truth). Sequels should feel more like natural continuations of the original story, not shameless cash grabs.

5. You walk back character development for ~drama~

As in, characters who got together at the end of book 1 suddenly start fighting because the “will they/won’t they” was the juiciest dynamic of their relationship and you don’t know how to write a compelling, happy couple. Or a character who overcame their snobbery, cowardice, grizzled nature, or phobia suddenly has it again because, again, that was the most compelling part of their character and you don’t know who they are without it.

To be honest, yeah, the buildup of a relationship does tend to be more entertaining in media, but that’s also because solid, respectful, healthy relationships in media are a rarity. Season 1 of Outlander remains the best, in part because of the rapid growth of the main love interest’s relationship. Every season after, they’re already married, already together, and occasionally dealing with baby shenanigans, and it’s them against the world and, yeah, I got bored.

There’s just so much you can do with a freshly established relationship: Those two are a *team* now. The drama and intrigue no longer comes from them against each other, it’s them together against a new antagonist and their different approaches to solving a problem. They can and should still have distinct personalities and perspectives on whatever story you throw them into.

6. It’s the same exact story, just Bigger

I have been sitting on a “how to scale power” post for months now because I’m still not sure on reception but here’s a little bit on what I mean.

Original: Oh no, the big bad guy wants to destroy New York

Sequel: Oh no, the big bad guy wants to destroy the planet

Threequel: Oh no, the big bad guy wants to destroy the galaxy

You knew it wasn’t going to happen the first time, you absolutely know it won’t happen on a bigger scale. Usually, when this happens, plot holes abound. You end up deleting or forgetting about characters’ convenient powers and abilities, deleting or forgetting about established relationships and new ground gained with side characters and entities, and deleting or forgetting about stakes, themes, and actually growing your characters like this isn’t the exact same story, just Bigger.

How many Bond movies are there? Thirty-something? I know some are very, very good and some are not at all good. They’re all Bond movies. People keep watching them because they’re formulaic, but there’s also been seven Bond actors and the movies aren’t one long, continuous, self-referential story about this poor, poor man who has the worst luck in the universe. These sequels aren’t “this but bigger” it’s usually “this, but different”, which is almost always better.

“This, but different now” will demand a different skillset from your hero, different rules to play by, different expectations, and different stakes. It does not just demand your hero learn to punch harder.

Example: Lord Shen from Kung Fu Panda 2 does have more influence than Tai Lung, yes. He’s got a whole city and his backstory is further-reaching, but he’s objectively worse in close combat—so he doesn’t fistfight Po. He has cannons, very dangerous cannons, cannons designed to be so strong that kung fu doesn’t matter. Thus, he’s not necessarily “bigger” he’s just “different” and his whole story demands new perspective.

The differences between Empire Strikes Back and Return of the Jedi are numerous, but the latter relies on “but bigger” and the former went in a whole new direction, while still staying faithful to the themes of the original.

7. It undermines the original by awakening a new problem too soon

I’ve already complained about the mere existence of Heroes of Olympus elsewhere because everything Luke fought and died for only bought that world about a month of peace before the gods came and ripped it all away for More Story.

I’ve also complained that the Star Wars Sequels were always going to spit in the face of a character’s six-movie legacy to bring balance to the Force by just going… nah. Ancient prophecy? Only bought us about 30 years of peace.

Whether it’s too soon, or it’s too closely related to the original, your audience is going to feel a little put-off when they realize how inconsequential this sequel makes the original, particularly in TV shows that run too many seasons and can’t keep upping the ante, like Supernatural.

Kung Fu Panda once again because these two movies are amazing. Shen is completely unrelated to Tai Lung. He’s not threatening the Valley of Peace or Shifu or Oogway or anything the heroes fought for in the original. He’s brand new.

My yearning to see these two on screen together to just watch them verbally spat over both being bratty children disappointed by their parents is unquantifiable. This movie is a damn near perfect sequel. Somebody write me fanfic with these two throwing hands over their drastically different perspectives on kung fu.

8. It’s so divorced from the original that it can barely even be called a sequel

Otherwise known as seasons 5 and 6 of Lost. Otherwise known as: This show was on a sci-fi trajectory and something catastrophic happened to cause a dramatic hairpin turn off that path and into pseudo-biblical territory. Why did it all end in a church? I’m not joking, they did actually abandon The Plan while in a mach 1 nosedive.

I also have a post I’ve been sitting on about how to handle faith in fiction, so I’ll say this: The premise of Lost was the trials and escapades of a group of 48 strangers trying to survive and find rescue off a mysterious island with some creepy, sciency shenanigans going on once they discover that the island isn’t actually uninhabited.

Season 6 is about finding “candidates” to replace the island’s Discount Jesus who serves as the ambassador-protector of the island, who is also immortal until he’s not, and the island becomes a kind of purgatory where they all actually did die in the crash and were just waiting to… die again and go to heaven. Spoiler Alert.

This is also otherwise known as: Oh sh*t, Warner Bros wants more Supernatural? But we wrapped it up so nicely with Sam and Adam in the box with Lucifer. I tried to watch one of those YouTube compilations of Cas’ funny moments because I haven’t seen every episode, and the misery on these actors’ faces as the compilation advanced through the seasons, all the joy and wit sucked from their performances, was just tragic.

I get it. Writers can’t control when the Powers That Be demand More Story so they can run their workhorse into the ground until it stops bleeding money, but if you aren’t controlled by said powers, either take it all back to basics, like Cars 3, or just stop.

—

Sometimes taking your established characters and throwing them into a completely unrecognizable story works, but those unrecongizable stories work that much harder to at least keep the characters' development and progression satisfying and familiar. See this post about timeskips that take generational gaps between the original and the sequel, and still deliver on a satisfying continuation.

TLDR: Sequels are hard and it’s never just one detail that makes them difficult to pull off. They will always be compared to their predecessors, always with the expectations to be as good as or surpass the original, when the original had no such competition. There’s also audience expectations for how they think the story, lore, and relationships should progress. Most faults of sequels, in my opinion, lie in straying too far from the fundamentals of the original without understanding why those fundamentals were so important to the original’s success.

#writing advice #writing resources #writing tips #writing tools #writing a book #writing #writeblr #sequels #kung fu panda

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mostlysignssomeportents · 3 months ago

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China hacked Verizon, AT&T and Lumen using the FBI’s backdoor

On OCTOBER 23 at 7PM, I'll be in DECATUR, presenting my novel THE BEZZLE at EAGLE EYE BOOKS.

State-affiliated Chinese hackers penetrated AT&T, Verizon, Lumen and others; they entered their networks and spent months intercepting US traffic – from individuals, firms, government officials, etc – and they did it all without having to exploit any code vulnerabilities. Instead, they used the back door that the FBI requires every carrier to furnish:

https://www.wsj.com/tech/cybersecurity/u-s-wiretap-systems-targeted-in-china-linked-hack-327fc63b?st=C5ywbp&reflink=desktopwebshare_permalink

In 1994, Bill Clinton signed CALEA into law. The Communications Assistance for Law Enforcement Act requires every US telecommunications network to be designed around facilitating access to law-enforcement wiretaps. Prior to CALEA, telecoms operators were often at pains to design their networks to resist infiltration and interception. Even if a telco didn't go that far, they were at the very least indifferent to the needs of law enforcement, and attuned instead to building efficient, robust networks.

Predictably, CALEA met stiff opposition from powerful telecoms companies as it worked its way through Congress, but the Clinton administration bought them off with hundreds of millions of dollars in subsidies to acquire wiretap-facilitation technologies. Immediately, a new industry sprang into being; companies that promised to help the carriers hack themselves, punching back doors into their networks. The pioneers of this dirty business were overwhelmingly founded by ex-Israeli signals intelligence personnel, though they often poached senior American military and intelligence officials to serve as the face of their operations and liase with their former colleagues in law enforcement and intelligence.

Telcos weren't the only opponents of CALEA, of course. Security experts – those who weren't hoping to cash in on government pork, anyways – warned that there was no way to make a back door that was only useful to the "good guys" but would keep the "bad guys" out.

These experts were – then as now – dismissed as neurotic worriers who simultaneously failed to understand the need to facilitate mass surveillance in order to keep the nation safe, and who lacked appropriate faith in American ingenuity. If we can put a man on the moon, surely we can build a security system that selectively fails when a cop needs it to, but stands up to every crook, bully, corporate snoop and foreign government. In other words: "We have faith in you! NERD HARDER!"

NERD HARDER! has been the answer ever since CALEA – and related Clinton-era initiatives, like the failed Clipper Chip program, which would have put a spy chip in every computer, and, eventually, every phone and gadget:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Clipper_chip

America may have invented NERD HARDER! but plenty of other countries have taken up the cause. The all-time champion is former Australian Prime Minister Malcolm Turnbull, who, when informed that the laws of mathematics dictate that it is impossible to make an encryption scheme that only protects good secrets and not bad ones, replied, "The laws of mathematics are very commendable, but the only law that applies in Australia is the law of Australia":

https://www.zdnet.com/article/the-laws-of-australia-will-trump-the-laws-of-mathematics-turnbull/

CALEA forced a redesign of the foundational, physical layer of the internet. Thankfully, encryption at the protocol layer – in the programs we use – partially counters this deliberately introduced brittleness in the security of all our communications. CALEA can be used to intercept your communications, but mostly what an attacker gets is "metadata" ("so-and-so sent a message of X bytes to such and such") because the data is scrambled and they can't unscramble it, because cryptography actually works, unlike back doors. Of course, that's why governments in the EU, the US, the UK and all over the world are still trying to ban working encryption, insisting that the back doors they'll install will only let the good guys in:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/03/05/theyre-still-trying-to-ban-cryptography/

Any back door can be exploited by your adversaries. The Chinese sponsored hacking group know as Salt Typhoon intercepted the communications of hundreds of millions of American residents, businesses, and institutions. From that position, they could do NSA-style metadata-analysis, malware injection, and interception of unencrypted traffic. And they didn't have to hack anything, because the US government insists that all networking gear ship pre-hacked so that cops can get into it.

This isn't even the first time that CALEA back doors have been exploited by a hostile foreign power as a matter of geopolitical skullduggery. In 2004-2005, Greece's telecommunications were under mass surveillance by US spy agencies who wiretapped Greek officials, all the way up to the Prime Minister, in order to mess with the Greek Olympic bid:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Greek_wiretapping_case_2004%E2%80%9305

This is a wild story in so many ways. For one thing, CALEA isn't law in Greece! You can totally sell working, secure networking gear in Greece, and in many other countries around the world where they have not passed a stupid CALEA-style law. However the US telecoms market is so fucking huge that all the manufacturers build CALEA back doors into their gear, no matter where it's destined for. So the US has effectively exported this deliberate insecurity to the whole planet – and used it to screw around with Olympic bids, the most penny-ante bullshit imaginable.

Now Chinese-sponsored hackers with cool names like "Salt Typhoon" are traipsing around inside US telecoms infrastructure, using the back doors the FBI insisted would be safe.

Tor Books as just published two new, free LITTLE BROTHER stories: VIGILANT, about creepy surveillance in distance education; and SPILL, about oil pipelines and indigenous landback.

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/10/07/foreseeable-outcomes/#calea

Image: Kris Duda, modified https://www.flickr.com/photos/ahorcado/5433669707/

CC BY 2.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0/

#pluralistic #calea #lawful interception #backdoors #keys under doormats #cold war 2.0 #foreseeable outcomes #jerry berman #greece #olympics #snowden

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withacapitalp · 2 years ago

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Root Beer

Happy birthday @stevesbipanic !!! I had an idea for this so long ago, but then your birthday gave me the perfect excuse to write it. I'm so honored we are friends, I am still so shocked about it (Flashback to my OG post about Tumblr royalty liking one of my posts) and I cannot wait to get to spend even more time with you <333

“Remind me again why you always pay for Erica’s ice cream?” Eddie wondered as Steve dug into his wallet and forked over the dollar eighty five required for Erica’s scoop of cotton candy with rainbow sprinkles.

“It’s reparations for child endangerment,” Erica replied immediately, sticking her tongue out briefly as Steve rolled his eyes.

Eddie automatically stuck his tongue out right back at her, making her laugh as she skipped off to the other side of the counter and waited for her treat. The kids had asked for a ride to the ice cream shop, but in a rare display of discipline, Steve had refused to pay for any of them except Erica, and, shockingly, no one had complained. They had all pooled their money, ordered three sundaes to split, and were now sitting in the corner digging into their treats.

“I’ll tell you about it some other time,” Steve promised, keeping his wallet open as he turned towards his boyfriend, “Are you gonna get anything?”

“Still deciding,” Eddie said, bouncing on his heels.

The shop was no Scoops Ahoy, but it did have a wide array of different options, all with wonderful punny names. He was currently between getting a ‘Bloody Sundae’, which was a vanilla scoop with cherry syrup and chocolate sprinkles, or a ‘Mint to be’, which was mint chocolate chip with whipped cream and bright green sprinkles.

Maybe he could get both if he gave Steve the right amount of puppy eyes. That usually worked for other things. Dates, getting to pick the movie they watched at night…..other….things.

Eddie was still thinking through his strategy as Steve stepped up to order.

“Can I get a large root beer float with soft serve twist and a cone on the side?” Steve asked, using his customer service voice with a charming smile, making the girl behind the counter twitter and twirl her hair as she rang him up and walked off to make his float.

Eddie blinked a few times trying to register what Steve had just said, before groaning loudly and pulling a disgusted face.

“What?” Steve wondered, bewildered by Eddie’s vehement reaction.

“Root beer,” Eddie said with a grimace, waggling his tongue.

“What’s wrong with root beer?”

“It’s so…sweet,” Eddie finally got out, trying and failing to find the exact words to explain his complete disdain for root beer. He had given root beer a real try, multiple attempts and everything, but every time he had spat it out, unable to enjoy the taste.

“Eddie, I have seen you eat a frosting sandwich,” Steve said in a complete deadpan, giving Eddie a raised brow look, “Just frosting and white bread,”

“Don’t judge my trailer park cuisine, rich boy!” Eddie cried in an overdramatic tone, clutching his chest and shaking his head with his eyes shut tight, “I’m not the one having nasty icky sarsaparilla nonsense, making future kisses completely impossible until you have purged yourself of the disgusting concoction.”

Steve burst into bright loud laughter, lighting up the entire store like he was the goddamn sun. Eddie paused in his diatribe, watching Steve with lovesick eyes as he giggled uncontrollably.

“Sarsaparilla concoction,” Steve huffed out, continuing to chuckle, “God, I love you, you big dork.”

Oh.

Both of them paused, staring at each other with wide eyes as they took in what Steve had just let slip out.

It wasn’t like they didn’t both know. They had been dating for three months, crushing on each other for two before that, and every minute had been pure bliss. There was no doubt that Steve was the love of his life, and Eddie had been pretty sure Steve felt the same.

Now he knew for a fact, and that was a lot to take in standing in the middle of a subpar ice cream shop.

“I- um- I,” Steve stopped trying to stutter, giving Eddie a nervous little look, letting his eyes drop to his shoes as he shuffled in place. Eddie’s surprise faded into unbearably warm affection. He reached over and quickly squeezed Steve’s hand, knowing he wasn’t able to do more in public, but wishing he could kiss Steve until they were both drunk and delirious on their love.

“I’ll have a black raspberry shake with chocolate sprinkles, whipped cream, and hot fudge,” Eddie called out as the cashier walked back over with Steve’s float, delivering it with a flirty little smile. Steve didn't even look at her as he took his ice cream, and she rang them up lightning fast, clearly jilted by his non-response. Eddie couldn't care less, dragging Steve over to their tables and waiting for his order to be called.

“I love you too, sweetheart,” Eddie said softly as they sat down, the words being overshadowed by the sound of their kids happily screaming at each other. He looked around and risked a quick kiss on the cheek, getting Steve buttered up and happy before he finished his sentence.

“Even if your taste is trash,”

#Steve harrington #Eddie munson #steddie #steddie drabble #steddie ficlet #st #st 4 #stranger things 4 #erica sinclair #Steve and erica #steve harrington #stranger things #eddie munson #st drabble #st4 #Happy birthday B

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yougavemeyourheartyouknow · 1 year ago

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On thin ice (Hockey player! Miguel O’Hara x Ice skater! Fem! Reader

A/N: hiii, the usual, not proofread, Miguel might be ooc. There will be 2 chapters left in this series before I end it 😭🫶🏼. Also I need ideas for a costume for Miguel in the last chapter, if you have any ideas lmk in the comments.

(Y/N)- Your name, (N/N)- Nickname.

Cursing, mentions of throwing up, alcohol use, Miguel finally growing a fucking pair (reader too). Miguel being just a very very lowkey creep.

Word count: 2.1k

Series Materlist

Chapter 13: Crawlin’ back to you.

—

“I don’t get it, he keeps giving me the most mixed-fucking-signals.” You sighed, leaning your head into your palm, your elbow resting on the wooden table you were sitting at with Logan, Kate and Kate’s boyfriend. “Like how are you going to kiss me, then start dating another girl, then kiss me again, without saying any sort of explanation? For all I know he cheated on her with that last kiss.” You continued to rant, your free hand spinning your straw in your six dollar Chili’s Halloween themed margarita.

“Well… maybe things would be a lot less complicated if both of learned how to stop being stubborn and just, I don’t know, fucking communicated.” Kate lectured you (for the umpteenth time this month) as she grabbed a chip from the basket before dipping it into the small salsa bowl, then taking a bite out of said chip.

“Babe chill, you act we weren’t ‘just friends’ when you would sneak into my dorm room every night all of last year.” Kate’s boyfriend (whose name was Xavier) defended you with a sly smile, wrapping his arm around her waist, pulling her closer as he nuzzled his nose into the crook of her neck. You couldn’t help but feel a slight ache of jealousy in your chest as you watched the two, they were so cute…

Kate scoffed and rolled her eyes at her boyfriend’s reply. “Whatever…” she grumbled, causing Logan to let out a small laugh as he leaned against the wall that was connected to the booth.

“Hey at least you guys were actually acting friendly towards one another, when (Y/N) and Miguel aren’t dry humping each other like horny teens-“ you sunk your face into your hand as a heat of embarrassment rushed your cheek, you couldn’t believe that Logan has the audacity to say that in a crowded restaurant, and it wasn’t even a true statement! You would only make out like horny teens… “then they’re at each other’s throats.” He finished as he playfully nudged you with his elbow, causing you to almost spill your drink, but he ignored your scowl as you brought your drink closer to you before taking a sip.

“It’s giving enemies to lovers.”

“Do you really have to relate everything in real life to book tropes, babe?”

“Yes, yes I do.”

“Okay-“ you jumped in, putting your hands up near your shoulders in a defensive manner, sitting up straight in your seat, “how about, let’s stop talking about my pathetic and complicated love life. Let’s talk about something else, like Logan’s pathetic and complicated love life.” You said with a small smile, your gaze shifting over to Logan as you attempt to shift conversation topics, your sentence causing Logan to scoff and roll his eyes.

“No thank you, next topic.” He murmured, before taking a bite of a french fry from his plate.

“Aww come on Logan, did you end up going on that date?” You teased him with a smile,going to snatch a fry from Logan’s plate but he swatted your hand away as he sent you a glare.

“Shut up, (N/N).” He grumbled. Obviously, it didn’t go well.

“All I’m gonna say (Y/N), is he either wants to one and done hatefuck you,wants a situationship, or he’s secretly madly in love with you and wants a relationship but is afraid to tell you.” Xavier chimed in, “and you can trust me because I’m a guy, and I know how guy minds work, right Logan?” Your skating partner just nodded his head in response.

“Well if it’s not the last one, I think it would be better if my delusions weren’t fed into…” you sighed, taking another sip of your drink. “Anyways, we should get going.”

—

“Alright guys, we've got a home game tonight, so don’t get too fucking wild.” Miguel said in a stern tone, his face in its usual scowl as he gets out of his car’s driver seat and walks towards the team, pointing his finger towards his teammates who had already been waiting for him to arrive in the parking lot, gathered in a small circle, some leaning against the other cars that they had traveled in. It was Friday night, the end of midterms and the beginning of fall break, and as a small celebration The spiders had decided to all go out to eat before the game.

“It’s a fucking Chili’s O’Hara, how wild can we get?” One of them asked rhetorically, as they all started to walk towards the restaurant together.

“There’s a reason we’re not allowed into Dave and Busters guys...” Miguel mumbled with an eye roll, causing some of the other members to snicker at his reaction.

It was honestly surprising how quickly they were able to get a table to seat 26 people despite it being fairly busy on a Friday afternoon. Miguel only had to remind the group twice as they waited for the table to not get absolutely hammered or not overly gorge themselves on food to avoid throwing up mid-game, the last thing he his coach ripping him a new one as he tried to keep the team focused while half of them were throwing up into their helmets or in a nearby alleyway while the other half way too drunk to walk let alone skate.

Miguel sipped on his coke, looking over at Peter as he listened in on him ranting to the goalie about the newest comic issue of Spider-Man that he had just finished reading, when he suddenly felt a hand lightly tap on his chest causing him to look away and turn his attention to Ben Reilly who was sitting to the right of him, once he his head was turned, he’s eyes followed the direction that Ben’s finger was pointing at, the words that were spoken from Ben not really completely registering due to the all the noise happening around him at the table. He really didn’t give a good look in the direction Ben and now a few of the nearby Spiders were looking at, a fleeting glance at most, half expecting them to be looking at a waitress that they thought was attractive or something in that nature. He was in the middle of turning his head back towards the opposite direction again when he caught a glimpse of a familiar face walking into the direction of the hallway where the bathroom was.

“Isn’t that ice princess?” One of the hockey players that was sitting a bit closer to Miguel asked in a teasing tone, but Miguel didn’t give him the satisfaction of responding, he didn’t give a response to some of the ones who overheard to question and attempted to provoke him, chuckling, or making sly comment, a few making kissing noises. Rather he stood up from the table, rather abruptly, causing some of the others to look at him in confusion and curiosity, and as if his body was suddenly possessed, he started to walk in the same direction you had. He didn’t know why he was following behind you, if he was being honest with himself he felt kinda like a creep, but he couldn’t get himself to stop and turn around. You haven’t even noticed him, you didn’t even glance in his direction, fuck-you didn’t even know you were in the same building as him, but your presence was like one of a siren to him, and he was the sailor caught in your entrancing song.

He didn’t care if you led him towards his inevitable demise, he’d gladly drown for you.

The second you disappeared into the women’s restroom, he came back to reality, his head filled with thoughts other than you once again. In an almost panic state, he quickly rushed into the male’s bathroom that was right in front of him, thanking the gods above that you didn’t turn around and saw him. He walked over to the sink and splashed some water on his face, before leaning against the bathroom sink and taking some deep breaths to help slow down his heart rate, he was thankful that no one else was in the bathroom with him. After a few minutes, he heard the faint sound of a door creaking on, for a split second, he gambled with the idea of leaving the door and hopefully be granted the opportunity to “accidentally” run into you, but before he could properly and rationally think about it, he found his hand already pushing open the door.

“Hey! Watch it-oh shit- sorry Mig, I didn’t know that was you…” You dusted yourself off, grateful that your hand shot up to the side of the wall to prevent you from falling down butt first on the Chili’s tilted floor.

“It’s okay, I didn't see you either.” Technically speaking Miguel wasn’t lying. He didn’t see her. “You okay? I didn’t hurt you right?” He asked in a slightly softer tone, a hand quickly coming up to gently grab your chin and moving your face slightly side-to-side as if checking for injury, his brows furrowed together as those ever familiar wrinkles appeared on his face. Your heart fluttered from the sweet and nurturing gesture, Miguel’s kindness was a trait of his you saw very rarely, at least towards you, so you couldn’t help your stomach from flipping. You brought a hand up after a second, a smile slowly but surely forming on your face (as well as a blush) as your hand came up and over his, and slowly brought it away from your face and back down.

“I’m okay Miguel, don’t worry.” You reassured him in a similar quiet tone, neither of you noticing that your smaller hand was still holding onto his larger one. Your response caused Miguel’s worried expression to turn into one of relief, his hand leaving your and going up to his chest instead as he left out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. You attempted your best to not allow your facial expression to falter as you ignore the sudden ache in your chest once his warm hand leaves yours.

“Look…” Miguel begins after a second, hand traveling up to the nape of his neck and his gaze drops to the floor for a second before going back up to meet yours. “I wanted to ask you, if you would come watch our game tonight, it starts at 7, you could bring your friends if you want. I’ll make sure you all get good seats near the front if you do.” God he felt like he was asking his middle school crush to go on a date for the first time all over again. How did you manage to make him feel like a nervous wreck, make him feel like he could combust from anger and jealousy, make him feel like he’d never deserve you but also make him feel like he was meant to kneel and worship the ground you walked on. Is that what love felt like to him???

“Really?” Your face scrunched to one of confusion and you tilted your head to the side a bit. “Why not invite your girlfriend?” The question you just uttered took Miguel a second to process, girlfriend? What girlfriend? He didn’t-

Wait…

Ohhhhh…

He forgot he never got the chance to tell you he dumped her ass the same day he surprised you at the ice rink.

He brought his hand down and put it into his jean pocket, letting out a small chuckle as he shook his head before replying,

“Oh, no. I, uh, I dumped her.”

Was it bad that you felt relieved?

“So is that a yes?” His lips pulled up in that classic Miguel smirk, and you couldn’t help but give in.

“Okay, okay I’ll go.” You nodded with a smile, it took all of Miguel’s being to not grab you and pull you into a kiss. “But-“ you continued, bringing a finger up, pointing it at him. “If I go, you have to come watch me and Logan perform at Regionals next week, deal?” Miguel couldn’t help but let a small playful scoff leave his lips as he smirks.

“That’s it ice princess? Sounds fair enough.”

You smiled, despite his cockyness coming back at full force you couldn’t help but be a bit excited at the whole idea.

“You promise?” You asked, and Miguel chuckled, you sounded so adorable when asking that.

“Of course.”

Without another word you brought your hand back up towards him, all the fingers being curled into a fist except your pinky finger, that was outstretched. Miguel rolled his eyes and his smirk widened, releasing a small chuckle as he spoke.

“Really? What are we 5?” It was only a tease, but despite the tease he copied your movements, taking your pinky into his.

“Pinky promises are legally binding.” You joked, your smile growing as you giggled, your blush growing darker as well.

You really were gonna be the death of him.

—

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