#illegal salvage

[if-you-fan-a-fire]

"HOME BREW IN SHOP COSTS WOMAN $25," Toronto Star. October 3, 1932. Page 2. --- Didn't Know "Home" Had to Have Separate Entrance Under L.C.A. --- A fine of $25 and costs was imposed in county police court to-day on Mrs. M. Mackay, Weston, on a charge of consuming liquor. Chief of Police Holley testified that in the dwelling premises at the rear of accused's shop he found home brew beer. The accused possessed a license to brew.

Crown Attorney Frank Moore pointed out that since the dwelling portion of the building was connected with the store. Mr. Mackay was "technically guilty" of "having." The charge was reduced to "consuming." when the accused informed the court that she was ignorant of the clause of the Liquor Control Act which stipulates that a residence in which homeb rew is made must have a separate entrance.

Ill-Treated Horses Thomas Shepherd, former, of North Gwillimbury, was fined $5 and costs on a charge of ill-treating three horses.

A portion of 300 pounds of brass fittings, alleged to have been stolen from the Canadian Bridge Company and the C.N.R., was exhibited in court when Lewis Malie was charged with theft. An official of one of the companies estimated the brass to be valued at from $1,000 to $1,500.

Morrington Goodwin swore Malle called him on the telephone and the two moved the brass in bags from Leaside yards to a junk-dealer's shop. A charge of theft against Goodwin was dismissed.

Malie pleaded guilty to two charges and was found guilty on the third charge. He was remanded a week for sentence.

Argued Over Cow Found guilty of aggravated assault on Nick Nossy, Mike Woodchuck was remanded a week for sentence. Nossy appeared in court with bandages about his head.

Woodchuck, through an interpreter, said he visited a home near Nossy's late in the afternoon and offered a $5 bill in payment for liquid refreshment. There was an argument concerning the pasturing of a, cow, it was brought out. Heated remarks were made, and when the argument was renewed outside a brawl осcurred. Woodchucq struck Nossy "with something," K. Boyiack swore.

After hearing evidence translated for more than an hour the bench registered a conviction.

[youvegotmoxie]

I can't believe I never posted these???? Super happy with how they turned out! Currently slowly but surely attaching them to their bag ❤️

Bag Design under cut ❤️

[swordluck]

⚘ @ofspvrta // cont.

Anri’s chest heaved, the chaos of the crowd still rolling in her ears like thunder over the sea. Her fingers, trembling slightly, clutched the strap of her bag tighter as she looked up at the woman who had intervened. There was something magnetic about her – a tangible weight to her presence that left Anri momentarily mute.

The bassline of the next song thudded through the venue, relentless and raw, but it felt distant compared to the clarity of Kassandra’s voice. Even as the crowd churned and bounced just beyond the small bubble of space the woman had carved out, Anri felt oddly safe. It wasn’t a sensation she expected to find here, amidst the storm of bodies and sound.

“Kassandra,” Anri repeated, her usually soft voice laced with just enough force to carry over the music. “I’m Anri. Hi.”

Oh hell, that was her second hi.

Anri fidgeted self-consciously at her damp sleeve, half-wishing she could vanish into the crowd. Yet Kassandra’s cocky smile wasn’t cruel and there was no ridicule in her gaze – only a glimmer of humour that seemed to soften the edges of her imposing demeanour. Even the casual clink of their plastic cups felt like a reassurance that Anri hadn’t entirely misplaced herself in this wild, energetic place.

“It’s my first show,” Anri admitted, the words tumbling out before she could stop them. “I think I’ve already made every mistake possible. I lost my friend – Horace – somewhere in… all of that.” She gestured vaguely towards the pit, the motion betraying her unease. “He’ll be fine, of course. And I’m doing better now – thanks to you.”

A tentative smile played across her lips, though her heart still hammered in her chest. She glanced up at Kassandra again, studying the angles of her face, the faint scars, the strength and power in her stance. This was someone who had weathered far more than wild crowds and heavy riffs. There was a story there – dozens, maybe hundreds – but they were hidden behind a smile that was both inviting and enigmatic.

“Do you come to shows like this often?” Anri asked, seeking to fill the vibrating space between them, even though the answer seemed obvious. Her fingers twisted the strap of her bag absently in a small, grounding motion as she tried to focus on Kassandra instead of the noise and chaos that threatened to creep back in.

For reasons she couldn’t quite name, Anri hoped Kassandra would stay. There was something comforting about her presence, even if it was wrapped in leather, scars, and the scent of beer and fresh sweat. She seemed effortlessly cool, the kind of person who always knew where she belonged – and made her home there.

[socialobligation]

love in the margins | t. iida

a short, slow-burn library romance, ft. one blueberry muffin, exactly zero jokes, and a boy who takes flashcards way too seriously. (4597 words)

you meet tenya iida under circumstances that can only be described as tragically collegiate: a peer-led study group in the furthest, quietest corner of the campus library, surrounded by half-dead fluorescent bulbs and the palpable despair of students on the brink of burnout.

it's the third week of the semester, and you're already floundering.

you hadn't intended to be. in theory, you were going to stay on top of things—read the chapters early, color-code your notes, maybe even start a study group of your own. but somewhere between sleep deprivation, an avalanche of discussion posts, and the mysterious black hole that is the university's online portal, you fell behind. hard.

introduction to public policy has been your academic nemesis from the start. the textbook reads like legal jargon swallowed a thesaurus. the professor talks in dense, circular metaphors. every quiz is a minefield of trick questions and ambiguous phrasing. you are, in every sense of the word, academically drowning.

so when a brightly colored flyer promising a "collaborative review session" caught your eye on the bulletin board outside the lecture hall, you didn't think twice. you showed up. desperate. caffeinated. terminally underprepared.

and now you regret everything.

the room smells like dry-erase markers and nervous sweat. a whiteboard at the front is covered in illegible graphs. someone has already spilled a latte on the floor. the guy leading the group talks fast and loud, his explanations full of buzzwords and gestures but lacking anything remotely useful. you suspect he's just regurgitating the study guide at a slightly faster pace.

the other students seem to agree.

one by one, they start to trickle out. a girl leaves with the excuse of "office hours." a guy mutters something about dinner. another just quietly packs up and disappears, not even bothering with a pretense.

by the end of the hour, only two people remain: you, clinging to a futile hope of salvaging your gpa... and him.

he sits across from you with the kind of posture that makes your back ache just looking at him. tall, composed, and absurdly polished—like someone who writes essays three days early and carries a spare pen in case someone forgets theirs. his navy-blue sweater is wrinkle-free. his glasses catch the dim library light. his notes are not just color-coded—they're thematically organized, annotated with footnotes and marginalia in tiny, immaculate handwriting.

he hasn't spoken once. he hasn't needed to.

he radiates competence like it's a moral obligation.

"you're still here?" you ask, more surprise than judgment.

the boy looks up, blinking as if surfacing from a well of deep concentration. he adjusts his glasses with a practiced motion.

"yes," he says, voice clipped and oddly formal. "you are as well."

you arch an eyebrow. "no offense, but... are you actually getting something out of this?"

his expression doesn't change, but he tilts his head slightly—almost like he's assessing you.

"of course," he replies. "engaging in structured group review enhances cognitive retention and contextual understanding. it's an effective method for consolidating knowledge prior to a high-stakes assessment."

you blink. "so... yes?"

he doesn't hesitate. "yes."

you snort—audibly. it escapes before you can stop it. and to your surprise, a faint smile flickers across his mouth.

"i'm tenya iida," he says, extending a hand across the table with the kind of precision reserved for formal introductions at university mixers.

you stare at his hand for a moment, then take it. his grip is warm. steady. confident in a way that makes you sit up a little straighter.

"y/n," you say.

his smile grows just slightly. "it's a pleasure to meet you, y/n."

he releases your hand and immediately pulls out a second set of flashcards from his folder. of course he has a second set.

"would you like to quiz each other?" he asks, dead serious. "alternating questions could be a mutually beneficial method of review."

you stare at him.

he stares back.

something about him—the earnestness, the posture, the complete and utter lack of sarcasm—disarms you. it's like he's the living embodiment of academic sincerity. you're not sure whether to laugh or agree.

you do both.

"...sure."

you don't know it yet, but that's the beginning.

⋆˚✿˖°

you don't plan on seeing him again.

it's not personal. it's just that study groups are the social equivalent of jury duty—temporary, miserable, and best forgotten. you assume tenya iida is one of those hyper-dedicated overachievers who only exist within the academic ecosystem. he probably recedes into a cloud of flashcards and moral fiber as soon as the library closes.

you are, however, proven categorically wrong the following wednesday at exactly 8:03 a.m.

you enter the campus café half-awake, mildly hostile, and fully dependent on the idea of caffeine as a substitute for sleep. the plan is simple: grab something with enough espresso to make your eye twitch, stare blankly at your phone for fifteen minutes, and pretend the crushing weight of institutional learning isn't slowly hollowing you out from the inside.

but fate—or perhaps syllabus-based divine intervention—has other plans.

because when you step inside, there he is.

same posture. same glasses. same stupidly crisp button-down like it didn't just come out of someone's laundry but graduated magna cum laude from it. he's seated at a table by the window, surrounded by highlighters arranged like soldiers, reading the textbook that has been your personal tormentor since week one.

and next to his coffee?

a single blueberry muffin.

you hesitate, caught in that weird space where it's too late to pretend you didn't see him, but also too awkward to walk past without acknowledging him.

before you can make a decision, he looks up—and smiles.

not just a polite, "ah yes, i recognize you" smile.

a real smile. brief, but sincere. like he's actually glad you're here.

he waves you over.

you hate how quickly your legs respond.

"didn't expect to see you here," you say as you slide into the seat across from him, instantly aware of how tired you look in comparison to his perfectly combed hair and terrifying punctuality.

"i study here most mornings," he replies. "the ambient noise level is consistent, and the natural lighting is optimal for focus."

you blink. "that is... alarmingly specific."

he inclines his head. "i find that consistency breeds productivity."

you want to tease him, but the truth is, it's kind of admirable. alarming. but admirable.

he gestures to the pastry between you.

"would you like half?" he asks. "it's fresh. and i believe we have, at this point, established a cordial enough rapport to justify the sharing of breakfast items."

you stare at him.

"do you always offer muffins to people you've only studied with once?"

he doesn't even flinch. "only when they look tired enough to deserve one."

your mouth twitches.

"you've been saving that line, haven't you."

he looks mildly offended. "no. though i could annotate it in my planner if you'd like."

you laugh—genuinely this time—and accept the muffin. it's warm, sweet, and annoyingly perfect. just like him.

you don't pull out your flashcards. not immediately. you sit there in companionable silence, splitting the muffin and sipping your drinks like it's something you've always done. like this is normal.

you tell yourself this isn't a date. obviously.

it's too early in the day for romance. you're both clutching textbooks like weapons. he hasn't even made a single joke. (you're not sure he knows how.)

and yet—

when he leans in to show you a section he highlighted—carefully annotated with footnotes and marginal notes that are somehow neater than your typed essays—your shoulders brush. you don't pull away.

he doesn't, either.

later, you realize that you don't even remember what chapter you reviewed.

but you remember the sound of his voice as he quietly explained it. the way he passed you the last bite of muffin without saying anything. the way his fingers curled ever so slightly when he set his pen down between you.

you remember thinking, with a strange flutter in your chest: this could be something.

not yet.

but maybe.

⋆˚✿˖°

you tell yourself this is still just about school.

you repeat it like a mantra as you meet him at the library every tuesday and thursday without fail, settling into your now-permanent seats by the windows like assigned partners in some ongoing group project that no one else remembers being assigned to. his bag always lands on the table first, followed by a reusable water bottle the size of your emotional baggage. he brings extra highlighters now—plural—and starts leaving a green one near your elbow like he’s not even thinking about it.

you, in turn, stop pretending to study anywhere else.

because the truth is, you don’t concentrate better when he’s around—not even a little. he’s distracting in the worst possible way: tall and tidy and terminally composed, with a voice like a podcast host and a smile that you pretend not to notice every time he glances over at you with something like pride in his eyes.

and the worst part?

it’s working.

your grades are going up. you understand policy terminology now. you caught yourself referencing a case study unprompted in another class, and the look your professor gave you made it feel like you’d just been knighted.

you’d thank him for it—sincerely—if he didn’t look so smug every time you nailed a quiz.

“you’ve clearly been applying yourself,” he says one evening, looking over your annotated notes like they’re some kind of sacred text.

“i’ve been applying your study methods,” you reply, then instantly regret it, because the smile he gives you in return is devastating.

and that would be fine—annoying, but fine—if it weren’t for the fact that he’s started sitting closer.

not drastically. not inappropriately. just... close.

close enough that when you both lean in to look at something on the same page, your shoulders brush. your knees knock. his hand lingers near yours when he passes you a pen, and he doesn’t move away quickly. sometimes—and this is particularly evil—his thigh rests against yours under the table for minutes at a time, and you’re too proud (and too panicked) to say anything.

you’re not flirting. not really.

you’re both too stubborn for that.

but something is happening. you just don’t know what to call it.

one thursday afternoon, the sky is gray and heavy with the threat of rain. the windows in the library fog up slightly, making the whole room feel smaller, softer, somehow more intimate. your shoes are damp. your brain is fried. you’re barely holding onto your focus.

but he’s already there, sitting at your usual table with a mug from the downstairs café and a folder labeled “legislation review: week 5.” there’s a muffin. of course there’s a muffin.

he looks up as you approach. smiles. “you’re early.”

you blink. “so are you.”

he shrugs. “anticipation is efficient.”

“what does that even mean?”

he hesitates, like he’s genuinely considering it. “it means i enjoy this.”

your heart does something stupid.

you take your seat before your face can give you away.

thirty minutes in, your brain stops processing information entirely.

you’re trying to focus. really, you are. but his leg is pressed against yours and you swear it’s getting closer every time he shifts. it’s not even the contact itself that’s distracting—it’s the fact that he doesn’t seem to notice. like it’s just normal. like this is how he always studies with people.

(does he?)

(no. he can’t.)

“y/n?” he says, and you jolt like you’ve been electrocuted.

“hm?”

“i asked if you’d like to walk through the case brief again. you seem... distant.”

you clear your throat and try not to sound like someone whose brain has just been wiped by a thigh. “yeah, no, i’m fine. just tired.”

he nods solemnly. “understandable. your coursework has been particularly intensive.”

he says it like he knows your schedule better than you do—which he might. you’ve seen his planner. you’re pretty sure he’s memorized the entire academic calendar, national holidays included.

you try to return to your notes.

you fail.

eventually, you lean back in your chair and exhale.

“okay,” you say. “i need to ask you something.”

he looks up, immediately attentive. “yes?”

you glance around—no one’s within earshot— and lean in slightly.

“this thing we do.”

he blinks. “studying?”

“no. i mean yes, but no.” you gesture vaguely between the two of you. “this. the muffins. the flashcards. the... sitting so close i can smell your laundry detergent.”

he goes still.

“i’m just trying to understand if we’re, like...” you hesitate. “is this just a really intense academic friendship or are we... flirting?”

he doesn’t speak for a long moment.

then, carefully: “i hadn’t realized my proximity was making you uncomfortable.”

“it’s not!” you say, too quickly. “it’s just... confusing.”

“confusing how?”

you fidget with the cap of your pen. “because we do things that feel... date-adjacent. and i don’t know if that’s just how you are with people or if i’m—” you stop yourself before you can say not imagining it.

his brows draw together, faintly perplexed. “i apologize. i didn’t mean to cause confusion.”

you blink. “so you are flirting?”

his ears go pink. just slightly. “i wouldn’t define it as flirting. but i do enjoy spending time with you.”

you squint at him. “that’s not a no.”

he hesitates. then, quieter: “it’s not.”

oh.

you stare at him. he stares back.

and then—like the universe can’t stand unresolved tension—your knees bump again.

but this time, he doesn’t shift away.

and neither do you.

⋆˚✿˖°

you don’t call it a date.

not out loud.

not even in your head, really—not technically. because you’re not dating. you haven’t kissed. there’s been no confession. there’s been no moment of clarity where either of you has stood dramatically in the rain and said i think about you all the time, which, honestly, is a bit disappointing.

but you still change your outfit three times before meeting him for coffee on saturday.

you still hesitate in front of the mirror, adjusting your sleeves and second-guessing your hair, muttering get a grip under your breath like it’s a prayer.

you still pause at the door to the café, one hand on the handle, and remind yourself—again—that this isn’t a date.

you’re just meeting up. casually. like friends.

friends who sometimes sit with their knees touching under library tables. friends who share muffins and steal glances and somehow always find reasons to linger a little too long in doorways.

friends who, if they weren’t so emotionally constipated, might’ve figured this out already.

but you push the door open anyway, and the little bell overhead chimes bright and familiar.

he’s already there.

of course he is.

tenya iida is punctual to the point of pathology. if you told him to meet you in the afterlife at 3:00 p.m. sharp, he’d be there early, holding a clipboard and a fully prepared powerpoint.

he’s sitting near the window, back straight, hands folded politely in his lap. his hair is a little messy from the wind outside. his sweater is navy—clean, simple, a little oversized in a way that makes you stare longer than you should.

he sees you and stands immediately, which is both adorable and completely unnecessary.

“you’re early,” he says, voice warm.

“so are you.”

he doesn’t reply, but the smile he gives you is soft around the edges.

you order something with too much caffeine and not enough nutritional value. he offers to pay, like he always does. you decline, like you always do. it’s a silent tradition now, a ritual of stubbornness. he lets it go with a quiet nod, but not without giving you that look—the one that says i was raised right and this physically pains me.

you find a booth in the corner, a little more secluded than the rest. the sun spills in through the window in soft golden streaks, and for a moment, it feels like you’re somewhere outside of time.

“i’ve never seen you wear that color,” he says as you sit down.

you glance at your shirt. “yeah? too much?”

he shakes his head immediately. “no. it suits you.”

your mouth goes a little dry.

you recover quickly, leaning back and sipping your drink like it doesn’t mean anything. like the warmth crawling up your neck is from the coffee and not the compliment.

“so,” you say, clearing your throat. “what’s on the agenda for today? rigorous academic analysis? philosophical debates about economic ethics? impromptu pop quizzes?”

he tilts his head. “i thought we might take the day off.”

you blink. “from... studying?”

“from everything.” he shrugs, a little sheepishly. “i realized we’ve never spent time together without a textbook between us.”

your heart does something strange.

“you mean like... just hang out?”

“yes.”

“like friends.”

he hesitates. just barely. “yes. like friends.”

the words hang in the air between you—awkward, uncertain, but not unkind.

you nod, slowly. “okay. yeah. we can do that.”

and you do.

you talk. not about school, not about deadlines or group projects or the upcoming midterm. you talk about dumb childhood stories and weird food preferences and the fact that he once tried to start a recycling initiative in his middle school and was very upset when no one followed the sorting chart correctly.

you tell him about your obsession with terrible reality TV. he listens with the seriousness of a man taking notes for a thesis.

he tells you about his older brother, and how much he looks up to him. you tell him about the stray cat that used to follow you home in high school, even though you never fed it.

he laughs—really laughs—when you tell him about the time you broke your nose in gym class trying to dodge a volleyball and ran straight into a bleacher.

“i’m sorry,” he says between gasps. “i don’t mean to laugh at your pain.”

“no, you do,” you say, grinning. “and it’s okay. i would too.”

at one point, your knees bump under the table again. this time, neither of you pulls away.

it’s later than you mean it to be when you finally leave the café. the sun is dipping low, the sky tinged with lavender and orange. the street is quiet, and the wind bites just enough to make you zip your jacket up.

you walk together. not toward the library, not toward another class—just aimlessly. like people who have nowhere else to be.

it’s peaceful.

and weirdly... intimate.

you’re not talking. not really. the silence between you is comfortable now, lived-in. every so often your hands brush, and you wonder—wildly, stupidly —what would happen if you just reached out.

but you don’t.

because this isn’t a date.

it’s not.

except maybe... it is.

“this was nice,” you say, when you finally reach the crosswalk where you’ll part ways.

he nods. “i enjoyed it.”

there’s a beat of silence.

“we should do it again,” you say. casually. like it doesn’t mean anything.

but he looks at you like it does.

“i’d like that,” he says. and then—“you’re very easy to be around.”

your breath catches.

you want to say something. you’re easy to be around too. i think about you when we’re not together. i don’t know if i’m imagining this but i hope i’m not.

instead, you say, “you’re weirdly charming, you know that?”

he blinks. “i—thank you?”

you grin. “it’s a compliment. mostly.”

he laughs. soft. pleased. “i’ll take it.”

he takes a small step back, like he’s about to leave —but then pauses.

“y/n?”

“yeah?”

“if this had been a date...” he clears his throat. “would that have been... agreeable to you?”

you stare at him.

then, slowly—carefully—you nod.

“yeah,” you say. “i think it would’ve been.”

he smiles. it’s small. tentative. but it lights up his whole face.

“then maybe next time, we won’t pretend.”

you feel like you’re floating.

“deal.”

he nods once. then, with a strange, lingering sort of hesitation—like he’s not ready to go yet—he turns to leave.

you watch him go.

and for the first time in a long time, you feel... hopeful.

⋆˚✿˖°

you don't know what you're expecting.

when he texts you the next morning—same time tuesday? not for studying this time. if you're free.—you stare at it for a good ten minutes before responding. not because you’re unsure of your answer (you’re not), but because the implication hits like a freight train.

not for studying.

not as friends.

just you. just him. again.

this time, it’s a little different.

this time, he’s calling it what it is.

you don’t overthink your reply (for once). you just type yeah. i’m free and throw your phone face-down before your heart can beat out of your chest.

and when tuesday rolls around, you are twenty minutes early.

you tell yourself it’s because the weather’s nice and the walk was shorter than usual and you didn’t want to cut it close. but the truth is, you’ve been ready since noon.

you’re wearing the sweater he said he liked once, months ago, after a study session where he handed you a highlighter and your fingers brushed and you both paused like the world might end. it’s not even your warmest or your nicest sweater. it’s just... the one he looked at a little too long.

you don’t want to admit what that means.

you sit in your usual seat by the window. a small table, worn edges. your coffee in hand. no textbooks. no flashcards. just the sound of the café around you and the low simmer of anticipation in your chest.

he walks in three minutes early, which is basically scandalous by iida standards.

you glance up, and the second your eyes meet, he smiles.

it’s not his usual polite, committee-appropriate smile.

it’s something else.

something softer.

he sits down across from you like he’s been doing it his whole life.

you stare at him for a second too long.

“you’re early,” he says, like it’s a fact worth noting. his voice is gentler than usual.

“so are you.”

“a rare occurrence.”

“should i be concerned?”

he laughs—quietly, warmly. “i thought you might say that.”

you both go quiet.

not awkward quiet. just... full.

full of everything you’re not saying.

you sip your drink and hope your heart doesn’t explode.

twenty minutes in, you realize you’ve forgotten what time it is.

again.

you’re talking about something stupid—a professor you both silently hate but never speak ill of in class—and he’s mimicking their voice in a whisper, hand shielding his mouth, and you’re laughing.

like genuinely, honestly laughing.

like you don’t have a hundred things weighing you down.

he always does that. makes everything feel easier. lighter.

it’s dangerous, how much you like it.

how much you like him.

you haven’t said it. not out loud. not even to yourself.

but the truth is: you’re in trouble.

deep trouble.

because tenya iida has the power to wreck you in a way no one else ever has.

not because he’s dramatic. not because he’s charming (though he is, in that annoying, understated, golden-retriever-with-a-perfect-credit-score kind of way).

but because he’s steady.

because he means things.

because when he looks at you, it’s like you’re someone worth understanding.

and you’ve never been loved gently before.

not like this.

you walk out together.

neither of you mentions how long you stayed. it’s dark out, but neither of you cares.

you walk close, side by side. your hands brush once, then again. his fingers twitch toward yours, and you pretend not to notice—not because you don’t want it, but because you’re not sure what happens if you reach back.

you talk about nothing. and everything.

he tells you about the time his older brother accidentally dyed his hair blue with a shampoo prank and how no one in their house was allowed to mention it for an entire year.

you tell him about the time you accidentally set off a fire alarm trying to microwave leftover curry in a dorm that very explicitly prohibited strong-smelling food.

“you’re a menace,” he says, laughing.

you bump your shoulder into his. “you say that like it’s a bad thing.”

he glances at you. “i didn’t say that.”

you both stop at the crosswalk—the same one where you stood days ago.

the same one where he asked if this had been a date...

you’re not pretending anymore.

and yet.

you don’t know what to say.

you just look at him, the wind brushing through your sleeves, your fingers cold where they’re shoved into your pockets.

he looks at you.

longer than before.

long enough that your heart stumbles.

and then—quietly—he says, “can i ask you something?”

you nod. “of course.”

his voice is softer than you’ve ever heard it. careful.

“why me?”

you blink. “what?”

“why... this?” he gestures gently between you. “i know i’m not the most exciting person. i’m not particularly funny or... spontaneous.”

you frown. “iida.”

“i’m just trying to understand,” he says. “why you keep showing up.”

you want to say because i like the way you talk when you’re tired, or because your laugh makes me want to listen to every dumb story you’ve ever told.

you want to say because i’ve never felt so calm next to another person in my entire life.

instead, you say, “because when i’m with you, i don’t feel like i have to be anyone else.”

his expression shifts.

his jaw tightens. his eyes soften.

he takes a step closer.

“i don’t want to mess this up,” he says.

“you’re not.”

“i don’t want to misread it.”

you exhale, a laugh escaping despite yourself. “you’re not.”

his hand lifts, hesitates—then lands gently against your cheek.

you stop breathing.

“may i kiss you?” he asks.

you nod before your brain catches up.

“yeah,” you whisper. “you may.”

and he does.

it’s not rushed.

it’s not fiery or desperate.

it’s patient. reverent. like he’s memorizing the feeling. like he’s been waiting for the right moment and this, finally, is it.

his lips press softly against yours, and your hands lift automatically to his jacket, holding on, grounding yourself.

when you part, he leans his forehead against yours.

you’re both quiet for a moment.

then he says, “i’ve wanted to do that for a long time.”

you smile. “i could tell.”

“was i too obvious?”

“painfully.”

he laughs, arms sliding around your waist like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“this is still new,” he says. “i know that.”

you nod.

“but i’m willing to take it slow.”

“okay.”

“i’ll be patient.”

“okay.”

he pauses. “and i’d like to take you to dinner. an actual dinner. with reservations and menus and probably overpriced appetizers.”

you grin. “are you asking me on a real date?”

he lifts your hand and presses a kiss to your knuckles.

“yes,” he says. “i’m asking.”

“then yes,” you reply. “i’m saying yes.”

you walk home hand-in-hand.

you don’t have to say anything.

it’s not pretending anymore.

and for once—finally—that feels like enough.

[ddarker-dreams]

Mutual Destruction.

Yan Anaxagoras x F Reader.

Warnings: Yandere themes, unhealthy relationships, teacher-student dynamics (anaxa's your prof), power imbalance, drugging (anaxa slips you an aphrodisiac), allusions to fearing pregnancy, not SFW, heavily dubious consent. Word count: 5k.

Earlier, you discovered an inconspicuous note within your belongings. The following message was inked inside: 

Meet me in my private quarters at the Curtain-Fall Hour’s first quint. Tardiness is unacceptable. 

There was no signature to indicate who left it. The paper was of fine quality, you doubt your fellow students had any of this caliber in their possession. They’d be remiss to tear and treat it roughly if they did. The presumptuous command served as your best hint. Only one person in the Grove spoke to you that way — Anaxa. Normally, you’d recognize his neat script, but this was scrawled, nearly illegible.

Ever since then, dread has followed you like a ghost haunting the living. 

The note’s vague nature dredged up the worst your brain could offer. You’re always doing what you can to keep your capricious professor placated, but this doesn’t bode well. You can’t recall doing anything to earn his misplaced ire. In public, you keep to yourself, engaging in the bare minimum amount of socialization necessary to continue your studies. He’s never raised an issue with this conduct before, aside from some dry remarks.

It’s possible — though unlikely — that you’re overthinking matters. Perhaps he was in a hurry and failed to consider how you’d interpret the abstract order. As much as you wish this were the case, Anaxa isn’t the type to act without a distinct purpose. He’s meticulous in any endeavor he undertakes, especially when you’re involved. 

Nightfall brings a hush over the Grove. Beneath Cerces’ solemn gaze, scholars scorn twilight’s intended purpose, continuing their work against their circadian rhythm’s wishes. No one pays you any mind as you skitter about. Before long, you’re navigating the hallway that leads to Anaxa’s chambers. Every step closer elevates your heart rate. You’ve been so preoccupied with determining your potential transgression that you’ve neglected to craft an approach. 

Should you claim ignorance? Beseech his favor? Form a hill worth dying on with careful rhetoric? 

Your knuckles hover above the door. 

You feel woefully underprepared, like you’re walking into a test you did none of the reading for. Is it too late to retreat? Bide your time, returning when the playing field has evened? If only. You deride yourself for entertaining such naïveté. You have to address this now, before the wound festers, necessitating amputation. You’re still on time. This has to be salvageable, Anaxa’s too sweet on you to set you up for total failure… 

… Right? 

Complex mechanisms whirr into action, opening the door without your prompting. Startled by the spontaneity, you remain immobile as if you’d been turned to stone. 

“Come in,” The beast brooding in his lair invites. “Dawdle any longer and I’ll consider you late.” 

You do as you’re bid. As a Sage, Anaxa’s quarters are spacious and far larger than your meager dorm. This room consists of a living space and kitchenette, with what you assume to be his bedroom separated by a closed door. There are more implements of his craft scattered about than any personal touches. A massive bookshelf catches your attention. Scanning the spines, you barely recognize any of the works in his collection. 

“Please sit,” he motions toward his dining room table. It has two chairs facing opposite each other. The one furthest away is askew, indicating he must’ve been sitting there until recently. 

Anaxa remains standing while you take your seat. Compared to usual, he’s dressed down, his black and teal overcoat noticeably absent. This leaves him in a white collared button-up and dark pants. He’s still wearing that mysterious eyepatch, with golden runes decipherable only to him. They share similar characteristics with the markings inked into his left arm. You’re certain he’d explain their origin if you asked, but caution tempers your curiosity. 

You flinch when your name rolls off his tongue, a reaction he easily picks up on. 

“You needn’t look so frightened,” he says. “Unless, of course, you have a guilty conscience.” 

“I don’t.” 

“Good, good… because, as I’m sure you’re aware, I’m bound to find out any mischief you get up to.” 

For all the weight it carries, he enunciates the word lightly, almost playfully. You swallow the saliva rapidly accumulating in your mouth. With great effort, you meet his gaze, which betrays nothing of his inner thoughts. 

“I’ve been acting how I should, have I not?”

“Mm. So you have.” 

He suddenly seems uninterested in the subject, despite being the one to initiate it. He walks over to his stove, where an intricate teapot sits. He pours it into matching teacups. Then, grabbing the saucers they sit on, he carries them both over to the table, sitting one in front of you and keeping the other for himself. Plumes of smoke rise from the mixture. It has a sweet, earthy aroma. You’ve brewed this for him at his behest in the past.  

Your distorted reflection ripples along the liquid’s surface, showcasing your visible apprehension. 

“Isn’t this caffeinated, professor? Won’t it keep me up all night?”

His lips curl into an odd smile. “In a way.” 

“Then—” 

“Drink,” he interrupts, the command slicing through the air. Then, remembering himself, he softens his voice. “I put a great deal of effort into brewing this. See to it that none is wasted.” 

You swear he fixates on the stretch of your throat as you reluctantly swallow. 

“Now. Regarding why I’ve called you here…” 

Contrary to your expectations, Anaxa begins outlining a project he’d like your assistance with. You keep expecting the details to escalate, but it sounds perfectly mundane. There’s nothing scandalous that justifies the secrecy he shrouded this meeting in. You’ve helped him with research that could’ve seen you expelled from the Grove in the past, this topic is a far cry from those escapades. He wants you to collect material about folktales from the fallen city-state, Styxia. That’s nothing compared to your last undertaking, which saw you setting a priceless Janusopolis relic aflame to use its ashes in an alchemical ritual.

You don’t understand why this couldn’t wait until the following day, but you keep that to yourself. While he explains the methodology you should use, you can’t stop yourself from shifting in your seat. An onset of restlessness overwhelms you. Regardless of how you readjust yourself, you can’t get comfortable. This grows worse as you cross and uncross your legs, the simple motion lighting a fire inside your belly. You cough into your head to cover up the strange, strangled noise that threatens to leave your lips. 

Anaxa raises an eyebrow. “Is everything alright?” 

“Y-Yes. Please continue.” 

His words grow difficult to follow, although the subject isn’t particularly complex. To make matters worse, he’s begun tracing his teacup’s rim with his fingertip, a motion that inspires strange fervor. Your eyes follow the slow, deliberate movement as if under a spell. You never noticed how long and slender his fingers are. You’ve personally witnessed his dexterity, you wonder what it’d be like if he slid them inside you— 

What are you thinking? This is the man responsible for manipulating your time here at the Grove. He’s cut off your access to other academics, forcing you to rely on him and no one else. While his brilliance is unmatched, the knowledge he’s imparted doesn’t excuse the despotism he’s subjected you to. You can’t even enjoy lighthearted conversations with your classmates, owing to the looming shadow he’s cast.

And yet… 

There’s no denying he’s an attractive man. If the circumstances were different, you would’ve been flattered by his interest in you. The dim, flickering candlelight highlights his handsome features, from his full lips to his defined jawline. He must sense the intensity behind your stare, for he goes quiet, steepling his fingers together and studying you. 

“Potent, isn’t it?” he hums, evidently pleased with himself. 

You blink sluggishly. “What?” 

“The tincture you ingested,” he nods to your empty teacup. “I didn’t think you’d drink it all. I’m curious to see how a larger dose will affect you.” 

Huh? 

“What… what are you talking about? What did you do?” 

“You’re a clever girl. You’re bound to put two and two together eventually.” 

Anaxa stands from his seat and approaches. He lifts your chin with his thumb, paying close attention to how your breath hitches at his touch. A manic grin spreads across his face. You know this expression, it’s the one he gets when he’s made a discovery that would shake the world to its very foundation. 

The triumph of a blasphemer.

“Alcohol?” you murmur, furrowing your eyebrows together. 

“Not a depressant — a stimulant,” he corrects. The pad of his thumb rubs over your lower lip. “Though, I suppose I can forgive your erroneous conclusion, given your current… affliction.”

The low purr of his voice has you subconsciously rubbing your thighs together. If possible, his smile widens, almost splitting his face in two. You can’t think straight. The revelation instills revulsion in you, yet any negative emotions are swallowed whole by lust. It takes everything you have not to pounce on him like an animal in heat. You take deep breaths, doing what you can to restrain your desire from boiling over. 

“Why?” 

“Why, indeed?” Anaxa murmurs. When he retracts his hand, you can’t stop your shoulders from drooping in disappointment. He chuckles darkly. “I had an enlightening talk with one of your other professors.” 

The thinly concealed disdain in his tone promises nothing good. 

“I’m not usually one to dwell on the past, but our chat evoked some nostalgia.”

He circles behind you, his hands settling on your shoulders. Then, he massages your stiff muscles, eliciting a sigh from you. It feels nice. He’s applying just the right amount of pressure, kneading out all the tension. You can’t muster up any aversion to his touch. If anything, this light pampering isn’t nearly enough. 

“He commented on your eagerness to participate in discussion,” his voice is a soft yet sinister whisper, “How insatiable your thirst for knowledge is.” 

Anaxa pauses his soothing ministrations. He entangles his hand in your hair, tugging it to the side so that you’re made to stare into unbridled madness.

“My prized pupil… were you not that way with me once? So desperate to please, so ecstatic when I lavished you with my attention?” 

He pulls you up by your shoulders with surprising strength. The abruptness disturbs your balance, forcing you to fall into him, who is more than happy to hold you. Your mind feels like it’s fraying at the seams. You want to refute his point, but you can’t form a cohesive counterargument. Everything is fragmented, shattered into pieces that, in any other circumstance, you could build a bulwark with. Whatever you consumed has annihilated your defenses from within. You don’t think you could even stand without his assistance. 

“You’ve turned cold. Now, you can’t wait until you can get rid of me.” 

You shake your head, not trusting your voice to form a competent rebuttal. 

“No?” There’s a mocking lilt to his upward inflection. Instead of experiencing offence, his patronizing tone has your breathing growing heavier. “Prove me wrong, then.”

Your lips meet in a frantic kiss. 

He tastes like tea and honey, the sweetness unbecoming of such a bitter man. You fasten your arms around his neck, wanting to regain some control by asserting yourself. At least he can’t form reprimands when you’re sucking on his tongue. The illusion of dominance is short-lived. He spins you around, pinning your back against the wall with his weight. 

You grunt at the unexpected collision. He pulls back, breaking the trail of saliva connecting your lips. 

“Are you alright?” 

His genuine sounding concern hurts more than any of the nonsense he’s spewed so far. Tears sting the corners of your eyes, and you grit your teeth, unwilling to expose any more vulnerability. He’s okay with drugging and manipulating you, yet this is where he draws the line? A little pain? 

“Like you care,” you hiss out.

“I do,” he replies, unusually gentle. “To me, you’re—” 

His eye widens as you palm him through his pants, putting an end to the confession you’d rather die than hear. There’s no way you’re letting him finish that sentence. If he can delude himself, you deserve the same willful ignorance. You don’t want to know that this extends far past lechery. While no less dubious, there have always been stories of those in authority lusting after their subordinates. That fits a comprehensible framework. What you find truly unsettling is the possibility that this won’t stop at carnality — it’ll metastasize like a malignant tumor. 

Afraid he might return to his thought, you slip your hand past his waistband, fumbling around until you find what you’re looking for. Despite the awkward angle, you envelop him, smearing the copious amounts of precum along his length. He’s hot and hard in your palm. Once he’s sufficiently lubricated, you pump his length. There’s satisfaction to be found in how your initiative renders a master orator speechless. 

Anaxa nestles himself into your neck, muffling his pants against your skin. You grip him tight, almost painfully so, taking out your frustration by pleasuring him as roughly as he’ll allow. He thrusts himself into your hand, unashamedly chasing his pleasure. 

Much to your amazement, you feel his cock twitching in your hand, hinting that he’s nearing his end. That didn’t take long. No more than a few minutes, if you had to guess. How debauched is this man for you, anyway? 

Against your better judgment, you decide to tease him. “So soon, professor? I guess you are past your prime. If you can’t take care of me, I guess I’ll have to find some younger, more virile—” 

“Insolent brat,” he snaps. He snatches your wrist and pulls you away before you can finish him off. “It’s virility you want, then?” 

Anaxa scoops you up, further calling into question his self-proclaimed epithet of ‘frail scholar.’ You suppress a yelp, clinging to him out of necessity. He kicks open the door to his bedroom and carries you in. It’s dark inside, save for slivers of silvery moonlight peaking through his curtains. Once he lays you down on his mattress, he detaches himself, glowering down at you as he unbuttons his top. 

He makes quick work of the garment, chucking it off to the side. You take in the sight of his lean, well-sculpted form. That would explain the ease with which he picked you up. You suppose that for all his claims of frailty, he’s still a Chrysos Heir. No one can say fate doesn’t have a sense of humor, selecting a blasphemer to succeed the gods. He certainly looks the part. Long, soft hair, unblemished skin; even the way he moves is worthy of veneration. He’s never in a rush, always operating at his own tempo. It’s the rest of the world that must match his rhythm. 

Anaxa meets your stare, amusement glinting in his eye. “Have you forgotten how to blink?” 

You don’t get a chance to reply before he’s hovering above you, his red, dangling earring glinting in the sparse light. 

“Still clothed?” He clicks his tongue. “I have to do everything when it comes to you.” 

He tugs your blouse over your head hard enough that you hear something rip. 

“Hey—” 

He shushes you, pressing his pointer finger against your lip. “Settle down. You won’t be needing it; you’re not leaving this room anytime soon.” 

Next, he helps you out of your pants, leaving you fully exposed. The sight forces him to stop. Your collarbones, cleavage, abdomen, and plump thighs; he drinks you in like you’re a fine wine. His fingers twitch by his side, the impact you have on him tangible. He must not know where to start.

“...You’ll be my ruin,” he mutters.

You don’t get to ask what he means by that. He presses his palm against your stomach, encouraging you to lie down. Then, he spreads your legs, examining the impact his concoction had. Using his pointer and middle finger, he feels you through your panties and hums. You feel him gauging your reaction as he rubs up and down, torturously slow. Your face burns at the squelching noises produced by such a simple motion. Eventually, he focuses on your clit, delighting in the reactions it draws out. He alternates his speed, always slowing whenever you seem to be enjoying yourself too much. 

“Professor, please,” you beg, discarding your pride in favor of relief. “Just fuck me already. I can’t take it anymore.” 

He ignores your pleas, too focused on dragging your panties down. He brings the flimsy fabric to his nose and inhales, a ghost of a smile on his lips. “Now there’s the eagerness I remember. A shame it required slightly underhanded methods to extract, but you’ve always been a stubborn one.” 

Slightly underhanded? If your cognition wasn’t reduced to mush, you would’ve ripped into him. 

After tucking your panties into his pants pocket, he nestles himself between your thighs. He nibbles and sucks the sensitive skin, yet neglects your aching core. It’s pure agony. You try grinding against his face, but he holds you down and tuts. 

“After all the time you’ve made me wait, you can’t endure a few moments?” he sighs. “Mm. I can’t say I dislike this needy side of you.” 

He flattens his tongue against your pussy, licking it vertically. Your hands fly to his head, where your fingers tug at his hair. He grunts, but doesn’t stop you, too preoccupied with his task. Depraved noises fill the air as he eats you out. He forces your legs further apart, granting him complete access to you. When he sucks on your clit, the moans you had hitherto managed to suppress flow out. You hear him chuckling over his success. He’s relentless, devouring you like you’re the best thing he’s ever tasted. 

You’re close. You don’t want to tell him, fearing he’ll stop right before your pleasure reaches its zenith. Unfortunately, Anaxa’s far too observant. He pulls away, but not without placing a few more greedy kisses against your pussy. 

“Something wrong?” He asks, snickering at your visible frustration. 

“I hate you,” is the best you can offer. 

“Oh, I can tell,” Anaxa replies. He lathers his fingers in your slick, gradually easing them inside, meeting no resistance as he does so. “That must explain why your body is sucking me in.” 

He fingers you at a leisurely pace, committing to memory how he slips in and out of you. It feels as good as you fantasized earlier. His fingers are longer than yours, so they can reach deeper, creating a pleasant friction. Still, without your clit being stimulated, you could be here for a while. Something tells you that’s intentional. Unlike you, he’s in no hurry. He’d gladly spend hours between your thighs, playing with your body to his heart’s content. You don’t want to draw this out. You want to get fucked and have this terrible need alleviated.

“Professor?” 

“Hm?” 

“Won’t you please take care of me already?” You ask, loathing yourself for how easily the words come out. “I feel so strange. I-I don’t know what to do.” 

“An aphrodisiac will do that, darling girl.” 

So that’s what you ingested? You’ve heard of the concept, but you always thought it was confined to fantasy. If anyone could synthesize such a drug, it would be him. Frowning, you try to touch your clit, hoping that will bring you the release he’s keen on denying. He slaps your hand away and stops thrusting his fingers. 

“This is nothing compared to the torment I’ve experienced,” he brings his slick covered fingers to his mouth and sucks. You gawk at him as he savors your taste, your face burning. Once satisfied, he pulls them out with a pop. “So cease your whining. It won’t move me.” 

Sensing this exchange could go on forever, you opt for a new approach. “Anaxagoras, don’t you want to make me yours?” 

You hear his breath hitch when his full name leaves your lips. Encouraged, you prop yourself up on your elbows, undo your bra clasp, and fling it into a shadowy corner. Even in the low light, you note the crimson flush overtaking his features. You play with your tits, staring up at him through your eyelashes, almost pouting. He swallows thickly. You take your nipples in between your thumb and pointer fingers, twisting the pebbled nubs. 

He looks like he’s in pain from how hard he’s holding himself back. 

You need to seize this opportunity before he decides to lecture you for hours on end. Knowing him, it’s possible. 

“Please?” 

Anaxa curses beneath his breath. “Little vixen.” 

He pulls his length out, pumping the engorged flesh to the sight of your bare body. White pearls of precum seep from the tip. With one hand, he rubs the head along your opening, while the other holds your hip in place. Gradually, he pushes himself in, silently eyeing you as he does so. When you let out a pained noise, he stops. His thumb rubs reassuring circles against your skin. You turn your head away, frightened by the reverence etched into his visage. Why can’t he just get this over with? Why is he so intent on ensuring your physical comfort after wreaking havoc on your mind? 

“Deep breaths,” he instructs, as if this were any other lesson. “That’s it. Good girl.”

Anaxa presses his forehead against yours as he fills you to the hilt, his lips parting in an ‘o’. For a moment, you both just stay there, the sounds of your panting filling the air. He brushes his knuckles over your cheek, the skin around his eye softening. The intensity behind his stare bores into you. You frown and look away.

Don’t look at me like that, you think. Stop trying to make this something it isn’t.

He pulls himself out, your walls clenching around nothing in his absence. Then, eases himself back in, moaning your name as he does so. You feel his length pulsating inside you, heavy with want from his ruined orgasm. He takes you slowly, as if this were your wedding night. He caresses you all over, greedily exploring your body. When he settles on your tits, he fondles the soft flesh, swooping down to take a nipple in his mouth. You whimper as he lolls his tongue around it, before switching to the next and repeating the process all over again.

Despite how hot your body feels, you shiver. 

His lips glisten with saliva when he pulls back, contentment evident in his countenance. "Touch yourself for me, dear girl."

You do as he says and rub circles into your clit. Finally, he throws your leg over his shoulder and fucks you. What started as an uncomfortable stretch shifts into a deep, all-consuming pleasure. With each snap of his hips, you whimper a confused mix of vowels and consonants that somewhat resemble his name. This makes him lose what little restraint he had remaining. He pounds you into the bed, pulling your hips down to meet each thrust. 

“Fuck,” he rasps. You’ve never heard him curse before today. “You are the closest thing to the divine this world has.” 

This man, who barely gave others the time of day, chased after you like you were the key to understanding the universe. No matter what you’ve felt toward him, you’ve always been weak to his praise. It feeds this famished part of yourself that you never knew existed. 

He lavishes your neck with open-mouthed kisses, his hand moving to knead your bouncing chest. Your entire being is dominated by this heretic whose worship is indistinguishable from desecration. You try to focus on chasing your own pleasure, but he’s impossible to ignore. The scent of old books, the taste of honey, and the sounds of depravity lull you into a trance. 

It doesn’t take long for you to come undone on his cock. Your walls clamp down on him, earning a hearty groan. His fingernails dig into your skin, indicating that he’s not far off himself. 

He focuses on letting you ride out your orgasm. Once you go limp, however, it's his high that he fixates on. He manipulates your body to his liking and pounds into you. His hand rises to your jaw, where he holds you steady so that he can kiss you. He slants his lips against yours, nibbling and sucking your lower lip until it feels sore. His breathy moans increase in volume, as does the speed in which he fucks you.

He chuckles when he stops kissing you, drunk on the pleasure you're giving him. "Oh, you're even better than I imagined."

You stare up at him with heavy eyelids, and mumble, "'Imagined...?'"

"Yes, dear girl," he delights in confirming. "Right here, in this very bed."

You think your heart is beating fast enough to give out.

"All day, you distract me, and all night, you infest my dreams."

His thrusts are getting sloppier. He must be nearing his end, having strained himself to make this last as long as possible.

"So take what I give you," his voice comes out labored. "Everything. It's... ah... all for you."

Anaxa pushes himself as far as he can inside you, shuddering as he cums. The thick, viscous substance coats your walls, his load seemingly endless. You can feel his cock twitching while he fills you to the brim. Faintly, you realize you’re playing with fire, but you’re too fucked out to care. When he pulls away, his ample spend leaks out. He stares in awe, his glossy lips agape, utterly bewitched by this proof of your coupling. 

You wince as he gathers his cum along your folds, then pushes it back inside. Feeling overstimulated, you try closing your legs, but he holds them open, intent to look a while longer.

“You’re gross,” you manage in between labored breaths.

He collapses to your right, pulling you flush against him so your head rests on his heaving chest. 

“And you’re lovely,” he peppers kisses along your perspiring forehead. “Don’t be cross with me. You enjoyed yourself, didn’t you?” 

You don’t dignify that with a response. 

Anaxa smooths out your hair, tucking the strands back into place. While you come down from your respective highs, reality smacks you like a brick to the face. You grimace as you recall the semen dripping out of you. 

“I need a contraceptive.” 

You try getting up, but he tightens his grip, holding you hostage. 

“Do you?” 

“Yes, you bastard,” you writhe in his arms to no success. Panic starts to set in. How can you get some before it’s too late? Anaxa doesn’t share in your anxiety, he seems content to run his hands up and down your bare back. It occurs to you then that the solution might share its origins with the problem. “Make me one.” 

If it’s created by him, there’s no chance the worst could come to pass. 

“Didn’t you allude to favoring virility? Now’s my opportunity to prove myself.” 

“I will murder you in your sleep.” 

“And raise our offspring without a father? Ah, it’s a jest, there’s no need to thrash.” 

Thoroughly exhausted, you close your eyes, accepting that you won’t be going anywhere anytime soon. Not until he wills it. “Anaxa, please. This isn’t funny. Just thinking about it makes me feel sick.”

“Anaxagoras,” he corrects. 

You flatly repeat his full name, much to his pleasure. 

“… I foresaw this happening. I’ve already prepared a contraceptive, allow me a moment.” 

He lifts himself with a grimace, likely worn out himself. You’re left on your lonesome as he enters the other room. A few minutes later, he returns with a pill and a glass of water. Wordlessly, you snatch the offerings, downing the pill with urgency. While you gulp down the water, he hands you a plain shirt. You place the empty glass on the nightstand and throw the garment on. It’s far too large, but you don’t mind. All you care about is covering yourself up. 

Frowning, you glance around, failing to locate an important article of clothing. 

“Give me my underwear back.”

“I’m afraid I’ve misplaced it,” he lies. You narrow your eyes as he gives you a pair of boxers instead. “This should suffice.” 

Next, you reach for your pants, but he grabs them before you can and holds them out of reach. “You don’t intend to walk back, do you?” 

“Why would I stay?” you mumble. He lifts them higher, denying your grasping hands. 

“I need to monitor you for potential side effects,” he explains. 

“...” 

You turn your back to him and lie down. Arguing is useless if his mind is made up. The mattress dips as he sits, but you remain motionless, even when his fingertips glide along your arm. Silence reigns while he maps out glyphs against your skin. Your emotions are in a complete disarray. Now that you’re not blinded by lust, his touch is akin to spiders on you. It’s a small mercy that he didn’t make the aphrodisiac as long lasting as he could’ve. 

The mere thought churns your insides. 

“I’ll need some time to compile the materials you requested.”

He pauses, processing the sharp shift in topic. “Is this about Styxia?” 

“What else?” you retort. “Have I not always delivered on what you ask of me?” 

You’re grateful you can’t see his expression. For once, you don’t want access to the inner workings of his mind. Let him remain an enigma. Every piece of himself he breaks off to give you will be thrown away. He’s cast you as his ruin; a role you eagerly accept. Shouldn’t you get to plot the trajectory of his downfall? It’s only right. You will take everything, hollowing him out until naught but a vessel remains, and he’ll allow it, because it’s you. 

The first fissure spreads. 

“You do, every time. Without exception,” Anaxa eventually affirms. “... I expect great things from our collaboration.”

The Great Performer takes his place by your side in this amphitheater you’ve both painstakingly constructed. 

[rebeccathenaturalist]

Let's start the week with a bit of good news! A court order has halted the Bureau of Land Management's plan to log old-growth forests. To be honest, it's mind-boggling that we even got to this point, because the justification was "let's cut down trees to prevent wildfires".

So, here's the thing. Logging companies are among the entities promoting the myth that we need to cut down lots of trees in order to prevent wildfires. It's really just an excuse to harvest old trees for timber, and it completely ignores the science behind wildfires and fire mitigation.

For one thing, logging increases the chance of wildfire. Clearcutting takes away the largest chunks of wood (tree trunks) while leaving piles of branches, twigs, and dried conifer needles. These are known as fine fuels, and they are much more likely to catch on fire. Moreover, since all the plants around the trees were bulldozed before the trees were cut, the soil is now bare and less able to hold water. Because the ambient humidity in the clearcut is much lower than in a healthy forest, the debris and the plants that do begin to grow back are much more vulnerable to dying from drought--and catching on fire.

The same goes for salvage logging, when logging companies go into a burned area to take out trees that are not so burned that they can't be used for lumber. Again they leave behind fine fuels which are more likely to cause reburn--a second fire within a few years of the first. (This is to say nothing of the increased chance of landslides as the unprotected soil washes downhill, and the cumulative loss of topsoil that makes it harder for a forest to recover post-clearcut.)

The very last thing you want to do if you want to avoid wildfire is to cut down old growth forests. Because an old growth forest is so dense with living plant growth, the ambient humidity is quite high. The vegetation helps keep the soil damp, too, which protects the forest from drought. All of this protects the forest from wildfire and makes it am important barrier if fire comes through the area.

If you want to prevent wildfire, you don't cut down the big, more fire-resistant trees or the old-growth forests that are less likely to burn. (You also don't rake the forest floor, just sayin'.) Prescribed burns are one of the best antidotes to wildfire; over a century of fire suppression means that the natural fire cycles in western forests haven't been able to regularly clear out built-up biomass, which has contributed to larger, hotter, more frequent wildfires. By using prescribed burns to carefully remove that biomass, we remove the buildup and allow the forest to benefit from an approximation of its natural fire cycles (many plant species rely on fire for seed propagation and other functions.)

Clearcuts also need to be replaced with more sustainable forestry practices like selective cutting which minimizes impacts on the ecosystem. Forests should contain trees of a variety of species and ages, rather than a plantation of one species all the same age, which is more vulnerable to widespread disease and tree mortality. If all the trees are younger, they are also much more likely to burn together as there are no older trees with thicker bark to slow down the spread of fire. In short: the healthier and more biodiverse a forest is, the more fire-resistant it will be.

All of which is to say that this court order is a victory in our fight against increasingly long and destructive wildfire seasons. The claims that we need to cut trees to prevent fires are not built on science (conversely, I am happy to send anyone the bibliography for my wildfire class that I teach for multiple community colleges and other entities.) Timber companies have been eyeing our last old growth and mature forests for decades in order to make a short-term profit, but we stand to benefit for a much longer time by leaving these forests intact and allowing other forests to mature over time as well.

[cowboysanddragons23]

While the Van der Linde gang is an outlaw gang, it operates more as a cult:

-Zero tolerance for criticism and questions: Dutch can't stand when someone questions or doubts him (ex. When John starts questioning him at Clemens Point, Dutch tells him that doubting means the end, aka weakness and forces him to say "Yes, Dutch." or when Uncle calls him out in a humorous manner, he threatens to kill him under the guise of following the joke).

-A belief that former followers are always wrong for leaving and there is never a legitimate reason to leave: Javier and Bill call John and Arthur traitors for abandoning them and Dutch, even though it was clear that Dutch was losing his sanity, he was going to get them all killed and both of them were trying to salvage what's left of the gang, a train of thought that lasts even after the gang disbanded.

-Lack of meaningful financial disclosure regarding money: Dutch constantly prattles about the fact that they need more money and at one point, he hid a box of money in one of the gang's hideouts.

-Abuse of members: While Dutch is not physically abusive of members, he is an abuser of the psychological variant (ex. When Molly raises legitimate concerns about how he is ignoring her and not paying her attention, he always dismisses her as delusional, even outright saying "I never met a woman with so many needs.")

-Absolute authoritarianism without accountability: If there is one thing that Dutch shows the most is his inability to take responsibility for his actions (ex. When he blames John for being the reason why the Saint Denis Bank heist went wrong, accusing him of being a rat, even though the main reason it went wrong was because Dutch was too reckless with his robberies to the trolley station and the boat, along with his kidnapping and killing of Angelo Bronte, the most powerful man of Saint Denis).

-Unreasonable fears about the outside world that involve evil conspiracies and persecution: Dutch fears civilization because it represents everything he hates and instills very irrational fears amongst them (ex. When Dutch tells John the law chases them because the gang represents everything they fear, yet ironically, after the gang disbands, Tilly has a happy life married to a lawyer and John has a normal life as a member of society).

-Cult of personality: The most obvious one. Dutch is seen like a father and a messiah amongst the gang (ex. In Red Dead Redemption, John tells Reyes that Dutch saved him, Bill and Javier.)

-Illegal and dangerous behaviour: The van der Linde are a gang of outlaws at first, but they ended up becoming the Wild West equivalent of domestic terrorists, with their attacks on the Cornwall Train, the Saint Denis Bank, a US Army Train....

-Charismatic leader: Dutch oozes charisma anytime he speaks, albeit of the superficial kind that has an iron hand on the people of his gang, which Kieran lampshades.

-Us VS Them mentality: Dutch enforced a very black and white view about their enemies, even outright admits so when he killed Bronte ("It is us or him.").

-Isolation and love-bombing: Once again, Molly is the biggest victim of this, with Dutch charming her into going with him and making her feel isolated on the gang, in order for her to depend on him and him alone.

-Time and energy: In the camp, you are expected to upgrade Dutch's tent first before upgrading the rest of the camp. And Dutch demands that money is put on the box, yet he himself never contributes to the box.

[seongwars]

aww snap draft clean out time. here's part 2 to only human

A loud rustling sound jolted you awake. You sat up groggily, blinking at the dim glow of your dining room, where X-02’s charging dock should have been humming quietly. Except… it wasn’t.

The dock was empty. Your stomach dropped. Oh no. You scrambled off the couch, heart hammering. Did he malfunction? Did the government somehow track you down and steal him back while you were sleeping? Did he just…leave?

Grabbing your wrench, you tiptoed through the apartment, drawn toward the sound of rustling paper coming from your office. The noise grew louder, pages turning at an unnatural speed, and you swallowed hard.

You rounded the corner, wrench raised, ready to bash in a skull…and froze.

X-02 was sitting cross-legged in the middle of the floor, surrounded by mountains of books. Stacks of them were haphazardly arranged around him, some open, others teetering dangerously on top of one another. His fingers blurred as he flipped through pages, scanning text at inhumane speeds.

"Ah. You are awake."

You did the only rational thing a person in your position would do. You screamed.

X-02 blinked at you with glowing violet eyes. "Your reaction suggests distress. Is this incorrect?"

You clutched your wrench to your chest. “You—what—WHY ARE YOU AWAKE?!”

"I regained functionality approximately four hours ago." He turned another page, scanning it in milliseconds. "I elected to use the time efficiently."

“You—" You clutched the wrench tighter. "You were supposed to stay in standby mode!"

"That was a suboptimal use of time."

You opened your mouth, then closed it. No words came out.

Then your exhausted brain registered the books scattered around him. And it wasn’t the scientific journals or programming manuals you’d stacked in the office. It was your romantasy collection.

Oh no. No, no, no.

You lunged for the closest book, yanking it from his hands. X-02 blinked at you as you clutched Fallen Cosmos to your chest.

“What—what is this?” you sputtered, eyes darting to the surrounding covers. There was a shirtless fae prince smirking up at you from one. A werewolf ripping his shirt off on another.

“Are you reading my romance novels!?”

"Yes." X-02 tilted his head. "They are fascinating."

You almost choked. “Fascinating!?”

"Indeed." He picked up another book, scanning the cover. "This particular one explores the complexities of courtship and forbidden attraction in a setting where the protagonists must overcome their prejudices against their respective species."

Your brain short-circuited. Oh god. Your highly advanced, illegally salvaged android was…sentient.

You had to do something. Anything.

"State your—" You fumbled, grasping for some kind of authoritative demand.

“State your primary directive, X-02.”

X-02 looked up from the book, his glowing eyes locking onto yours. "To learn and adapt in order to integrate seamlessly into human society."

You stared at him, then at the towering stacks of books, then back at him again. A deep, weary sigh left your lips. What now?

Because, honestly? You didn’t actually think this was going to work.

When you smuggled his parts out of the lab, when you spent sleepless nights painstakingly patching together corrupted code and rerouting power systems, you never thought you’d actually succeed.

But here he was.

What the hell were you supposed to do with an android who was never meant to exist in the first place?

“I have a sentient android in my apartment,” you ran a hand down your face. “An illegally salvaged, highly advanced, government-issued android.”

“Yes,” X-02 agreed.

What now? You couldn’t exactly turn him off and pretend this didn’t happen. He was awake. He was aware. And he was curious.

You both stood there in silence until you finally let out a long sigh.

"I need coffee."

X-02 followed you immediately, his steps eerily soundless as you shuffled toward the kitchen. You pretended not to notice him hovering behind you. As you fumbled with the coffee maker, he leaned in slightly.

Too close.

You could practically feel him calculating your every movement.

“You are fatigued,” he stated, watching as you struggled to open the coffee bag.

“Yeah, that’s why I need coffee.”

He watched intently as you measured out the grounds, then, without missing a beat, stated, “You are using an inefficient ratio.”

You paused mid-scoop, narrowing your eyes. “Excuse me?”

“To maximize caffeine intake while maintaining tolerable bitterness, the optimal coffee-to-water ratio is 1:16. However, given your current fatigue level, I suggest 1:14 for a stronger effect.”

You stared at him. He stared back. Wordlessly, you scooped another heaping spoonful of coffee into the machine.

X-02’s eyes flickered. “That is now a 1:12 ratio.”

Maintaining direct eye contact, you added another scoop.

“1:10,” he said, tone entirely neutral but somehow judgmental.

You raised an eyebrow and dumped in yet another scoop.

“1:8.”

With a defiant smirk, you added one more for good measure and he sighed. Like a human.

“Moving forward, I will monitor your caffeine intake levels and adjust recommendations accordingly.”

You took a victorious sip of your aggressively over caffeinated coffee, staring at X-02 over the rim of your mug. Despite the absurdity of it all, the illegally salvaged android in your apartment and the bizarrely domestic scene, something about it felt...oddly normal.

As you sipped your coffee, X-02 observed in silence, analyzing, learning. It wasn’t just your actions it studied, but the finer details: the pauses between your words, the flicker of emotion in your eyes, the rhythm of your heartbeat. 

X-02's processors hummed as he cataloged the data. To remember, for later. 

[youvegotmoxie]

CRUST INSPIRED TOTE

This tote is coming sooooo painfully slowly, but we're taking shape!!! Fly and rear beads are still a WIP, but I'm so happy with how this is going so far!

Queer Art 🧶

[blueiscoool]

$1 Million Worth of Gold Coins Stolen From 18th-Century Shipwrecks Found

After an extensive investigation, Florida officials recovered dozens of gold coins valued at more than $1 million that were stolen from a shipwreck recovery nine years ago.

The Florida Fish and Wildlife Conservation Commission announced in a news release Tuesday it had recovered 37 gold coins that were stolen from the 1715 Fleet shipwrecks.

The fleet of Spanish ships sailed from Havana, Cuba and headed to Seville, Spain on July 24, 1715. The journey was short-lived, as a hurricane wrecked the fleet just seven days later off the coast of Eastern Florida.

The first ship was discovered in 1928 by William Beach north of Fort Pierce, Florida, about 120 miles south of Orlando. Since then, gold and silver artifacts have been recovered offshore for decades following the first discovery.

In 2015, a group of contracted salvage operators found a treasure trove of 101 gold coins from the wrecks near Florida’s Treasure Coast, about 112 miles west of Orlando. However, only half of the coins were reported correctly. The other 50 coins were not disclosed and later stolen.

The years-long investigation by the state’s fish and wildlife conservation commission and FBI “into the theft and illegal trafficking of these priceless historical artifacts” came to a head when new evidence emerged in June, the news release said.

The evidence linked Eric Schmitt to the illegal sale of multiple stolen gold coins in 2023 and 2024, officials said. Schmitt’s family had been contracted to work as salvage operators for the US District Courts’ custodian and salvaging company for the fleet, 1715 Fleet - Queens Jewels, LLC. The Schmitts had uncovered the 101 gold coins in 2015.

During their hunt for the coins, investigators executed multiple search warrants and recovered coins from private residences, safe deposit boxes and auctions, the news release said. Five stolen coins were retrieved from a Florida-based auctioneer, who unknowingly purchased them from Schmitt.

Investigators used advanced digital forensics to nail down Schmitt as a suspect in the case. In most cases, digital forensics can recover data stored electronically on devices such as a cell phone, computer system or memory module.

With the help of advanced digital forensics, investigators identified metadata and geolocation data that linked Schmitt to a photograph of the stolen coins taken at the Schmitt family condominium in Fort Pierce, Florida.

Authorities said Schmitt also took three of the stolen gold coins and put them on the ocean floor in 2016. The coins were later found by the new investors of the fleet’s court custodian and salvaging company.

Throughout the investigation, the Florida Fish and Wildlife Conservation Commission worked closely with historical preservation experts to authenticate and appraise the recovered coins sold by Schmitt.

Schmitt is facing charges for dealing in stolen property, the release says.

The company commissioned to salvage the shipwreck said in a statement it “was shocked and disappointed by this theft and has worked closely with law enforcement and the state of Florida regarding this matter.”

“We take our responsibilities as custodian very seriously and will always seek to enforce the laws governing these wrecks,” the statement read.

Recovered artifacts will be returned to their rightful custodians, the news release said. But the investigation is far from over: 13 coins remain missing.

[bonebrokebuddy]

@kodedgeekthings eyo you mentioned wanting a dpxdc prompt for Howard, Batman’s mechanic!

Harold misses fixing toys for kids and in his off hours has taken up the habit of answering questions on forums about machining, electrical, engineering, mechanics, and mechanical design that are often frequented by students.

One day, he comes across a request by a college student who is trying to assemble his own car out of scrap he bought from a local wrecking yard.

Ghostly_Boy states that he has previous experience in machining and can make replacements for broken or too-damaged parts if need be, but he doesn’t know where to start and what specific requirements he needs to reach to ensure it’s street legal.

Harold willing to help, he answers a few of Ghostly Boy’s clarifying questions:

- Great questions!

It’s good to note that if you’re not careful, fixing or making your own car from parts can be a moneysink and can cost you more than a brand new vehicle. - That being said, your first major step to ensuring you can drive the car is to get the title of the body/frame of the car you plan to build. It’ll have the VIN on a plate welded to the frame usually near the lower edge of the windshield wipers on the drivers side. It’s how the DMV identifies vehicles for licensing.

- Generally, you’ll at first get a “wreck out” title that shows the vehicle is listed as a total loss, but if you can assemble the parts for the car with that frame, the DMV can check if it’s properly running and road worthy & license for you to use it on public roads if you’ve done the proper paperwork.

- Once that is done, it’s largely a case of getting the right parts and assembling them. Depending on how much you have to repair, you could be taking on a task that could give a challenge to even a seasoned mechanic. There may be additional paperwork depending on what exactly you need to repair, like the breaks, lights, steering, etc.

- If you want to build the car entirely from scratch, chassis and all, that’s an entirely different story with a much more complicated list of requirements to make it street legal, so getting a frame from a junkyard is a great first step!

- Make sure to keep all bills of sale, junkyard receipts, invoices and manufacturers’ certificates on any major parts you used in building the vehicle to prove its road worthy to the DMV when it’s complete!

Harold doesn’t always answer first but over time he’s found the adventures of this kid amusing and keeps up with it.

Ghostly_Boy keeps the forum updated with his progress:

The kid spontaneously deciding to scrap the wiring system and make his own in a span of 3 days, leaving experienced mechanics on the forum practically screaming at the kid for his updates showing him using random wires he salvaged and pigtailing them together to get the length of wire he needed.

Mixing not only multiple types of wires but ones that didn’t have the protection needed for auto use. DIY-ing his own relay and fuses he didn’t have and connecting the wrong grounds and switches. And planning on leaving the wires unwrapped and loose.

Leaving Ghost to promptly redo the wiring, correctly this time, within 78 hours.

Making a repair of a massive rusted hole on the passenger side by the bumper and the front tire via cutting 1/2in past the rust, grinding it pretty and clean, tac & seam welding the vintage aluminum housing material of a toaster to cover the hole to the response of Harold and many others in the forum just going “… I guess that would work?”

Harold and many others telling the kid that this “ectoplasm” material wasn’t cleared through the EPA’s Clear Air Act and could be illegal to drive with it as it’s fuel source unless he got the emissions tested & the center of gravity of the car adjusted to have the center of gravity a gas car has, it wouldn’t pass Federal Motor Vehicle Safety Standards. Nor would the previously untested on material make it easy or quick to get an Emissions testing certificate. Best to just stick with gas.

Removing what he thought was a “skid plate” that turned out to be another rusted out section on the frame on the bottom of his car and repairing it with steel he salvaged from an old medical table he had laying around. (To the multiple slightly confused commenters asking how Ghost had a spare medical table, he replied, “eh, my folks visit every so often and they’ve been giving me things they’re clearing out of the house so they can move closer to my older sister. I just so happened to get the ye olde medical table. They’re an odd couple of folks but that’s why I love them.”)

People just crying at the kid to go to rockauto.com and just buy the damn parts he needs for his car. (A good resource btw)

The kid kept cutting corners to save cash but through the badgering of Harold and many others that he actually would have to spend money to make this car be safe to drive in, he finally got it completed.

Ghost’s post of him leaving DMV waving the updated title to the car in its envelope in the air, titled, “THE DMV FINALLY SAID IT WASN’T A FIRE HAZARD! ONLY TOOK 2 YEARS! THANKS EVERYONE!” Got the most amount of responses he’d ever had with congratulations from lurkers and previous commenters.

Over the course of those two years, Danny learned how to draw his own wiring diagrams, properly solder and weld, and learning to actually plan out his projects so he got it right at least the fifth time instead of the 20th. Not bad for a kid that went straight from graduating high school with a 1.5GPA to construction jobs.

But after finally getting the car approved, Ghostly_Boy returns to the forum with a new problem. Lamenting that his parents keep coming over and “modifying” his car to no longer make it street legal.

At this point, about half of the answers to the submission think it’s either a joke project taken very, very seriously with a good chunk of money behind it, or a kid with parents that have narrowly avoided falling completely down the mad scientist rogue rabbit hole.

After all, what sort of parent would think that the DMV would approve to “anti-ghost missiles” being attached to the outer body of the car? Either way, the submissions always had video attached showing a demonstration, proving that Ghost wasn’t just completely yanking their chain. And a good amount of money would have to be sunken in to not only pay for the fines Ghostly continued to get from the additions to his car, but to actually manufacture and make a unique working product for each plea for help request.

Harold is not only taking notes on some of these defense measures but also decides to bring up the boy to Alfred. Intrigued, they together keep an eye on Ghostly_Boy. Bruce may be their employer, but they can handle a case or two on their own.

- I wanted Danny to try to make smth for himself now that he doesn’t have access to his parent’s lab anymore but he also doesn’t have access to ectoplasm so he’s fairly unfamiliar how to wire things Not for ectoplasmic standards.

Also I wanted to make a prompt where Danny had a good relationship with his parents & went into a fairly realistic job after high school with his fairly bad GPA so he’s saving up for a technical school via construction jobs as he doesn’t like the idea of working fast food for understandable reasons.

[mariacallous]

Attorneys suing the United States government over its use of vanishing Signal messages to coordinate military strikes last month in Yemen allege that new court filings by the government reveal a “calculated strategy” by Trump administration officials to evade transparency laws through the illegal destruction of government records.

US defense and intelligence agencies on Monday submitted supplemental declarations in court outlining their individual efforts to preserve the messages at the center of the “SignalGate” scandal. American Oversight, a watchdog organization whose attorneys are suing the government, claim the declarations reveal “troubling inconsistencies” in efforts by US officials to archive the material, with the Central Intelligence Agency in particular alleging that it had archived no messages of any substance.

“Using encrypted, disappearing messages on Signal for official government business violates the Federal Records Act and represents a calculated strategy to undermine transparency and accountability,” claims the group’s interim executive director, Chioma Chukwu.

The use of the private group chat—in which some messages were configured to automatically delete before they could be archived—was first revealed by The Atlantic’s editor in chief, Jeffrey Goldberg, on March 24, after he was inadvertently added to the group by Trump’s national security adviser, Michael Waltz. American Oversight subsequently filed Freedom of Information Act requests over the chats and then sought a temporary restraining order in a Washington, DC, federal court in an effort to compel the government to salvage any messages yet to be deleted.

In addition to Waltz, known participants in the chat group include, among others, Secretary of Defense Pete Hegseth, Secretary of State Marco Rubio, Vice President JD Vance, Director of National Intelligence Tulsi Gabbard, and CIA Director John Ratcliffe.

WIRED has requested comment from the Justice Department, the Office of the National Intelligence Director, and the White House. The departments of Defense and State declined to comment. The CIA could not be immediately reached for comment.

The declarations filed by the government late Monday show a scattershot attempt by multiple agencies to comply with the court’s demands, with several days elapsing during their various individual efforts to obtain and preserve the messages.

Judge James Boasberg, the chief judge of the US District Court for the District of Columbia, issued his initial order to preserve the communications on March 27, while giving each agency four days to describe what actions were being taken to obey. “We were really trying to seek preservation of Signal chats more broadly,” American Oversight’s deputy chief counsel, Katie Anthony, tells WIRED. “But the court was not willing to step outside the one specific chat we all knew about for certain."

The declarations ultimately offered scant information about the methods that were employed to preserve the messages or the degrees to which those methods are forensically sound. And it is unclear from the disclosures what portion of the chat—alleged to cover five days in early March—might have been irretrievable by that time. According to reporting by The Atlantic, some of the messages concerning the military strikes, which targeted Houthi fighters in Yemen, were set to delete automatically after four weeks. Others were reportedly set to disappear after only one.

The US Treasury Department was initially alone in providing the court a timeline of the messages that it was able to retrieve. Treasury Secretary Scott Bessent had received a preservation memo on March 26, his acting general counsel said, as well as advice regarding his fundamental duty to preserve records. Resultingly, "images were taken from the phones of Secretary Bessent and Mr. [Daniel] Katz," Bessent’s chief of staff. The messages begin at 1:48 pm EST on March 15, 2025.

"The Atlantic article was about a chat that took place the 11th through the 15th,” Anthony says, “so pretty much everything was gone—from the only defendant who gave us clear and specific information about what they were able to save.”

The Department of Defense told the court last month that its attorneys were "in the process" of complying with the agency's preservation rules and that Secretary Hegseth’s communications team had been asked to forward the Signal messages to an official DOD account. Pressed by the court for further details last week, the DOD said Monday that a search of Hegseth's device had been conducted "on or about March 27," adding that screenshots of the "existing Signal application messages" had been preserved.

American Oversight’s lawyers had urged the court to seek greater specificity, arguing on April 4 that "vague, incomplete assertions" in the government's original declarations had only cast fresh doubts on its "purported efforts" to preserve the chats. In light of new reporting, the group argued, the government's response seemed otherwise "grossly inadequate." Politico had reported two days prior that as many as 20 private Signal chat groups had been started by Waltz’s team with a slew of cabinet officials.

“It seems very likely that the individuals who are defendants in our lawsuit are probably involved in some of those other chats, and we have this problem on a much wider basis,” Anthony says.

The Department of Justice, meanwhile, opposed the court’s involvement, arguing that its efforts on behalf of a watchdog group were legally confused and that the question of whether any laws were broken is in any case moot. Members of the public, it argued, have no "enforceable rights” when it comes to challenging the destruction of specific government records. A court order was unnecessary, the department said, because the government was already taking steps to do what is required. A “partial version of the chat” had already been committed to a federal record keeping system, it said, by “at least one agency.”

Among other new details, Monday’s disclosures provided a range of dates for the preservation efforts at multiple agencies, including the date that Hegseth’s phone was finally “searched.”

Screenshots of chats on Marco Rubio's phone were likewise captured on March 27, the State Department said. The Office of the Director of National Intelligence said its screenshots were taken the following day, on March 28. The CIA said it took a screenshot of the chat on March 31; however, it also clarified one of its previous declarations to the court, revealing that the image shows mainly the name of the chat group and some of its members and settings but not any of its “substantive messages.”

American Oversight previewed a case to amend its initial complaint during a hearing last week, with plans to encourage the court to expand the scope of its review to include the now-reported widespread use of Signal by top officials across the national security state.

“This attack on government transparency threatens the very foundation of our democracy,” Chukwu says. “And we are committed to using every legal tool available to expose the truth and hold those responsible accountable.”

[cryptotheism]

what's the equivalent of technicals in AS?

Salvaged Arcadia Y series + removed governors + chunks of 3inch plate steel welded to the chassis + reinforced welding mask/hard hat combo

If you live in a rural area, youve modified a plow blade into a crushing weapon, and youve put some illegal handmade solid slug rounds into your hunting shotgun.

If you're in an urban area, you've either fabricated what is essentially a handheld 1750s 12-pound naval canon. or you've got a backpack full good old fashioned molotovs.

[kangaracha]

DAYBREAK; chapter 3

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pairing lee know x reader

genre smau, dystopia AU, angst, hurt/comfort, slowburn romance, hope/hopelessness, life goes on, ordinary life during extraordinary times

summary independant entertainment doesn't make money, everyone knows that - not dancing, not boxing. not without a company's name attached to it and the soul ripped out of it so that it can only sit on the stage bleeding. you knew you never should have agreed to get involved in his studio, that the bills would pile up and the income would run dry, that the government would come knocking telling you to shut up and sit down...but it makes him so happy, to be able to dance. it gives him a reason to stay. you don't know what you'd do without that.

taglist OPEN

previous | masterlist | next

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COMMUNITY NOTICES

SPIRITECH STRIKES REACH TWENTY DAY MARK RUNNING INTERFERENCE ON PHONE SURVEILLANCE IS ACTING AGAINST THE LAW! If you see conversation in lieu, report it! STAND WITH THE PEOPLE DON’T TAKE SPIRITECH JOBS WANTED: Work of any kind. Middle aged man, handy at everything. Call or text. REPORT THE DISCONNECTED Remember: it is illegal not to carry a Level 4 certified communications device, connected to the national network, at all times. Report all suspicions of peoples disconnected from the network to the Department of Security. Room for let in 2br apartment downtown TONIGHT AT THE BASILICA: STAR ENTERTAINMENT debuts new idol group FREEDOM

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Eunchae finds you waiting by the noticeboard at her bus stop, idly scanning the flyers pinned across it and definitely not counting the minutes until you’d both be late for work.

“Don’t tell me you’re reading those adverts,” she says, appearing so suddenly from the crowd with a hand on your shoulder that it makes you jump.

“Only the government notices,” you answer dutifully and allow her to tug you out of the crowd gathered around the bus stop and towards the hospital that sits on the corner just down the street.

"Did you see the work lines this morning?" Eunchae asks as you walk, her arm looped loosely around yours.

The memory of what you’d seen flashes through your mind - crowds of desperate people outside the doors, clamouring to be seen or heard, to be picked from the masses to earn a wage for the day. It was bottom of the barrel work, back-breaking labour and breathing thick smoke from sunup to sundown, the last chance for a meal and a night off the streets for the most desperate - once you left the lines, only the chain gangs were left, the work camps for criminals and debtors that took them out of the city and away from trouble.

"No," you answer, swinging sideways to avoid running into a man that passes right through you as if you aren't there. 

"Don’t you walk past the factories every day?" she says in disbelief. "I heard Antel fired three people yesterday, and there were people camped outside overnight for those jobs."

"I didn't really look," you say honestly, and you don't include the rest of the sentence; it makes no difference anyway.

"Do you just glue your head to the ground while you walk?" Eunchae says. "I swear you never notice anything interesting."

"Is the job crisis interesting?" you question lightly, despite the heavy weight that settles on your chest - you'd only just forked over the money from your last fine, and this topic was straying far too close to-

"Yes," Eunchae's eyes roll towards the sky. "Maybe not to you, but you know I love to stickybeak. It's all that there is in life."

You can see it in her face the moment she realises she's made the mistake you were just stepping warily around, the clench of her jaw and the fade of that joviality that had lit up her eyes. "Except for work," you add quickly, trying to salvage the situation, "and community and the profit of the nation."

The old government line echoes hollow from Eunchae's mouth in return, the thin press of her lips never once curving back into that smile. "Work, community, profit, and gossip," she jokes weakly, and then you both pause as if you'll be given a score on your bullshit immediately - but of course, she'll only find out in a few days if the fine comes.

"You talk so much rubbish," you sigh on a deep breath that is supposed to relieve some tension. "We don't even have gossip to share. What have we got going on that's interesting?"

Eunchae looks at you incredulously, her worries immediately forgotten in the face of her outrage. "Excuse me?" she says. "You have a random guy living on your couch and you're trying to tell me we have nothing to talk about?"

You wince at the reminder. It had become so normal that you'd almost forgotten. "That’s been going on for over a year," you point out. "You haven't gotten anything new since then?"

"A year ago, and he's still here," Eunchae presses. "And you still haven't told me what goes on in that one bedroom apartment."

"Because nothing goes on."

"And I'm telling you again, that is a dismal situation. Only you would pick up the prettiest, loneliest man in the city off the streets and never lay a hand on him."

"And his cats," you add mutely, though you know you're only adding fuel to the fire. 

"And his cats!" Eunchae crows. "Honestly, I would have said 'give me his number' six months ago, but I don't know how you afford the cats."

We don't, you nearly say, but you refrain, still wary from the slip you'd had just moments before. "They’re my cats too," you remind her. "And he’s not random either. He was my friend before he moved in."

"Your friend that you paid to hang out with you," Eunchae says, waving you away. "I guess if you think about it, you were wasting money on him anyway."

"Whatever keeps you alive, right?" you quip back to avoid the ire that rises like a hot iron in your throat.

"I can think of something else you could do with him that'll keep you alive," she says relentlessly.

You shake your head, disgusted, and look up at the squat, rambling building that houses the hospital. "I'm just saying," she insists. "If you’re not going to get rid of the cats, you might as well go all in."

"I’m not getting rid of the cats," you say defensively, deliberately avoiding the conversation she really wants to have.

"Two for one deal, then," she suggests cheekily, and then turns to look at the road as a factory worker limps across between cars, held upright by two other men.

"That's about to be our problem," you sigh without moving to follow them. Your feet are tired, your legs rooted to the ground even though whatever the man is here for is clearly serious, if the factory has let him go. You see so much of it that sometimes it is hard to remember that you still care, over the lure of standing out in the sunshine for two more minutes, away from the unending chaos of that building.

What a horrible thing to say, you think, and you start the slow walk towards the main doors, compromising on a casual amble.

"I hate this place," Eunchae says, throwing the words carelessly to the wind. "I feel like I never leave."

"You could always get a job somewhere else," you suggest mildly. "Go join the factory lines or something. Or Spiritech."

"And get the shit beaten out of me by the picket lines?" she throws back. "Didn't you see that guy that came in yesterday? The Spiritech people aren't playing."

"I forgot about him," you admit. Not that there had been anything to remember, his face so beaten that there were no features left to recognise and his chest caving in on itself. He hadn't been your patient anyway, so you'd been too busy to pay much attention to him, and he was forgettable, just another in a long list of victims of street violence and the strike lines protecting what’s theirs. Striking for better conditions only worked, after all, if no one was willing to fill the positions they’d left vacant by standing out on the street day after day.

"I wish I could forget," Eunchae says. "He's on my ward today."

"I'm surprised he's still alive," you say mildly.

Eunchae shakes her head, her mouth opening and closing again like she doesn't want to talk about it. "There's got to be a better job than the factories," she says instead after a moment.

"You could finally come to the studio and learn how to dance," you suggest mildly, already bracing for the answer.

As expected, Eunchae snorts. "So I can audition for an entertainment company?" she questions. "At least being a slave here, I'm helping people."

Dangerous, dangerous, dangerous. Helping people run up unpayable debts, you go to reply - but that's dangerous too - you sew it to the back of your mouth, down in the shadows of your throat where no one will hear it. 

"You should audition," she continues, ignorant of the cold ice that crackles in your chest, the fear that creeps up your spine. "You'd love that life, wouldn't you? And you’d be able to see all those shows you can’t afford to go to."

"Maybe," you say, pushing the door open instead of answering.

The hospital lobby is quiet compared to the emergency room to the side, only a few scheduled visitors waiting their turns on the old plastic chairs. Helena sits behind the desk, her head buried in a computer screen to avoid the buzzing lights that flicker over her head. Her little radio plays on the shelf beside her, spouting out tinny music that becomes clearer the closer you walk, the end of a drum signalling the finale of a song.

Her head rises as your shadows pass her by, intending to walk straight on through. "Oh!" she says, with a wide-eyed kind of surprise that your presence wouldn't normally attract, one hand reaching out to dim the radio. "Hey! I didn't think you guys would be here yet."

"We saw someone coming in outside," Eunchae replies, pausing like she thinks Helena is being weird too. "Figured they would be paging."

"Page was cancelled," Helena says, and doesn't elaborate past the feeling of doom that pervades the air of the room. "Come here. I need someone to listen to this and tell me I'm not crazy."

Curiousity stops you in your tracks, despite the disregard for what she had been saying just a moment ago. It's not just the cryptic offer she makes that piques your interest - it's the adrenaline in the whites of her eyes, the way her heart nearly hammers through her chest and the jerky motions with which she reaches for her phone. Like she's gotten a fright, or she's excited about something; you can't decide which.

"Listen to this," she says, bringing up an audio recording that shows a timestamp for ten minutes ago. 

As soon as it starts, music from the radio playing directly into the phone's microphone, you have the crawling feeling down your spine that this is trouble, of the kind you cannot afford. 

---

RADIO TRANSCRIPT

JCRS1 LUNCHTIME HITS WITH SEUNGWON AND CHAEMIN

[CHORUS]

Let's runGo anywhere that isn't suffocating, run (Run, run, yeah)Hide all your immaturity, runRunning on the highwayI don't want to choose a destinationIs there a place on earth where I can rest?I just run with both feet aimlessly, keep running

CM - Welcome back! You're listening to Station One, and you just heard Midnight by Kim Hee, followed by-

SW - Followed by 'Run' by HAN, a new one that has been shooting up the charts! Up 97 places today to number 3, and expected to reach number 1 tomorrow.

CM - Yes, the fastest climb of a track on day one in history, it's quite impressive.

SW - We only just acquired the track ourselves! Chaemin, what was your first impression of the song?

CM - I thought it was...interesting. I'm just trying to bring up the name of the company involved-

SW - I believe HAN is an independent artist.

CM - That's very unusual, isn't it?

SW - Yes, it is - here we are. HAN is an independant artist with twenty six credits to his name, including songs such as 'Annihilation' and 'Alibi'. Of his twenty six records-

SW - Fifteen are prohibited content.

CM - Choosing to remain independant comes with those sorts of risks though, doesn't it?

SW - Yes, it does. That's what makes company-owned artists much more reliable sources of music, and the reason that companies are so large in the first place.

CM - I couldn't imagine going through all the cost and stress of getting your song made just to have it prohibited for unsanctioned lyrics.

---

TAGLIST

@kokinu09 @rainfallingfromthesky @keepswingin @rylea08 @puppysmileseungmin

@thatonedemigodfromseoul @bokkiesplace @amyyscorner @dearly-somber @kayleefriedchicken

@realrintaro @estella-novella

[plagueddead]

Technoverse - A guide for interaction roleplay and insert wise.

This was EXTREMELY requested

This blog exceeds to help newcomers to my AU environment. This blog will be updated over time if I see fit to change how this works interacts with itself. This blogs images will be updated over time if I find more suitable matches.

Photos have been found through Pinterest and art station. I will try and credit the source if I can.

This is an AU inspired by Rise of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. This is a free to join au. Major canon characters are prohibited from being claimed. Villains are up to discussion.

This is a isn't the backstory post of the turtles but the world they live in.

THIS AU CONTAINS TOPICS OF RACISM, ILLEGAL SUBSTANCES AND ACTIONS, AND VIOLENCE. Though I've done my best to try and make it as friendly as possible. This AU is a 16+ story due to these warnings.

Current AU time

25 years after the ROTTMNT movie.

AU Theme

Cyberpunk dystopia

Fantasy

Dark fantasy

Major city settings within AU

New York, Hong Kong, Tokyo, Seoul, London

City Summary

After the integration of Yokai as independent civilians and free citizens world wide, and with the collaboration of their technology as well as krang salvage, a new system of buildings and interlinks have been created to accommodate citizens. Buildings stacked overhead that pierce the clouds, the old world was left to turn into slums and poor living areas on ground zero. Due to permanent clouds caused by pollution and overhead cities, these major empires are in a permanent state of darkness. Neon signs often light these cities to create a spectacular aroura of lights and designs. Though with a permanent overcast comes with a cost, as rain clouds mix with polluted smog to create a toxic like rain that causes many illnesses. It's common among every citizen to keep an oxygen mask at all times in case of rain.

City main inspiration and reference: Altered Carbon

Major cities as listed above are unique as floating SSC (Solar System Cosmopolis) Cities cover most of the dense populated area. These floating cities serve as purpose as secured homing for politicians, celebrities, and mostly the rich. Though they are also engineered mega labs founded by Barron Draxum and Donatello Hamato. They serve to bring back and study extinct species, cultivate cures for major diseases, and help improve on already futuristic technology. They spin very slowly and resemble that of a solar system. Hense the nickname.

These cities are held afloat by a self sustainable gravity generator that uses the gravity of a man made miniature star; created by Donatello Hamato (age 20).

Main inspiration from CMD Studios recent project!!!

Hidden cities

These main cities are focused world points for another reason. They rest above other hidden cities in which they have their own theme and setting.

New Yorks hidden city belongs to Big Mama, a spider Yokai who deals in illegal gambling and the distribution of illegal mystic items. NY Hidden city remains as a hub for traveling species of Yokai from all around the world.

Hong Kongs hidden city belongs to [REDACTED TBA]- A Dragon Yokai who deals in illegal sales of mystic items and krang salvage from the old battle.

This hidden city is less developed than the others, as most accomodation plans have been denied to preserve its pristine buildings and history. This hidden city resembles deep mountain caverns with buildings built into the sides. Common mystical creatures from Chinese mythology live within this city and rarely travel. Humans are not allowed.

Main inspiration by David Noren!

London's hidden city belongs to [REDACTED TBA] A plant like fairy Yokai who often helps with creating forged ID's to help Yokai find a better place to live. She also is known to sell potions that aren't approved by the hidden cities overlords and FDA.

This hidden city has developed slowly over time, but due to quick overgrowth of plants and trees. Most buildings have been built into large glowing trees that hang over the city in beautiful rainbow colors. The ground is a great hub for growing fruits and herbs for medicines. The Yokai in this hidden city are spirits from English folklore. They have spread over different cities over time.

Main inspiration found on Thin blue line on Pinterest!

Seouls hidden city belongs to [REDACTED] a Polar Bear Yokai who deals in illegal weapon distribution and species trafficking.

This hidden city is up to date and mostly in an indoor environment due to this hidden city being within a freezing temperature climate. More artic themed Yokai live within, but this hidden city is popular as a summar retreat by humans and other Yokai looking to stay cool for the summer. But this hidden city isn't as welcoming to humans as the others.

Main inspiration by Annabale Siconolfi!

Tokyos hidden city belongs to Yeosobai. A jellyfish Yokai who deals with handles most black markets and distribution of illegal substances.

This hidden city is completely underwater. Surrounded on a deep voided ocean under Japan, pod cities have been added to accommodate air breathing citizens, though most buildings were air tight even before. This hidden city is also a large hub for tourists due to its underwater appeal. This city distributes most seafood around the county. Known for its large amount of attractions and adult clubs, it's also a very crime ridden city.

This is also where Current Donatello resides.

Main inspiration creator unknown

Human and Yokai stances

With the sudden booming population of mutants and Yokai integrating into human society, of course tensions and protests by humans were bound to happen. A world they were so used to was building into something unknown before their very eyes after all. And so, tensions between species rose.

Humans with a deep dislike towards other species either hide their hate, or become extremists. Often getting tag as cultists as over years hate crimes toward Yokai and mutants became a world wide situation. Yokai were often kidnapped from their homes to be found barley recognizable by their attackers. Yokai would retaliate, and after much tension, civil wars broke out. Protests for safer living for both species were in demand, and so most governments integrated an artificial intelligence police force that contained mostly droids to prevent race picking. Most countries have adapted this form of law enforcement.

Cultists are still a major problem though their numbers have thinned.

The term Mutant has become a word to target Yokai and mutants in a hateful way, and this word soon became outdated. All non humans are now under the identification of Yokai. This includes mixed races between the two.

It's common for Yokai and humans relationships! Often by now the first generations of Yokai and humans hybrid children are born!

There are even schools for these rare breeds as they are still being studied as a new species.

It is illegal for most countries to have discrimination between species. No Yokai only or human only living spaces, restaurants, or shops.

Though within most slums there is a secret rule to separate the species as mostly disgrunted humans and Yokai live here.

And now we're here!

I want my character to join the au, but I don't know what's allowed!

This part of the blog aims to help you adapt your character into this new universe.

What should my character wear?!

It's really up to you! Most humans and Yokai wear mostly cyberpunk themed clothing! Often I find Pinterest as a source of inspiration. I think your character would fit better if it comes from a certain part of the world. Armor and glowing clothes are welcome and encouraged! Get creative!

I want my character to have cool robotic limbs and mods in their body! Is this allowed?

Yep! And encouraged! This is a futuristic setting! So modifications to the body aren't uncommon!

Can my characters have cool unique weapons?

Of course! And I'd love to see them!! 🔥🔥🔥

Do I have to ask before joining this AU?

Nope! But I'd love to see/read your creation! Or see that you're inspired to join!

Does my character have to be human?

Nope! Any species welcome!

Can my character already know personally main characters?

That's up for discussion. Current time Donatello isn't open to being known nor talkative to strangers. I'd like it if you didnt. He's playing dead unlike the rest of his brothers. Leo's up for discussion but with Mikey and Raph, they are more social and I can see them having multiple friends. Leo's treated more as a police officer and doesn't have a lot of friends due to his work.

Can my character work for the main boss Yokai of the hidden city.

Yes! I'd like you to stay close to what they do in terms of how they run things!

Can I claim ships with these characters?

NO.

Claiming ships with only your characters and main cast is prohibited. That's why Y/N is created as a medium for all 18+ participants that want to ship their characters with main cast. Ships are fun and welcome! But you cannot claim it as a you only ship.

Thank you for reading what I have for now! More to be added!

[theoraeeken]

im getting dangerously close to the time when i need to start writing my masters thesis but when its done i think im going to sit down and write the first long form fanfiction that ive attempted in years. as someone who happily lives in the '2000-7000 word oneshot world' this is very scary to me but also i am gripped with the possibility of using my degree for evil and finally writing the archaeologist au of my dreams.

specifically, an au in which liam dunbar, leading expert in [enter historical period] archaeology, is asked to come supervise the excavation of what might be a hugely important and valuable site in his area. due to the nature of the work, a private security expert, theo raeken, has also been hired to oversee the excavation, due to credible concerns of illegal salvage at the site. theo, unbeknownst to his employers, is a thief dealing in antiquities, looking to use his position to secure any precious artefacts that he can sell on the black market.

as the dig progresses, the two men spend more and more time together. at first, theo is searching for any clues to what might be uncovered, earning liam's trust, and preparing for setting him up as the scapegoat for the heist. but as the weeks go by, theo finds himself more and more reluctant to go through with his plans....

yeah its not exactly going to be classical literature but liam was literally made to be an archaeologist and theo is so perfect as a thief and im just very excited. this kinda functions like the remake of the mummy except mine wont have tom cruise in it and also wont be fucking shit.