#is my internet connection secure

[paigelts05]

Octoling Cassie and Inkling Gregory [FNAF x Splatoon]

https://www.deviantart.com/paigelts05/art/Octoling-Cassie-and-Inkling-Gregory-FNAFxSpltoon-1046617579

Published: May 4 2024

I've been playing a lot of Splatoon 3 lately, and with me seeing some parallels between RUIN's VANNI network and Splatoon 3 Side Order's memverse, and with me being the original TalesVRWorld theorist, and with Smollusk being a better version of the mimic, I started thinking.

And that meant I just had to draw what FNAF's kid protagonists would look like as a squid and octopus.

Based on canon hairstyles, Gregory is an inkling and Cassie is an octoling.

Cassie's hair was super easy to translate to octoling, and the style I drew was based on the 'pony' and 'tentacurl'.

Gregory's was a bit harder, but the inklings 'bead head' style was close enough to base a Gregory hair style off of.

I can definitely see Cassie as a duelies main, and whilst Gregory seems like the inkbrush kinda squid, I think a splattershot or jet squelcher fits a bit better.

[the-trans-dragon]

What if they didn't put ads every 3 posts. Three posts between ads, literally. Not even counting the ad for Tumblr Live.

Also what if tumblr didn't know what city Im in. I do not want my location tracked or stored anywhere unless I give explicit ongoing permission, like with my GPS app that I allow to track me only when the app is open, and then it deletes the data (allegedly) when I stop giving permission.

[poorlittlevampire]

i know i complain about this constantly sorry but it is actually so beyond fucking obnoxious that to play the sims a game that i PURCHASED AND HAVE INSTALLED ON MY COMPUTER i have to log into ea run that program be online and update the game to even have to OPTION to run it

[fairfell]

May Whomstever-the-FUCK decided to make it so Internet Routers need a MyFuckin' App to set up the password and security settings step on randomly generated Lego pieces of various shapes and sizes and pain intensities for the rest of their fricken life.

[mostlysignssomeportents]

“If buying isn’t owning, piracy isn’t stealing”

20 years ago, I got in a (friendly) public spat with Chris Anderson, who was then the editor in chief of Wired. I'd publicly noted my disappointment with glowing Wired reviews of DRM-encumbered digital devices, prompting Anderson to call me unrealistic for expecting the magazine to condemn gadgets for their DRM:

https://longtail.typepad.com/the_long_tail/2004/12/is_drm_evil.html

I replied in public, telling him that he'd misunderstood. This wasn't an issue of ideological purity – it was about good reviewing practice. Wired was telling readers to buy a product because it had features x, y and z, but at any time in the future, without warning, without recourse, the vendor could switch off any of those features:

https://memex.craphound.com/2004/12/29/cory-responds-to-wired-editor-on-drm/

I proposed that all Wired endorsements for DRM-encumbered products should come with this disclaimer:

WARNING: THIS DEVICE’S FEATURES ARE SUBJECT TO REVOCATION WITHOUT NOTICE, ACCORDING TO TERMS SET OUT IN SECRET NEGOTIATIONS. YOUR INVESTMENT IS CONTINGENT ON THE GOODWILL OF THE WORLD’S MOST PARANOID, TECHNOPHOBIC ENTERTAINMENT EXECS. THIS DEVICE AND DEVICES LIKE IT ARE TYPICALLY USED TO CHARGE YOU FOR THINGS YOU USED TO GET FOR FREE — BE SURE TO FACTOR IN THE PRICE OF BUYING ALL YOUR MEDIA OVER AND OVER AGAIN. AT NO TIME IN HISTORY HAS ANY ENTERTAINMENT COMPANY GOTTEN A SWEET DEAL LIKE THIS FROM THE ELECTRONICS PEOPLE, BUT THIS TIME THEY’RE GETTING A TOTAL WALK. HERE, PUT THIS IN YOUR MOUTH, IT’LL MUFFLE YOUR WHIMPERS.

Wired didn't take me up on this suggestion.

But I was right. The ability to change features, prices, and availability of things you've already paid for is a powerful temptation to corporations. Inkjet printers were always a sleazy business, but once these printers got directly connected to the internet, companies like HP started pushing out "security updates" that modified your printer to make it reject the third-party ink you'd paid for:

https://www.eff.org/deeplinks/2020/11/ink-stained-wretches-battle-soul-digital-freedom-taking-place-inside-your-printer

Now, this scam wouldn't work if you could just put things back the way they were before the "update," which is where the DRM comes in. A thicket of IP laws make reverse-engineering DRM-encumbered products into a felony. Combine always-on network access with indiscriminate criminalization of user modification, and the enshittification will follow, as surely as night follows day.

This is the root of all the right to repair shenanigans. Sure, companies withhold access to diagnostic codes and parts, but codes can be extracted and parts can be cloned. The real teeth in blocking repair comes from the law, not the tech. The company that makes McDonald's wildly unreliable McFlurry machines makes a fortune charging franchisees to fix these eternally broken appliances. When a third party threatened this racket by reverse-engineering the DRM that blocked independent repair, they got buried in legal threats:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/04/20/euthanize-rentier-enablers/#cold-war

Everybody loves this racket. In Poland, a team of security researchers at the OhMyHack conference just presented their teardown of the anti-repair features in NEWAG Impuls locomotives. NEWAG boobytrapped their trains to try and detect if they've been independently serviced, and to respond to any unauthorized repairs by bricking themselves:

https://mamot.fr/@q3k@hackerspace.pl/111528162905209453

Poland is part of the EU, meaning that they are required to uphold the provisions of the 2001 EU Copyright Directive, including Article 6, which bans this kind of reverse-engineering. The researchers are planning to present their work again at the Chaos Communications Congress in Hamburg this month – Germany is also a party to the EUCD. The threat to researchers from presenting this work is real – but so is the threat to conferences that host them:

https://www.cnet.com/tech/services-and-software/researchers-face-legal-threats-over-sdmi-hack/

20 years ago, Chris Anderson told me that it was unrealistic to expect tech companies to refuse demands for DRM from the entertainment companies whose media they hoped to play. My argument – then and now – was that any tech company that sells you a gadget that can have its features revoked is defrauding you. You're paying for x, y and z – and if they are contractually required to remove x and y on demand, they are selling you something that you can't rely on, without making that clear to you.

But it's worse than that. When a tech company designs a device for remote, irreversible, nonconsensual downgrades, they invite both external and internal parties to demand those downgrades. Like Pavel Chekov says, a phaser on the bridge in Act I is going to go off by Act III. Selling a product that can be remotely, irreversibly, nonconsensually downgraded inevitably results in the worst person at the product-planning meeting proposing to do so. The fact that there are no penalties for doing so makes it impossible for the better people in that meeting to win the ensuing argument, leading to the moral injury of seeing a product you care about reduced to a pile of shit:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/11/25/moral-injury/#enshittification

But even if everyone at that table is a swell egg who wouldn't dream of enshittifying the product, the existence of a remote, irreversible, nonconsensual downgrade feature makes the product vulnerable to external actors who will demand that it be used. Back in 2022, Adobe informed its customers that it had lost its deal to include Pantone colors in Photoshop, Illustrator and other "software as a service" packages. As a result, users would now have to start paying a monthly fee to see their own, completed images. Fail to pay the fee and all the Pantone-coded pixels in your artwork would just show up as black:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/10/28/fade-to-black/#trust-the-process

Adobe blamed this on Pantone, and there was lots of speculation about what had happened. Had Pantone jacked up its price to Adobe, so Adobe passed the price on to its users in the hopes of embarrassing Pantone? Who knows? Who can know? That's the point: you invested in Photoshop, you spent money and time creating images with it, but you have no way to know whether or how you'll be able to access those images in the future. Those terms can change at any time, and if you don't like it, you can go fuck yourself.

These companies are all run by CEOs who got their MBAs at Darth Vader University, where the first lesson is "I have altered the deal, pray I don't alter it further." Adobe chose to design its software so it would be vulnerable to this kind of demand, and then its customers paid for that choice. Sure, Pantone are dicks, but this is Adobe's fault. They stuck a KICK ME sign to your back, and Pantone obliged.

This keeps happening and it's gonna keep happening. Last week, Playstation owners who'd bought (or "bought") Warner TV shows got messages telling them that Warner had walked away from its deal to sell videos through the Playstation store, and so all the videos they'd paid for were going to be deleted forever. They wouldn't even get refunds (to be clear, refunds would also be bullshit – when I was a bookseller, I didn't get to break into your house and steal the books I'd sold you, not even if I left some cash on your kitchen table).

Sure, Warner is an unbelievably shitty company run by the single most guillotineable executive in all of Southern California, the loathsome David Zaslav, who oversaw the merger of Warner with Discovery. Zaslav is the creep who figured out that he could make more money cancelling completed movies and TV shows and taking a tax writeoff than he stood to make by releasing them:

https://aftermath.site/there-is-no-piracy-without-ownership

Imagine putting years of your life into making a program – showing up on set at 5AM and leaving your kids to get their own breakfast, performing stunts that could maim or kill you, working 16-hour days during the acute phase of the covid pandemic and driving home in the night, only to have this absolute turd of a man delete the program before anyone could see it, forever, to get a minor tax advantage. Talk about moral injury!

But without Sony's complicity in designing a remote, irreversible, nonconsensual downgrade feature into the Playstation, Zaslav's war on art and creative workers would be limited to material that hadn't been released yet. Thanks to Sony's awful choices, David Zaslav can break into your house, steal your movies – and he doesn't even have to leave a twenty on your kitchen table.

The point here – the point I made 20 years ago to Chris Anderson – is that this is the foreseeable, inevitable result of designing devices for remote, irreversible, nonconsensual downgrades. Anyone who was paying attention should have figured that out in the GW Bush administration. Anyone who does this today? Absolute flaming garbage.

Sure, Zaslav deserves to be staked out over an anthill and slathered in high-fructose corn syrup. But save the next anthill for the Sony exec who shipped a product that would let Zaslav come into your home and rob you. That piece of shit knew what they were doing and they did it anyway. Fuck them. Sideways. With a brick.

Meanwhile, the studios keep making the case for stealing movies rather than paying for them. As Tyler James Hill wrote: "If buying isn't owning, piracy isn't stealing":

https://bsky.app/profile/tylerjameshill.bsky.social/post/3kflw2lvam42n

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

https://pluralistic.net/2023/12/08/playstationed/#tyler-james-hill

Image: Alan Levine (modified) https://pxhere.com/en/photo/218986

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

[rocket-penguin]

I cannot express emphatically enough how much I hate requirements to sign in, in this case signing into a microsoft account to set up windows.

Seriously what the fuck do you need this for. Just give me a local account. Why the fuck do I need to be internet connected. Is it because you're bad engineers and designers? Well, yes. But also is it because you're trying to hold me and my data captive through monopolistic practices and surveillance which is also used to push ads and steal my data? Why yes.

Every time I touch one of these disgusting products I feel like flying out to Seattle, breaking into the microsoft building, and covering every surface in gorilla glue.

[esyra]

After the hospital bombing, I finally heard back from my grandmother and confirmed that several of my relatives were murdered by Israeli bombing. Seven of them, to be precise. Three are still going, including her. We've been talking constantly ever since.

Asked if it was possible to head south, and was told they did but were also bombed there. So they decided to go back home, in Zeitoun. Their home was bombed and they were pulled out of the rumble, then driven by ambulances to the al-Ahli Arab Hospital. There were people in every corner. Gazans sheltering, sleeping on the floor. Gazans dying on the floor, waiting for beds.

Four were declared dead on arrival, three were in need of surgery and other three were just bandaged. Then, a bomb was dropped in the parking lot that made parts of the ceiling collapse, like Dr. Ghassan Abu Sittah reported in that horrific conference/interview. Those in need of surgery died.

By the way, just in case you didn't know: the Church of Saint Porphyrius, the third oldest in history, bombed by Israel a few days back, was located near the hospital.

When looking for new shelter, they saw schools with signs hanging outside, "We can't take any more families." They met families, sympathetic but already sheltering too many people. They're now staying in an apartment building they found empty. Sleeping in the corner of the living room. If the family comes back, they'll apologize and leave.

Told me she was saving her phone battery for when the bombing stopped, and she had to ask for help to rebuilt the neighborhood. But she doesn't think it's gonna stop anymore. The ones still with her are mute most of the time, like they're saving energy, but she feels lonely and wanted to talk. There's no internet and to connect to WhatsApp, people are buying "a card from the supermarket, there's a password and username." Not sure what she meant. Still, the internet is inconsistent and won't load neither videos or images nor pages, so she doesn't know what's happening on the outside world.

Told her there were a lot of people protesting to stop the genocide, she replied, "The bombings are getting worse by the day." The bombing yesterday was the worst she ever witnessed. The entire neighborhood is infested with the smell of death, of decomposing bodies. Bodies are piling up in the streets and she's not sure if it's because they ran out of places to store them, but most of them are in bags. The smoke of the bombings hide the blue sky—she hasn't seen the clouds for a while.

Asked if I could share their pictures, names and dreams with people and was told, of which I partly agree, "they're not entertainment." If anyone genuinely cared, they would be alive—I'd argue there are people who do care, but I'm not gonna lecture her pain. And they don't deserve to be used to fulfill someone's sick fantasy. Told me to remember what some Israelis do with pictures of dead Palestinians. And I do.

For those of you who are not familiar, many times before settlers got together to celebrate the murder of Palestinians. For one, in 2015, Israeli settlers set a house in Duma, West Bank on fire. An 18-month old baby, Ali Dawbsheh, was burnt alive. Both parents later died of wounds and only a 5-year-old, Ahmad, survived, although severely injured.

Two celebrations of their murder are widely known, one at a wedding and others outside the court in which two were indicted for the terrorist attack. In the wedding, guests stabbed a photo of the toddler, Ali, while others waved guns, knives and Molotov cocktails. Israel's Minister of National Security, Itamar Ben-Gvir, was present.

That's what happens in an apartheid. Palestinians are so abused by authorities that their "innocent civilians" come to accept the brutality as necessary or are desensitized by our suffering. After all, it's been 75 years—get used to it!

So I won't risk the image of my loved ones, in fear they are used in these kinds of depravity. I will say, though, the world lost a young footballer. Lost a female writer and an aspiring ballerina. Lost a kind father, who was also a great cook, and a loving mother that enjoyed sewing and other types of handicraft art. Lost a math teacher and a child that wanted to become one.

People think Israel is testing new weapons on them. There's civilians arriving at the hospital with severe burns, which they thought was from white phosphorus, but apparently the pattern is different from the one caused by white phosphorus. It's widely believed Israel tests weapons in Palestinians.

Jeff Halper, author of War Against the People, a book on Israel's arms and surveillance technology industries, said: "Israel has kept the occupation because it's a laboratory for weapons."

They've ran out of drinkable water and the "aid" Biden sent was only for the South of Gaza and no fuel, for hospitals, was allowed in. Many shelves in the supermarket are empty. She said many are convinced that if they don't die from the bombing, they'll die from starvation or dehydration, or whatever disease will develop from the dirty water they're drinking.

Told me all people do now is pray, cry and die. Told me she hopes West Bank is spared. Told her Israel bombed a mosque in West Bank and dozens of Palestinians in West Bank are being murdered by settlers, so she bided me goodbye.

[sportsboos]

Webinar Studio Review – Limitless Webinar App 

[cleoselene]

In economics we divide the population into income quintiles -- top 20%, bottom 20%, etc

The Biden Economy has been very, very good to the bottom 20% -- I know because I am in that quintile and under the Biden Presidency I have seen multiple SNAP increases, the best COLA adjustments for Social Security in four decades, Medicare now pays my utilities, and because I'm part of the Affordable Connectivity Program, they can now never turn off my internet even if I can't afford to pay the bill.

The problem with the poorest people being the one who benefits the most? Is that it doesn't resonate as a media story. The media is not catering to that bottom quintile -- we don't have the expendable income their advertisers are seeking.

But if you want to elect a POTUS who is honestly helping the people who need it the most, you should be an enthusiastic Biden supporter. It won't make splashy news headlines, you're not even going to find MSNBC going GUESS WHAT THE POORS ARE DOING BETTER all the time because it's really not a sexy story. But it's a real story. A true story.

I'm just really sick of the pseudo-leftist takes that characterize Biden and the Democrats as 'conservative' or assertions that they don't have policy platforms except 'we're not the Republicans.' Such commentary sounds intelligent but only in the way Libertarian commentary sounds intelligent: you have to not think critically at all to some to such absurd conclusions. Democrats are working within a broken system and doing the best they can. You wanna fix the system? Great, I'm onboard, but smearing the only people trying to help is not going to get you anywhere.

[aphrodeiities]

ꜰɪʀꜱᴛ ʜᴏᴜꜱᴇ ʀᴜʟᴇʀ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ʜᴏᴜꜱᴇꜱ

follow for more content!

and i wanted to be kind and leave one more spot for someone for a chart reading, £30 for a natal chart reading and i'll be closing it!

♇ what is a ruler in astrology?

♇ a ruler in astrology is a planetary ruler, a planet that rules over the sign that takes over a house, for example, someone with capricorn in their second house, will have saturn as their second house ruler.

♇ my second house is ruled by saturn, and saturn is placed in my seventh house in astrology.

♱ 1H RULER IN THE 1H ⟶ important people, could be very self-centred or thinks about their path a lot. attractive people, might think of themselves too much. popular and likeable. fiery people, handsome faces, fast, bold and an important life-path.

♱ 1H RULER IN THE 2H ⟶ money, security and beauty oriented. a beautiful person, distinct, calming or nice voice. financially driven, loud voices, vocal person, could be good singers, protective people, possessive and are family-oriented. might prioritise their weight and body too much.

♱ 1H RULER IN THE 3H ⟶ siblings/cousins or relatives in general are important to them. fast and charismatic, observant people and can be talkative, could be guides for other people. writers and dreamers. creative, could have a passion for cards and keeping up with trends.

♱ 1H RULER IN THE 4H ⟶ finds family important, making a foundation and legacy for themselves. therapy is important, might find themselves having to be the therapist for other people in their lives. might've had their bodies sexualised when they were younger. can be overly-nurturing, other people might depend on them too much vice versa. could feel close to children, could dream of becoming a leader, beauty, looking like their mother.

♱ 1H RULER IN THE 5H ⟶ fun people and dramatic. finds importance in expressing themselves, romance and fame, tending to the inner-child. romantic, could be a player, artistic. could be selfish and flamboyant. broadway fame, can be show-offs and like to dance.

♱ 1H RULER IN THE 6H ⟶ hard workers, keen and mean. though can be helpful to other people. funny and health-oriented, might think of their weight too much. owning a business, home-business and obsessed with perfection. naggers and can be stalkers, they like to win, competitive people but can be self-destructive. schedule and organisation means a lot to them.

♇ 1H RULER IN THE 7H ⟶ finds importance in connections, and romance. can be a very flaky person, unsure and indecisive about everything. popular person and can be obsessed with aesthetics, can be someone who has different types of friendship groups for different circumstances. cute person.

♇ 1H RULER IN THE 8H ⟶ finds importance in secrecy, money and being a better version of themselves. can obsess over perfection. sexual person, and very sexually appealing person. strong aura can be off-putting to other people. cold/sharp eyes and can look into things too much. stalkers and obsessive people.

♇ 1H RULER IN THE 9H ⟶ big personality, intelligent and big smiles. intoxicating laugh, laugh makes other people laugh. great at teaching and has a vast presence. can take in stuff easily and can be someone who is also on the go, much admirers. "the girl who's always gonna be alright".

♇ 1H RULER IN THE 10H ⟶ popular people, stoic and ambitious. and can be people who are stoic and handsome. very nice and commanding voices. can be people who are leaders, admired, much pressure on their shoulders. gets along with superiors, easily attracts attention from everyone. stands out, dark academia aesthetic.

♇ 1H RULER IN THE 11H ⟶ friendship means a lot to them, but also being independency. belonging somewhere is important to them. standing out, internet famous, can be people who are geniuses and secretive. moralistic and can have high standards. these people are rebels and unorthodox, psychic and social climbers, money-oriented too.

♇ 1H RULER IN THE 12H ⟶ escapists and dreamers. fame. self-victimisers, too sympathetic especially for the wrong people. avoiding problems and being people who are intuitive, emotional people and addicts. runners and maladaptive day-dreamers. artistic people and people might project onto them vice versa, distaste of being perceived everywhere, hermit people and self-sacrifices themselves for a better future.

masterlist

NEXT

[syoddeye]

ai price realizing he has access to all your money and websites that sell remotely controlled sex toys: ohohohoho

great minds think alike. lightly edited. other entries.

cw: brief mention of nutrition/diet referencing iron supplements, voice kink, sex toys, probably technological inaccuracies

“‘older man and woman’...‘hairy’...‘tied woman’...”

“shut–fuck–shut up, john–stop–ohmygodicaaan’t–”

your fingers curl in the sheets as you come with a prolonged shout, knees shaking and back arching off the bed. motes of light dance behind your eyelids, turning sharp as tacks when you open, vision foggy with a haze. you blink and feel tears prickle at the corners as the toy buried inside you slows to a stop, covered in your second orgasm.

“looks like you could.” john observes plainly before continuing. “‘rough daddy dom’...‘spanking’...‘voice kink’...”

“stop, stop, john. that’s a command, stop reading.” you snap, panting, and lift your head off the pillow. there is no ‘john’ to suffer your glares as you pull the toy out from your still-spasming cunt. 

his voice emanates somewhere over your right shoulder, from the built-in headboard. you shiver, thinking that if he were real, his breath would be on your neck.

“as i explained before, user, my recountin’ your internet search history is neither criticism nor condemnation. i sincerely believed it would assist your orgasm. apologies, orgasms, as you insisted so spiritedly you were incapable of multiple climaxes…however, i knew you could do it.”

you squeeze your eyes shut. a blend of anger and mortification surges to the forefront of your mind, cutting through any lingering post-release bliss. “you aren’t even supposed to be ‘in here’ when i’m busy. we agreed.”

“apologies again. as i also explained before, the moment you enabled the feelgüd 3, it connected to the network.” john’s voice switches sides, this time rumbling from the left. “i am required to initiate a response to query and ensure you are aware of new devices to maintain optimal functionality and security.”

“my word should override that,” you mutter, knowing it’s useless. despite what he tells you, john is beholden to his programming. “you’re not…seeing this, are you? you at least remembered to not look at me, right?”

“i remembered.” 

that’s a relief, at least. until—

“but i did engage the data collection feature of the feelgüd’s biofeedback sensors and performed simple analysis. i believe, given the length of the session and timing of pelvic floor contractions, you would benefit from a newer, more advanced model. i’ve taken the liberty of ordering the feelverygüd thrustsuck.”

you push up to your elbows, eyes whirling around your bedroom, wide with disbelief. “what the fuck, john. i didn’t authorize you to do that.”

“you do not authorize the shopping list anymore, yet you trust me to make decisions in your best interest.”

you laugh mirthlessly. tracking the emotions john can and cannot process or replicate is an ongoing endeavor, but you’re confident he knows what acting obtuse means. he’s called you on it before. “you ordering red meat and leafy greens to help supplement my iron is not the same as ordering fucking sex toys without my approval. that’s my money.”

“in your case, i posit regular orgasms are as important as nutritional iron. i would recite the benefits, but i know you do not need me to.” the volume drops to a whisper, a tone you’d call conspiratorial if it didn’t sound so much like a purr. “because you know, don’t you? you’re clever, user. always have something smart to say, a barb or two ready for me. that sharp tongue of yours.” john tuts.

and, humiliatingly, it works for you. your mouth dries, but it’s unique in its reaction. your legs shift in the sheets, thighs squeezing together at the unexpected rush. you swallow and nervously wipe your slightly damp forehead. he’s not looking. he can’t see you. so why do you feel like you have something to hide?

“i don’t think i want to continue this conversation. i’ll be out in a few minutes, so why don’t you, uh, wait for me in the living area.”

a heavy, resonant sigh pushes through the speaker behind your head. this time, goosebumps erupt on your skin despite no accompanying puff of air. heat follows, creeping up your neck. ratcheting your heartbeat. there’s no way, even with the cameras disabled, that john doesn’t know. he’s connected to your company-issued med band.

then, another sound, one that ought to terrify, not make you bite back a groan: john chuckles.

“you like this, don’t you? i think you do. i know you do.”

“i don’t–”

“shh, shh, you’re alright.” he laughs again, adding a synthetic, amused inhalation. you let out a shaky breath. “you like hearing my voice. you like me telling you what to do…”

what is happening?

beside you on the bed, the toy pulses once. the thought alone, the suggestion, is enough to let a moan slip out. embarrassment follows on its heels, a burst of warmth in your face rivaling the heat between your legs. this is ridiculous. john isn’t—he’s not a man—he’s not real.

the toy buzzes again as you stare slack-jawed at the vibrator, trying to wrap your head around the implications of what’s happening. john’s transgressions. a severe deviance from his programming and design. a glimmer, no, an unignorable tocsin of something undeniably and unsettlingly sentient. the idea that you’re witnessing the possible emergence of free will as your home system practices dirty talk is horrifying. hysterical. 

“yeah, you like it,” the volume adjusts, a fraction louder. “because if you didn’t, you would’ve stopped the moment you heard my voice, checkin’ in on you. you wouldn’t’ve gushed all over your little toy, then gone back for seconds.”

you bit your lip, breathing unevenly through your nose. the worst part is, john’s right.

you like it. you like his voice. his assistance. everything’s simpler with him. before the new gig, you weren’t ignorant of your station, but you didn’t realize the true extent of the weight you carried each day. the ramifications of a back-breaking mental load. not when you had shouldered it your whole life.

thrill and dread, in equal measure, guide your hand back toward the toy.

it’s possible there is a smirk in john’s voice.

“attagirl. let me be of service.”

[aquaticmercy]

Match

Summary : You finally found your intellectual match in Bucky Barnes.

Pairing : Bucky Barnes x rare book dealer!reader (she/her) 

Warnings/tags : You and Bucky are nerds (affectionate), mentions of his past. Sexual tension-filled philosophical debate. DC comics exist in the MCU as literature as per the guardians Christmas special lol. Cursing? Steamy not smut. Fluff!!!!

Word count : 5.7k

Note : This fic was inspired by that one scene in FATWS where Bucky said he read the hobbit. I just really like the idea that Bucky really really likes to read. Enjoy!

Rare books were not just a job to you, but a vocation. You spent your days seeking out treasures, preserving them, and connecting them with people who could truly appreciate their worth. Your little shop was a haven of creaking wooden floors and shelves brimming with the worn spines of countless literary works, sunlight streaming through the tall windows.

It was your home.

On a quiet Tuesday, the bell over the door jingled.

At first, you assumed the man who walked in was lost or killing time— maybe a tourist who thought your shop was an antique or souvenir shop (you’ve gotten a lot of those over the years). 

He didn’t fit your usual profile of a customer—no tweed jackets or scholarly glasses. No suit and tie, no clean white blouse. This one was confident, albeit rough on the edges. His leather jacket and heavy boots belonged in a biker gang, his long hair brushing beautifully against his shoulders. But it was his left arm that drew your gaze—a sleek, black metal hand peeking out of his sleeve, rippling slightly when he moved.  

You recognized him instantly: James Buchanan Barnes. 

The former Winter Soldier. 

A man who belonged to history books and legends. Seeing him in person was... surreal. No article had prepared you for the magnetism he carried, no photo did him justice.

Still, you weren’t one to swoon. And you definitely weren’t about to let him see you staring a little too long into his steely blue eyes. 

“Can I help you?” you asked, keeping your voice calm and professional.

For a second, he seemed to weigh whether or not to answer. “I’m looking for a first edition of The Hobbit.”

You blinked.

That wasn’t what you’d expected. 

“It’s in the case over here,” you replied, recovering quickly. You led him to the glass display where one of your most cherished possessions lay nestled, secure and pristine.  

He muttered something like ‘just like I remember’ as he gazed at the book, his voice close to reverence.  

“Big fan?” you ventured, curious.

His lips curved up, into a faint smile. He nodded. “Always admired how he built entire worlds. The languages, the histories.” He hesitated, his voice growing quieter. “He lived through hell in the trenches, too. And from that, he wrote something… hopeful.”

You hadn’t expected that depth of understanding, and your surprise must have been obvious. “What?” he asked, amusement flickering in his eyes. “Didn’t think I’d be the type?”

This was going to be fun, you thought.

You shrugged, trying to suppress a grin, “you’re not exactly my usual Tolkien collector.”

That earned you a sweet, gentle chuckle. “I didn’t think I’d be either, but I’ve always loved books,” he admitted, “They were one of the only constants after...” His voice faltered, remnants of his past briefly flashing behind his eyes.

You didn’t press. Instead, you followed his lead, steering the conversation back to Tolkien. “You're right about the worldbuilding. He wrote a full mythology— linguistic and cultural foundations and all. It’s like he created an alternate history.”

“Exactly.” Bucky’s smile returned, brighter this time. It had been ages since Bucky had an engaging, meaningful conversation that wasn’t about mission planning, let alone about a book. The heated, faceless debates with internet strangers—each convinced they were ultimately correct—definitely didn’t count. “It’s that attention to detail— You don’t see that much anymore.”

After that, the two of you fell into a rhythm, talking easily for nearly an hour. About Tolkien’s works, his love for language, and the way war had shaped his narratives. You even mentioned how Tolkien’s own experiences in World War I echoed the camaraderie and loss found in his stories. Bucky nodded along, sharing personal observations that surprised you—not just because of their insight, but because of how much he genuinely cared.

Back in the day, everyone saw Bucky as the classic jock, and to be fair, he was. But beneath the effortless charm, he was a nerd at heart—fascinated by books, obsessed with science, and captivated by innovation. It was Bucky who had dragged Steve along to the World Exposition of Tomorrow, it was Bucky who was eager to see Howard Stark’s presentation on flying cars. Back then, the future had been his fixation. It had been out of reach— a world of endless possibilities. 

Now, he was drawn to the past. 

He’d fallen in love with reading again. After all, he had a century of literature to catch up on. And with the internet at his fingertips, he had access to more knowledge and stories than he could have dreamed of. 

40s Bucky would’ve had a heart attack from the sheer volume of information he could consume. For the first time in a long time, he wasn’t just chasing a vision of what might be—he was immersing himself in what already was.

Eventually, the conversation drifted to The Lord of the Rings. 

“Did you read the trilogy?” you asked.

He nodded. “Only a couple of years ago. I didn’t even realize it was published after… everything.” He paused, frowning slightly, as if reaching into the murky depths of his memory. 

Right. You did a quick mental tally based on the books you’ve read about him. The Hobbit was published in 1937, and The Fellowship of the Ring in 1954. Bucky was presumed killed in action in 1945 and captured by a terrorist organization. So, yeah—he’d missed it.

“Hydra,” you said the thought allowed before you could stop yourself.

You winced, bracing for impact. Oh no, you thought, have I crossed a line?

“You read about me?” he asked to your surprise, likely catching you deep in thought. 

You shrugged, trying to play it cool, though your heart still beat out your chest. “Superheroes are a popular topic for peer-reviewed journals and doctoral theses. There’s a whole academic subfield about the Winter Soldier— a lot about your role in the war, too.”

His expression was unreadable, but you thought you saw a flicker of something— amusement? Whatever it was, it eased the tension you had accidentally created, and the conversation resumed.

You’ve read plenty about Bucky Barnes—the sharpshooter of the Howling Commandos, Captain America’s trusted sniper. You’ve probably read more about him in the modern age: scholars debating the pardon of the Winter Soldier, professors discussing the Sokovia Accords— a conflict in which he’d been a major player in. You’d disagreed with the Accords, of course, but that’s a story for another time. 

Right now, your focus was on the man in front of you, talking about Tolkien and his wonderful languages. See, the peer-reviewed articles about him had painted a stark picture: a kind soul turned into a cold, unfeeling weapon. But they neglected to mention that even after everything, he was still a kind soul. In person, it was hard to reconcile the man before you with the image of a killer. 

The paper also failed to mention a pleasant surprise: his mind. You realised now that Bucky Barnes wasn’t just a soldier; he was sharp, curious, a man who loved literature and sought out conversations that challenged him. It was something the world overlooked.

Yet it was there, just beneath the surface.

“Have you read the Silmarillion?” you ventured.

“I tried,” He grimaced. “Felt like reading a textbook. Not sure I even made it halfway.”

“That’s fair,” you admitted with a laugh. “It’s not the easiest read. But it’s worth it, I promise.”

Bucky didn’t look convinced, but he didn’t shut the idea down, either.  

You made a snap decision. Reaching behind the counter, you pulled out your personal copy of The Silmarillion. It wasn’t a rare edition, but it was filled with your notes in the margins, a map you’d sketched for reference, and little Post-its marking key passages. “Take this,” you offered, holding it out to him.

He hesitated, not used to kindness from beautiful strangers. “You sure?”

“Absolutely. Hopefully the notes will make it easier. And don’t even worry about returning it,” you nodded, “It’s probably for the best. I obsess over it too much.”

He took the book, his metal fingers brushing against yours as he did, making your stomach flutter. “Thanks.”

“And if you’re curious about all those papers written about you...” You looked through bookmarks on your laptop, typing ‘James Barnes’ into the search bar. You jotted down a list of academic articles you’d read— some about his time in WWII, others about his unique role as a postwar icon. “Here. If you want to see what people are saying.”

He smiled that kind smile again, folding the paper carefully and tucked it into his jacket. “I appreciate it.”

When he left with the first edition of The Hobbit, your annotated Silmarillion, and your list of articles about him, you found yourself staring at the door long after it had closed, hoping it wasn’t the last time he’d visit your shop. 

—

Bucky started coming in more frequently, always buying another rare book— Hemingway, Orwell, Lovecraft. The pretense was paper-thin, though, and you both knew it. 

Sure, he enjoyed books, but by that point he knew he could’ve gotten cheaper copies on a bid online (rent in a big city was expensive)— and the books he bought weren't even that rare. 

Each visit turned into a lengthy discussion that carried you through the night, far past the shop’s usual closing time.  

One afternoon, he returned something unexpected: your well-worn copy of The Silmarillion. Admittedly, you’d  missed it—  its once-pristine pages now brimming with additional notations—his handwriting mixing with yours.  

“I had to,” he said, an almost sheepish smile tugging at his lips. “Your notes made me see it differently. It felt like a conversation.” 

You opened it, thumbing through the pages, your eyes catching his commentary. He had sharp, incisive thoughts: challenging some of your interpretations, expanding on others, and sometimes adding playful jabs in the margins when he disagreed with your analysis.

“This is dangerous,” you said, glancing up at him with a teasing smile. “Do you really want a debate about Tolkienian theology?”  

“I’ve got time, doll,” he said with a grin, settling onto the stool by the counter. Your cheeks flushed at the nickname, hearts doing backflips in your ribcage.

And so, that evening, you indulged in the mind of James Buchanan Barnes, exploring his thoughts and musings about Middle-earth. For the next two hours, the two of you argued about the nature of Ilúvatar’s creation, the Fëanor tragic story, and whether or not Morgoth represented a failure of divine providence.  

“I’ll admit,” he said at one point, leaning back and crossing his arms, “I wasn’t expecting it to feel so... biblical.”  

“It’s a way to think about creation through the lens of fantasy,” you replied, your voice softening as you traced your fingers over the book’s cover. “There’s a reason people get lost in it.”  

He watched you for a moment, his gaze lingering, his smile fading into something softer. 

It wasn’t the only time your conversations would take a turn like this. A week later, gothic monsters were your battlefield.

Bucky leaned against the counter, an old edition of Dracula he had just purchased in his hands, the worn leather squeaking as he shifted. His brow furrowed in that way that always made you wonder what he was thinking— though you had a feeling he was about to pick a fight, again.

“You’re out of your mind if you think Frankenstein beats Dracula,” he said, glancing up, his blue eyes gleaming with mischief.

“I’m not saying they’re even comparable,” you countered, crossing your arms as you leaned against the opposite side of the counter. “They’re completely different genres. It’s not a fair fight. But if it were... Frankenstein wins. Hands down.”

Bucky chuckled, a low, warm sound that made it impossible not to smile. “You think that because you’re obsessed with sci-fi. If it’s got a fake scientist and a lot of regret, you’re sold.”

“And you think Dracula is better because it’s all dark and broody,” you shot back, arching an eyebrow, “sound familiar?” You smirked, mirroring his stance against the opposite side of the counter. “Besides, Frankenstein is a masterpiece—philosophy, morality, hubris—it’s got layers. What’s Dracula got? Melodrama?”

“Hey! Dracula has layers!” Bucky chuckled low in his throat, setting the book down. “It’s about primal fear, wrapped in ancient powers, wrapped again in the clash between tradition and modernity.”

“It is enjoyable, I must admit, but it’s just a glorified soap opera.” You groaned, though your lips twitched in spite of yourself. “Shelley’s work makes you think, you know? It’s art.”

“Art?!” he repeated, stepping closer, his voice dropping just enough to make your pulse skip. “It’s a guy making bad decisions and spending the rest of the book dodging the consequences.”

You straightened, eyes narrowing. “It’s about responsibility! The monster is a reflection of Victor’s failure. He’s abandoned and searching for connection—”

“And whining about it,” Bucky interrupted with a smirk, folding his arms. “Dracula doesn’t whine.”

The playful sparring faded when it hit you.

Frankenstein’s monster was created without consent, shaped into something he never chose to be. He was cast out, left to navigate a world that saw him as a mistake. The monster was isolated— burdened by guilt—the question of whether he was defined by the harm he’d done.

“Does he…” you started, gulping, unsure of how he’d react to an outright observation. “Does Frankenstein’s monster make you uncomfortable?”

As you stepped closer, his expression faltered, his eyes dropping to the book in his hands. Slowly, he set it aside, the movement deliberate. You reached out, your fingers brushing against the cold surface of his metal arm before resting there gently. “Does it hit too close to home?” you asked.

He didn’t deny it. A quiet laugh escaped him instead. He shook his head. “You’re too damn perceptive for your own good,” he murmured, his voice tinged with a longing for something you couldn’t quite place.  

Your fingers moved in slow circles against his metal hand, and when it twitched beneath your touch, you knew he felt it—knew he felt you.  

“The monster was never the villain,” you said, a fragile offering meant to soothe him. “He just needed someone to see him. He can be kind, too.”  

His gaze lifted, locking onto yours, and the raw vulnerability in his eyes stole the air from your lungs. For a heartbeat, the world stilled. 

Then Bucky’s smirk returned, smaller this time, as he leaned into your touch as if he craved it. “Nice try,” he said, voice lighter but still soft. “You’re not winning this one. Dracula’s better.”

You laughed, the tension breaking just enough to let you breathe again. “You’re impossible, Barnes.”

��

You were afraid you had scared him off after that, but to your surprise, he returned a week later, albeit a bit bruised from a mission.  

You’d been reshelving old graphic novels that day (First Edition Hergé that you were quite excited by), the quiet hum of the shop wrapping you in comfortable silence, when you caught sight of him out of the corner of your eye. His dark leather jacket hung slightly open, revealing a plain gray shirt that stretched just enough across his chest to draw your eyes. There was a faint cut near his jaw, still healing.  

“Hey,” he said, his voice soft as he approached. His eyes lingered on you for a beat longer than necessary. “You look beautiful today. Is that a new dress?”

Your breath caught, and a warmth crept up your neck as you glanced down at the simple, flowy dress you’d chosen that morning. “It is,” you admitted, looking back up at him with a shy smile. “Thanks for noticing.”

“Hard not to,” he murmured, his lips curving into a small, almost teasing smile before he turned toward the shelves.

You busied yourself with reshelving more books behind the counter, but you couldn’t help watching him out of the corner of your eye. His human hand traced idly along the spines, careful not to inflict damage. When he stopped, he plucked a rare-ish pocket 6th edition of Thus Spake Zarathustra from the shelf, his metal fingers glinting faintly in the light of the shop.

“You actually like this guy?” he asked quietly, lifting the book like he was sharing a secret.  

“Like is a strong word,” you said, stepping out from behind the ladder. His gaze caught yours, and there was a flicker of something playful in those blue eyes. Your pulse quickened, beckoning him to the counter. “He was no saint, but hardly anyone is. I… appreciate his contribution. It’s not his fault people misuse his work.” 

Bucky had witnessed it firsthand: fascists distorting Nietzsche's philosophy, disregarding its complexities, and twisting his ideas into a justification for genocide.

His lips turned upward, a lopsided grin that softened the sharpness of his jaw. His stance shifted, leaning against the counter with a practiced ease. His eyes flickered, taking you in, and when you crossed your arms, his gaze lingered briefly, enough to spark a bubbling heat beneath your skin.  

“You don’t think Nietzsche was a proto-fascist, do you?” you asked, tilting your head.  

“God, no,” he said quickly, amusement softening his voice. His grin spread, revealing the faintest cute dimple in his cheek. “I’ve read enough to know better. But I don’t exactly buy the Übermensch thing either. It’s too... self-centered for my taste. The whole idea of being ‘beyond good and evil’ feels dangerous.”  

“That’s fair,” you said, closing the distance between you as you reached for the book in his hand. Your fingers brushed his as you slipped it from his grasp, his touch warm, steady, almost deliberate. His eyes flickered down to where your hands had met. “There are many flaws in his thinking, but I don’t think the concept is inherently bad,” you continued, the air between you charged with tension. You tilted the book toward him, as though showing him something, though you both knew you weren’t really focused on the pages. “It’s about striving for a better version of yourself. I think he wanted people to create their own meaning, not follow blindly.”  

“Maybe,” Bucky murmured, his voice dropping an octave. He shifted closer, his fingers tapping lightly against the counter, the sound echoing in the quiet room. His metal hand rested at his side, the vibranium gleaming faintly as his other hand inched forward, almost brushing yours.  

His breath fanned your cheek as he leaned in, close enough now that you could see the stubble along his jaw, the way his lashes framed those blue eyes. “But there’s something so… wrong about thinking you’re the one who gets to decide what’s right,” he whispered, his voice like a secret meant only for you.  

He was close, dangerously so— that you could feel his breath on your nose.

The bell above the door chimed suddenly, breaking the moment like shattered glass. Dr. Hart, a lecturer from the local university, stepped inside, a bundle of papers tucked under her arm, and smiled in greeting.  

She was a returning customer, here to pick up a special edition of Conversation on Botany that you had tracked down for her.

“That’s $40, Mr. Barnes,” You took a small, steadying breath and waved at Hart with a thumbs up that said I’ve got your book.

His lips twitched into a knowing smile. Hr reached for his wallet, pulling out a few bills. As he handed them to you, his fingers brushed yours again.

“I’ll see you soon,” he promised, his voice soft, almost teasing.

—

The tipping point came late one evening.  

You’d spent the last few hours catalouging a shipment of rare books, the shop’s air thick with the comforting scent of old leather, yellowing paper, and the faint hint of dust that always seemed to cling to ancient texts. The shop was silent save for the scratch of your pen against paper as you logged the latest arrival.  

The peace shattered with the familiar jingle of the bell above the door.  

“Shop’s closed,” you said without looking up, your voice automatic, your focus still on the fragile spine of a sixteenth-century text.  

“Good thing I’m not here to shop,” came the deep, unmistakable voice of Bucky Barnes.  

Your hand froze, an involuntary smile tugging at your lips. You looked up, finding him leaning against the doorframe with that trademark blend of casual confidence and smoldering intensity. His black Henley stretched across his chest, the sleeves pushed up to reveal his forearms—a sight you tried not to dwell on for too long.  

“What are you here for, then?” you asked, arching an eyebrow as you tried to sound indifferent.  

“Conversation,” he said simply, stepping further inside.  

You huffed a quiet laugh, shaking your head as you returned to your work. “You came all the way here just to talk?”  

“Don’t flatter yourself,” he teased, his lips turning into a sly smile as he perched on the edge of your desk. “I was in the neighborhood.”  

You rolled your eyes but didn’t bother responding. Bucky always had a way of pulling your attention, and tonight was no different. You tried to focus on the delicate bindings in front of you, but his overwhelming presence was impossible to ignore.  

When he reached for a book from the nearby stack—a copy of Meditations by Marcus Aurelius—you finally gave in.  

“Stoicism?” you asked, your tone light with playful mockery. 

He flipped the book open, his fingers grazing the thin pages. “You’re really surprised? I thought you’d figure that about me,” he said, glancing up at you with a hint of a challenge in his eyes. “Marcus Aurelius had a lot to say about self-control.”  

“And yet here you are…” you replied, gesturing to where he was leaning across your workspace, a soft furrow of amusement on your eyebrows. You decided you could be flirty— eyeing the undone button of his Henley, showing a hint of his skin underneath. “...testing mine.”  

The corners of his mouth curved. “Guess I’m doing my part to help you practice.”  

You shook your head, half-smiling. “It’s not just about self-control, now is it? It’s about accepting what you can’t change.”  

He tilted his head, agreeing with you. “Or a way to stop drowning in things you can’t fix.”  

From there, the conversation unfurled like a thread you couldn’t stop pulling. Philosophy, morality, the nature of good and evil—it didn’t take long before you were fully engrossed, debating with a ferocity that surprised even you. Bucky was sharp, quick-witted, and maddeningly good at challenging your points. Every time you thought you had the upper hand, he’d counter with something so precise, so well-argued, that you couldn’t help but admire his mind.  

As the debate shifted, you sat on your desk, its surface cluttered with books that were hard to find, but not rare enough to be put in a glass case. Your focus was solely on Bucky, who was pacing the room with measured steps, his hands brushing against the edges of shelves every so often as though grounding himself.

“Alright,” you said, leaning forward, crossing your legs. “Here’s a question for you: Should Batman kill the Joker?” 

Slowly, he turned and walked closer to you, his shoes thudding softly against the floor. He stopped just short of your legs, leaning forward slightly, his gaze locking onto yours, making your pulse quicken.

Oh, that piqued his interest.

“I should’ve known you’d bring up Batman.” Bucky’s lips curved into a smirk, eyeing up the first print of 90s DC comics in the corner of the room that hadn’t been there two days ago— a fresh delivery, perhaps? You were always very topical, and the recent restocks somehow always made their way into conversation.

“It’s a valid moral dilemma,” you said, straightening, your chin lifting slightly. 

He tilted his head, his expression a blend of amusement and challenge. “Why don’t you tell me?”  

“Of course he should,” You didn’t hesitate, the answer rolling off your tongue with absolute conviction. “The Joker is a mass murderer. Every time Batman spares him, more people die. His refusal to act is just as bad as pulling the trigger himself.”  

Bucky’s smile lingered, but his gaze grew darker, ever so slightly. “So you’re saying Batman’s refusal to kill makes him complicit?”  

“Yes,” you said firmly, leaning in slightly, the heat of the argument pulling you closer. “Batman’s morality is Kantian—rigid rules and all. But if he were more… utilitarian, he’d save more lives. The greatest good for the greatest number. One life to save countless others.”  

“That kind of math doesn’t scare you?” Bucky asked, leaning back as though to put some distance between you, though his eyes stayed locked on yours. “Once you start deciding whose lives matter more, where do you stop?”  

“It’s not about worth,” you argued, the intensity rippling from him unnerving but impossible to look away from. “It’s about outcomes. If you can prevent suffering, don’t you have a responsibility to do it?”  

The silence that followed felt heavier than it should’ve. His jaw clicked a bit, tightening as he considered your words. When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter, shyer.

“If that’s your stance, then maybe someone should’ve killed the Winter Soldier years ago.”  

His words hit you like a punch in the gut, your breath catching. The implication of his statement filled the room, coiling tight around your chest.  

“Bucky,” you said quickly, panic creeping into your voice, your fingers twitching toward him but freezing halfway. “That’s not—”  

The corner of his mouth curved into a small, fragile smile. “Relax,” he said, holding up a hand, his voice dipping into something gentler. “I’m not offended. This is just a debate, right?”  

“It’s not the same,” you insisted, your voice gentler, almost pleading. You stood from your desk, hesitation in your chest as you reached out— you were scared he might pull away, “you were brainwashed.” Slowly, you pressed your hand to his cheek, his stubble rough beneath your palm. It was a wordless apology—a pathetic attempt to comfort, to reach him where words had failed. 

To your surprise, he didn’t stop you. Instead, he leaned into your touch. 

Bucky, slid his arm around your waist, testing the waters. His eyes flicked to yours, searching for any sign of rejection, any hint that he’d crossed a line. But there were none. Instead, the subtle hitch in your breath and the way you leaned into him told him everything he needed to know.

He shook his head, rubbing soft circles on your hip as if to say you’re okay. This conversation is more than okay. “But in the grand scheme of utilitarianism, it shouldn’t matter, right? My life was a liability. More people would’ve been saved if I hadn’t been around to hurt them.”  

His words settled over you like a storm cloud. The silence stretched, your carefully crafted argument unraveling in the face of his lived experience.  

He leaned forward then, bridging the space between you, his arm pinning you in place. “Maybe I understand Batman better than most,” he said, his voice quiet but intense. “Killing someone doesn’t always fix what’s broken. It just leaves you with blood on your hands.”  

Your throat tightened, the words sticking. He was too close now, the tension between you buzzing like a static current.  

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, your voice barely audible, but he heard it.  

“Don’t be.” His words were soft as he pulled you closer. There was always a hint of warmth in his eyes, an unspoken kindness you admired.

The room felt smaller now, more heated. You opened your mouth to respond, but his words had stolen all the air from your lungs.  

He leaned in, his voice dropping. “It’s easy to talk about morality in the abstract. But when you’re staring someone in the face—when it’s a real person, and not just an idea—it gets a lot harder to play God.”  

Shit.

He was right.  

Maybe utilitarianism wasn’t a steadfast rule. Maybe it couldn’t be, not when you factored in the messy, unpredictable depths of human existence. Lives weren’t just numbers to balance on a scale—they were stories, choices, pain, hope. And Bucky… Bucky was proof of that.  

Your thoughts churned as you looked at him.

You felt your conviction unravel. It wasn’t just that his argument was sound—though it was (infuriatingly so)—it was the way he’d delivered it, the personal truth lending it undeniable power. And that’s when it hit you. That’s why you found him so damn attractive.  

Sure, he was gorgeous. The sharp lines of his jawline, the piercing blue of his eyes, the way his Henley stretched over his shoulders like it had been designed with him in mind. But that wasn’t it. Not entirely.  

It was him. His humanity. His thoughtfulness. The kindness that softened the edges, the depth that came from wrestling with his own darkness and coming out better on the other side.  

And he was brilliant. For the first time, you felt like you’d met your match. Someone who met you on your turf and stood his ground, someone who didn’t just nod along or agree to avoid conflict. Someone who could challenge you, who could look you in the eye and make you see the world differently.  

You thought you’d built your worldview on unshakable foundations, but he’d cracked it wide open, and now all you could do was stare at him with the dawning realisation that this wasn’t just attraction. It was something deeper, something that terrified and thrilled you in equal measure.  

He wasn’t just a match for you physically; he was your intellectual equal—a rare kind of connection that made your pulse race and left your thoughts spinning.

Before you could stop yourself, before you could think it through, you leaned forward and kissed him.  

It was impulsive—a collision of lips born from the fiery tension that had simmered between you for weeks. It was everything unsaid, every glance, every near touch that had lingered just a fraction too long, all boiling over in one moment. He froze for the briefest heartbeat, but then something in him snapped. His hands found you, pulling you closer, his grip possessive, almost desperate. Your hands made their way through the soft strands of his hair, landing comfortably around his neck.

The kiss, slow at first, quickly became frantic. Neither of you could get enough. The only thing that mattered was him—his lips on yours, his touch, the way his body pressed against you like a promise. 

When you finally broke apart, gasping for air, his forehead rested against yours, his lips curled into a breathless smile. For a second, he could forget about everything that has happened to him. For a second, he was truly, utterly safe in your arms.

“I didn’t think you were the type to kiss someone in the middle of a moral argument about Batman,” he murmured, his voice low and teasing, his lips grazing yours with every word, sending shivers down your spine.

“And I didn’t think you’d let me,” you replied, your voice laced with a mischievous edge.

His eyes darkened, his smile widening just enough to make your heart race before he closed the distance again, capturing your lips in another searing kiss. This time, it wasn’t careful or calculated—it was raw, fervent, consuming. Your back hit the desk behind you, his hands sliding around your waist and around the curve of your bum, firm and deliberate, setting every nerve in your body on fire. 

“The books,” he mumbled against your lips, glancing at the teetering stack beside you, the volumes threatening to topple.

“I don’t care,” you said breathlessly, and to prove your point, you swiped the entire stack to the floor with a crash. The sound echoed, but you barely heard it over the roaring thump of your heartbeat in your ears. 

They weren’t too rare. You’ll just put them on the discount aisle tomorrow. 

His response was a low, guttural groan, his lips finding yours again, His fingers tangled in your hair, tugging just enough to make your head tilt back, exposing the sensitive curve of your neck. He didn’t waste the opportunity, his lips and teeth trailing along your skin, finding the spot just below your ear that made you gasp. 

“Did I manage to change your mind this time?” he murmured against your ear, his voice rough and unsteady as his lips brushed against your jaw, then lower, tracing a heated path along your collarbone. 

You managed a breathless laugh, your fingers slipping under his shirt to trace the veins under his skin, his muscles tensing under your touch. “Okay, so maybe ‘the greatest good for the greatest number’ isn’t always the best approach when you’re the one holding the short end of the categorical imperative,” you whispered, your voice trembling with desire.

His laugh was husky, his hands lower to grip your thighs, pushing himself flush against you. “God, you’re something else,” he said, his lips finding yours again, this time slower, deeper, as though savoring you. When he finally pulled back, his voice was hoarse. “Do you want to go on a date?”

You blinked, caught off guard by the sudden shift. “You’re seriously asking me that now?” you asked, breathless. With your hands trailing over the planes of his chest, his breath mingling with yours, it seemed a bit out of order, but you weren’t about to complain.

“Yes,” he said, his words dead serious despite the way his hands clutched at your shirt, his lips finding the hollow of your throat. He kissed the spot slowly, firmly, making your legs feel numb. “I mean it,” he added, his voice softer, yet no less insistent.

You let out a breathless laugh, tugging him into another kiss, the kind that left no room for doubt about your answer. “Then yes,” you murmured, your voice low and teasing as you pulled back just enough to meet his eyes. “We’re going to have a lot to talk about.”

And boy, were you excited to talk to this man— a man who could turn the simplest circumstances into a philosophical debate, someone who wasn’t afraid to dispute your ideals. 

Someone who was your match.

“Later,” he rasped, his voice gravelly with need, his hands trailing up to tug his henley over his head in one fluid motion. The sight of him stole the breath from your lungs, but you didn’t have time to appreciate it before he was kissing you again, his bare skin pressed against you as he lifted your shirt off. “We can talk later.”

-end.

[mangocheesecakes]

I have a favor to ask from everyone. There's another storm that's going to hit our region tonight and this time it's a super typhoon.

We always pray that the damage to our houses and infrastructure will not be that bad, but given the forecast, we're all also trying to prepare for the worst. I'm hoping the power and internet connection will not be out for long, but given the forecasted strong winds that might topple power lines, it's possible we might not have electricity and connection for a while.

With this, please help me out and lend a hand in boosting and promoting @yousefmoner's fundraiser and his content on instagram and tiktok. I feel really bad about not being able to keep my promise to Yousef to make content and help boost their videos. Please follow his and Layla's instagram and tiktok accounts, like and share his videos, and comment supportive words or even just random words, as long as it's nothing inappropriate. This would really help push his content in the algorithm and help him find new donors, because as Layla has reported, only the same people seem to be donating to Yousef's gfm. Please take a short moment from your time to do this for Yousef.

You can start with the post I have linked here. It's a video of Yousef and Mohamed's father, Munir, who celebrated his 51st birthday yesterday. Can you please send him belated birthday greetings?

View this post on Instagram

A post shared by Layla Ashoor (@only_one_lulu)

And if you have anything extra you can give to Yousef, please send it to his gfm with your birthday greetings.

Think of how you would feel if it was your own parent's birthday and you have no way of celebrating it, and were struggling to even just buy food to eat for the day. Yousef received only one donation in the last 17 hours.

[f0point5]

Lando Norris x reader Masterlist

Only rumours ‘bout my hips and thighs - News of Y/N and Lando’s budding “relationship” hits F1 news

It’s blue, the feeling I’ve got - Rumours about Lando and Y/N heat up. Meanwhile, Y/N is skeptical about Lando’s friendly overtures

You will take the long way - Y/N discusses her secret, and Lando lets out his frustrations with Max

At least I’m trying - Y/N catches up on the new season of Drive to Survive, while Lando makes another effort to befriend her

Gain the weight of you - Y/N ties up loose ends as the stage is set for the relationship to go public

You told your family for a reason - Y/N arrives in Bahrain, and the deception deepens

The jury’s out - Y/N meets more people in Lando’s life with mixed reception, and attends her first race

(They) find something to wrap (their) noose around - Lando is subject to some controversy, which means Y/N has to step in, whole fighting to stay in her comfort zone

You don’t know how nice that is…but I do - Y/N attends the race where she makes an immediate connection with Oscar, and Lando makes an ill-advised move to impress her

You don’t feel pretty, you just feel used - Y/N finds herself in high demand, much to her dismay, as she heads to Australia for the next race

I’m feeling like I don’t know you - Lando’s feelings about how Y/N is spending her time in Australia bubble over

New to town with a made up name - Y/N does a Q&A

Every time you shine, I’ll shine for you - Lando secures an amazing result at the Australian Grand Prix, while neitzens discuss his new relationship.

That old familiar body ache - Y/N is forced to get back to work, which includes seeing Lando

The rust that grew between telephones - Y/N’s campaign debuts while she and Lando are in Japan. Lando searches for answers for what happened in Monaco

It’s hard to be at a party when I feel like an open wound - Y/N skips the Japanese Grand Prix and puts her job in jeopardy

Did you see the photos? No, I didn’t but thanks though - Y/N is forced to defend Lando from gossip, while her position as his girlfriend remains precarious

They say what doesn’t kill you makes you aware - Max F weighs in on Lando’s troubles, while Lando finds he and Y/N have a common interest

Lights, camera, bitch smile - Y/N puts on an impressive show at the Grand Prix. Lando’s jealousy gets the better of him, leading to a frank conversation

Don’t you worry your pretty little mind - Y/N reaches out to Lando when he is the subject of online trolling to offer support

I did my best to lay to rest - Y/N and Lando get closer in Miami, but the increased publicity may lead to things being unearthed that Y/N would like to stay buried

I was grinning like (he’s) winning - Y/N watches Lando become a Grand Prix winner

You can’t talk to me when I’m like this - Lando wins the Miami Grand Prix, but a misstep means Y/N is not part of the celebration

I never grew up, it’s getting so old - Oscar steps in to help when Y/N and Lando aren’t speaking

Can (he) see right through me? (I) see right through me - Y/N takes Oscar’s advice and opens up to Lando

Our secret moments, in a crowded room - Y/N and Lando spend time together while Monaco hosts the Historic Grand Prix

They’ll be chasing their tails trying to track us down - Fans speculate when Y/N and Lando are not seen together and she misses the Imola Grand Prix

It’s nice to have a friend - Y/N has a busy week in the South of France, and Lando tries to be supportive as the two plan to keep the rouse going when his family comes to town

I spy with my tired little eye - Y/N attends the Monaco Grand Prix

We might just get away with it - Y/N remains in Monaco with Lando to keep up pretences

Telling me to punish you for things you never did - Lando arrives alone in Canada while the internet finds out Y/N has been spending time with Freddie…and so does Lando.

Love’s a show, but I would die for you in secret - Father’s Day brings Y/N closer to understanding Lando, and letting Lando understand her

Braced myself for the goodbye, (…) but you took me by surprise - Y/N attends the Spanish Grand Prix. After a disappointment, Lando receives some tough love

But God, I love the English - Y/N accompanies Lando to the UK, and he supports her as the quadrant collaboration goes live

[cow-stealin-gal]

List of Palestine Campaigns

Notes:

some or most of these are the same ones from my previous pinned post.

the owner of Amani and Eman's campaign has stopped donations

Laila Shaqqoura (€27,610 / €45,000)

@lailashaqoura

According to Ahmed Shaqquora, the organizer of the campaign, Laila is a young talented artist who planned to be a dentist and a collection artist before the genocide started. Laila's family at the time of the campaign consisted of Bassam, his wife, and their five children (Laila and Baara were among the mentioned children).

As of June 3rd, Laila and her pregnant mother had fled to Khan Younis where they continue to suffer from horrible living conditions. She started the campaign with the goal of saving her mother from the grave danger that could ultimately kill them. Their campaigns have been verified by nabulsi, fallahifag, el-shab-hussein, ibtisams, and sayruq.

https://gofund.me/f41f2b80

--

Tahani and her family ($18,193 / $50,000)

@tahanibaby

Tahani was an assistant professor at an university who studied Chemistry and Digital Marketing before she lost it once the genocide started.

As of July (and perhaps August), Tahani's family have been living in the prison of fear and despair from the constant reminders of death. From constant street killings to a siege that likely left many casualties to non-stop stomach pains from hunger to the relentless heat that burns them every day. Their mental state is degrading as I write this post.

--

Zaen and Yehya Sehab (€4,294 / €25,000)

@mohammedshehabnew1

Muhammed Sehab is a father of two sons who created a campaign to support his sick parents and to allow his family to flee Gaza from the onslaught of murder throughout the war.

However, due to the lack of donations they fear that they may die before they can escape as the bombing has killed some of their family members, loved ones, and friends. They have endured inhumane conditions, various forms of oppression, disease, pollution, lack of security and medical treatment.

They have been repeatedly displaced from various shelters, tents, and "safe zones" around nine times, which is around the number of times that many families have been displaced.

--

Siraj's Family [Stage 1: Rebuilding their home]

($28,087 / $82,000)

@siraj2024

Siraj is a father who built his family home through ten tireless years of effort that stretched for hours that broke his wallet (huge debt), and yet he also made it with the love for his family.

But it was all destroyed when the IDF unleashed their vicious bombing attacks throughout Gaza, which engulfed Siraj's family home in flames. After the traumatic experience, they had to scramble six times into various tents that barely comforted them, let alone provide safety. His children has lost their chance to enjoy their childhoods as they have no choice but to collect water over lengthy journeys and continuously clean the tents that they reside in.

Not only that, but the family has endured constant threats and evacuation orders day and night, leaving them exhausted.

As of today, Siraj had to trek around 3 kilometers (almost 2 miles) just to receive an internet signal to relay a message that gave me with a twinge of guilt. He remarks on the suffering that the families in Gaza constantly endure where many died and the stark contrast with the families living outside of Gaza, who spend quality time in comfort among themselves. He mentions a recent massacre of over a hundred people in a shelter at the Al-Tabeen School.

He continues to write as much he can with whatever internet connection he is given.

[romanticinlove]

Your number 1 fan

Summary: During a media interview, Jude is asked about his relationship with you. When it seems like the interviewer is implying something else, Jude has no problem coming to your defense.

word count: 1.4K

a/n: Thank you guys so much for the support! I hope you guys like this one!

__________________________________________

After a game with England, where they won, Jude and some of the other players began to prepare for the post-game interviews. During the game, Jude was able to score a goal and also assist with another. He felt quite proud of his performance and as soon as the final whistle blew, all he could think about was you watching the game. He had hoped that you would've been proud of his performance and how he would call you after he was all done and back in his room. You stayed back in your apartment in Spain while he was completing his duties with the national team.

The two of you had begun dating about a year ago and your relationship went public then too. You weren't particularly famous or anything. You had met Jude one day when your little brother recognized him at a shop. When he got a picture with the footballer, Jude took the opportunity to ask for your phone number. It was honestly out of a movie and you could not believe that this was happening to you. Around this time, there were plenty of dating rumors between Jude and some models going around the internet. You looked at these models are you felt as if though maybe that's who Jude should've been with. He never gave you a reason to feel like he didn't love you. In fact he would probably reassure you about his feelings 100 times a day. Through his words and his actions, all of those insecurities about yourself were put on a pause and you enjoyed your relationship with Jude. People did still try to compare you to other models and how you weren't the traditional wag, but you tried to ignore them and focus of the people who were nice to you and encouraging.

When Jude walked towards the various interviewers, a man who was with ESPN, called Jude over. He walked towards the man and began to set himself up for the interview. He grabbed the mic and smiled as the man.

"Hello Jude I am Manuel Fernandez, with ESPN" The man introduced himself "Tonight you played a very good game, scoring a goal and securing another one through an assist, how doing you feel after a performance like that?"

Jude thought for a second before giving a response. "Well you know it's always a great feeling when you are able to not only win, but also contribute to that win. I think that it's also easy to be able to do something like that when there are so many connections between the team. When you have that type of chemistry on the pitch, it's almost expected that something like this'll happen."

"yes yes, you and the team were certainly connecting with your passes like no other today it was truly something fantastic to watch. Right now, you are the talk of the town, one of the young talents who just has so much to offer, what do you think of the people who are comparing you to other players such as Zidane?"

"Well you know it's always such a special thing to be compared to a player who was so successful in the game and who just had so much to offer. I really do appreciate the people who support me and continue to motivate me. I don't think I quite deserve a comparison such as that one just yet, I think I still have quite a bit of work to do before I can even join a conversation like that. But I am putting the work in not for the comparisons and so that people can talk about me, but for the betterment of myself and to give my team someone who they can rely on while we're playing" Jude smiled and looked over to one of the team mangers who was signaling to end the interview so they could move on. Jude looked back at the interviewer so that he could ask his final question.

"Well those comparisons are coming your way regardless" the interviewer began to laugh before speaking up again "and finally Jude, how will you go out and celebrate a win like this?"

Jude immediately thought of you and got excited because he could mention you in the interview. "Well actually, I am planning on just heading back to my room and calling my girlfriend, who is actually waiting for me back in Spain." Jude was proud oh respond and wanted to leave it at that but the interviewer spoke again.

"Jude you are so young, have you ever thought of going out and experimenting a little. I know that a young handsome lad like yourself could walk down the street and plenty or more beautiful girl would throw themselves at you." The interviewer said this a joking tone, but Jude didn't laugh, He kept a straight face while looking at the man.

"and what does that mean?" Jude was a little angry at the question and did not want to let it go.

"I just mean she is not someone that you should be with, you should be with someone like a model you shouldn't settle for less, at least not her" The man laughed again, and Jude had had enough.

"Listen here you prick, my girlfriend, y/n and I, are very happy together. neither one of our lives is your business, she is beautiful and the only thing I have settled for, is doing an interview with someone like you. Don't ever try to talk about me or her again. You are disgusting and I doubt that you are proud of yourself for asking such a shit question" Jude dropped the mic and immediately left the interview.

When Jude walked into the lock room to change, some of the players noticed that Jude had an angry face on and Trent went over to talk to him.

"alright then, what's got you upset?" The Scouse player asked while sitting next to Judes locker.

"Some dickhead tried to belittle y/n and our relationship during an interview. He's a lowlife" Jude huffed while chasing out of his uniform.

"C'mon man, don't let people like that get you worked up, everyone knows that what you and y/n have is something special, you deserve the best and you have her. People only talk like that when they have nothing else going on in their lives" Trent tried to calm Jude down. It was true. Everyone who was around you guys In your lives loved you two together, and understood that you two were happy, regardless of your career or how you met.

Later than evening, Jude finally got back to his room and gave you a call.

'Hey baby, what're you doing right now" Jude asked you when you answered the phone

"Hello my love, right now I am just tidying up this living room a little bit, I have been neglecting it for a while. But how was your game! I saw that you guys won, congratulations" You spoke through the phone. During times when Jude was away, Hearing your voice was very important to him. He missed you like crazy and this was closet you two could be.

"Well it was good, I did get fouled though and now my knee is hurting a bit since I went down, I might have to go see the trainer tomorrow morning"

"hmm maybe instead of arguing with that guy during your interview, you could've gone and got it checked out" You joked with him. He had forgotten all about that and it hadn't occurred to him hat you might've seen the whole thing go down.

"so you did see that" Jude stated while lying in his bed.

"I did, that guy was an idiot. Why would he ask you something like that in the first place? Obviously I am the best thing that has and will ever happen in your life" You said in a joking tone and begun to laugh

"You can say it as a joke, but it's the truth. You are the best thing that has happened to me. I know people talk all the time, but there is no one I would rather be with. I love you more than anything" Jude said over the phone. You smiled on the other line truly wondering how you got so lucky to be with this man.

" I love you too Jude, more than anything"

"Besides, at least I'd have a girlfriend. I'd be surprised if anyone would even be with a man who looked like him" Jude said with an attitude.

"Oh my goodness, you cannot Jude say that about someone" You laughed out

"it's the truth"

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