#lawful hero agency

[2036sator]

[[ freedom doodle's shenanigans]]

[vix-is-being-frosty]

STONE FIGHTERS UPDATED DESIGNS!!

Finally got around to coloring them in lol

Old Designs

[cion-the-cloaked-stick]

ref sheet ref sheet ref sheet

other notes:

cion's cloak does not have a hood

her eyes have golden/yellow/amber irises

[hufflepuffwritingstuff2]

Pen's Song-Story Writing Challenge Extravaganza Submission!

@alilbatwrites your song was "The Law" by Reach, here is a snippet based on that!!

When Hero got back to the league from saving the city, they had expected celebration, or at least a thank-you. What they got instead was… eye-opening to say the least. They opened the doors to a bunch of stone-faced, enhanced superiors.

“Uh…what?” Hero asked, confused, “did I cause collateral damage again? I thought I was careful this time!”

“It isn’t that, Hero,” Superhero started.

“You took Supervillain down in under two minutes,” another super stated.

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” Hero joked.

When they received no response, Hero faltered.

“It…it’s not a bad thing, right?”

“Hero, you know our League is here to keep the nation’s peace,” Superhero said, “and to eliminate security risks.”

“Well, yeah, I’d day I did pretty good out there,” Hero said, “so why do you all seem upset?”

The sound of footsteps behind them made Hero’s head turn. Two league agents put a hand on each of Hero’s shoulders.

“Superhero,” Hero asked nervously, turning back to face their superior, “what’s going on?”

“We took a risk letting you roam free with your powers of energy manipulation,” Superhero said, “your abilities have grown to an incredible strength, and now the risks outweigh the benefits. I’m sorry, Hero.”

As Superhero spoke, one of the agents jammed the end of a needle into Hero’s neck. Hero cried out in pain, feeling ice flood their veins.

“So that’s it- you’re just going to get rid of me because I’m too good at my job!?” Hero asked desperately, feeling their limbs turn to lead.

“Your powers will only increase exponentially from here,” another league member said, “if we don’t contain you now, we’ll never be able to stop you if you become a threat.”

Hero tried to wrench themselves from the agents’ grips, but they held them fast. Hero’s knees buckled just as a wheelchair with padded restraints came into view.

“Take them down to Containment Level 3,” Superhero ordered.

“N-no,” Hero slurred.

Hero felt themselves be lifted into the wheelchair. Straps tightened across their body just as their vision began to fade. Their head sank down into their chest as the drug sucked them under.

…

When Hero awoke next, they thought maybe the events from earlier were just a bad dream. Maybe Supervillain had defeated them, and they would wake up in the med bay with Superhero by their bedside. Hero opened their eyes to a stark white room. They looked down at their form and found that they had been stuffed in some kind of straight-jacket suit, the buckles going all the way down to their ankles. Hero jerked upright, trying and failing to free themselves. They tried to call on their power, but their movements were sluggish, and their energy barely materialized.

Hero fought back the tears that brimmed in their eyes. They had figured if they ever did get captured, it would be by some criminal, never by their own team, the people they fought beside every day. Now their team- their family- had them drugged up and restrained in a cell just like those criminals they had been taught to fight. When they couldn’t fight them any longer, Hero let the tears fall with a choked sob.

“Hey,” a voice echoed.

Hero looked up, sniffling. The door opened, revealing a league agent.

“What do you want?” Hero asked bitterly.

“Seriously?” the league member demanded indignantly, “I come all this way to save you and-oh. Right. The outfit.”

The league member unbuttoned their uniform to reveal a familiar, dark suit underneath.

“Villain?” Hero asked in disbelief.

“Duh,” Villain said, “saw what you did out there with Supervillain. That was pret-ty impressive. But I knew your precious league wouldn’t like it. So here I am.”

Hero remembered the stories Superhero had told them about Villain, how they had abandoned the league years ago. They remembered the late-night, rooftop conversations with Villain, about how the league wasn’t what they seemed.

“Are you going to say, ‘I told you so’?” Hero asked dejectedly.

“Nah, you’ve been punished enough,” Villain said, “come on, let’s get you out of here.”

Villain worked to free Hero from their restraints. They pulled out a syringe filled with liquid.

“This is gonna counteract the junk they’ve pumped in your system,” Villain said, “the car’s outside waiting. We can be out of the city limits in an hour… unless you’d like to torch this place first?”

Hero shook their head, holding their arm out for Villain to administer the antidote.

“I just wanna go,” Hero said.

“I gotcha,” Villain said, helping them up, “leave the torching to me then.”

…

Villain drove off, Hero in the passenger seat, the league base ablaze behind them.

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[peachsukii]

Pro Hero Bakugo who can’t wait to see you once his patrol shift is up. He’s been texting with you all day during his downtime, smiling like an idiot anytime your name pops up on his lock screen. Even when Kaminari teased him about it, he didn’t yell or tell him to fuck off, just rolled his eyes with that grin still plastered on his face. It didn’t matter what you two talked about, you somehow always kept his attention.

Bakugo was the one to find and pull you out of the burning building months ago, saving you from the eventual collapse of the rubble. He’d stayed with you for hours, making sure you were properly seen by medics and not overwhelmed when the police questioned you about the villain who started it all. Before leaving, he left you with his agency card - “Call if ya need anythin’, big or small.”

That was Bakugo’s way of saying, “oh shit, I kinda like you” without risking his professionalism.

Fast forward to now, he’s blasting through the air to your apartment complex, feeling like a feather in the wind. He lands on your balcony with a thud, hurriedly kicking off his combat boots and leaving them outside. You’re already in the living room, arms crossed with a smile on your face as he comes inside.

“I have a front door, you know,” you tease, laughing softly to yourself. He doesn’t care, stomping over to you excitedly and tugging you into a hug, smothering your cheeks and forehead with kisses. It leaves you gigging, even if he’s covered in sweat and dirt from his shift.

“Katsuki, you’re filthy!” You joke while trying to shove him off of you.

“Excuse me, Princess,” he jests, throwing you over his shoulder. “Guess we’ll just have’ta shower together.”

Bakugo’s running down the hallway of your apartment to your bathroom with you over his shoulder, cackling like a witch as you squirm playfully in his hold. He sets you on the bathroom counter before pulling you flush against him, lips finding yours in a heated kiss. When he pulls away, his hand caresses your cheek, eyes focused on your beautiful features.

“If you shower with me, I’ll cook ya dinner,” Bakugo offers, impatiently beginning to reach for the hem of your shirt. You knew he was going to anyways, he shoos you out of the kitchen every night to make dinner for the two of you.

“Isn’t bribing against the laws of hero society?” Your fingers hook under his mask to slide it to his forehead, hands roaming to the zipper on his collar piece. “I won’t tell if you won’t.”

“You’re such a little shit,” he grunts, pulling your shirt over your head. “And I love it.”

It’s not a typical relationship, being that you’re quirkless, but Bakugo wouldn’t trade it for the world. No matter how soft you made him, it’s worth every moment in your presence and by your side. You make him want to be a better person, a stronger hero, and have a bigger heart.

[torchwood-99]

There's a bit of a role reversal with Faramir and Eowyn, in terms of how their narratives include tropes and plot points that are often traditionally applied to characters of the other sex.

Eowyn goes to war because she refuses to be left behind to be burned inside the house when the battle is done, as is often the fate of women.

Faramir actually is nearly burned alive at the hands of the patriarch of his family when said patriarch believes the battle is over and hope is lost. While Eowyn is out on the battlefield, fighting, Faramir is stuck inside the home, burning.

Between the two, Eowyn is the one we see go on more of an inner journey. She changes more over the narrative, and has to deal more with her own flaws and personal demons, as well as the injustices inflicted upon her. The climax of her story comes with a great moment of heroism and courage in battle. She is rescued by a hobbit, but as an ally in battle, not as a damsel in distress.

Faramir in the books doesn't feel tempted by the ring, and is almost a paragon of virtue. About as much as a Man in Middle Earth can be. He's closer to Arwen and Galadriel than Eowyn is, in his near perfection, in how he inspires and guides others. He is also rescued by a hobbit, but in that moment he is helpless, a damsel in distress. He is rescued because others love him for his virtue and goodness.

So often it's the other way round. Not only is the woman usually the one trapped inside, in need of rescue, while the man is out there fighting, the woman's heroism traditionally comes from the list of virtues she possesses, while the man's heroism comes from his deeds and the things he accomplishes. The man fights, the woman inspires.

But during the Battle of Pelennor fields, it is Eowyn who fights, and while she does inspire Merry, she inspires him not as a paragorn, but as an example of courage that Merry finds himself compelled to live up to. He is inspired to fight by her side, instead of fighting for her.

Faramir is sick and unconscious. His agency is denied him by his father, who decides on his behalf there's nothing left for him to live for. And it is a rush for the heroes; Pippin and Beregond, to save Faramir, and it is explicitly stated that Beregond only broke the law because he was inspired to do so out of his great love for Faramir, which is shared by all. In that moment, Faramir's role is closer to the traditional fairy tale princess, whose goodness inspires the heroes into fighting for her during her peril.

And afterwards, it is Eowyn who has to fight to find meaning in life again, to choose joy and hope over despair, which Faramir, with his loving kindness, wisdom, and gentleness, inspires her to do.

I love that, and love thinking on how that affected their relationship going forward.

Eowyn must have liked that with Faramir, she's not being married to someone who will require her to take on every aspect of the so called "woman's role" (necessary, but limiting) which has been inflicted on her at her own expense by the men in her life, so they can be free to partake in the "man's role". Perhaps in turn, Eowyn's predisposition for more martial pursuits; even if she has embraced healing and gardening and no longer lives for battle, would also mean she can take on some of the certain necessary duties that Faramir finds taxing.

Between the two, there must have been a more equal division of labour and responsibilities, and therefore more freedom on both sides. Neither one of them fully suits the roles that society has assigned to them due to their gender, and in marrying each other, they no longer have to.

[kaurwreck]

do the lawyers on the second* floor of the Agency office building mean nothing to you.

*I can't count!

I don't think they should kill Fyodor, I think they should keep him in the Agency office in a complex network of interconnected, multi-level wire cages with plenty of tunnels, ropes, hammocks, ladders, and toys for enrichment; a warm nest box to sleep in; shredded Bible pages for bedding; and bamboo cane sticks or lamb bones for gnawing.

[odinsblog]

NEW YORK (AP) — Peter Buxtun, the whistleblower who revealed that the U.S. government allowed hundreds of Black men in rural Alabama to go untreated for syphilis in what became known as the Tuskegee study, has died. He was 86.

Buxtun died May 18 of Alzheimer’s disease in Rocklin, California, according to his attorney, Minna Fernan.

Buxtun is revered as a hero to public health scholars and ethicists for his role in bringing to light the most notorious medical research scandal in U.S. history. Documents that Buxtun provided to The Associated Press, and its subsequent investigation and reporting, led to a public outcry that ended the study in 1972.

Forty years earlier, in 1932, federal scientists began studying 400 Black men in Tuskegee, Alabama, who were infected with syphilis. When antibiotics became available in the 1940s that could treat the disease, federal health officials ordered that the drugs be withheld. The study became an observation of how the disease ravaged the body over time.

In the mid-1960s, Buxtun was a federal public health employee working in San Francisco when he overheard a co-worker talking about the study. The research wasn’t exactly a secret — about a dozen medical journal articles about it had been published in the previous 20 years. But hardly anyone had raised any concerns about how the experiment was being conducted.

“This study was completely accepted by the American medical community,” said Ted Pestorius of the U.S. Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, speaking at a 2022 program marking the 50th anniversary of the end of the study.

Buxtun had a different reaction. After learning more about the study, he raised ethical concerns in a 1966 letter to officials at the CDC. In 1967, he was summoned to a meeting in Atlanta, where he was chewed out by agency officials for what they deemed to be impertinence. Repeatedly, agency leaders rejected his complaints and his call for the men in Tuskegee to be treated.

He left the U.S. Public Health Service and attended law school, but the study ate at him. In 1972, he provided documents about the research to Edith Lederer, an AP reporter he had met in San Francisco. Lederer passed the documents to AP investigative reporter Jean Heller, telling her colleague, “I think there might be something here.”

Heller’s story was published on July 25, 1972, leading to Congressional hearings, a class-action lawsuit that resulted in a $10 million settlement and the study’s termination about four months later. In 1997, President Bill Clinton formally apologized for the study, calling it “shameful.”

The leader of a group dedicated to the memory of the study participants said Monday they are grateful to Buxtun for exposing the experiment.

“We are thankful for his honesty and his courage,” said Lille Tyson Head, whose father was in the study.

(continue reading)

[0bticeo]

lay your hands on me | dabi x reader

summary.

he holds up his hand before your face, fingers spread wide, big enough to encompass your whole face.

he could kill you. burn you to ashes. you should be a little concerned with how unpredictable he proves himself to be at times. 

you’re not. if anything, you’re watching, enraptured, as his hand looms closer to your face.

what he does next nearly kills you. 

“open wide for me.”

wc. 2.9k

tw. reader is an oblivious idiot, spoilers for the overhaul arc, slight canon divergence bc fuck you the league gets to keep the bar in kamino, hand fetish, finger sucking, finger fucking, alley sex, kissing, somehow very soft (they were supposed to fuck nasty i don't get it.)

being a UA dropout isn’t all bad. neither is kamino district. no, really. you just have to know the right spots.

and you had time to do so ever since eraserhead’s wonderful decision of kicking you out of the damn school. something about how vigilantism wasn’t tolerated. something about how you, as a third year, should have known better. 

you were close. so close to graduation. then it happened. it. your one true heroic act.

no cameras, no shiny deals, no public appreciation, no nothing. just you, a creep following a seven year old, and dark, dark streets.

you acted out of sheer instinct, the ink on your forearms springing to life, twin tattooed snakes sinking their fangs into that bastard’s skin. 

the girl was fine. blissfully unaware. the creep, not so much, sprawled in a dark alley near your favorite conbini. you’re not too sure about the inner workings of venom. not the the one given life to by your quirk. 

somehow, you have a feeling it hurts like hell.

having principal nezu sit you down and kindly explain that you would no longer be attending classes at UA, mouse-head split in a wide grin, hurt more.

“what are you sanctioning me for, exactly?” you ask, knuckles turning white with how tight you’re holding your tea cup.

he smiles at you. you feel every condescendent edge of his rodent teeth.

“vigilantism is illegal, as i’m sure you well know.”

"you-”

“aizawa-san already filled me in on the details.”

a sharp inhale. of course. of course, just because there aren’t any cameras doesn’t mean there aren’t witnesses. it’s not like the girl could testify. you made sure to be quiet. you made sure the creep was quiet.

you set your teacup back on its saucer, the rim silent as it meets the porcelain. nezu watches you, his eyes dark and empty. intelligent. inhumane. he sighs.

“such a shame to lose a student of your caliber. but the law is the law. no exceptions can be made,” he says, quietly sipping his tea.

you smile. it doesn’t reach your eyes. you think your palms might be bleeding with how hard your nails are digging in the skin. it’s fine. the deep green of your skirt is dark enough for the nature of the stain to be unidentifiable. 

“please. i have nowhere to go.”

the law is the law. nevermind that attending UA is expensive. in the promotion material, they mention the entrance exam (not that you can get yourself killed in it), the heroes (celebrities!) serving as professors, the facilities. 

now, the government might be funding a part of the infrastructure - those killer robots they have at the entrance exam aren’t going to finance themselves - but the rest? the tuition fees are expensive enough for the students to enter the hero life in debt. 

it’s fine. those from UA are pretty much destined to make it big. it’s not the best hero school in the country for nothing.

the law is law. 

you’re kicked out of school three weeks away from graduation without a backup plan. the only thing you have to yourself is a dingy studio in kamino district.

(aizawa had crossed paths with you on your way out of nezu’s office. he’s watched your eyes turn cold, and for a split-second, wondered if the law was fair.)

back on track. cut to four years of fruitless job hunting because nobody wants an UA dropout in their agencies. doesn’t matter if you were the top of your class, if endeavor himself wanted you to work under him at some point.

all they see is the black mark on your resume and the ink spreading and spreading over your skin, wrapping along your arms.

they smile and deny you the job you oh so need.

bye, bye morale, hello shoplifting. you’re quick on your feet and nimble-handed. get in, get out, you don’t get caught.

until you steal from the wrong person. until a hand wraps around your wrist, all five fingers digging in your flesh with the intention to kill.

meeting shigaraki tomura was… an interesting experience. so was your skin not decaying. maybe a side-effect from your quirk. your arms are more ink than skin these days. more tattoos, more power.

maybe your wrist being still intact landed you here. maybe it was the hero killer stain, his blade digging in the roots of a corrupted system and twisting. heroes are rotten, you know. true heroism is punished.

maybe you were angry, too. 

so now you spend your nights sitting in the league of villains’ base. a bar. it’s classier than expected for a ragtag team of villains. you highly suspect kurogiri’s distinguished demeanor is the sole reason for the said classiness.

shigaraki’s ranting again, chipped nails scratching his neck hard enough to bleed.

you’re barely listening, sprawled as you are on the counter. there’s a scrap of paper in front of you and a pen in your hand. on you doodle, hand cradling your cheek, occasionally humming to show you’re still listening. 

everybody’s here for a change.

twice, being his usual versatile self, one minute praising shigaraki’s genius planning, the next tearing it to shreds with a few well placed curses. troubled little fellow, really sweet. once lent you his lighter, so he’s high up in your good graces. 

next to you, toga kicks her feet, golden eyes glinting mischievously in the low lighting. there’s a wide grin tugging at her face, revealing sharp canines. she’s eager to get back in the fray. something about seeing a certain izuku. 

compress is fiddling with his gloves. shimmering orbs flash between his skilled fingers, twirling between them before disappearing wherever. a magician never reveals his secrets. how he managed to gain back such skill after losing his arm is beyond you.

spinner is watching on seriously. bless him.

(magne’s dead. your grip on your pen tightens.) 

and dabi… 

dabi’s leaning on the counter to your left, elbows nonchalantly propped up against its wooden surface, the sleeves of his jacket baring a hint of his bicep.

you watch, eyes half-lidded, the curl of his wrist, the way his fingers drum against the lapel of his jacket, flexing, flexing. 

you shift in your seat, crossing your legs.

three strokes of your pen. the shape of his hands come to life.

broad and warm, the skin of his palms pulled taut by the staples holding him together, little flashes of silver.

the fingers, next. clever. long. deft. curled in a way that has the fine lines of his knuckles jutting out and your cheeks warming. still, not quite right. 

you glance at his hand again and find it wrapped around a glass of whiskey, the heat of them fogging up the glass. there it is, again. that slow drumming, index finger tap, tap, tapping away on the glass. the staples on the back of his hand dig in his skin, right under the bone.

you bite back a groan.

hands are hard to draw.

you don’t know what it is about his fingers, but you can’t get them right. doesn’t matter if your muse is right there, a barstool away from you, sitting pretty with those damned fingers of his, you can’t seem to will your pen to mimic them. 

you risk another glance and meet blue, blue eyes. something like amusement flashes in them, his lips quirking up by a fraction. heat creeps up your neck. you twirl your pen and advert your eyes.

“irezumi-chan.”

leave it to shigaraki to give you dumb nicknames. 

you tilt your head.

“yes?”

“are you listening?”

turns out you’re needed for a job involving, out of all things, your tagging skills. and why the hell not. if the boss man wants you to sneak around in shady neighborhood near the shie hassaikai’s quarters in the dead of night, who are you to say no. (they’ll pay for what they did to magne.)

surprisingly, dabi’s drawled out a “count me in”, before downing his whiskey. (you’ve watched with bated breath his adam apple bob up and down as he swallowed his liquor.) 

so dabi’s tagging along, hands regrettably shoved deep in the confines of his pockets.

you’re not disappointed. absolutely not.

just worrying about your safety. understand, your quirk makes it so that you practically have to be half-naked for maximum efficiency. skin revealing tops and all, because you’re tired of your clothes being rippef to shreds whenever your tattoos come to life. so dabi’s hands in his pockets? they’re limiting his ability to defend you both if needed be.

nevermind the speed with which he fights, spread hand igniting from palm to fingertips, fire flashing bluer than his eyes as he burns it all. nevermind your own skills. it’s just that these yakuza bastards are lethal, more so than the league.

yeah, right. and tattooing your back piece yourself was an easy ordeal.

you let out a sigh and stop dead in your tracks, eyeing a wall. covered in graffiti, the whole surface of it a mess of superposed designs.

“this should do.”

dabi leans back on the opposite wall, crossing his arms over his chest.

“do your thing.”

you crack your knuckles, your wrists, grab the spray paint and get to work. here’s the great thing about your quirk. whatever you draw can come to life, as long as you’ve seen it beforehand. call yourself yoshihide and your quirk hellscreen with how good you are. 

the medium doesn’t matter - the drawing comes to life if you will it so. and sure, it might disappear after an hour’s worth of use, but given your drawing skills, it’s versatile enough to give you the advantage in a fight.

the smell of spray paint fills the air, black micro droplets dusting your fingertips, your wrist. you kneel, leaning back ever so slightly to assess your handiwork.

you cannot afford to mess this up. not if you want shigaraki’s admittedly funky plan to succeed - and given you know UA is going to involve itself with that bastard overhaul… oh well. you don’t mind giving the students an explosive hand. as a thank you gift. 

smoke curls in front of you. nicotine.

you groan, rising to your feet and brushing the dust off your cargo pants.

“really dabi?”

you don’t need to turn around to know he’s grinning.

that grin.

the one that has him baring just a sliver of teeth, stitches pulling at the corner of his eyes with the mischievous glint flashing in them. a menace. 

“what?” he drawls. “can’t handle a little smoke?”

you shake your can of spray paint with a grumble.

“i’m trying to quit.”

a low chuckle.

“poor you.”

a lick of warmth at your back. you stop drawing that grenade. no need to mess it up. you feel the lean heat of him before he presses against you, fingers trailing up, up your arm, from your wrist to your collarbone- he’s tracing your tattoos. 

“you know, you get real cute when you’re flustered.”

his nail presses down on the detail of one of your pieces - a dragon’s scale, its great maw gaping open in a blast of heat stretching over your shoulder. you shudder. his hair brushes against your cheek.

“i’m not flustered,” you mumble, weakly.

he chuckles, low and warm and just a little mean. you feel the vibration of it on your back, spreading deep in your ribcage. you think you’re forgetting to breathe. 

“no?”

his fingers come to view, joints stretching the skin taut. they’re big, thumb massaging your forearm, digging in the coils of the leviathan snaking around your wrist.

“i see the way you look at me when i fight. at the bar…”

your mouth goes a little dry. you lick your lips and feel dabi’s breath on your cheek, his nose brushing your ear. he could take a bite out of you with how close his mouth is to your neck. 

“hands are hard to draw.”

you don’t see his grin. you don’t see the white flash of teeth you’ve grown to love, the way his lips split wide, stitches pulling and pulling at the seams of his mouth.

“hands?” he lifts one of them, the one that isn’t lighting a fucking inferno at your hip with how maddening his touch is, his index slowly tracing your waistband. “you like my hands, huh?”

you whine. actually fucking whine at that, low and needy and desperate, hips pressing back against his.

and fuck, if the way he laughs at that doesn’t turn you to putty in his hands, you don’t know what does.

he holds up his hand before your face, fingers spread wide, big enough to encompass your whole face.

he could kill you. burn you to ashes. you should be a little concerned with how unpredictable he proves himself to be at times. 

you’re not. if anything, you’re watching, enraptured, as his hand looms closer to your face. what he does next nearly kills you. 

“open wide for me.”

his fingers curl, index and middle held before your mouth, pressing down on your lower lip, teasing it before they slip in you, resting on your tongue.

you taste him - something salty and distinctly him that makes your head spin.

his fingers are warm, the entirety of him is, and you’re panting against him, your own fingers clenching your can of spray paint like a vice.

his free hand snakes under your shirt, splaying over your chest, burying itself between the plushness of your breasts. he feels your heartbeat, wild, erratic little thing against his palm.

“that’s it… now suck.”

a metallic clang rings somewhere in the distance. you wouldn’t know where, with the sharp ringing in your ears, the way the world has narrowed down to dabi’s heavenly touch.

tiny pinpricks of cold brush your chin, lightning flashes of pleasure as his staples make contact with your skin, as his nails drag against your nipple, pleasure-pain at its finest. 

he’s dragging his fingers, pushing down on your tongue as you eagerly suck on them. he mouths at your neck, the press of teeth against your skin having you keening around his fingers.

you think you���re burning, little inferno of desire wasting away in his arms, your hips grinding against his, eager, eager…

he pulls his fingers out of your mouth, thin threads of saliva linking them to your parted lips, and you whine at the loss.

then his fingers find your slit and drag, and his touch is scorching against your core and you’re begging. wet little sounds fill the alleyway, and it’s loud, the only thing you can hear. and fuck, the way his thumb circles your clit just right- 

and that fucker takes his hand out of your pants and brings it to his face with a low chuckle, thin threads of your slick coating his fingers from the tip to the knuckle. your eyes widen, the sight embedded in your retina.

he grins against your cheek. 

“i’ve barely touched you…” 

there’s a hint of awe in his voice, you think, hazily. then again, you’re not sure. not really. you’re impeccably warm like this, all pressed up against dabi’s lithe body, head lolled back on his shoulder. 

“dabi, please…”

he spins you around, all but slamming you against the wall behind you. you groan, because fuck, every single nerve ending in your system is begging for release, and the acrid scent of spray paint is filling your senses, and you’re pretty sure it’s smudging against your back-

you meet his gaze and your breath catches in your throat.

he’s watching you, blue, blue eyes swallowed up by his pupils. he’s panting, you realize, lips bloody with how hard he’s bitten them. you’ve never seen anything more beautiful than him, looming over you in the flickering glow of a streetlamp, the golden light swallowing him whole. 

“let me draw you,” you blurt out, cheeks heating up immediately.

he laughs, a low, raspy little thing of a chuckle as his fingers find your core again and you gasp at his touch.

“you already do, don’t you?”

you feel you might spontaneously combust and die, your head tilting to the side, trying not to meet his stare. you don’t see his smile, inexplicably fond. 

“c’mon, look at me. i wanna see your pretty face when i make you cum on my fingers.”

his forehead presses against yours, his fingers digging in your hips, in the meat of your thigh. your breath mingles with his in sharp little gasps as he resumes unraveling you, a shit-eating grin on his face.

it’s unfair, the effect he has on you, how good he is with these blasted fingers of his. you fist at his clothes, hands burrowing in the strands of hair at his nape, tugging hard enough to make him groan, low and heavy in your ear. his fingers curl. you keen, falling apart as you choke around his name. 

his lips press against your neck, a soft, almost chaste peck.

“you did so good for me, pretty.”

you’re about to gently push him away from you. you have a job to do, a revenge to take, and the clock’s ticking- 

then his lips are on you. he’s kissing you, his lower lip a stark contrast with his upper lip, the perfect blend of soft roughness. you close your eyes, melting against him.

he’s kissing you, and the job can wait for a little while.

[mostlysignssomeportents]

The FTC has Big Pharma’s number

On November 27, I'm appearing at the Toronto Metro Reference Library with Facebook whistleblower Frances Haugen.

On November 29, I'm at NYC's Strand Books with my novel The Lost Cause, a solarpunk tale of hope and danger that Rebecca Solnit called "completely delightful."

The most consistent bright spot in the dark swirl of US politics is the competence of the Biden Administration's progressive enforcers: people like Rohit Chopra, Jonathan Kanter and Lina Khan, who keep demonstrating just how far a good administrator can go. Anyone can have a vision, but knowing how to execute is the difference between hot air and real change:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/10/23/getting-stuff-done/#praxis

Take a minute to contrast Biden's administrators with Trump's: Trump's administrators had an ideological vision just as surely as Biden's do, and Trump himself had a much more pronounced and explicit ideology than Biden, whose governance style is much more about balancing the Democratic Party's blocs than bringing about a specific set of policies:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/03/06/personnel-are-policy/#janice-eberly

But whatever clarity of vision the Trump administration brought to DC was completely undermined by its incompetence (thankfully!). Apart from one gigantic tax break, Trump couldn't get stuff done. He couldn't deliver, because he'd lose his temper or speak out of turn:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/11/14/when-youve-lost-the-fedsoc/#anti-buster-buster

And his administrators followed his lead. Scott Pruitt was appointed to run the EPA after a career spent suing the agency. It could have been the realization of his life's dream to dismantle environmental law in America and open the floodgates for unlimited, wildly profitable corporate pollution and pillaging. But the dream died because he kept getting embroiled in absurd scandals – like the time he sent his staffers out to drive around all night looking for a good deal on a used mattress:

https://www.nbcnews.com/politics/politics-news/epa-s-pruitt-told-aide-obtain-old-mattress-trump-hotel-n879836

Or his insistence on installing a CIA-style "Sensitive Compartmented Information Facility" (SCIF) so he could play super-spy while reading memos:

https://www.cnn.com/2018/04/26/politics/epa-administrator-scott-pruitt-sound-proof-booth-scif/index.html

Or the time he sent his security detail to the Ritz-Carlton to demand that they supply him lots of little bottles of his favorite hand-cream:

https://www.vox.com/2018/6/7/17439044/scott-pruitt-ritz-carlton-moisturizing-lotion

There were other examples in the Trump administration, but Priutt is such a good case-study. He's like a guy who spent his whole life training to compete in the Olympics, and finally got a shot, only to be disqualified for ordering too much room-service in the Olympic Village. Priutt was wildly ambitious, but he was profoundly undisciplined – and wildly incompetent.

Compare that with Biden's progressive enforcers and agency heads, who showed up on the first day of work with an encyclopedic knowledge of their administrative powers, and detailed plans for using them to transform the lives of the American people for the better:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/10/18/administrative-competence/#i-know-stuff

The Biden administration's competence translates into action, getting stuff done. Maybe that shouldn't surprise us, given the difference between the stories that reactionaries and progressives tell about where change comes from.

In reactionary science fiction, we enter the realm of the "Competent Man" story. Think of a Heinlein hero, who is "able to change a diaper, plan an invasion, butcher a hog, conn a ship, design a building, write a sonnet, balance accounts, build a wall, set a bone, comfort the dying, take orders, give orders, cooperate, act alone, solve equations, analyse a new problem, pitch manure, program a computer, cook a tasty meal, fight efficiently, die gallantly."

In Competent Man stories, a unitary hero steps into the breach and solves the problem – if not single-handedly, then as the leader of others, whose lesser competence is a base metal that the Competent Man hammers into a tempered blade:

https://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Creator/RobertAHeinlein

Contrast this with a progressive tale, like, say, Kim Stanley Robinson's Ministry For the Future, where the Competent Man is replaced by the Competent Administration, in which people of goodwill and technical competence figure out how to join forces to create population-scale architectures of participation that allow every person to contribute their skills and perspective:

https://pluralistic.net/2020/12/03/ministry-for-the-future/#ksr

The right's whole ideology insists that the world can only be saved by Competent Men. As Corey Robin writes in The Reactionary Mind, the unifying factor that binds together conservative factions from monarchists to racists to Christian Dominionists is the belief that a few of us are born to rule, and the rest to be ruled over:

https://pluralistic.net/2020/05/25/mafia-logic/#mafia-logic

The Reaganite insistence that governments are, by their very nature, incompetent and malign ("The nine most terrifying words in the English language are, 'I’m from the government, and I’m here to help'"), means that conservatives deny the possibility of a Competent Administration.

When conservatives take office and proceed to bungle the most basic elements of administration, they're fulfilling their own campaign narrative, which starts with "We must dismantle the government because it is bad at everything." Conservatives who govern badly prove their own point, which explains a lot about the UK Tory Party's long run of governmental failure and electoral success:

https://apnews.com/article/uk-suella-braverman-fired-cabinet-shuffle-7ea6c89306a427cc70fba75bc386be79

There's a small mercy in the fact that so many of the most ideologically odious and extreme conservative governments are so technically incompetent in governing, and thus accomplish so little of their agendas.

But the inverse – the incredible competence of the best progressive administrators – is nothing short of a delight to witness. Here's the latest example to cross my path: the FTC has intervened in a lawsuit over generic insulin pricing, on an issue that is incredibly technically specific and also fantastically important:

https://www.fiercepharma.com/pharma/ftc-blasts-pharmas-abuse-fda-patent-system-sanofi-mylans-insulin-monopoly-lawsuit

The underlying case is before the FDA, and it concerns the dirty tricks that pharma giant Sanofi used to keep Mylan from making a generic version of Mylan's Lantus insulin after its patent expired.

There's an explicit bargain in patents: inventors can enlist the government to punish their rivals for copying their ideas, but in exchange, the government demands that the inventor has to describe how the invention works in a detailed patent filing, and when the patent expires, 20 years later, rivals can use the patent application as instructions for freely copying and selling the invention. In other words: you get 20 years of exclusive rights in return for facilitating your competitors' copying and selling your invention when the 20 years are up.

Pharma doesn't like this, naturally: not content with 20 years of exclusivity, they want the government to step in and punish their competitors forever. In service to that end, pharma companies have perfected a process called evergreening, where they dribble out ancillary patents after their initial filing, covering minor reformulations, delivery systems, or new uses.

Evergreening got a moment in the public eye earlier this year, with John Green's viral campaign to shame Johnson & Johnson out of using evergreening to restrict poor countries' access to TB medication:

https://armandalegshow.com/episode/john-green-part-1/

The story of pharma is that it commands gigantic profits, but it invests those profits into medicines that save our lives. The reality is that most of the key underlying pharma research is publicly funded (by Competent Administrators who apportion funding to promising scientific inquiry). Pharma companies' most inventive genius is devoted to inventing new evergreening tactics:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/10/19/solid-tumors/#t-cell-receptors

That's where the FTC comes in, in this Sanofi-Mylan case. To facilitate the production of generic, off-patent drugs, the FDA maintains a database called the "Orange Book," where pharma companies are asked to enumerate all the ancillary patents associated with a product whose patent is expiring. That way, generics manufacturers who make their own version of these public domain drugs and therapeutics don't accidentally stumble over one of those later patents – say, by replicating a delivery system or special coating that is still in patent.

This is where the endless, satanic inventiveness of the pharma sector comes in. You see, US law provides for triple damages for "willful patent infringement." If you are a generics manufacturer eyeing up a drug whose patent is about to expire and you are notified that some other patents might be implicated in your plans, you must ensure that you don't accidentally infringe one of those patents, or face business-destroying statutory damages.

So pharma companies stuff the Orange Book full of irrelevant patent claims they say may be implicated in a generic manufacture program. Each of these claims has to be carefully evaluated, both by a scientific team and a legal team, because patents are deliberately obfuscated in the hopes of tricking an inattentive patent examiner into granting patents for unpatentable "inventions":

https://blueironip.com/patents-that-hide-the-ball/

What's more, when a pharma giant notifies the FDA that it has ancillary patents that are relevant to the Orange Book, this triggers a 30-month delay before a generic can be marketed – adding 2.5 years to the 20 year patent term. That delay is sometimes enough to cause a manufacturer to abandon plans to market a generic drug – so the delay isn't 2.5 years, it's infinite.

This is a highly technical, highly consequential form of evergreening. It's obscure as hell, and requires a deep understanding of patent obfuscation, ancillary patent filings, generic pharma industry practice, and the FDA's administrative procedures.

Sanofi's Orange Book entry for Lantus insulin listed 50 related patent claims. Of these, 48 were invalidated through "inter partes" review (basically the Patent Office decided they shouldn't have allowed these claims to be included on a patent). Neither of the remaining two claims were found to be relevant to the manufacture of generic Lantus.

This is where the FTC's filing comes in: their amicus brief doesn't take a position whether Sanofi's Orange Book entries were fraudulent, but they do ask the FDA to intervene to prevent Orange Book stuffing because "improper listings can cause significant harm to competition and consumers."

This is the kind of boring, technical, important stuff that excellent administrators can do. The FTC's brief is notice to the FDA that it should amend its procedures to ban (and punish) Orange Book abuse. That will make it possible for you, a person who needs medicine, to get that medicine more cheaply and quickly. In America's pay-for-use privatized healthcare hellscape, this could be a life-or-death matter.

There's plenty of things the Biden administration is getting very, very badly wrong, but we shouldn't lose sight of how its progressive wing is making real, lasting change for the better. Competent Administrations are the true peoples' champions. They beat Competent Men every time.

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/2023/11/23/everorangeing/#taste-the-rainbow

[2036sator]

[[ breathing ]]

[vix-is-being-frosty]

Man I missed drawing them.

I love these two so much. I love my creations ^^

[cion-the-cloaked-stick]

happy father's day, lucky!

@graceful-not

[magicpiano]

AU where Von Karma kills Miles instead of Gregory

Manfred Von Karma just got a dent in his perfect record. Gregory Edgeworth almost took away the thing that mattered most to him. Isn't it only fair that he destroy what matters most to Gregory in return? Besides when that elevator opened it became obvious that the child was the one to shoot him in the shoulder. Turnabout is fair play, right?

So Gregory lives, but his son is dead and despite being the only possible suspect, Yanni Yogi gets away with it. His son's murderer walks free, so Gregory quits his job as a defense attorney. It is hard to believe in what he does anymore.

His life is mostly quiet— lonely. He doesn't really talk to his friends anymore. He doesn't do much of anything anymore. He does some kind of boring law work, like property law or contracts or something and everyday he goes home to an empty house.

Until one day he gets a call from his dead son's best friend. You see Phoenix Wright has been accused of murder.

Phoenix lost his taste for defense attorneys when one got his best friend's murderer off, and somewhere along the line he decided he wanted to become a prosecutor. He wanted to be the best prosecutor so that no guilty party ever got away with murder again. That goal led him to the court house one day, and led him to meeting his current girlfriend. Then it led to a murder accusation.

No, Phoenix doesn't quite like defense attorneys, but... He still remembers how Miles saved him that day. He remembers how Miles talked about his father the same way he talked about the Steal Samurai. Like he was a hero. And right now, Phoenix really needs a hero. Who else would he trust with his life?

Gregory hasn’t defended anyone in years. He is out of hope and out of practice, but Phoenix won't accept anyone else. For all that he has given up years ago, he can't let Miles' friend down. Because Phoenix is one of the only people still alive that remembers Miles— that still cares about him. Because in all the pictures where Miles was smiling the brightest, Phoenix was next to him. Because Miles thought Gregory was a hero. He isn't. He couldn't even save his own son, but maybe, just maybe he can save his son's friend.

But you see this girl named Mia Fey really wants this case. Phoenix might not want her as his defense attorney, but that won't stop her. She is going to be Gregory's co-council on this case whether he wants her or not.

And they win of course, but Gregory nearly has a heart attack when Phoenix eats a glass bottle of poison because he can't lose him too— But he is fine. Heartbroken, but fine. And Gregory had saved him.

For the first time in years he has a purpose again.

Mia has a case she is working on, and wouldn't you know it, Gregory is actually kind of involved. So she leaves her job with Grossberg and joins Gregory as he restarts his defense agency.

He starts taking cases again— he starts helping people again. He reconnects with the friends he has been ignoring for years, like Ray. He helps Phoenix study for his law exams. He researches that case with Mia. He starts to live again.

Mia is researching a dangerous case, a long history of blackmail and extortion. If she didn't have help it would have taken twice as long, if she didn't have help maybe she would have died. But she did have help. Gregory wasn't going to let anyone use his son's death as a weapon to hurt others, including the Fey family's reputation.

They find their evidence, press charges and wouldn't you know it, they have a prosecutor on their side, one who is not afraid of Redd White’s threats. Working together, Phoenix wins the case and gains a lot of fame for it.

(And when Larry is accused of murder, Gregory takes that case too, all the while laughing at what troublesome friends his son had.)

All of this is a problem for Von Karma, because Gregory is a very good defense attorney. Phoenix might have been the one to prosecute Redd White, but Von Karma knows where all the evidence came from.

Gregory wasn't a problem when he was depressed and not practicing law, but now all of a sudden he is gaining a name for himself again. He took down Redd White. He is winning cases and someday they might just face off against each other again. And if Von Karma isn't careful, Gregory just might win.

Gregory is the one person capable of beating Von Karma which is why he needs to be dealt with.

Maybe Gregory should have ignored a letter from Robert Hammond, but how could he? The man got his son's murderer off the hook! And so Hammond dies, and Gregory is arrested, but things don't turn out how Von Karma thought they would.

Gregory has a lot of friends who all help him investigate, and Mia has learned a lot under Gregory, and Phoenix has been running around looking for files from the prosecutor's side, and Gumshoe likes Gregory way more than Von Karma and helps in any way he can, and Ray has been doing everything he can to help too. Because while Von Karma has a legacy of victory, Gregory has a legacy of love.

And when Von Karma is arrested for Miles Edgeworth's murder, Phoenix turns to him and promises to be the prosecutor for his trial. He became a prosecutor because his best friend didn't get justice, but he isn't going to let that happen a second time.

It is not a happy ending. For Gregory, the only happy ending would be if his son was still alive.

But he has a reason to live again. There are always bad days, but he has friends who won't let him wallow too long. Every day he helps people, and when he visits Miles' grave he finally has stories to tell.

Phoenix is talking about routing out corruption in the prosecutor's office. For all that it sounds like an impossible task, Gregory thinks Phoenix might even be able to pull it off.

Miles used to think his father was a hero. Gregory isn't that, not by a long shot, but... He hopes he can be half the man his son believed he was.

[bugiseverywhere]

this song got me thinking of Prohero!Katsuki x ObsidianQuirk!Reader… who keeps dragging him into her little games of toying with the law.. and his thoughts.

Reader isn’t a notorious villain or anyone too special, but they have a pretty neat quirk that they like to put to use every now and then. As long as they get a laugh out of it, really. They can manipulate magma from the earth and utilize it to their liking, including hardening the elements within the material and creating obsidian structures. It’s not overly noticeable if it’s not used to its full potential, and it can easily exhaust them if used to much, but what’s wrong with a little fun here and there?

Recently, some gangs of low end scumbags have been committing crimes around katsuki’s patrolling grounds- childish stuff like stealing money and merchandise from gas stations and small businesses and trying to run away after. However, upon reaching the scene of these crimes, the criminals are already knocked out and tied up by some, what looks like obsidian chain link, but the even more annoying part? Everything the tied up criminals attempted to steal on their own is completely missing, plus a few extra items here and there.

…weird.there’s no hero that he’s aware of that has a quirk capable of doing that, and if there was why hasn’t it been reported that they would be in his area? Also what hero captures people and then walks away with valuables?

This continues for a couple weeks, and it starts to drive the hero into frustration.

Until that is, today.

It was time for the hero to end his patrol and head back to the agency when he heard some commotion ahead. Picking up his pace, katsuki was ready to catch whoever was around the corner when he came face to face with Reader. Laughing softly at the group of teenage boys in front of her, two of them were already knocked out and were currently being tied up in that familiar chain the pro has been busting blood vessels over.

The last standing of the group, dropped everything, running in the opposite direction before being completely knocked sideways by readers quirk and drug towards the rest of the boys on the ground.

“Alright! $250 that’s not bad, time to get the fuck outta he-“

Bending down to collect the random number of snacks and money the boys had previously taken from the gas station down the road, reader looked up.

Katsuki stood before her, completely dumbfounded.

A girl has been doing this? Seemingly about his age- and that quirk..is she a criminal too? She was going to just walk away with stuff!! Who could she be- she’s a decently attractive girl at first glance.. actually scratch that, she’s almost exactly his type in looks-

“This is awkward..uhm- Dynamight right?”

oh.. she knows who he is?.. well of course, he’s pretty known in the public and if she’s been knocking these thugs out and also stealing their stuff, she’s got to be aware of heros…but why is his heart fluttering a bit when she said his name, and why does he feel kind of intimidated right now?… uhm actually why are his legs not moving right now-

“Who the hell are you-“

“Y’know I would love to chat about all of this but I kinda don’t feel like being arrested today so I should get going!”

she used her quirk on him. She completely trapped his legs in her stupid fucking obsidian bullshit, and now she’s running off with money that isn’t hers, and leaving five knocked out idiots behind.

“HEY! WAIT A FUCKING MINUTE IM NOT DONE WITH YOU-“

Blasting out of her obsidian hold he darted around the corner to find her completely out of sight.

-

-

-

Weeks pass and Katsuki is still thinking about Reader. He’s even gone as far as requesting security footage from the local shops where recent crimes have taken place. He’s spent hours analyzing her quirk and trying to find any information he can about her through the static and choppy imaging.

After he couldn’t get much information himself, he sent his secretary to the commission office to get as much information about her as possible. The next morning, a stack of documents were placed on his desk.

(Y/N) (L/N)

Quirk : Obsidian Manipulation

Working Status : Retired Undercover Hero

Hero Name : Igneous

[Headshot]

a retired undercover hero? she’s so young though.. why would she be retired already-

“sir, you’re 2:00 is ready for you in the conference hall.”

“K.”

Katsuki takes a deep breath and gathers his thoughts. He’s got more important things he should be focusing on…not some criminal- no, ex undercover hero.. okay, an ex undercover hero who knocks thugs out but steals valuables- who has a decently good quirk and looked kinda attractive when she used it-

oh,

how the mighty fall…

(in love)

I rushed this but OH MY GAWD. I am obsessed with a dumbfounded very interested katsuki x kinda bad influence but also not horrible person reader. PLEASE, give me your thoughts + add on’s I want to expand this so bad. My head is SPINNING 😫🤌

[raineandsky]

#131

Inspired by #16 on @creativepromptsforwriting's drabble list!

The villain is gathering as much cold hard cash into their arms as possible when someone pointedly clears their throat behind them.

“[Villain],” the hero says smoothly. “You’re not above stealing from banks yet, I see.”

“And you’re not above loitering outside waiting for something to happen,” the villain retorts.

“It’s a shame to see you back here.” The hero hums a laugh, but the villain’s too busy scooping money into their bag to care. “You know I hate to arrest my favourite villain.”

“No need,” the villain says with their usual dry sarcasm. “New laws say that you don’t have to.”

The pause the hero leaves is just long enough to be suspicious. The villain glances back at them, just about catching the slight frown before they notice their nemesis looking.

“Yeah right,” they say unconvincingly. “New laws my ass.”

The classic I kind of believe you saying. The one that gives away that the villain’s quip was, for some reason, taken entirely too seriously. They were setting up for a joke, but— are they actually going to get away with this?

“No, no, they’re real.” The villain smiles as convincingly as possible. “Look it up—villains get benefit of the doubt if the agency deems their schemes particularly newsworthy.”

“The agency wouldn’t.”

“The agency recognises talent, don’t they?”

The villain gestures to the hero vaguely, and the hero falls right for the little ego boost. A smirk tugs at their lips for a moment, their stance a little straighter. “Well,” they say offhandedly, “I don’t think the agency would class robbing a bank as newsworthy. You do it every other week.”

“It’s not about the act, [Hero], it’s about the pizzazz!” The villain is in entirely too deep with this joke they were trying to make. “The agency likes people who can have a little fun. You know I like to make a show.”

“I do, unfortunately.” The hero sighs. “So, what? You just leave here with a stack of cash?”

The villain knows pushing their luck will get them in jail. “Well, you caught me—that’s pretty good going. I’ll leave the money as a congratulations.”

The hero watches carefully as the villain puts the money in their hands back on the shelf. “And the stuff in the bag,” the hero adds.

“Oh, come on, I can’t have anything?”

“You said you’d put it back.”

“Ugh, fine.” The villain tips their rucksack up and dumps a pile of cash on the table. “Happy now?”

The hero hums distractedly for a moment, their eyes glancing over the unstolen money scattered about, before huffing defeatedly. “Sure.”

The villain beams way too obviously. “Sweet. I’ll be heading off then.” They make for the door before deciding to dig their own grave a little more. “The agency does a stamp system now, y’know.”

“What is that meant to mean?”

“Catch five villains in the act and you get a free coffee,” the villain says brightly. "Or so I’ve heard. Ask [Superhero] about it.”

The hero nods thoughtfully. “Yeah, okay. Thanks.”

The villain hadn’t come in here expecting to walk straight back out. They certainly hadn’t expected to meet a hero in there without ending up in jail or hidden in some obscure part of the city.

But that doesn’t matter now. The villain is free, hero is going to make a fool of themself in front of the superhero, and that sucker didn’t even notice the forty thousand pounds stuffed into the villain’s coat.