#present simple reported speech

[trolledu]

[mintmatcha]

Inevitable Things : chapter nine

aizawa x reader fic

cw: aizawa x reader, cisfem reader, office AU, no quirks. Mentions of drug use

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Toshinori sends you a text just as you’re walking back from your room.

-> Slways a sad friday without your reports. Hope things are good. THank you for keeping my company moving and for keeping the peace this weekend.

He ends the message with a little flexed bicep emoji-- his little sign for ‘keep fighting’.

A pang of something clangs around in your ribcage. You miss him too. Usually, it’d be strange to consider yourself close with a boss, but Toshinori is different; he’s kind, he’s earnest, he treats you well. His riches are used to improve the world, not line his own pocket-

There’s also a sour feeling that hits your gut. Your position on this trip is borrowed; Toshinori should be here, representing his company, just like he had every other year. You’re only here because he likes you- not because of merit or knowledge. 

That only deepens your dread. No, you aren’t special or smart. You’re just a pity case, here because your boss is dying. And isn’t it selfish to pity yourself? Toshinori is the sick one.

By the time the elevator chimes open, you’re consumed by dread. You slide past the doors and next to the man in there, head tucked down to watch your shoes. They aren’t your silly red ones, but a brand new sensible black kitten heel-- a child’s choice in shoes.

“No hello?” The stranger says. “Thought we had a truce.”

You briefly look at the man, who’s turning your way, and then dip away, embarrassed; the man is cute, well put together, someone who you wouldn’t mind talking to-

-you realize he isn’t a stranger at all. 

It’s a simple black suit, pressed a bit unevenly in the legs, but well fitted across his waist. Aizawa is wearing a dark emerald shirt with no tie, unbuttoned at the top. Even his hair is tidy and hydrated; it’s still wet from the shower, pulled into a tight low ponytail. For the first time maybe ever, he’s clean shaven as well, a little nick on his cheek from the kiss of razor, right under his silvered scar.

He looks good. 

Like. Really good.

It’s a surprise and it also isn’t-- seems like you’re always lured in by a surprise Shouta sighting.

“I didn’t realize it was you in this… get up.” You shift your weight away from him. Does he even have cologne on? It’s not like you expected him to give a speech in his sweatshirt--- well, maybe you did. “I was-- I dunno. Thinking.”

He nods like he knows what that really means.

“Don’t do that.”

“I’m not allowed to think?” you repeat.  “Aren’t you supposed to be nice to me?”

He shoots you a glare. “You didn’t even say hello to me-- that isn’t nice either. I figured our treaty was off.”

Ugh. He may have a point. Pretending is going to involve, well, actually pretending. You look him up and down, slapping on your fakest smile. “I’m so happy to see you.” 

Aizawa grimaces as if you’ve slapped him, fingers pressed into his temple like you’ve caused the onset of a migraine. It takes him a moment to mumble out: “The feeling is mutual.”

“At least say it like you mean it,” you demand.

“The fact you are here is just the best.” he says, more enthusiastic than you’ve ever seen the man, but also clearly fake; his lips curls up to the left when he’s lying. He rubs little circles into his skin to help him through the pain of being a decent person. “I’m so grateful you get to watch me present and then report how I did back to my boss.”

Despite yourself, you smile, just a bit.

“That’ll do.”

“For you.” Aizawa repeats it. That's right: he's doing this for your comfort, not his own. That thought wriggles inside you and buries down like a worm.

“Do we need ground rules?” you ask. The elevator dings down, down, down-

“A weekend treaty was my idea, I don’t need stipulations,” Aizawa says, ruffling his hair. It smells like product, something expensive than Hizashi definitely forced upon him.  “I can be civil without rules.”

“Then why are you never civil?” you shoot back, talking before you can think. The doors flick open and Aizawa walks out, giving you a bemused, yet annoying look.

“That’s a very pointed question,” he says over his shoulder. “You might be the one who needs ground rules.”

“Hey!”

--

Mic’s in the hall already when you two arrive. The place would be simply cavernous if it wasn’t filled to the gills with booths. The ceiling glimmers with chandeliers and the classic blue tiling, but the rest of the room is pretty standard-- almost underwhelming. The booth Hizashi’s set up is mild compared to the one’s surrounding it, which makes sense, you guess. It’s not like he could have wheeled a hospital bed into this hotel; just diagrams, brochures, and enough swag to lure even the least interested prospect into his arms. He’s unwrapping a lollipop when he notices you two approaching.

“Wow, wow-” He sizes you up with the candy. The bright red end shines in the light. Someone snags a piece of candy off of the table as they pass; despite the fact the hall isn’t officially open, there’s still a fair amount of people roaming. “Looking good, baby.”

“Which one of us are you talking to?” It takes you a second to realize Aizawa’s kidding.

“You, obviously-” Hizashi says back to him. They both chuckle and it’s horrifying how they do it in the same way: low, rolling, completely un-serious. They really have known each other forever.

“Oh, before I forget-” The blonde spreads out a sticker and a proper name placard. “I grabbed name tags.”

Yours in handwritten in surprisingly nice writing, but Aizawa's is laminated and on a lanyard, his name and degree written in red bold lettering-

“I didn’t know you were a doctor,” you blurt out as he puts it on. Aizawa shifts his weight to his other leg uncomfortably. “Should I be calling you Dr. Aizawa?”

“No.” he dismisses.  “It’s not medical-- It’s a PhD.”

“In Biomedical Engineering, so medical’s in the name, actually-”

Aizawa shoots Hizashi a glare. “You know what I mean. I’m not saving someone from a heart attack. All I do is sit on this damn computer and look at programs and numbers.” Aizawa takes a chair from the neighboring booth- a biotissue company- and drags it to behind the table before flopping down. 

  “You should look around, see what everyone's up to. If you just sit here with us you're just going to stress over your talk.” Hizashi waves him off. “Besides, me and babygirl have it handled.”

Aizawa hunches over in his seat as he drags out his laptop and a pen.

“I want to stress over my talk.”  He taps the capped end of his pen against his teeth, the click audible over the din of the growing crowd. “I want to sit here and be miserable.” 

Hizashi looks at you and waggles his finger beside his head in the ‘this guy’s crazy’ way. Yeah- obviously. You have to hide your giggle as someone walks up to your table and Hizashi launches into his spiel. It’s hard not to watch Aizawa out of the corner of your eye; he is, in fact, sitting down and stressing out. The man has pulled out a tiny laptop and balanced it on his lap, alternating between furiously typing and mashing the back button.

“You okay if he’s here?” Hizashi whispers. Honestly, you’re not thrilled; you had been hoping for a lighthearted day alone with your buddy--

But maybe it can still be a little fun.

“Oh, absolutely,” you say too loudly. “Aizawa and I are buddies.”

You're abusing his kindness for you by pushing him, you know that, but doesn't he deserve it? Just a bit? Aizawa sneers a smile from behind his screen, clearing unamused. 

“Best ‘buddies,’” he says, flat enough you could drive across it. 

Hizashi looks between you. Then, he does it again. 

 “Since when?”

----

The rest of the afternoon continues the same way. Swathes of doctors and investors visit you, half of which ask about Yagi. You tell them all that he’s a fighter. Most understand this means he’s doing poorly. Luckily, Hizashi handles most of the harder questions; it’s amazing to see him in his zone, smooth talking and pitching and just talking so quickly and professionally that you’re almost ready to buy a Prome product yourself. No wonder people have tried to poach him from the company. The customers Prome already has sing his praises and tell you about all the wonderful extra steps he’s taken for them.

You aren’t sure you’re truly nice enough to be a sales rep too.

Aizawa only greets a few people, seemingly ones he knows well or that are well known enough to give his full attention. The worried look never leaves his face, except when you chirp little niceties at each other. 

There’s comfort to it, you find. It’s better than the hot and cold thing you had going on. That bubbling, seasick anger inside of you can be funneled into thinly veiled sarcasm without consequence, with the added benefit of Aizawa seeming to enjoy it as well. 

“Great shirt by the way,” a passerby says. Aizawa looks up, eyes wide and mouth agape enough for a fly to fly into.

“Were they talking to me?”

They actually were, but you can’t let him know that.

“Of course, buddy,” you coo. “It’s a great shirt- did you put this outfit together?”

He gives you a sideways glance as he continues typing away without seeing the keyboard. “I’m forty-- who do you think picks out my clothes? My mother?”

You think he’s actually joking in good faith this time.

“Sesame, maybe.”

He is being silly. He’s even smiling now, a weird thing with too much teeth. “Yes. You’re right. My cats picked out my suit. How silly of me to not credit her for her work.” His tone is horribly flat, but there’s still some charm to it; honestly, with the way he’s carrying on, you wouldn’t be surprised if he really did trust a cat with his clothing.

“Well, tell Sesame that I think you look great.” 

“Thank you.” He adjusts his cuffs, running his fingers down the cotton edge of his shirt. 

“You two are so weird today,” the blonde whines.  “But you aren’t killing each other, so-”

Hizashi sucks in a breath through his teeth.

“Keep this up and I’ll buy dinner and drinks tonight-- Fuck, keep this up and I’ll plan your fucking wed-”

“Long time no see, gentlemen.” 

A man, probably not much older than you, comes up to the table. He's seated in a wheelchair, rocking the wheels slightly back and forth. The stranger is exceptionally handsome:  all wide smiles and broad shoulders, his black hair perfectly quaffed back and parted. The downturn of his eyes is dark and pleasant, and it takes your breath away when you realize he's looking at you and only you. 

“I don't think we've met before.” He shakes his head a little as he speaks, back and forth in this delighted disbelief, as if he can't understand why he has never seen you.  “I'm Tensei Iida.”

The name rings a bell, but you can’t quite place it. 

“He's one of the super sexy doctors I was telling you about.” Hizashi says as he nudges you with his hip.  Tensei rolls his eyes in a way that tells you he's actually tickled pink. That’s it-- he’s Aizawa’s presentation partner.

“Oh, stop that,” he says. “Don't listen to Mic- I’m just a normal guy.”

“Nice to meet you, Dr. Iida.�� You take his hand. His grip is firm and dry, and he parts from you with a squeeze. “You work in prosthetics, right?”

“I do.” He flicks his hair out of his eyes like a teenaged dreamboat. What is with this guy? Was he made in a lab to be perfect? “Shouta over there is one of my best patients.”

Aizawa huffs and slaps his computer closed. “I highly doubt that.”

Patient? “I thought you two worked together.”

Tensei rolls his head to the side as he sighs, continuing this fake bashfulness thing. Unfortunately, it’s working for you; he’s sweet and humble, not to mention cute-

“We do.” He speaks so well, you're hanging off every word- “We modeled his leg together.”

Your eyes snap to Aizawa instinctively. Leg?

“Leg?” you say out loud, stupidly. 

Tensei’s air shifts. He turns to Aizawa, knot creased, lips delightfully downturned. “I didn’t realize it was a secret.”

“It’s not.” Aizawa sighs, “I thought everyone knew.” He hems. He haws. Then, the man tugs his pant leg up with one hand and you see a sliver of  gray metal at the ankle. Before you can really look at it, it’s gone, hidden once again. A prosthetic. It may not be a secret, but there’s definitely shame involved.

Everything snaps in place. The way he walks, the way he always shifts his weight-- you have a thousand questions, but none of them are appropriate.

“I didn’t realize,” you say, carefully. Aizawa is avoiding your eye very, very pointedly, but his beautiful friend is enthralled. 

“Wait, really? That’s great to hear!” Tensei rolls forward a bit.  “You didn’t notice anything at all? No difference in motion or-”

“He, uh, stomps, maybe.” You glance over. “Just a little.”

“I’ve always walked heavy-- The mobility is perfect, I told you.”  

“Are stairs the only pain trigger?” Tensei asks.

“That isn’t the prosthetic’s fault, it’s my body’s. I’m always in pain.”

Oh. Oh. You think back to the stairs incident and the bed on the fifth floor. That’s why he called you cruel. Shit. Making him climb all those stairs…. you were being an asshole to a man with a disability and chronic pain. 

God, no wonder he'd been so antagonistic-- he still started it, but maybe you went too far.

“You must love working with this old grump.” Tensei flashes a grin towards you, almost flirtatiously, and that pulls you out of your thought spiral. 

“Well-” You have to swallow your worry. You force a smile and just say:  “Shouta's always nice to me.”

All three men look at you in the same way.

“Really now?” Tensei says, and you’re almost annoyed by it. No, Aizawa isn’t nice, but… well, he’s your enemy, not Tensei’s. He should be nicer to his research partner.

“We're buddies.” Aizawa's dry sense of humor shines through. “Work… married, or whatever the term is.”

Hizashi barks out a laugh and throws his hair over his shoulder, eyes tight with healthy skepticism. “I thought I was your work husband!”

“I have two hands!”

Tensei never stops looking at you. You like how his fingers twitch when he says your name. “You’ve clearly got everyone wrapped around your finger.”

The way he talks. You think he might be wrapped there too.

“That’s just what she wants you to think.” Aizawa stands suddenly.  “Tensei, I changed my mind. Let’s take a look at my leg.”

Another customer has started to look at the booth, so Hizashi is on again. Tensei’s attention seems to only be distracted by the mentions of work. “Right now?”

“Why not?”

Tensei starts to roll up his sleeves. “Alright, take the pants off and we’ll-”

“God, not here.” 

Tensei just nods. “I was joking. I can go back to a room if you want.”

“I do.”

Just as suddenly as he appeared, Tensei leaves with Aizawa in tow. The older man turns and gives you the smallest, barely there nods as a goodbye before disappearing into the thickening crowd. Once Hizashi is free again a couple minutes later, you lean in and mumble.

“Are those secret lovers or something?”

It shocks a guffaw from Hizashi.

“Please, I wish Sho had a dirty little secret like that.” You hope he doesn’t see your eyes widen. “It would take a miracle for Shouta to have a little fuck buddy. He’s still not over-- well, his last thing.”

Last thing? He’s been single for the three years you’ve known him- what thing could he still be holding on to? You don’t have any room to judge -- you’ve been dating Touya since sixteen and can’t move on either.

“Why do you even care? Tensei caught your eye?”

You think about his pretty dark eyes and try to feel something. “Maybe.”

“Oooo-”

--

Your heels ache by the end of the day, so you slip your feet out of them from under the table. The restaurant is busy, both with people and decoration, and somehow even louder than the convention itself. The waitress has just left the second basket of chips - this one still hot from the fryer- because you and Hizashi have already demolished the first one. You should really get actual food to absorb the alcohol in your stomach, but Aizawa texted you to wait for him.

Texted. You.

It’s weird to see a new message under his name, an unread message you can peek at through your notifications. It feels illicit, raunchy, wrong--

Hizashi sucks at the end of his straw until it gurgles on ice. He’s smiley-er than usual-- and drunk as a skunk. Drinking on an empty stomach does that; you’re swaying already too and you're just two margaritas in. The man has his phone out, tinder open for you to swipe through. Men, women: everything wants a piece of Hizashi and you can’t blame them. His blonde hair is tousled ever so slightly, his glasses are halfway down his button nose-

How does Nemuri stop herself from getting jealous of the attention he gets and his looks? 

“Isn’t being here fucking great?” He takes a mouthful of chips.  “We talk all day and drink all night.”

He's trying to wave down your waiter. 

“You gonna text Dr. Tensei?” He lingers on the word doctor, drawing it out with a warm affection.You snort into your own empty glass and lick the salt from the rim. It’s smoked, a little spicy too. You try to blame the burn in your stomach on that, instead of thirty.

“I don’t even have his number!” you try.

Tensei is… well, almost perfect, but… you aren't sure. It's not that you don't want him, but… 

Maybe you're just gunshy. Touya has you scared to let go, move on. You try and think of Tensei and his sweet smile, his stubbled jawline, his downturned eyes and scarred cheek-

No, that's Aizawa you're thinking of. You physically shake the thought away. The last time you drank was when you saw his…

“But, I have his number!”Hizashi sings as he tries to fish an ice cube out with his drink. “I saw that look on your face; I know you’d love to sit on his face-”

“Shh!” You physically try to lower his volume by waving your hands in the air. A waitress passes, giving you both a strange look, but Hizashi just crunches his ice away happily. “I didn’t say that! He’s just--”

Sex isn't a priority for you. It’s not that you don’t like it, but it’s never as life changing and groundbreaking as you want it to be. By the time it started to feel good, Touya’s would be done and half asleep. (Not that you and Touya even had sex that often. The drug use and cheating scared you; he insisted he was safe, but. Well. He promised a lot of things. When you did have sex, it was with a condom and followed by four weeks of panic testing and STI googling.) 

Sex just never seemed worth the stress, you guess. Maybe it’d be different with someone else. Nemuri clearly likes having sex, so do the girls you see on twitter. Maybe you’re broken or something.

“He’s kinda sexy.”  You try to hold on to optimism. 

“He’s awful sexy!” Hizashi agrees. “I’ll slip you his number later-”

“Why not now?” you say.

“What’s now?”

From behind you, Aizawa strolls in, now devoid of his lovely outfit and stripped down to dress pants and a white undershirt. His hair is back into it’s little knotted bun, curls squashed into submission. When he reaches over the table, you can’t stop your drunken self from watching how his bicep flexes, muscle under thick skin. God, maybe you do need Tensei’s number and a good fuck-- you’re acting like a dog in heat over exposed arms. 

Thick arms, with the rounded hint of muscularity, but still. Just arms.

Aizawa tips the basket over and salt scatters across the table. “You guys didn’t save me a single chip.”

When did you guys finish the second one? The man sits next to you, thighs spread just enough to touch you for a moment. Your back straightens at the contact and, after a blink, you move away to give him more space. He smells like tobacco flower and musk, a surprisingly gentle cologne for a brash man.

“That's what you get for being late! There's shots coming-- how's that sound?”  Hizashi says, much too loud. 

A groan escapes you. Uh oh, you forgot about that: it’s time for you to slow down and eat something that isn't fried. Luckily, Aizawa is here now and the waiter is coming. She passes out the shots of tequila, then she’s gone again, giving Aizawa time to look at the menu she's handed him.

“Tapping out this early?” Aizawa asks. His elbow accidentally touches you as he scooches closer. “I’ll have yours if you don't want it.”

“Please do.” You push yours in front of him and Hizashi does the same.

“Miss girl and I have been having fun without you! Catch up, catch up!” he urges.

“I can tell. You’ve over-served her.” 

You resent that, especially since it’s Aizawa’s fault, but you can’t help but laugh. It gurgles out of you, a bit too drunkenly. “I just need to eat.” 

“The chips weren’t enough?”

“No!” Your mouth is running without your brain. “Ugh, I hate being drunk, I always text people that I shouldn’t.”

Hizashi and Aizawa both look at you, both thinking of very different things. Heat pools in your cheeks-- and a bit in your core, at Aizawa’s lidded gaze. 

“Hey, uh--” Hizashi scooches out from the booth seat and stands, brushing the salt off of his shirt. “Don't be mad, but I’m gonna go.”

Aizawa sneers and you do the same. After all this time, he couldn’t wait a bit longer? Does he really think it’s a good idea to leave the two of you alone? Sure, you were jokingly nice today, but that can’t keep going-

“What? I just got here.”  Aizawa seems to agree with you. 

He waggles his phone in the air, text messages abundant.  “Duty calls.”

At least someone’s getting laid tonight. Aizawa slides away from you and into the spot Hizashi just left, this pissed off look smeared across his face. 

“It’s still on me, don’t worry. Here’s my card- go nuts, kiddos.” Hizashi slaps his card on the table and turns on a dime, humming a jaunty little tune to himself. “Don’t be jealous!” 

“I’m older than you.”

“I’m thirty.”

The two of you are left in Hizashi’s wake, sitting awkwardly apart from each other. 

“So,” you try. “How was your-?”

“We don’t have to do this.” Aizawa slides Hizashi’s card towards you. “You can leave too, if you don’t want to deal with me.”

Usually, you stay quiet, but your drunk brain is taking over. You lean back in the booth and cross your arms, trying to be assertive. “I wish you wouldn’t do that.”

“Do what? Set you free?”

“Assume what I want,” you say. “I’m not allergic to having dinner with you. We can like, just talk and be normal. We did it all day.”

Aizawa’s face scrunches up in disapproval, but he doesn’t object. He sits in constipated misery for a long moment before sighing and unbunching his body. He mirrors your body language, crossing his arms and leaning back just enough that he isn’t hunched over himself. 

“My day was… fine.” he tries in earnest. “Good, even. Took a nap. Finished my presentations.”

“When are you presenting?”

He flips the menu over, then over again, unsettled. His foot is tapping under the table, bouncing the table a bit. “Tomorrow at eleven and Sunday at three.”  

“I want to watch the one with Tensei, is that okay?”

His brow crinkles at the mention of Tensei.

“I can’t stop you, but it’ll be pretty boring.” he shrugs. “Just polymer talk. Hanging with Hizashi will be more fun.”

“Well… I dunno, I love him,” You tread carefully. “But he’s such a horndog sometimes.”

Aizawa snorts and rolls his eyes. There’s the whisper of a grin trapped in his gaze, you think.

“It’s true! He abandoned us tonight!”

“You should have seen him when he first met Nemuri-- it was much worse. He would run off to her at the drop of a hat,” he says. “She would call and he’d get this dopey look on his face-”

“That’s cute though.” You are picking at the salt on the table, dreaming of days when Touya gave you that unmistakable, gooey expression.  “Every woman wants to be loved like that.”

When you glance up, Aizawa is watching you, expression relaxed. He takes a delicate pause, watching you from across the booth as if you’re a million miles away, a look that only locks in when you meet it. It’s almost somber, the way you both watch each other in reverent silence, the din of the restaurant around you growing. 

“He left me alone at a frat house once.” Aizawa interrupts your thoughts. You blanch, then laugh, hand over heart at the thought. “Ran away to get some guy across campus.”

“Wait-- you were in a frat house?” you wheeze. You try to imagine him, yellow sweatshirt in the middle of a sticky floored basement, crowded so close he’s forced to dance along. 

“Against my will.”

Aizawa takes a shot glass and tips it back, swallowing it all in one measured gulp.  He shivers at the taste, tongue stuck between his teeth in disgust. It’s cute. It’s sweet. You can see the silhouette of the college boy he used to be. When he swallows the second shot, he makes the same face, wrinkles deeper this time.

“Slow down-” you say. “You shouldn't really drink all three!” 

“Well, you’re clearly too drunk for another.”

“I’m not drunk!”

“Of course you are-”  he says. “It's why you're being so nice and chatty.”

You gasp and throw a hand to your forehead in fake shock. “I'm always nice!” 

Aizawa leans all the way back in the booth, eyebrow cocked skeptically. He sighs before he speaks. “If I remember correctly, you told me to go fuck myself.”

“No, you said that to me.” You close the gap between you by leaning forward into your elbows. “I said that you wished you could.”

It doesn’t feel scandalous to say until his eyes flicker down to your lips, then back up to your eyes. It’s only a second, a glimmer-- but it’s there, it’s real, it’s temptation. You’re not stupid; you’ve come to terms with the fact that you find Aizawa Shouta attractive, but the sudden attention makes your mouth salivate ever so slightly. 

“I don’t feel like that anymore, I think.” you manage. “At least I don’t hate you anymore.”

“I never hated you.” He leans forward too, head tilted, expression open. “I just wanted an apology.”

The moment grinds to a halt.

“Are you fucking kidding?” You want to scream. Words bubble in your chest, hot and dumb. “I’m not apologizing.”

You jam your feet into your shoes and start fumbling with your purse. Anger makes you clumsy, makes your eyes burn with tears. “Well, okay, I’ll apologize for the stairs, but nothing else. You were so mean to me, on my birthday-”

“And then you immediately sexted me.” Oh, how his calm demeanor gets you even hotter; you want him to scream back, to act pissed-- “How was I supposed to take that?”

“Happily!” You gesture to yourself. “I have great tits!”

“You do.”

“Urgh! Don’t say that!” You slide out of the booth. 

“I thought I was being nice.”

“You’re disgusting-”

“- I don’t know what you want from me. You’re so hot and cold-” Aizawa says, that look on his face.

“You are the one who told me to forget about the stupid texts!” you say. “New flash-- I texted you by accident and yet, I thought ��maybe I’ll give him a chance’-”

You sniffle, those angry tears ruining your ire once again. Horror flashes across Aizawa’s face as he looks around, gauging the reaction of everyone around him.

“Then you turned me down!”

“I had a chance.” He whispers, carefully, shock enveloping his usually stoic face. You almost think he cares, that he regrets, with that almost childlike sadness smeared across his features. In fact, he almost reaches for you before you pull farther away. “I thought--”

“You fucking did.” You wipe your tears with your sleeve and try to channel Bakugo’s advice. “But not now! Treaty is done! Burned to the ground! I’m back to being a cunt!”

You say cunt a bit too loud. For what feels like the millionth time, you storm away, past the onlookers, away from the man of your -- well, certainly not of your affection. 

“Wait.” He calls after you. “Hold on, wait-- we haven’t paid--”

You march out into the street. The alcohol is hitting you; the stars in the sky streak together with the light pollution, the muffled noise of the restaurant eaten by the growl of the city. You turn left and march down the street, as fast as you can without running, wide, wide strides to distance yourself from the asshole behind you as quickly as possible. You run the first corner you can, then another, then-- wait,

You were supposed to go left, maybe. 

Taking the next street should turn you right around, but… the lane curves and curves and --

You turn around.

Huh. This next street feels even more wrong. The cement has turned to cobblestone, the traffic has died down to something more residential. You pull your phone from your pocket, just to find it dead. The screen won’t even light up. Dammit. Damn. It.

The tears in your eyes wobble from anger to fear. 

You’re lost. 

The hotel can’t be that far; it’s not like you’ve been walking for miles. The rubbed raw spots on your feet are already broken open again, each step blossoming with fresh, hot pain, but you keep pushing. Touya always told you that you were hopelessly directionless, but you didn’t think he meant it literally. 

Maybe you are, without him.

That’s how this mess started, really. Touya left you directionless, adrift in the world. He always pulled you down, but at least down is a direction and a destination.

Where do you want to go? Not just now, but in life? Do you want Touya to return and give you that pull, like a stone in black waters? 

No. You don’t. The love is still there, but the self harm, the horrors… you can’t keep losing your life in his aftershocks, can’t keep being pulled by his riptide.

You want stability, a home. Someone who worries about you the way you worry about them. You want to stop crying and start being who you used to be.

Could Shouta be that person? You don’t think so, but you know Touya isn’t that person either. You don’t deserve much in this world, but you at least deserve to give yourself a chance.

There’s a twenty four hour bodega, neon light dimmed to near extinguished. The owner sleepily tells you where to go and you thank him warmly before trudging back down the streets, It only takes fifteen minutes until you see the familiar glimmer of blue tile. The front dress asks if you are okay when you limp by, cut up feet on the brink of giving up themselves. The elevator is only filled with strangers, giggling and whispering to themselves.

Your floor is the home stretch. You peel off your heels; the front and backs of your feet are covered in broken skin, blood tinging the suede of your shoes. Bed is calling your name, along with another big, long, upheaving cry. The past month has left you brittle, weak-

“Hey. Hey!”

There’s a man in the hallway. Your man.

“Shouta?” Your voice is wrecked. Down by your room is the familiar face of your enemy, pacing the hall. A couple of wide steps and he’s there on you, hands finding your waist,dragging you in so close that his forehead bonks against yours. Tendrils of curls tickle your cheeks as he huffs in relief, warm breath hot against your nose and cheeks. Surprise leaves you speechless, but he finds words. 

“Where were you?” His voice bites out, harsh and rude. “You weren’t answering your phone or the door, I thought-- You’re bleeding.”

If he wasn’t so close, you’d wipe your nose and tears away, but he has you locked in those broad hands. They rub up and down your waist, worrying away at you with an almost anxious annoyance.

“I’m an adult,” you sniffle despite your annoyance. “You don’t get to be mad at me for staying out late--”

“I’m not mad, I’m terrified.” You’ve never seen him so vulnerable before. The lacquer of seriousness is gone, replaced by something strangely human, wildly unique from the person you once knew. For the second time tonight, you think you see who he used to be, the silhouette of a twenty year old you’ll never know. “You can’t disappear into the city without contact-- you scared me.”

You know that fear. You’ve lived it. The way Touya comes and goes, the way he frays the fabric of your worries simply for his own wills and wants-

“I’m sorry,” you whisper.

“No, I’m sorry.” He’s pulling you closer. “I’m so sorry.”

When his lips touch yours, it feels like home. It’s impossibly soft and warm, with the glide of chapstick, but what you focus on is how you are held. He cradles you, with trembling, needy, questioning hands, firm with want, questioning if you want this too. You don’t know if you do until your arms loop around his shoulders and tug him in deeper, harder-

When he pulls away, you don’t know if this was the right thing, but it feels right, deep, deep, deep in your heart and even deeper in your core. 

“I’m sorry,” he says again before pressing into you once more, this time with his whole body, walking you backwards into the door of your room, The pressure of him holds you in place.

“I’m so sorry.” Aizawa speaks it into your lips. You’re fumbling backwards, feeling in your pocket for your swipe card as his tongue dips into your mouth. He groans into the contact, low and animalistic, hungry and reverent. Every emotional nerve in you is fried and your brain is refusing to think, but something inside you is pink, blossoming with want. It’s the first time in maybe years you’ve felt this unbelievably, unquestionably good.

Aizawa’s teeth close around the plush of your lip and you gasp at the want it makes you feel alive. To be so aggressively wanted- 

Your keycard finds the slot on the door and the lock beeps open. You manage to break away enough to fumble to knob open-- 

And you two slide inside.

[txttletale]

how do ml's reconcile with lenin going for a bigbrainhaver hierarchy which just so happened to place him at the tippy top? most of the things he's quoted for writing make a kind of sense in that longwinded academic philosopher way, but, like, russia went from having a revolution against monarchy to having a monarchy, essentially, and what folks do tends to align with their desires, yeah? wouldn't that make everything he said, idk, suspicious?

we reconcile with this because none of this is even remotely true. lenin did not 'happen to be placed at the tippy top' but was in fact elected by the soviets, who worked in a very simple electoral system by which workers and peasants would elect representatives to their local soviet, who as well as administering local services would also elect members to higher bodies. the quote unquote bigbrainhaver hierarchy system in question was as follows:

The sovereign body is in every case the Congress of Soviets. Each county sends its delegates. These are elected indirectly by the town and county Soviets which vote in proportion to population, following the ratio observed throughout, by which the voters in the town have five times the voting strength of the inhabitants of the villages, an advantage which may, as we saw, be in reality three to one. The Congress meets, as a rule, once a year, for about ten days. It is not, in the real sense of the word, the legislative body. It debates policy broadly, and passes resolutions which lay down the general principles to be followed in legislation. The atmosphere of its sittings is that of a great public demonstration. The Union Congress, for example, which has some fifteen hundred members, meets in the Moscow Opera House. The stage is occupied by the leaders and the heads of the administration, and speeches are apt to be big oratorical efforts. The real legislative body is the so-called Central Executive Committee (known as the C. I. K. and pronounced "tseek") . It meets more frequently than the Congress to which it is responsible-in the case of the Union, at least three times in the year-passes the Budget, receives the reports of the Commissars (ministers), and discusses international policy. It, in its turn, elects two standing bodies: (1) The Presidium of twenty-one members, which has the right to legislate in the intervals between the sittings of the superior assemblies, and also transacts some administrative work. (2) The Council of Peoples' Commissars. These correspond roughly to the Ministers or Secretaries of State in democratic countries and are the chiefs of the administration. Meeting as a Council, they have larger powers than any Cabinet, for they may pass emergency legislation and issue decrees which have all the force of legislation. Save in cases of urgency, however, their decrees and drafts of legislation must be ratified by the Executive Committee (C.I.K.). In another respect they differ from the European conception of a Minister. Each Commissar is in reality the chairman of a small board of colleagues, who are his advisers. These advisory boards, or collegia, meet very frequently (it may even be daily) to discuss current business, and any member of a board has the right to appeal to the whole Council of Commissars against a decision of the Commissar.

—H.N. Brailsford, How The Soviets Work (1927)

you might notice that the congresses of soviets were not directly elected -- this is because they were elected by local soviets, who were directly elected, in a process that many people have given first hand accounts of:

I have, while working in the Soviet Union, participated in an election. I, too, had a right to vote, as I was a working member of the community, and nationality and citizenship are no bar to electoral rights. The procedure was extremely simple. A general meeting of all the workers in our organisation was called by the trade union committee, candidates were discussed, and a vote was taken by show of hands. Anybody present had the right to propose a candidate, and the one who was elected was not personally a member of the Party. In considering the claims of the candidates their past activities were discussed, they themselves had to answer questions as to their qualifications, anybody could express an opinion, for or against them, and the basis of all the discussion was: What justification had the candidates to represent their comrades on the local Soviet. As far as the elections in the villages were concerned, these took place at open village meetings, all peasants of voting age, other than those who employed labour, having the right to vote and to stand for election. As in the towns, any organisation or individual could put forward candidates, anyone could ask the candidate questions, and anybody could support or oppose the candidature. It is usual for the Communist Party to put forward a candidate, trade unions and other organisations can also do so, and there is nothing to prevent the Party’s candidate from not being elected, if he has not sufficient prestige among the voters. In the towns the “ electoral district ” has hitherto consisted of a factory, or a group of small factories sufficient to form a constituency. But there was one section of the town population which has always had to vote geographically, since they did not work together in one organisation. This was the housewives. As a result, the housewives met separately in each district, had their own constituencies, and elected their own representatives to the Soviet. Here, too, vital interest has always been shown in the personality of every candidate. Why should this woman be elected ? What right had she to represent her fellow housewives on the local Soviet ? In the district next to my own at the last election the housewife who was elected was well known as an organiser of a communal dining-room in the district. This was the kind of person that the housewives wanted to represent them on the Soviet. Another candidate, a Communist, proposed by the local organisation of the Party, was turned down in her favour.

[...]

The election of delegates to the local Soviet is not the only function of voters in the Soviet Union. It is not a question here of various parties presenting candidates to the electorate, each with his own policy to offer. The Soviet electorate has to select a personality from its midst to represent it, and instruct this person in the policy which is to be followed when elected. At a Soviet election meeting, therefore, as much or more time may be spent on discussion of the instructions to the delegate as is spent on discussing the personality of the candidates. At the last election to the Soviets, in which I personally participated, we must have spent three or four times as much time on the working out of instructions as we did on the selection of our candidate. About three weeks before the election was to take place the trade union secretary in every department of our organisation was told by the committee that it was time to start to prepare our instructions to the delegate. Every worker was asked to make suggestions concerning policy which he felt should be brought to the notice of the new personnel of the Moscow Soviet. As a result, about forty proposals concerning the general government of Moscow were handed in from a group of about twenty people. We then held a meeting in our department at which we discussed the proposals, and adopted some and rejected others. We then handed our list of pro¬ posals to a commission, appointed by the trade union committee, and representing all the workers in our organisation. This Commission co-ordinated the pro¬ posals received, placed them in order according to the various departments of the Soviet, and this co-ordinated list was read at the election meeting itself, again discussed, and adopted in its final form.

—Pat Sloan, Soviet Democracy (1937)

Between the elections of 1931 and 1934, no less than 18 per cent of the city deputies and 37 per cent of village deputies were recalled, of whom only a relatively small number — 4 per cent of the total — were charged with serious abuse of power. The chief reasons for recall were inactivity — 37 per cent — and inefficiency — 21 per cent. If these figures indicate certain lacks in the quality of elected officials, they show considerable activity of the people in improving government. The electorate of the Peasants' Gazette, for example, consisted of some 1,500 employees, entitled to elect one deputy to the Moscow city soviet and two to the ward soviet. For more than a month before the election every department of the newspaper held meetings discussing both candidates and instructions. Forty-three suggested candidates and some 1,400 proposals for the work of the incoming government resulted from these meetings, which also elected committees to boil down and classify the instructions. These committees issued a special four-page newspaper for the 1,500 voters; it contained brief biographies of the forty-three candidates, an analysis of their capacities by the Communist Party organization of the Peasants' Gazette, and the "nakaz," or list of "people's instructions," classified by subject and the branch of government which they concerned. At the final election meeting of the Peasants* Gazette there was literally more than 100 per cent attendance, since some of the staff who for reasons of absence or illness had not been listed as prospective voters returned from sanatoria or from distant assignments to vote. The instructions issued by the electorate in this manner — 1,400 from the Peasants' Gazette and tens of thousands from Moscow citizens — became the first business of the incoming government.

—Anna Louise Strong, The New Soviet Constitution (1937)

does this mean that the soviet project was some utopian perfect system? no. there were flaws in the system like any other. it disenfranchised the rural peasantry (although not, i would like to add, to any extent greater or even equivalent to the extent to which the US electoral system disenfranchises the urban working class) -- the various tiers of indirect selection created a divide between the average worker and the highest tier of the executive -- and various elements of this fledgling system would calcify and bureaucratise over time in ways that obstructed worker's democracy. but saying that it was 'a monarchy' is founded in absolutely nothing except the most hysterical anticommunist propaganda and tedious orwellian liberal truisms.

even brailsford, in an account overall critical of the soviet system, had to admit:

Speaking broadly, the various organs of the system, from the Council of Commissars of the Union down to the sub-committees of a town Soviet, are handling the same problems. Whether one sits in the Kremlin at a meeting of the most august body of the whole Union, the "C.I.K.," or round a table in Vladimir with the working men who constitute its County Executive Committee, one hears exactly the same problems discussed. How, be-fore June arrives, shall we manage to reduce prices by ten percent? What growth can we show in the number of our spindles, or factories, and in the number of workers employed? When and how shall we make our final assault on the last relics of illiteracy? Or when shall we have room in our schools, even in the remotest village, for every child? Was it by good luck or good guidance that the number of typhus cases has dropped in a year by half? And, finally, how can we hasten the raising of clover seed, so that the peasants who, at last, thanks to our propaganda, are clamoring for it, may not be disappointed?

—H.N. Brailsford, How The Soviets Work (1927)

genuinely, i think you should take a moment and think about where you learned about the soviet union. have you read any serious historical work on the topic, even from non-communist or anti-communist sources? because even imperialist propagandists have to make a pretence at engaging with actual facts on the ground, something which you haven't done at all -- and yet you speak with astounding confidence. i recommend you read some serious books instead of animal farm and reflect on why you believe the things you believe and how you know the things you think you know.

[sufrimientilia]

Research Log #P5-00436

FACILITY: [REDACTED] DATE: [REDACTED] CASE: #E2756895 ATTENDING: [REDACTED] UNIT: WARD 92 OBJECTIVE: Behavioral Compliance Induction

TIME: [09:45:00]

SUBJECT #1138-B7 was brought to the operating theater, prepped and draped in the usual fashion. Intravenous access was established using a 20-gauge catheter inserted into the left antecubital vein. Electrodes were placed on the scalp for continuous EEG monitoring. Additional sensors were attached to record heart rate, respiratory rate, and galvanic skin response (GSR).

Subject presents as a 25 year old male, physically healthy, baseline vitals recorded WNL. Subject exhibited signs of anxiety and resistance, which were managed by the use of sedatives (2 mg Midazolam IV).

[09:53:11]: Subject questioned to establish baseline cognitive and physiological parameters. Orientation, recall, and basic comprehension intact.

[10:00:00]: Infusion of proprietary psychotropic agent PCA-35 initiated at a rate of 5 mL/min.

[10:03:48]: Subject displays signs of restlessness. Cortical activation indicated by increased uptake on EEG. Subject gives responses to verbal stimuli and reports a sensation of lightheadedness.

[10:04:25]: Subject complains of stinging sensation and bittersweet taste. Noted slight tremor in extremities and increased heart rate. GSR indicates heightened anxiety.

[10:05:13]: Subject questioned to establish cognitive and physiological parameters. Noted delayed responses. Subject struggles to follow simple instructions, becomes distracted, provides incoherent explanations of surroundings, misinterprets questions.

[10:09:32]: Subject begins to exhibit signs of altered perception, including auditory hallucinations and delirium. EEG shows increased theta wave activity. Physical agitation observed; restraints effective in maintaining Subject's position. Subject too agitated for cognitive and physiological testing.

[10:14:45]: Administration of compound #GS-P5R initiated at 12 L/min via inhalation mask to reduce anxiety and stabilize neural response. Infusion of PCA-35 increased to 7.5 mL/min.

[10:19:48]: Subject's responses to verbal and physical stimuli decrease significantly. Continued monitoring shows stable vitals but increased physical rigidity. Administered 1 mg Lorazepam IV to reduce muscle tension.

[10:24:22]: Subject’s speech becomes slurred and incoherent. Noted disorientation to stimuli, increased muscle laxity. Decrease in heart rate and blood pressure.

[10:33:14]: Subject enters a semi-catatonic state. Eyes remain open but unresponsive to visual stimuli. Pupils equal but dilated. EEG shows dominant delta wave activity.

[10:42:28]: Subject displays signs of decreased neural responsiveness. Decreased pupillary reaction, continued slow rolling movement of the eyes, jerky movement of the whole body (hypnic jerks). Persistent drooling noted.

[10:45:04]: Infusion of PCA-13 reduced to 1 mL/min. Administration of compound #GS-P5R reduced to 2 L/min via nasal cannula.

[10:50:34]: Subject engaged with repetitive commands in accordance to Behavioral Compliance Protocols. Verbal cues, electronic conditioning, and multi-sensory stimuli reinforcement prove ineffective. Subject remains largely non-reactive.

[10:57:55]: Subject’s eyes remain unfocused with significant drooping. Attempts to direct gaze result in brief eye opening, followed by rapid drooping. Subject mumbles incoherently.

[10:58:06]: Speculum applied to maintain eyelid retraction for continuous observation and responsiveness testing. Subject demonstrates minimal resistance; remains in stuporous state. Droplets of propriety psychotic #3A administered to each eye. Immediate increase in pupil dilation and noticeable twitching observed.

[11:00:17]: Visual stimulus presented. Subject's eyes remain fixed and extremely dilated. Noted tremors in hands, erratic breathing patterns, increase in heart rate. Subject occasionally mumbles with extreme delay in response latency to verbal and physical testing.

[11:05:23]: Subject engaged with repetitive commands in accordance to Behavioral Compliance Protocols. Verbal cues, electronic conditioning, and multi-sensory stimuli reinforcement prove insignificant. Subject displays significant cognitive impairment, involuntary reflexes, significant drooling, and uncoordinated movements.

[11:10:19]: Increased auditory and visual stimuli introduced to enhance command comprehension of Behavioral Compliance Protocols. Subject displays signs of severe neural suppression. EEG findings variable and nonspecific, low voltage and slow irregular activity nonreactive to sensory stimuli.

[11:15:52]: Subject engaged with high-intensity visual stimuli (rapid flashing) and continuous auditory commands. Subject shows brief eye fixation on visual stimulus, with occasional facial twitching. Overall response is characterized by slow, inconsistent movements and frequent confusion. Subject’s attempts to respond are sporadic, sluggish, and incoherent.

[11:20:14]: Administered low-frequency auditory tones and ambient lighting. Subject displays intermittent eye tracking and reflexive vocalizations. Eyes lubricated to prevent irritation; speculum remains in place. Despite the high level of impairment, occasional partial compliance with commands noted.

[11:30:31]: Subject provided with 500 mL saline IV to maintain hydration. Subject engaged with repetitive commands in accordance to Compliance Protocols. Verbal cues, electronic conditioning, and multi-sensory stimuli reinforcement prove moderately effective as demonstrated by increased uptake seen on EEG. Noted severe motor function impairment, persistent drooling, disorientation.

[11:37:48]: Visual and auditory stimuli calibrated to induce deep trance state in preparation for Hypnotic Compliance Protocols. Subject's head and neck stabilized to ensure alignment with visual stimuli. Monitored vital signs remain stable but indicate persistent sedation effects. Subject remains largely unresponsive, exhibiting only involuntary reflexes and intense eye fixation on visual stimulus.

[12:00:00]: End of Behavioral Compliance Induction log. Subject's transition to hypnotic phase officially logged and observed.

TRANSFER OF CARE: [REDACTED]

[fatehbaz]

In 1901, Liang Qichao, a prominent Chinese journalist, wrote an essay entitled “The New Rules for Destroying Countries” (“Mieguo xinfan lun”).

In it, he presented what he had come to understand were the patterns of nineteenth-century Euro-American colonial-imperialist world domination into which China was being drawn. Egypt is the first among five examples he cited of a people and a state crushed by these “new rules.” No simple military invasion or despoiling occupation, the new rules proceeded under a subtler logic. According to Liang, English financial advisers had inserted themselves into the Egyptian court, inducing the state to indebt itself so completely that international bankers could take over from within. This ingenious mode of domination constituted what Liang called “formless dismembering,” hardly detectable as it proceeds, and announcing itself suddenly once it has taken place. Without quite articulating it, Liang was theorizing the advent of finance capitalism in relation to colonialism, with Egypt at its core. [...]

---

Aaron Jakes [...] takes up the relation between imperialist domination through the financialization of capitalism in the colonies [...] in his comprehensive account of the British occupation of Egypt from 1882 to 1914. [...] The [financial] crises, produced in the metropole [London, Paris, New York, etc.], were analytically and practically worked out by yoking colonies as productive places and colonials as laboring and culturally marked/racially othered bodies to metropolitan concerns over empire [...], making Egypt a “laboratory in which to settle those greater questions of the Empire” (25). [...] [T]he original goal of British colonial governance was to enhance [...] cotton-growing for export to the global market and capital investment/speculation. [...] The British restructuring of rural space and agrarian social relations [...] severely constrained the room for maneuver of the Egyptian peasantry, who had long used the porousness of the relations among land, property, labor, and power to gain whatever advantages they could. Peasants were now locked firmly in place, and when [...] [financial] crisis hit, their indebtedness left them relatively defenseless. By 1905, superficial prosperity hid roiling discontent with economic development but also with colonial legitimacy. [...]

---

[T]he Egyptian journalist Ahmad Hilmi recognized the British discourse of development as “gilded speech” that created an economistic reality without accounting for the lived complexity of actual Egyptians. As Jakes puts it: “despite the occupation’s command over the means of representation, the shared sentiments and experiences of the Egyptian people were irreducible to the charts and tables that adorned the pages of Cromer’s annual reports” (118).

In comparing Egypt’s poverty to the British-produced poverty of Ireland, for example, the economic boom of gushing capital investment was revealed to be a mechanism of wealth accumulation for the few. [...] [T]he gap between rhetoric and reality [...].

---

All text above by: Rebecca E. Karl. “Review of Egypt’s Occupation: Colonial Economism and the Crises of Capitalism.” Jadaliyya online. 21 June 2022. [Bold emphasis and some paragraph breaks/contractions added by me.]

[bella-vib3]

Tutor buddies

Fem!Reader x Dom, male!H/N

(Y/N = Your name, H/N = His name, N/N = nickname. If those weren't obvious)

Characters mother is mentioned, but you can switch it if it doesn't fit the character you're thinking of!

H/N can be anyone, from a character to someone irl!

☆

Warnings: Smut (mainly without a plot but there's a little), clit rubbing (?) (reader receiving), praise, dom character/person, academia rivals, some swearing, this made me cringe so I'll add that as a warning too

Summary: Your parents had advised you to get a tutor for your final year, and it had to be H/N. When studying in his room, he suggests something to "help" your concentration... (sounds quite ominous, but I promise it isn't that shocking)

_______________________________

It started as a joke, you were only trying to get a rise out of him, nothing too serious. Your grades had been pretty low since summer ended, and going to school hungover after getting blackout drunk the day before wasn't the best idea for the first day back, but hey, it was fun while it lasted.

You'd never had a tutor before, you didn't really see the need for one, but after your report card last term your mother/father insisted that you should get one for the final year. In reality you didn't think Senior year would be all different from the last few, boy were you wrong.

Classic, that the person you were trying to avoid would be the first you would run into, H/N. You'd been enemies ever since he joined the school in Sophomore year. It was his mission to make your life utter misery, and it was mainly because you were both brainy. He always decided to outdo you in everything, from simple grades to speeches in front of the class.

The only reason you decided to choose H/N between the other three that were there is because they all looked like they didn't know their lefts from rights, and proved that theory too. He was quite literally the last resort.

"Oh? Picking me for once, that's unlikely of you." H/N said with a smirk, "You never know when to shut your mouth do you? In my defence, no one else would have been any help, but it's not like I need a tutor anyway." You said back to him, with a bite, "Fiesty. I'm sure you don't need one sweetheart, your parents wanted you to for fun~". The nickname alone made you blush, but you quickly turned away, why were you blushing? This boy's a dick! You didn't like him... surely?

After that little... scene... you decided to agree to meet at his house (against your will), at around 5 pm, considering you still wanted to look ok before you went to his, even if it was(n't) to impress him.

When you arrived his mother answered the door, with a wide smile as usual. Your mother/father and his mother were quite close as kids, childhood friends if you would, so you were dragged to his house a lot when you were younger. "N/N!" She called to you, her tone was so sweet, and loving, as she brought you into a hug.

As you stepped into the house you spotted him, a massive grin on his face as he watched his mother guide you to the kitchen to present you with cookies and other baked goods. "Well, you best be getting to studying before it gets too late. Tell me when you're going, I'll see you out, dear!" His mother said before she disappeared into the living room to continue her soap opera.

As you got into his room he shut the door behind you, the books were already piled up on his desk, and his computer tab was already on the classroom. You sighed deeply, knowing this was going to be a looong night, and as usual, you were completely correct.

H/N could see the boredom in your eyes as you effortlessly answered yet another question. "Alright, I'll make a deal with you" He spoke up, making you wince at the unexpected talking. "P- Pardon? What type of deal?" You stuttered along your words as you tried to gain composure again.

"Nothing serious, Just something... that'll definitely get your concentration back~" He said, that same smirk appearing back on his face. You were sceptical at first, but you didn't exactly have anything to lose, so you went along with it. Little did you know, H/N was going to take off an article of clothing for every question you got right. The only twist was you had to take off clothes if you got a question wrong, and it was his choice what you took off.

You were three questions in, and he had already taken off his jumper, shirt, and belt. You knew you were red, it wasn't a shock to anyone to be honest. The smirk hadn't left his face at all.

To your surprise, you got a question wrong, a maths question (just pretend you can't do maths if you can), and to no one's surprise, he told you to take off your skirt. You agreed, but only because he was sat there in only his jeans. Unluckily for you, you decided to not wear shorts underneath your skirt this time, so you were left in your underwear as your blush increased.

After a few more rounds of questions you shifted closer to share the blanket that was around him as it was getting chilly, and he had to suggest something... "Get this next question right and I'll reward you". Now, you didn't know what exactly he was hinting at, but considering the glint that was in his eyes, it didn't take a genius to know.

You now made it your mission to get the next question right, just to see what he was talking about, and when you did he carefully slipped his hand down your pants from under the blanket as he continued to read the next question. You gasped and shot him a slight glare, before your eyes returned to the paper, as you leaned into him.

His slender finger snaked over your clit, before rubbing circles over it. You moaned as you shoved your face into his shoulder to quieten it, so his mother didn't hear, shaking slightly as he continued. He asked the next question, but you couldn't find it within yourself to answer, so, of course, he stopped his movements making you whine.

You stuttered out the answer after he repeated the question, but very lowly, and he (thankfully) returned his movements.

"You're doing so well, love. C'mon, one more question and I'll let you have your release" Building up the strength, you agreed and answered the question. You got it wrong again, but he didn't care, he continued his movements until you came, practically biting through your hand to silence yourself.

"Well that was fun~" He said, as he began to clean you up

"...please don't mention this to anyone..."

[ausetkmt]

Newsweek: Ron DeSantis Accused of Being 'Pro-Slavery' Due to New Florida Curriculum

Florida Governor Ron DeSantis is facing new criticism over his state's new curriculum for African-American history in which some say is "pro-slavery."

DeSantis, a Republican who is running for president in 2024, has made his embrace of right-wing social causes a cornerstone of his style of politics. He has decried "woke" education, signing into law requirements about how race can be taught in Florida schools as educators across the United States grapple with conservative efforts to limit discussions of diversity, including African American history, in public schools.

Advocates for more restrictive lessons on race have argued all sides of a political or historical debate should be presented in schools. Critics, however, are accusing DeSantis and other Republicans of attempting to erase the history of slavery, and that students should learn about this topic in its entirety.

This standard has sparked criticism from educational and civil rights leaders, who have accused Florida Republicans of seeking to whitewash the history of slavery.

Representative Eric Swalwell, a California Democrat, accused DeSantis of being "pro-slavery" over the educational policy.

"Please keep this simple: If you require schools to teach the 'personal benefits' of slavery you are pro-slavery. Ron DeSantis is pro-slavery," the Democratic lawmaker tweeted on Saturday.

— Rep. Eric Swalwell (@RepSwalwell) July 22, 2023

DeSantis defended the standards when pressed by a reporter, saying that he "wasn't involved" in writing these standards, which were "not done politically."

"I think what they're doing, is I think that they're probably going to show some of the folks that eventually parlayed, you know, being a black smith, into doing things later in life," the Florida governor said. "But the reality is all of that is rooted in whatever is factual."

Newsweek reached out to DeSantis' office for comment via email.

Still, many others also condemned the new standards.

Will Hurd, a former congressman from Texas who is also running in the GOP 2024 presidential primary, tweeted on Friday, "Unfortunately, it has to be said – slavery wasn't a jobs program that taught beneficial skills. It was literally dehumanizing and subjugated people as property because they lacked any rights or freedoms."

Unfortunately, it has to be said – slavery wasn't a jobs program that taught beneficial skills. It was literally dehumanizing and subjugated people as property because they lacked any rights or freedoms.https://t.co/4JjIgeDhKX — Will Hurd (@WillHurd) July 21, 2023

Jaime Harrison, the chair of the Democratic National Committee (DNC), slammed the policy as "disgusting."

"The much anticipated DeSantis reset: Teaching our kids that slavery had its benefits," he tweeted on Friday. "Disgusting."

Vice President Kamala Harris, during a speech at Delta Sigma Theta Sorority Inc.'s 56th national convention in Indianapolis on Thursday, described the standards as an attempt to "gaslight us."

"Just yesterday, in the state of Florida, they decided middle school students will be taught that enslaved people benefitted from slavery," she said. "They insult us in an attempt to gaslight us and we will not stand for it. We who share a collective experience in knowing we must honor history in our duty in the context of legacy. There is so much at stake in this moment."

[allthebrazilianpolitics]

hi! could you possibly share the intercept new report about gay men and their misogyny? i know this isn't really about br politics, and im not even sure if it is in English, but i think it is really important to be shared

I hope it's not too late 😅

-

Gay men and misogyny: no more ignoring this problem

'Don't talk about vaginas around me': for a long time, we ignored the disqualifications of women and the feminine made by gay men. No more.

"If I liked women, I would have become a gynecologist."

"The law of gravity is a crime against women."

“Funny” gay guys, usually white and showing a certain hatred towards females, are a very common social type in contemporary pop culture. The character Felix “Bicha Má” ["Evil Fag"], played by Mateus Solano, from the Brazilian soap opera “Amor à Vida” [Love For Life], is an easy example in Brazilian lands – the sentences that open this text are his. But this sharp-tongued young man who directs much of his bitterness towards women, including friends and relatives, has never only lived on screens: he is a common presence in our daily lives.

"Oh, don't mention a vagina around me, I get all messed up."

"My goodness, this singer was beautiful, but she got old and ugly."

"Get out of here, I don't even like cracks."

I can't say how many times I've heard phrases like that from fellow gay men. For a long time, these ways of disqualifying women – despite the certain discomfort felt by every person who is repeatedly the target of prejudice – were endorsed and reflected by women ourselves. Offenses dressed as “I was just joking” have largely naturalized these forms of disqualification, but the good news is that, in an environment in which feminism has gained ground, what seemed to be just a joke is now named by the right word: misogyny.

This is a delicate subject, since we are talking about people – mostly cisgender gay men – who have been and still are victims of a series of violence, whether at home, at work, on the streets. Perhaps it was precisely this that made us, cisgender or transgender women, leave the discomfort of being made fun of in the background. After all, confronting homophobia in a sexist country like Brazil is no simple task. But if this machismo affects homosexual men, what can we say about its presence in women's daily lives? And what can we also say about the homophobia directed at cis/trans homosexual and bisexual women, especially invisible and also targets of “jokes” by gay men?

“I had a very close gay friend, like a brother. We went out to parties together and often slept in the same bed, at my house or his. Several times, as if he were joking, he said that he was terrified of vaginas, that he was born through a cesarean section so he wouldn't have to go through one. He'd gesture the sign of the Cross and said ‘God forbid’, smiling,” says Adriana Conceição, 47 years old, a telemarketing operator from Recife who, like several other women, took a while to classify the guy's actions with the right word.

Game developer Renata Gomes, also 47 years old, found herself at the center of a virtual outrage after questioning a post by a gay Brazilian film critic living in the United States. In the post, he talked about missing Brazil, since people worked a lot more in the USA. Faced with the possibility of his speech being reductive and stereotypical, he began to treat Renata as “ugly”, “militant”, “frustrated”. Furthermore, several of the critic's friends entered the comments to reiterate the delegitimization of Renata's speech.

Younger people also identify the problem: aware of the issue, Curitiba university student Nicoly Grevetti, aged 24, listened to several people who circulate in LGBTQIA+ spaces about the subject and wrote a text about it. In it, she also identifies how pop and queer cultures, supposedly safer and “modern”, also present misogynistic elements.

One example is the use of the term “fishy”, constantly evoked to define drag queens who closely resemble cisgender women (that is, who have a high degree of “passability”). The expression refers to the smell that these women's vaginas supposedly have. “[Cisgender] women grow up believing that their private parts are disgusting and spend their entire lives using products to reduce their natural odors, which can lead to various diseases. Having female genitalia as something disgusting is so common for this group, that you can find countless reports of women talking about it on the internet,” she wrote. The topic was the subject of discussion in the famous series RuPaul’s Drag Race, generating academic works like this one. Cisgender drag queen Victoria Scone, a former participant in the show, also spoke on the topic.

A few months ago, I experienced a significant episode of this machismo and misogyny that had been attenuated for a long time in relation to gay men. I was in a doctor's office very close to a shopping center in the south of Recife. After the end of the consultation, the dermatologist – homosexual, white, in his late thirties, and anti-Bolsonaro in the last elections – lightly tapped my hand and said: “Okay, now you can go for a walk in the mall.”

Especially on that day, I was rushing to finish presenting a lecture that I would give the following day, online, at the University of Coimbra. Obviously, if I wanted to window shop or spend the afternoon reading celebrity magazines, it wouldn't be a problem (in fact, I love it). The point here was the doctor's obvious intention to fit me into the cliché of the futile and consumerist woman, a sexist and anachronistic way of disqualifying the female gender. Icing on the cake: while I was leaving, the gay boy warned me not to forget to take “the boss” to my next appointment. He was referring to my romantic partner.

If it's feminine, it's smaller

The misogyny present in the practices of part of this population is so evident that it goes beyond the boundaries of gender and occurs between equals: it is common to see it operating even among gay men themselves. Research I carried out in partnership with Professor Ricardo Sabóia, from the Federal University of Pernambuco, analyzed the relationship between body and celebrity on the Grindr app. I was astonished by both the hatred towards what is socially seen as feminine and the extremely high level of normativity, standardization, and even elitism. “'I'm not into effeminate guys” is a constant, as is “I'm not into fat guys”.

In this environment of extremely high value for toned biceps and abs, being masculine – and looking very masculine – is the strongest currency. Thus, men seen as “little women” are disqualified. This is what researcher Carlos Alberto de Carvalho calls “misogynistic heteronormativity”, in which the masculine and masculinities are placed as positive – on the other hand, femininities and the feminine are valued negatively. It is, therefore, an environment of hegemonic masculinity and subaltern masculinities.

The global soap opera “Terra e Paixão” [Land & Passion] currently features an illustration that refers to this scenario, with the character Kelvin (actor Diego Martins), an “effeminate” gay man in love with Ramiro (Amaury Lorenzo), the masculine man, self-declared heterosexual, who desires the other person, but still doesn't know how to deal with the situation. What diminishes the power of the first is precisely its proximity to what is considered “womanly”. But, looking at Grindr, even the desirable “brucutu” [Brazilian slang for a brute and rude man] has his limits: issues such as level of education have weight in the app used mostly by gay and bisexual men, where it is common to read “no illiterates”.

The LGBTQIA+ culture, in which rich and middle-class white homosexual men repeatedly appear to discriminate against other peers from the same community, is a central sociological issue for discussing social inequalities not only in Brazil, but throughout the world. “Queer cultural production has helped to reproduce class distinctions based on the hegemony of representations of middle-class gays”, writes Lisa Henderson in the article “I’m not/I'm not into: circulating meanings in the presentation speeches of the Grindr app”, by Rafael Grohmann. In the same text, Juan Marsiaj summarizes: “Such a strategy can lead to the acceptance of a type of gay (white, middle class), seen as a model of citizen-consumer, and a greater marginalization of all other 'debauches' who do not fit this way. In more Brazilian terms: there is a risk of accepting rich gays and further marginalizing poor queers.”

Discrimination on the part of this part of the queer community was evidenced in a historic episode in the 1970s, in super liberal New York. In June 1973, the Christopher Street Liberation Day Rally took place in the city, a demonstration held in favor of the rights of the queer population – which, at that time, as we will see, in fact was basically limited to white, middle-class gay women and men.

But, among the public, was the activist Sylvia Rivera, a transvestite who in 1971 had created the Revolutionary Action of Street Transvestites, STAR. Rivera had been trying to get on stage for some time, but Jean O’Leary, a lesbian white radical feminist, acted to prevent her from participating. A sample of how, many times, cisgender homosexual/bisexual women also enact the same discrimination as homosexual/bisexual men.

When he finally managed to grab the microphone, Rivera took aim at the hundreds of mostly white gay men and women present. Her speech is a synthesis of the violence experienced by queers who are too effeminate, too poor, too black, or too latine.

“I've tried to speak out here all day for your gay brothers and sisters in jail. They write to me every damn week asking for help – and you don't do a damn thing for them. I lost my job and my apartment for gay liberation… and you guys treat me this way?” she screamed.

The anger had yet another weight and meaning: alongside another important name, the transvestite Marsha P. Johnson, Rivera went down in history as one of the first to face police repression at the New York bar Stonewall Inn, on June 28, 1969. The conflict was the trigger for a fundamental civil movement for human rights – so much so that the date ended up becoming what was then called International LGBT+ Pride Day.

The question remained: how could that engaged audience repudiate the person who, at just 18 years old, spoke out against violence that was not directed just at her? How could they recriminate someone who pulled the trigger that would benefit precisely that white homosexual population?

Rivera and Johnson, who lived in a shelter, were profoundly different from the majority of the public who would return to their comfortable homes after the demonstration. Unlike Rivera, the daughter of a Venezuelan mother and a Puerto Rican father, most had not spent nights in jail or suffered police rape. The activist died homeless, alone, without the care she should have received. Marsha P. Johnson, the decorated, made-up, smiling, super queer transvestite, was murdered and her body thrown into a river.

Thinking historically and humanly about both is a central issue in the debate on hatred of “feminine” and other diverse discriminations present among the LGBTQIA+ population. The right-wing has long opened a war against women, and the rise of red pill assholes is just one of the phenomena of this reality. It still includes names like former federal deputy Daniel Silveira, who broke the plaque with Marielle's name alongside Rodrigo Amorim. [Note from the translator: Marielle Franco was a black bisexual favela-born leftist councilwoman who was assassinated by militias.]

But, as it turns out, misogyny is not exclusive to right-wing radicals and conservatives. And if Sylvia and Marsha were on the front line to guarantee the rights of millions of people, without distinction of creeds, race, genders, and degrees of “femininity”, it is worth asking: when will cisgender gay men, mostly white and middle class, join, with emphasis and strength, debates such as the right to abortion, employment, and wages, issues of life and death for the majority of black Brazilian women? When will the majority of this same group take a stand on the thousands of rapes that mainly victimize girls and teenagers? What collectivities, after all, are we talking about? As Jorge Ben would say in the song Zumbi: I want to see. We're here.

Source, translated by the blogger.

[mushroommanstan]

Spilled Coffee

Shigaraki x reader fluff

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The representative straightened his tie nervously, trying yet failing to meet Shigarakis gaze as they waited in silence. He could feel the fabric of his shirt darken with sweat the longer the tense silence continued, hoping to god that whoever they were waiting for would just show up already so they could get out of here.

He decided to busy himself by proofreading his progress reports, again, for the fourth time, just in case there was something he missed. He’s never had to stress this much about a simple progress update, but this year was different. This year, Rikaya had decided to bestow co-ownership of the MLA to Tomura Shigaraki, the most notoriously unstable, itchy-trigger-fingered man in all of Japan. Why? Good question.

And of course, that means that he’s now included in said progress reports, since it’s all about information for the higher ups.

But hey, no biggie right? I mean, Rikayas still gonna be there; he’ll be able to stop Shigaraki before he infamously does something he regrets. Except he isn’t there. Rikayas battle wounds took a turn for the worst, and now it’s just the representative and Shigaraki, alone, with no one around to hear him scream.

He took a sip of coffee, trying to steel his nerves, as Shigaraki fiddled with a pencil, tapping it against the desk obnoxiously. Finally, the door opened and you walked through, pulling at your shirt.

“Sorry I took so long! Some idiot spilled coffee on me an-“ you stopped abruptly, locking eyes with the wide eyed rep, mouth gapping slightly as his face paled. You both recognized eachother immediately.

He was the idiot who spilled coffee on you

It happened just a while ago. The rep was so anxious, having just gotten word that Re-Destro was going to be absent that he didn’t look where he was going and bumped right into you. He was already running late and he didn’t have enough time to apologize so he just took off without a word, hoping not to see you again. Yet here you were, perched on a serial killers lap, eyes twitching with recognition.

Shigaraki leaned back, his displeased posture easing with your presence.

“We can deal with that later. For now I just want to get this over with.”

The rep cleared his throat, worst case scenarios flooding his mind and forming a lump in his throat. Fucking shit, he spilled coffee on Shigarakis girlfriend. He’s heard of people getting dusted for way less. Fuck. He’s going to die. He’s actually going to die.

He felt his eyes water a little, breathing becoming shaky before he calmed himself down. Clearly he doesn’t know about it yet. I just need to talk the whole time without giving her a chance to speak, run out the clock and leave before he learns about it. Simple as that.

He steeled his nerves, taking a deep breath as Shigaraki waited impatiently. I mean, come on, this isn’t some big presentation. You’re not preaching to the choir just fucking go already.

With a shaky tone he began, going over the planned introduction with a generous amount of stumbling over his words. It got better as he continued, focusing more on his report rather than his impending doom.

Meanwhile shigarakis head rested against his palm, painfully obviously bored. You tapped away at your phone, leaving all the contribution to the discussion to your boyfriend, making the rep wonder why they waited for you at all.

He finished a section of his speech, sliding over a written analysis of statistics and budgets, which even though it took weeks to prepare, was merely skimmed over by Shigaraki before being set down and forgotten. But hey, he’d take apathetic boredom over murderous rage any day.

As he prattled on, he noticed your movement out of the corner of his eye. He looked up from his notes, watching as you took his report and one of the miscellaneous pens laying around ReDestros desk.

The aforementioned hours of work put into the carefully produced report was put to waste as you scribbled over it, making quick pen strokes as you wrote that made the rep stumble over his words. It was obvious you were writing something, at least a paragraph. Is it a correction? Did he do something wrong? No, that’s impossible! He’s looked over that countless times! But what else could you be writing?

His confident words were reduced to mumbles as you slid the paper back to Shigaraki. He took a much longer look than before, eyes moving as he studied what you wrote before grinning maliciously.

The rep was sure he peed himself a little at that look. That’s the face Shigaraki makes when he’s about to murder someone. Eyes gleaming, mouth stretched into a wide, unnerving grin. He felt his throat constrict even more when Shigaraki let out a dark chuckle.

Shit shit shit, you told him. You told him and now there’s no escaping his fate. He watched Shigaraki lean in and whisper something in your ear. You giggled, taking the paper back and scribbling something else down. Probably different ways that they’re going to kill him before he gets dusted. He is known to be cruel, at least with people that hurt his friends. So the rep can’t imagine how he would act to someone hurting his girlfriend. (I mean he just stained her shirt but, whatever)

He could feel bile rising in his throat as he saw the look you two shared. Giddy and content, as if plotting his murder was just a table game to them. They hadn’t even realized he stopped talking until he knocked over his water bottle, the metallic clatter ringing throughout the room, making Shigaraki visibly jump. He looked up from the paper, the glare he gave to the rep almost making him pass out.

He rolled his eyes, about to say something before you leaned in and whispered something into his ear. This time, the rep was able to hear her. You needed to go to the bathroom.

Shigaraki nodded, insisting to the rep that they should take a break, and he couldn’t agree more. As soon as they left the room the rep scrambled to get the paper. He had to know what was going to happen to him, see if there was anything he could do to prepare.

He closed his eyes, preparing himself, trying to find the strength to see his death sentence. He peeled his eyes open, looking down at his ‘edited’ work.

There, on the side of the page, was a crude doodle of a corgi with sunglasses on a skateboard. That was it. That was the entirety of your additions. A drawing of a dog on a skateboard. What. The. Hell.

He let out the biggest sigh of relief he’s ever had, letting the paper fall from his hands as he slumped back into his chair. Thank god, it was just a doodle.

They entered back into the room, returning to their original places, Shigaraki with his chin resting against his hand, you on his side, rubbing his back.

“Alright. Let’s finish this. We gotta go clothes shopping after this, thanks a lot by the way.”

The rep gulped. So he did know.

“…I’ll pay for it…”

“Yeah. I know. And it’s not gonna be cheap. But just be thankful I’m feeling generous today and not making you pay in blood.”

The rep sighed, nodding with a relieved smile. Yes, his bank account is gonna take a hit, meaning he’ll have to hold off on those car payments he needs.

But hey, could’ve been much, much worse.

[falloutcaldera]

This monster of a document is finally done!

This is an in-universe comprehensive overview of Humans, Super Mutants, Ghouls, and other Man-made Sapients, made by a Nightkin scholar named Zekhau, who features in our Fallout: Caldera faction The Firemen.

I've included little citations to certain concepts, though this also contains quite a bit of speculative lore-welding - including everything from the original Vault 13 GURPS timeline to the apocrypha of the Fallout Bible - as well as references to our unreleased Fallout Rewrite.

Below the cut is a full excerpt as a preview!

Misconceptions On Nightkin

To be Nightkin is to reject the harsh light of the great flame and to become kin with the night, for in its darkness all are equal. Such is the name we choose for ourselves, still reverent to our Night God even as we unlearn or reject his tenants - in fact, it was once that all Metamorphs were Nightkin, until age and changing tongue saw the shift. Now only those who pledged themselves the deepest are still referred to as such - telltale in our strange skin and manner.

Many misconceptions reside on both - but in truth the explanations are some simple and some complex. 

To the nature of our skin, it is a simple mutation: In all strains of Metamorph, a curious development of yellow-pigment in place of our melanin as brought about by FEV - but so too is another, which causes blue or purple tones, those typical in the ‘Born’ Igneous. It is the loss of the former which causes our cerulean parlor - the Old World termed such ‘Axanthism’, that which prevents yellow in many green Amphibians thus turning them to blue. 

This seems to be an effect of our use of Stealth Boys - to which many ascribe the changes in our minds as well. The latter is… not an untruth, but not correct either. In all natures of the mind, the answer is more complex.

It is true that the Stealth Boy, prolonged of use, causes paranoia, delusions, a creeping organic psychosis which makes the world fuzzy and strange - the inner circle of the Brothers of Steel have reported as much, so say the watchers. Yet this is so often confused, conflated with the Pre War term ‘Schizophrenia’, a diversity of neurology with many stigmas even then, whose presentation is not always the similar - more often catatonia in nature, or flat in emotion, chaotic of speech or sense. 

Similar, but distinct - for while this can be supported by community or aided with Chems known Antipsychotics, the usage of a Stealth Boy deteriorates the physicality of the brain itself, requiring other methods of assistance. Even so, this does not elaborate the reason why even without, so many Nightkin are strange in compatriots eyes. 

Nightkin were the best and brightest of the Master’s Unity, and as such were given the hardest tasks - those of bloodshed and subterfuge, of hearing the First Hive most clearly, to which the loss of such we know was devastating. This reveals another secret: that of remembrance -  where as others change upon transformation begat a forgetting, many of us recalled old harms, of overseers and vaults and pain of wasteland or fear of being taken to the Unity. 

For some, we were always this way, and our diversity of mind made pain and change natural to us. For those who were many living as one, their mind-kin stepped forward to take the pain. For those who survived pain, we embraced it. 

For some, when the Master fell, we embraced Stealth Boys, becoming one with the Night in the only fashion left to us. In the absence of Hive, we listen to whatever voices we can - and in the absence of even that, our minds invent ones to hear. 

For some seeking stability the answer may lie in Nullification of noise, Amplification of voice, or in medicines strange. For others, simply others familiar may be our savior. I myself have found kin in strangers, born not from Unity but from Spore, and in those that read my scriptures. 

Should you require it, seek out the strange - kin in mind can work as one, should we have kin in heart to guide us.

[butteronabun]

Hellooo butter! What are your thoughts on Diluc as a senior? School or college au? 🤔 my friend and I were speculating this(+kaeya) and I thought your contribution to this topic would be just perfect!

okay. okay.

first of all, thank you for thinking that my contribution regarding this topic would be perfect. i am honored that you think that way, thank you for thinking that! 🤍✨

second — here, let me dump all the high school au concepts i thought about for diluc ( which may or may not have been already been written in my debut fic :D ):

In a modern au, hs student Diluc would be a "golden retriever"

He’s kind, gentle, and sweet. Man has good grades and perfect attendance. Charming and handsome to the point that he’s deemed as one of the ‘Campus Crushes.’ Well-liked and very popular. Dominates the basketball varsity team (he’s a team captain) and is often the MVP. Joins clubs that benefits his academics and is running for student council. One of the math wizards who partakes in school vs school competitions. Filthy rich.

Seriously, he’s the guy you usually find in those romcoms.

He who opens doors and waits for the other students to enter the cafeteria.

He who provides support to those who are nervous in reporting their chemistry presentations. He who offers his jacket quietly to that girl when she had blood stains on her skirt. 

He, who, has a smile that lights up the room and makes everyone’s hearts skip a beat.

His name is always the talk of the town 

His lockers filled with rose-scented letters & cheap chocolates every 14th of Feb 

The crowd cheers for his number when he gives them a 3 point shoot, 

Before proudly celebrating the well–deserved golden trophy with his team 

He who is sincere with his speeches regarding “changing the system.” 

Regarding unfair school policies, more renovations for campus facilities, and less homeworks for those who are unfortunate and come home late 

He who dreams of following his father’s footsteps 

By doing his best in school 

Even if it’s a simple thing like tutoring his friends when it comes to math 

Or something more complex when he’s the face of his batch to compete in academic competitions. 

And you bet that this man is favored by so many of his teachers

Bro posts something on social media and it probably gets a hundred likes and numerous supportive comments from friends and others.

He’s practically untouchable. And despite all the fame, he’s pretty private. ( and no one will ever mention how Diluc almost beat up some fools who bullied his younger brother for dreaming to become a pirate. )

He has everything and yet he can’t get the girl that he likes, because unfortunately, she— whose identity is private, for now—doesn’t seem to like him or even notice him

I like to think that Diluc has a lady friend who he can confide with. Maybe, in this case, it’s Lisa. One time, she was sitting beside him during lunch and was very much amused when she caught him staring at that one girl who laughed way too loud with her friends.

He was staring with a little flush and seemed to get a little timid whenever she passed by. 

Lisa couldn’t help but smile behind her fingers as she witnessed the beginning of a new chapter — a blooming flower.

Most people in Diluc’s life ( the judgmental and the nosey ), who think that they have opinions worth mentioning for, always think that they’re right: they expect Diluc to end up with someone like him – and yet he is besotted with that girl who played step foot with her friends outside their classroom despite the class rep reprimanding them to quiet down. That girl ( who had many dreams and becoming a director was one of them ) nearly got her camera confiscated when she was recording her friend climbing on the roof, as if her incident with her math teacher wasn’t enough ) and That. Girl. who somehow became his seatmate during their field trip when they both got late together and had to sit in front. That same girl who offered him if he would like some chocolates that she bought from duty free because it was her birthday soon.

That girl who laughed when she hit her head on the ground while playing basketball and was delivered to the emergency room afterward.

But despite all these “not-so charming flaws,” Diluc finds himself falling anyway.

He wants to try all sorts of things, and he imagines a future where she’s in it.

But he knows that he’s not that intriguing for her eyes. She doesn't seem to be interested in him or befriending him. Was it because he became hot and all sweaty during that one time in their field trip? When he awkwardly made conversation ( despite being praised for his articulate and cohesive speeches and arguments ? ) Was he way too boring and too ambitious for someone as spontaneous and going with the flow? Did he not tick all the checkboxes in her list of the Ideal Types that she wants to date? ( Kaeya informed him that she was sharing her ideal types with her friends, and him being curious was an understatement. )  

Because every time he sees her, she doesn’t bat an eyelash. She focuses so much on her friends and it seems that she has forgotten that she smiled at him during that field trip. When she commented on how the sunset looked beautiful behind him, when he was sitting on the window seat. 

He’s aware that she’s friendly but she’s not befriending him. :( 

And if people are going to ask you what happened between the two of you, perhaps, you’ll just raise a quizzical brow and tilt your head.

“Uhhh. . . What? Who? Ah. Him. The MVP guy? We became seatmates during the field trip and that’s it. We didn’t really talk because I slept throughout the whole ride. He was listening to music so I assumed he didn’t want to have a conversation with me. And I’m out of his league, so next question.”

( Diluc had earphones on but they were lowered down because he wanted to hear her small giggles — and, well. Ridiculous as it was, he was playing stupidly romantic love songs. Kaeya was right, maybe using Spotify premium once in a while wasn’t bad. )

Here’s another hs au concept:

So it starts like this: two fingers clutching a chess piece—a pawn, she recalls—and lips pursing in thought, you inadvertently sigh in defeat and simply put it on a black square. 

However, you confidently eye him anyway and grab his queen piece. You declare a “Checkmate!”

And the guy—the guy who’s sitting right across from you—with the wild, beautiful red hair tied in an elegant ponytail, releases an amused chuckle. You’re sure that the girls watching from the sidelines just swooned from that and you mentally roll your eyes. 

“Last time I’m aware, that’s not how the game works. That’s not how the queen moves.” 

His voice is deep and nice to hear. But the irritation boiling in your gut shoves that comment away and you cross your arms with puffed cheeks. 

“That’s how this queen moves,” You stand from your seat and take your bowl of soggy french fries from Potato Corner. “Checkmate.”

And from that very moment you leave — you think it’s a cool exit, because you know you’ll never see him again, and you’ll never play Chess again, because there are a lot of students in your high school with quirky hair and even stranger personalities. 

Like, who even randomly starts a chess duel during lunch, and in Mondstadt High’s quadrangle? Apparently, that guy. 

You don't really understand why a lot of students are drawn to him so much, especially your classmates. You don’t hide your disdain of course, but your amazing friends decided to pull something underneath their arses to somehow make you meet the guy. Make you meet the guy you weren’t really interested in getting to know. Even if he was quote unquote, a 10.

Thus, leading to that unexpected encounter—them registering your full name when the guy was searching for another player to duel with. For fun.

And you didn’t really know how to play chess, but you were in the mood for some shenanigans, so. . . that happened.

( tldr: u had an interesting meeting with diluc and thought u will never meet him again but then he becomes ur romeo to ur juliet when u joined the theater club. shenanigans ensue. )

i hope this is enough to satiate the people who want a part 2 of the hs au diluc <3 also, it's up to anyone's interpretation if they wonder if my debut hs au fic for him would end up with the reader.

[ edit at 1:02 am: oh. . . diluc in a high school au as a senior. . . oh anon. . . i did not read it carefully and immediately assumed - help - i said too much. . . GSJJDK 🧎🏻‍♀️] and third. . . so. uh! i had one fear. ONE FEAR when i started this writing blog. one fear if i would eventually get that one specific ask, and me from the past was like: no way, there’s a buuuunch of AUs in the world and surely, they wouldn’t ask about college au, right?? / pos

WRONG.

so ummm… regarding the college au. are you gonna believe me if i told you that i had been plotting & writing a diluc college au since last year 🫣 all supported and aided by a wonderful pal ofc :)

here’s a glimpse:

you guys don’t understand how much of a fixation the DILUC college au was for me. like at all FJDHDK only my bestie witnessed how feral i was over this au. it was seriously my life source / j

anyway, i’m not sure if i’d post it because it’s seriously hella of a mess ( like table filled with papers stacked over each other mess ) and i don’t even know if people will enjoy it - i have some crazy projections here 🤸🏻‍♀️

and to end this: if you guys are curious abt diluc and the reader’s dynamic in this one, it’s evidently grumpy x sunshine ( because i am a forever sucker for that trope with diluc ) and she is his first love and he is her last

cheers! 🥂

[worldwide-simp]

Diary of the inferior

Scp x reader

(isn't really proof-read )

This is something I had written a few words of, stored in my drafts and didn't let it see the light of day (see what I did there hehe) for some time. But I have now finished it (kinda) and its certainly one of my longest pieces. 

(The first few entries are short and poorly written, but it becomes better after some time.)

warnings: gore, kinda pessimistic views, I hate Entry 1 with all my heart, false reality, violence, euthanasia, body horror, religious talk, death.

Scp 105 is post Omega-7, she’s 24 here.

Entry 1: New Beginnings

Dear Diary, 

Maybe I should’ve listened when people told me to never take strange job opportunities.  

I thought it was perfect, I was working in a shop on minimum wage, and I could barely afford simple life necessities.

I still had to pay off my student debt and that made life all the harder. When I saw this strange opportunity presented to me by a shady caucasian man, I believed that this would be my saving light. 

I wish I had been shot that day. A bullet mysteriously found its way into my skull. A news reported merely stated it was an accident; or running from that horrid officer only to “disappear” and never see the light of day again.

I just wish that death had claimed me as one of their countless victims before immortality and the infinite loop of time laid hands upon me.

—-

Entry 2: the flower of beloved Iris

Dear Diary, 

On my photo ID, there was my smiling face. It was a smile of pure joy. You could glance at it and call it cheeky if you dared. But I was merely innocent. Innocent as a human could be. 

After the photo had been taken, I was briefed on what I’d be doing. A rambling speech about the foundation's lack of care for qualified staff and instead people with logic and reasoning. 

That gave you a fighting chance, because how bad could this job be if you just needed a little logic?  I met a girl a few weeks later. I always wondered why she had that camera with her. Perhaps it had been a dear hobby of hers? 

I found out my presumption was wrong when she took a photograph of a flower in a vase some distance away, took the picture out and then proceeded to stick her hand in the image; giving me the flower after twirling it in her fingers. 

Iris seemed proud of making me joyful, I believed I laughed all night. I later placed the flower on my desk, and even after it wilted and its petals fragile and bleak; I still folded it into my pocket and to this day it still resides there. 

She was more on the quiet side but still gave me those sad smiles with dimples on her cheeks.  I had distinctively remembered wondering about the cause of those scars on her eyelid, jaw and hands.  — 

Entry 3: false reality

Dear Diary, 

I found out Iris was an anomaly; an Scp, if you wanted a more precise definition. This was told to me by a person higher on the foundation hierarchy for its staff. Not Iris herself. 

Was I slightly hurt? Yes. 

It had left me staring into a void, although I had seen her camera doing its magic. I must have created some false reality in my head that explained this bizarre situation. 

At the time, I was scrawling through my notebook with such vigour it was comparable to an inspired writer. I was not inspired in a awestriking way. Simply wanting to write about my trepidations concerning this topic and send the letter to me in a shitty way of making myself laugh.

(Mind you, if you too were stuck as a lab assistant watching sentient doughnuts bite people, you almost certainly develop terrible humour.)

—

Entry 4: the beginning of the end

Dear Diary, 

Something strange had occurred.

I had been assigned a mission. Naturally I was confused. Lab assistants being assigned things other than cleaning up the blood after cross-testings? It was something I found most peculiar. 

They, (foundation staff),had suited me up in some strange black equipment, handed me a gun and pushed me over to some people waiting inside a black van.

I don't even have a formal qualification to handle a gun; I had screamed. Why would this be happening? I remember saying that to myself. over and over again.

A pathetic mantra that I so feebly considered answered by the many voices in my head. I cried. Then I wiped the liquid with my hand; I had refused the notion that I was a weak, feeble creature hiding the true meaning of my nature. 

When I really was just that. 

All those other people had kept their heads down, mindlessly fidgeting with their hands or drumming their fingers nervously on the knee. I merely stared at the wall, already feeling the sensation of butterflies fluttering in my stomach. 

I didn't know them, and at this rate; I would never.

—

Entry 5: pathetic chess games

Dear diary, 

They had gotten off the van, dressed in full tactical gear and shivering with a dreadful fear. This situation felt wrong and I memorized the look of someone who knew too much. It was in a puddle of water. It was my face.

Perhaps I was seeing the foreshadows of fate that dangled right in front of my eyes. But I saw nothing, heard nothing and knew nothing. This was all one of the many cruel games the foundation played, killing people as if they were mere chess pieces. 

All just to win to the game, only for another to proceed after that.

—

Entry 6: the majority and the minority

Dear Diary, 

 Scp-001 S. D. Locke’s proposal is one of the many 001 proposals that exist: detailing the sun becoming a hostile being that eradicates human beings, converts them into sentient piles of flesh which aim to find unconverted humans and drag them into the sunlight, for them too to become those hideous masses of skin. 

The scenario occurred in my timeline, at first I didn't know what was happening, only that the other staff members had screamed about the light being good and holy before I heard the most awful noises.

It squelched, moaned and cried. I suppressed gags and muffled my mouth with a cloth. What the fuck was happening? Where had they all gone? Why do they sound not human anymore?

I had ran out from the cover of the van to shield under the safety of a building, not before looking back and laying my eyes upon a horror of flesh melting away under the rays of the hostile sun, dragging its amorphous clumps of bodies towards me. 

They had once been human like myself. I had only saved myself but not them. I should go join them to redeem myself to the judging light and have my sins cleansed. I was a wretched human not worthy of being alive. 

I kept on running, determined to never let the sun touch my skin ever again. I had slammed the door of the building. It was desolate and empty. When I’d step on the ground too hard, I could hear the echoes of the impact.

The was a distinctive waft of bleach, specifically chlorine that reminded me of swimming pools. There was a lack of furnacing; which reminisced the not-so-distant memory of my office. I took shallow breaths, slumping down to the ground and rubbing a sore ligament. 

This was a weak thing a human could do, but I sobbed. I cried and cried until I felt like everything went numb. But it cleared my mind slightly, feeling less like a suffocating cloth and more so like a haze of cloud. 

I felt around in my breast pocket, closing my fingers around a packet and tearing it off and chewed on the granola bar slowly. My mouth felt dry and my throat burned, however, despite the lack of comfort, I still ate. 

I pondered on what I could do. Could I stay here and call for backup or try to find someone who was still alive? 

I sighed, then fiddled with the packet from the granola bar. Was I at fault for my comrades being turned into those abominations of flesh? I could've saved them; told them to stay inside the van and that I’d go out and check. It would’ve resulted in my death, but wasn't appeasing the majority a more important factor than the minority? 

—

Entry 7: The silence of the lamb

Dear Diary,  

I had a radio that I had snatched last minute from the van before dashing off. I had tried reaching out to anyone I could. But there was only silence.

—

Entry 8: Nihilism

Dear Diary, 

I had successfully contacted a person without being disoriented by loud static. I heard heavy breathing, it was loud and quite alarming. There was a persistent sloshing of liquid in the background. It was quiet for a few seconds; eerily quiet. Before someone spoke. 

“You are alone. You will stay forever alone if you do not accept the beautiful light. Go outside.” 

I threw the radio to a corner of the room, and it broke into several pieces. The voice didn't sound human anymore, it was distorted with an otherworldly passion. I was so blinded by the anger that had irrationally consumed me for a second I broke my only means of communication.  

Maybe I would be truly alone if I didn't go outside.

There was nothing to live for anymore.

—

Entry 9: kiss away the gore

Dear Diary, 

If loneliness was the way I would die, perhaps it would be better to perish in the sun than of hunger and the echoing quiet. I lived in cowardliness and fear. I can be free where I belong. 

I opened the door I had blocked two days ago. Such a feeble mind, but I had found revelation.  I will cleanse my body of this impurity, harbouring sins and the devil's hands caressing my skin. 

I will burn it all away. 

This was the only way I would be accepted, then I’d find peace. 

I stepped into the sunlight and stared at the scarlet sun's beauty. I felt my skin being pulled apart, melting into a puddle of goo, bones liquefying and a boiling feeling. My human mouth shrieked, but that was insignificant. My fingers merged together before becoming a singular stump and my body was crafted new.

There was an agony I couldn't describe in words. No matter how many times I may rip out this page and rewrite it countless times, no work of poetry could ever shed light on the feeling. 

My body was crafted pristine, I now moved surprisingly fast. The puddle of goo had moulded itself into the body of my absolute nature. I sought new flesh. That I would bind myself to another pure being. 

Later, I stumbled across a facility devoid of people, there were only pools of blood on the floor. The once pure white walls had undertones of fleshy colours. If I were still human, I would've gagged at the goriness of it all.

But I didn't, instead I lurked deeper into the building. A net ensnared my body all of a sudden, and I choked out a throaty snarl. A familiar figure loomed over me, with a knife poised at my throat. 

I gnashed my fleshy teeth together, reaching out to capture this impure human and bring it to the light. But the creases under their eyes faded, tossed the knife to the side and removed the netting. 

What was this revolting human doing-

I was engulfed in an embrace, a hand of theirs resting on the small of my back and the other placed upon my throat, pushing it back. Almost as if it was endeavouring for me not to rip out their face.

“I can't believe something like this could happen to such a beautiful person like you.” They murmured, gripping my body tighter like I would dissolve into ash at any moment. My jaw snapped abruptly and they hushed me. 

I heard the shuffling of fabric. Cool metal grazed my face before I heard them speak again; “It must be painful for you, I’ll shoot you so you can rest peacefully.” 

Then they squeezed my back with such gentleness it would be hard to imagine that someone like this would shoot me. 

The last things I felt were the soft fluttering of my dead heart, a soft kiss on the lips and seeing their appearance one more time. Admiring their shortly cut blond hair, scars adorning their face and cerulean blue eyes. 

Those beloved dimples showed as they smiled so miserably at the prospect of being alone once again. But this was for your sake. 

“Wait-”

She pulled the trigger. 

And you saw nothing. 

[mariacallous]

Russian Security Council Deputy Chairman Dmitry Medvedev delivered a sweeping speech Monday claiming “Ukraine is definitely Russia” and spouting anti-Ukraine rhetoric aimed at erasing the country from the map.

“Our geostrategic space has been indivisible since the time of the ancient Russian state,” the former Russian president said, presenting a map showing the vast majority of Ukraine’s territory gobbled up by Russia. “This concept must disappear forever. Ukraine is definitely Russia.”

Medvedev’s map shows the borders of other countries, including Poland and Romania, changed as well.

The speech echoes previous comments from Medvedev, who has repeatedly said he doesn’t think Ukraine should exist, accusing it of being simply a “misconception” following the dissolution of the Soviet Union and an unnecessary part of the world.

Russia will not stop its war until Ukraine surrenders, he said in the speech, adding that peace talks with Kyiv were off the table.

“Historic parts of the country need to come home. All our adversaries need to understand once and for all a simple fact: that the territories on both banks of the Dnipro River [which bisects Ukraine] are an integral part of Russia's strategic and historical borders.”

The aggressive speech comes weeks after Medvedev threatened to use nuclear weapons against the United States and other western allies, and just days after Russian President Vladimir Putin threatened to use nuclear weapons if NATO countries contribute troops to help defend Ukraine. The remarks came after French President Emmanuel Macron suggested allies could deploy forces to Ukraine.

“They must understand that we also have weapons that can hit targets on their territory,” Putin said. “All this really threatens a conflict with the use of nuclear weapons and the destruction of civilization. Don’t they get that?”

The bellicose rhetoric coincides with a Russian information operation aimed at diluting Western support to Ukraine and hasten a Russian victory, according to Germany’s defense minister. Russian state media reported on leaked audio allegedly showing German officers discussing support for Ukraine and the possible provision of Taurus long-range cruise missiles to Kyiv.

“It is a hybrid attack aimed at disinformation. It is about division. It is about undermining our resolve,” the defense minister, Boris Pistorius, said.

Over two years into the war, Ukraine is still heavily dependent on Western support to maintain its defense against Russia. But delays on Capitol Hill in approving more military aid are hampering Ukraine’s defenses, according to Kyiv.

In its first major loss since losing Bakhmut last year, Ukraine withdrew from Avdiivka in February, with Ukrainian President Volodymyr Zelensky citing a gap in artillery and long range weapons supplies and urging western allies to step up support.

“Our actions are limited only by ... our strength,” Zelensky said. “Dear friends, unfortunately keeping Ukraine in the artificial deficit of weapons, particularly in deficit of artillery and long-range capabilities, allows Putin to adapt to the current intensity of the war.”

Just over the weekend, Zelensky again blamed delays from allies in supplying air defenses for the deaths of 12 people in an attack in Odesa early this month.

“Delaying the supply of weapons to Ukraine, missile defense systems to protect our people, leads, unfortunately, to such losses,” Zelensky said. “When lives are lost, and partners are simply playing internal political games or disputes that limit our defense, it’s impossible to understand. It’s unacceptable.”

[dreaminginthedeepsouth]

A few stories about the Tangerine Tyrant caught my eye today, and they all point to his increasing desperation - so I figured I’d go around the horn and celebrate his continuing dissipation.

First: Criminal Defendant and Adjudicated Rapist Donald Trump yesterday predicted a “bloodbath” if he didn’t get reelected, and the media quickly devolved into outlets condemning his use of violent rhetoric and others - Fox and Newsmax - concern trolling over how he was talking specifically about the automobile industry. So, whatever. If you’re interested in parsing the event along those lines, have at it - but I think there’s a more interesting, deeply indicative phenomenon just below the surface that speaks not just to Trump’s mentality but that of his whole bonkers cult.

If you’re looking for the atavistic pull of Donald Trump on his followers, it’s in his power to do whatever the hell he wants and face no consequences. NO ONE can tell him what to do. NO ONE can keep him from attacking whomever he wants. NO ONE can prevent him from sating his desires. NO ONE.

Now, we know that’s not true - as evidenced by his exile to Mar-a-Lago for the past three years, but it’s part of the mystique. In a lot of ways, it makes sense if you look at his cult following - people who are, by and large, deeply disempowered and enraged at a culture that is stripping away their traditional privileges and social entitlements. They WANT Trump to keep shitting the punch bowl as a sort of wish fulfillment of their own stifled rage. Maybe they can’t rape the woman they want to rape or kill the immigrants they hate for speaking Spanish or Hindi at the Gas-n-Sip – but they sure as hell can dream about it when Trump gives a cross-burner of a speech. That’s all standard form.

But what we saw last night - and in the fascist outrage-trolling today - was something new. It’s been creeping into the 2024 election cycle here and there, but yesterday, it entirely broke through, and it’s this: NOT EVEN TRUMP’S BRAIN IS ALLOWED TO CENSOR TRUMP’S MOUTH WHEN IT COMES TO RAGE AND ANGER.

Look, Trump KNOWS that using words like “bloodbath” is going to cost him non-MAGA voters. He knows that calling people “vermin” is going to hurt his chances of navigating the very narrow path ahead if he hopes to return to the White House. Yet, he can’t stop himself. Trump is unable to act in his own easily achieved best interest if it means not being a monster, and while it’s lamentable that he’s bringing such hatred to our national debate, I encourage him to keep it up.

You be you, Donald!

Every single time you let your id out of its box, it’s like sending America an unsolicited, mushroom-shaped dick-pic. Sure, your fans are going to love it, but the rest of us grossed the fuck out.

So, please! Rage on!

-----

Second:

Trump’s lawyers in the NYS civil fraud case settlement submitted a filing today that it is “a practical impossibility” for Trump to post a bond for the half-billion dollars he needs to cough up in order to appeal the decision. According to reports, he approached 30 different surety companies, and they all turned him down. Why they would do that might indicate what’s got him tuned to “bloodbath” and “vermin” levels of rage.

It might be a simple point, but it bears a paragraph of explanation.

Most folks who don’t work in the NYC real estate market – or any real estate market – might think, “Hey, he’s a rich guy. Why not just sell a few of those buildings he owns? They’ve gotta be worth a pretty penny.”

Or, alternatively, “Why won’t anyone take Trump Tower as collateral for a loan?”

The simple answer is he doesn’t really OWN any of that shit outright. It’s ALL mortgaged to the hilt. To get a clearer picture of this, let’s look at 40 Wall Street – one of Trump’s “prestige” properties.

The numbers are a bit hard to come by, but an hour of reading suggests that the building is presently worth about $200 million. Mind you, part of the fraud charges – now proven – included his valuation of the building in 2015 at over $750 million, but it’s just not worth that at all.

So, take the $200 million as a starting point and note that Trump’s mortgage on the property, according to a Bloomberg report in November of 2023, stands at $122 million. So, if Trump were to liquidate his stake in the property fully, he’d only net about $78 million – and that is BEFORE the capital gains taxes, NYS taxes, and NYC taxes on the sale. According to a few articles I’ve scanned this evening, that would be up to about 40% of his earnings. That means, even if he drops one of his most precious assets, he would only raise about $50 million.

He owes TEN TIMES that number by next week.

Play that out another round, and realize that if Trump tried to sell ten or twenty office buildings in NYC all at once, the price of ALL of them would plummet to fire-sale prices.

He’s fucked. Moreover, he knows it and is desperate to find a way out.

-----

This brings us to news item number three: The Return of Paul Manafort.

News leaked today that Trump is considering bringing convicted felon and former campaign manager Paul Manafort back into his 2024 bid for the White House. Manafort, primarily due to his complete lack of a moral center, would be a tremendous asset for Trump. He’s a solid political operative, but what he REALLY brings to the table is a direct line back to the Russian oligarchy and their money. That, obviously, is an enormous threat to national security, and I’ve got to hope that the intelligence services in DC and around the world will be on heightened alert for any covert – or overt – entreaties to Putin or his cronies for a loan. I’ve got to hope there are ways of making such entreaties known to the public through selective leaks if nothing else.

But that brings us back to observation number one.

Trump knows that going to Putin for help with his financial difficulties if it becomes known, would be a dagger to the heart for his chances of returning to the White House. Yet, if I’m right, he will be unable to stop himself when it comes to finding a fix for his hemorrhaging empire. His brain will tell him this is a terrible idea, but it won’t matter. NO ONE is allowed to stop Donald Trump from doing whatever the hell he wants to do – not even Donald Trump.

In 1776, James Otis, a thoughtful supporter of the Revolutionary War, noted about politics, “When the pot boils, the scum will rise.”

Trump is proving that to be true, even when there’s only one evil, arrogant, rapist bastard in the soup. He’s so screwed.

Love to you all.

Michael J. Tallon

[dinoburger]

But the Moment Just Slipped Through My Hands

submitting to the time honored tradition of Expiration Date fics - slightly Science Party flavoured. I just wanted to put it out there, ik maybe I could stand to sprinkle in more funny speech mannerisms for both Engie and Medic - maybe this will be for another day. I also wanted to illustrate more of it but I could save that for the Ao3 version...

2k words - more focused on Medic and Engie but there's a dash of HeavyMedic in there, not exactly shipping focused

(title is from Gone in an Instant - I hope nobody is keeping track of how many times I reference Black Dresses in various work bc I'm sure it's starting to add up)

-🍞-

The smell of bread had a tendency to float in the air in almost every corner of their current base of operations – fated to be their last, so they assumed – but was even thicker now in the already stuffy laboratory. Slightly more sour than usual too, due to the effects of the teleporter.

After they’d reported their findings to the rest of the team, the resident medic and engineer had hurried back to continue their work, hoping for more answers. It was natural, to both of them, but in the lulls between furiously experimenting, exchanging notes and prompting each other with questions about their respective areas of expertise, Dell found himself staring at the doctor with a pang of guilt.

The medic, as was usual when presented with cataclysmic disaster, confronted it with a mixture of stern determination and delighted morbid curiosity. Regardless, impending doom weighed heavy on the shorter’s shoulders.

“You don’t feel hard-done by, spending your last days cooped up in this here lab?” he scratched his neck, leaning back against the bench’s counter.

“If we had more time, maybe – but this is where I am needed most, ja?” the medic scribbled down several more notes, before he spared the engineer a glance. “What about you?”

“So long as I’m not gettin’ in your way.”

“Oh not at all, not at all.” he shook his head, “Really, it’s unfortunate I could not have gotten to know you better sooner – you have a brilliant mind, Herr Engineer.” the doctor’s lips quirked into a small, earnest smile, which caught Dell off guard.

“Aw shucks, Doc.” he retreated into himself a bit. “Just a shame I weren’t brilliant enough to figure out this whole teleporter mess m’self.”

“Ach, you couldn’t have known” Ludwig waved off, “and besides that, some of the greatest discoveries of our time have come at no small cost. What is it they say…? You can’t make an omelette without breaking eggs.”

It was true that medical science had it’s share of horrors, but even so, the doctor felt his optimism slip.

“I must confess, I might have been a touch… sloppy. You would think if something was wrong, the team doctor would be first to pick up on it." he scolded himself. "I am so grateful for the freedom of being out on the field, pushing the boundaries of science and medicine but I’m afraid I have gotten ahead of myself.”

“Heck, I’d say you’d done a dang good job keepin’ us alive so far - ‘spite some of our best efforts.” Dell grinned, which got a laugh out of Ludwig.

“M’ just wonderin’ if you didn’t have nobody special you wanted to see before you, y’know. Bit the dust, so to speak. I can keep things tickin’ over here just fine for a while.”

“Someone ‘special’…? Oh, don’t tell me.” Ludwig snorted. “Those silly rumours about my supposed ‘wife’ are still floating around.”

“I was a tad curious.”

“I might as well give the game up now, she’s not real – never was. I have no time for such things, but ach, some of our comrades are very nosy. It started off as a simple joke to keep them off my back, I didn’t think it would stick, so I never bothered to refute it.”

“I getcha, that makes a hell’ve a lot more sense.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” the man tensed, the amused glint in his eyes exchanged for something sharper and wary.

“Well, when the fellas get gossipin’ about the lady-folk, you never have a whole lot t’ say. Figured if you really did have a spouse waitin’ on ya you’d be more eager to brag.” Dell observed casually.

The doctor released a breath he didn’t realise he’d been holding. “Ah, is that all?”

“Y’know I’m not one to pry, doc. I respect ya too much.”

“Much appreciated.”

Dell paused, picking his next words more carefully. “More surprised you didn’t wanna say your goodbyes to that big fella – two of you seem mighty companionable.”

“Herr Heavy, I assume? We do work closely together, but... it’s hard to say we’re much more than colleagues.”

“You kiddin’? The man’s crazy ‘bout ya – you should see how he lights up the moment he lays eyes on ya. ‘S really somethin’ else.” Dell risked a smile and a sideways glance, the doctor’s face going soft with fondness.

“Well… I suppose I owe it to him to see if I can work this out in time.”

The engineer’s throat seized, his playful smile fading. He’d almost forgotten what the stakes were here.

For the next few minutes, Dell put his head down and worked in solemn silence, the guilt crushing his lungs and forbidding him to talk. He would only will himself to when the doctor had another question, they needed to deliberate their next course of action or sort out notes between each other.

When they’d worked into another lull in their rhythm, the taller of the two eyed up the other.

“...You didn’t have anyone you wanted to see before we expire?” The doctor returned the question.

The engineer shook his head, still half buried in a toolbox. “Nope. Wouldn’t’ve signed up t’ be a mercenary if I did, all part ‘n parcel." he took a breath, considering just biting his tongue again, but somehow leaving Ludwig in the dark felt worse. "Those Mann brothers found me through m’ grandpa, us Conaghers’ve been workin’ with ‘em for decades.”

“Really now?” Doctor Ludwig’s eyebrows twitched up, this was news to him.

Dell knew deep down he wasn’t supposed to talk about this, as mercenaries they were all on a need-to-know basis, but with how the situation was unfolding he found the words spilling out with ease.

“Uh-huh. Lotta his work was kept under lock and key though, up until I joined their employ. Though I can't say I agree with how they got 'em to begin with... it feels like I get ta take part in my heritage, going over his blueprints, studying his notes – like I’m really steppin’ into his shoes ‘n followin’ his footsteps.” the softer, reverent tone he’d taken petered out into a sigh. “I was hopin’ I’d be able t’ finish what he’d started, put an end to this gravel war. Looks like there’ll have to be another generation of recruits after us.”

“It’s still just a job, mein friend, you make of it what you can – and I would say you have gotten more out of it than most would.” the doctor added.

“It ain’t just a job to me.” Dell’s idle tinkering stopped, head hung. “I got all these ideas in my head that I could make it mean somethin', I'd shake things up, I'd make it count - buncha fanciful nonsense." his words took on a harsher edge as he wound himself up.

Doctor Ludwig found himself pausing too, observing the other’s hunched shoulders and arms stiffly gripping the bench.

“What kinda legacy am I leavin’? Maybe I’m just daydreaming, thinkin’ I’m half the man Radigan was. Would he really’ve made a mistake this darn stupid? Doomed all’a his men like this? The hell do I think I’m doin’ out here?” he spat, cursing himself.

Part of him had always known, every force was met with equal resistance, wins and losses balanced themselves out. The RED and BLU mercenaries were nothing but cogs in a much larger machine, to ends he couldn’t fathom.

He kept glaring down at the counter through his goggles, as if raising his head would reveal a great, dark vortex hanging above, deeper than he could possibly see, filled with terrible, grinding machinery. It would use them all up like fuel and spit them out into the ether.

“To hell with legacy.”

Doctor Ludwig broke the tangible silence that had fallen.

“To hell with the Mann brothers, to hell with your grandfather.”

The Conagher bristled and turned on him, mouth twisted into an offended snarl, posture like a coiled spring. “Beg yer pardon?”

“We cannot dictate what the tides of time will choose to spare.” the doctor’s expression was equally grave. “So I say to hell with them all. Your work is worthy, because your life is worthy.” he clamped his hands over either of the engineer’s shoulders, taking the man by surprise.

“I don’t care what kind of man this Radigan Conagher was, I am honoured to have spent this life with his grandson.”

That sent his head spinning.

Dell choked, not sure if he was about to cry or laugh, a shaky grin spread across his features and a wheeze escaped his teeth.

“’P-preciate it, Doc.” he sniffed, flushed with the threat of tears.

Ludwig gave his shoulders a reassuring squeeze before he released him, the tension melting out of the room. “Of course, let’s get back to it, shall we?”

The engineer nodded, turning from him again to regain composure. He pried the goggles up from his eyes just enough to rub the haze from them before returning them to position.

-

Hours bled into a blur, the self-assurance of being able to power through it to the end was starting to crumble. Dell could hardly see straight, neither man had slept since their initial discovery. He’d been the first to give out, going from using the lab bench to prop himself up to sinking entirely onto the cold, concrete floor in a heap. He peeled back his goggles, feeling the grooves across his nose and cheeks from being stuck to his face for so long – no doubt angry red marks by now, he imagined.

The stink of sour bread was getting to him, suffocating, he wanted nothing more than to lay down and let his senses slip away into unconsciousness.

He vacantly stared up at the doctor, who he wasn’t sure was still engaged in their research or just playing with chunks of bread.

Without thinking, he watched the man bring the piece he was holding to his mouth and bit down. He spluttered and spat it back out at once.

“What was the point o’ that?” the engineer snickered.

Ludwig mumbled incoherently, before shrugging, too bleary to come up with a good excuse.

“Surprised you can even tolerate the stuff at this rate, it reeks in here.”

“Ja, well…” the doctor interrupted himself with a groan as he joined the engineer on the floor, joints protesting his descent. “I have smelt a lot worse – try working with corpses and animals for hours on end. Or animal corpses, for that matter.”

Dell shuddered. “No thanks, partner.”

At least Ludwig found his disgust amusing.

It was strange being able to see the other’s face unobscured, the medic had gotten used to thinking of Dell as something vaguely insectoid with those large dark lenses. There were in fact, some pretty impressive red indents on his skin where the googles had been and a tan line to match.

“I jus… need a moment…” he huffed, letting his lids fall closed.

Doctor Ludwig murmured a faint agreement, tucking his own glasses into the pocket of his coat and slumping back against the bench on his side of the laboratory.

“...Doc?”

“Mm?”

“Y’ain’t… scared of disappearin’? Being forgotten?”

“Terrified. But it’s out of my hands.” his lips stayed parted as he chewed it over, consciousness swaying. “I can’t control what I will be remembered for. I can hope that my work will mean something in the face of humanity… that it will not simply be discarded as madness, but I cannot know. At least I can say I never limited myself, that I always… always sought for answers.”

"'S like y' said... if they can't see what it's worth then maybe humanity don't deserve it."

The doctor only hummed in response.

There was something painfully human in his sprawled out form that Dell had never quite seen before, peering out between heavy eyelids. He traced Doctor Ludwig’s sunken cheekbones in his mind, the dark lashes of closed eyes, brow relaxed – neither forming the serious scowl he was used to nor contorted in manic glee, a view clear of the usual thin frames that adorned his nose. He was used to having to peer up at him, with his line of sight only reaching the doctor’s chest.

He wanted to take that image to the ends of the earth, for what time he had left and what consciousness his exhausted mind would allow him.

Glad that the light in the lab was already dim, the engineer shifted to lie down, hissing when his helmet smacked the concrete – he’d forgotten he’d still been wearing it. He fumbled to get it off, not noticing the doctor too shifting to slide out of his coat.

“Here, support your head with this.”

“Huh? Oh, thank ya kindly.” Dell absently took the folded fabric while propped up on his elbows, shimmying to position himself just right.

He also took the opportunity to unfasten his prosthetic to set aside, along with his belt.

“Hey Doc… lemme return the favour.”

Medic squinted.

“I got a pillow y’ can use.” the engineer patted his belly with his remaining hand. “C’mere.”

He didn’t need any further prompting, the taller crawled over and flopped back against him. “Oof, my back is going to hate me for this.” he grumbled. “If you wake first, wake me up too.”

Comfortable wasn’t the right word. Nothing about how the cold floor seeped through the back of his clothes and the skin of his arms was particularly comfortable, even the way the medic rested his weight on his stomach was a little stifling, but he wouldn’t have dared to move.

He could smell the doctor’s scent in the coat tucked under his head, feel the gentle rhythm of his breath, hear the way it stirred in his chest.

“Let’s just stay like this, until the end. Hold me until it’s all over.” Dell wanted to plead.

“Copy that.”

[bonefall]

decided to translate a couple random sentences! here we have Warrenheart starting to tell Foxpaw (pov) a... heavily fictionalized account of historical events. he's not having it

“Bab miwang ssargryyr.” Arramoerbabun urrababab.

“Pryyp upanssa urrspieherra?” Ababab.

The sentences I was building off of are:

"I hear she was a mother," Warrenheart began.

"How do you know all this?" I interrupted.

(warrenheart is an elder, but still very much capable--there's an understanding among the golden colony cats that she can almost definitely beat the shit out of you at any given time. someone once started a rumor that fieldstar forced her to retire so she'd stop beating the shit out of random trespassers. as such, i decided that urrs was more fitting than pyrrs)

(we don't yet have words for different... methods, ig, of speaking that i could find, so they both just get 'said')

We had a bunch of new additions in the way of familial terms (it took so long to get to your ask I apologizee aaaagh), and for you, here are some more ways to describe speaking!

Announced = Yawoorey/Yawoore/Yawoor

Yowled = Nyaolru/Nyaolr/Nyaol

Screamed = Reegau/Reega/Reeg

Bellowed = Braowgra/Braowgr/Braowg

Interrupted = Kiseplur/Kiseplu/Kisepl

Snapped = Kaygurgar/Kaygurga/Kaygurg To speak suddenly and with pent-up anger

Started (to speak) = Kipse/Kips An irregular stem! There is no present-tense version of this word! You either started to speak, or will start to speak. "Kips" exists mostly as a command or a cheer, Clanmates may start chanting it during a celebration in hopes of getting a speech, "Sskif urrKips" is the favored phrase for kittens asking for a story.

Drawled = Maanwoorru/Maanwoorr/Maanwoo Speaking lazily and slowly

Stammered = Naninen/Nanine/Nanin Speaking quickly and nervously, the opposite of drawl

Reported = Barsikek/Barsike/Barsik Deliver information in a simple, straightforward way. Noun versions of this word usually use Barsikek for a delivered report, and Barsik for a report not yet delivered.

Recant = Bakayuch/Bakayu/Bakay Speaking of past events in a low, awed tone.

Babbled = Mawawan/Mawawa/Mawaw Speaking aimlessly and going off on tangents. Purdy.

.....also a bonus because I can't help myself

ARRANYA BARSIK. Irr, konyyg mwrrsPoorr [Everyone I-will-report. So, obedience you-rogue-will-do.]

also another one

RarrPi, yawoore! Washakikurrk irre wrah mwrrSsfoogur! [You-outsider-perceive, I-announce! Shadowhedgehog mate mine they-rogue-marked!]