#why do websites insist on changing things?!

[sneakyguest]

Oh god. I'm just now remembering that you used to be able to permanently hide YouTube videos from your subscription page. I would obsessively watch and then hide every single video from the YouTubers I followed. Then they got rid of that feature and now I barely consume any of the content from most of the channels I'm still subscribed to. 🤷🏻‍♀️

[gojonanami]

❝ 𝐈 𝐍𝐄𝐄𝐃 𝐒𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐎𝐍𝐄 𝐎𝐋𝐃𝐄𝐑 ❞

❝ PROF. GETO'S CLASS IS SO HARD, BUT HE'S SO HOT!! ❞

✧ pairing: professor!geto x f!reader (part one of the prof geto series)

✧ summary: you were a 4.0, straight A student, until professor geto's class, the same far too hot ethics professor fawned over by faculty and students alike. you didn't understand what was so special about him...until you start having dreams about him.

✧ warnings: 18+, nsfw, a lot of smut (mostly fantasy), depictions of student/teacher relationship (only ok in fiction not irl!!!), reader is a grad student in my mind, but age is vague, masturbation (f + m), fingering (f! receiving), sex (p in v), getting off to his voice in recorded lectures, arousal from reading his writing, amateur's take on moral philsophy and ethics, art by @/jatinsohanvi, google scholar graphic by platonic loml @laneysmusings

✧ wc: 10,149 (i have a problem) | part two

“You’re late,” 

Your first impression of Professor Suguru Geto’s class was that you could never be late again, unless you would like to be chided in front of all your peers for your tardiness. 

Your first impression of Professor Suguru Geto himself was that he was truly the most breathtaking man you’d ever laid your eyes on. His inky black locks tied into a neat bun, his deep royal purple vest buttoned over a crisp white button up with pressed gray slacks, his pretty lips pressed in a small frown, as his dark gaze pierced through you. And you don’t know what stirs in your chest — a fleeting moment that is tucked away under a bite of your bottom lip and burning cheeks. 

And now you knew why when you had walked into class, the amount of unfamiliar faces in this course had far outnumbered the ones in your usual course load — the same reason why this man undoubtedly had three chili peppers next to his professor rating on some website out there. 

And now you were faced with him staring you down as you stumbled down the stairs of the all too full lecture hall. 

As you muttered apologies, and took your seat far too close to the front of the class, smack dab in the very front of the very same professor whose eyes still were concentrated on you, before sliding back to the class at large. 

“Now, where were we?” he says, continuing the lecture. 

Ethics was not your major — you were a philosophy grad student, and although the two went hand in hand — no, they were not the same thing. Ethics are the moral principles — like rules to follow to live a moral life — people can follow, while philosophy is the study of knowledge, reality, and existence. And this class encompassed both — an ethics and moral philosophy class. Your eyes slid around the room — and compared to all the random majors stuffed into this classroom, you had no doubt you’d do well. Your eyes met Professor Geto’s — maybe one slight doubt. 

And when you get your first essay back, you eagerly flip to the last page of the paper, wondering what accolades and compliments you’d receive this time. Your eyes find the grade, and your stomach drops, a gaping maw that consumes you from the inside out. 

You got a B. 

A B+ — an 88 on your paper in this course, and you stared at the grade on the very last page of the paper you had collected from his desk — Professor Geto had insisted everyone submit their papers both physically and electronically — his scrawl in red pen littered each page of what you thought was a thoughtful and even clever paper on the existence free will and the ethical and moral dilemmas that surround it. And he had given it an 88. 

You had a 4.0 point average — you had gotten the highest scores in some of the most difficult courses required by your major, and now you were going to be derailed by a class you took on a whim? That’s not happening. No, you were going to get him to change your grade. You were seeing as red as the ink that tore your paper to shreds. 

“Come in,” your knuckles had rapped against Professor Geto’s door, your heart in your throat, as you heard his reply, entering his office. His office was as pretentious as he was. A much larger office than you had seen before (poor Professor Ijichi had a shoebox of an office), while Professor Geto’s was three times the size, outfitted with large, beautiful windows, distinct bookshelves, and even a lovely deep mahogany colored couch with decorative cushions. And you knew why that was the case — Professor Geto was an expert in his field, revered, even at his relatively young age. And the university had coveted him, and managed to lure him to work behind these ivy covered walls. While other professors who have been here longer are stuck with offices that don’t begin to compare. 

Academia was truly hell. 

And yet, Professor Geto seemed to rule over it with an iron fist. Even now, you found your professor looking as annoyingly perfect as ever — his elbow resting against his desk, pen in his other hand, as he flipped through more papers on his desk, his hair in a messy bun, a few black strands falling across his furrowed brow, his pretty lips pursed in concentration, and his dark gaze flicks up from his work to you, and his lips curl, your name leaving his lips, “good to see you, please sit,” 

You had planned to attend these office hours in victory, to apologize for your misstep in the first class, and let your professor praise your paper to no end — but instead you were going to see why your paper was graded so harshly. 

Your speech was ready, you were going to lay it out, you had the perfect explanation and the excellent reasoning “Professor Geto—” 

“I know why you’re here,” he cuts you off, lips forming in an utterly condescending smile, “you want to discuss your paper, correct?” 

“I am, I wanted to—” 

He sits forward in his chair, setting down his pen, “I’m going to save us some time by explaining my comments on your paper, do you have it?” and you close your mouth, pulling the paper out of your folder and handing it to him, “Your paper was one of the best in the class — it was thought provoking, grounded in research, persuasive, even made me consider some points I hadn’t before—” 

You blink, his praise catching you off guard, your thoughts twisting in on themselves, “Then why did you give me B?” 

“You didn’t allow me to finish,” he sighs, as he flips through your paper, looking up to meet your gaze,  “your paper was excellent when it came to philosophical concepts, but your ethical conclusions on the other hand, could use some work,” 

You gaped at him, “What did I possibly—” 

“To put it simply, you were trying to use your knowledge of philosophy to cover up your lack of knowledge in the field of ethics,” 

“I wasn’t—” 

“And that’s okay, because that means I have something to teach you don’t I? That’s why you’re in this course, to learn,” he gives a tight lipped smile, tilting his head. Oh you’d like to learn a lot more from him — like the ethical dilemma of wanting to murder your professor, “and I’m here to teach — and this paper is a teaching moment — and from your expression, I assume you didn’t read the comments I left in detail,” 

And your cheeks burn, as your eyes fall away from him, “Not fully in detail,” you still swallow your shame, and meet his gaze, “I don’t mean to be a bother, Professor, but how can my paper still receive a B — I’ve never received that low of a score on any single paper—” 

“There’s a first time for everything,” and you have to bite back your retort, “yeah first time having an annoying prick for a professor,” and he rises from his desk to hand you back your paper, “the bottom line is, I know you’re capable of better, this class isn’t going to be easy — I’m not going to hand you accolades for no reason. You have to earn them — if you aren’t up for the challenge, you can drop the class.” 

The option was there — you could simply drop the course, rid yourself of Professor Geto and his ridiculous criticism forever. You could take a class with one of the many professors who delighted in your papers (even the ones you’d written at 3 AM and submitted not proofread), and go on with your life and preserve your 4.0 GPA with ease. 

But then you looked at him again. He was unfairly hot, even when he was fucking putting you down, he stood in front of you, offering your paper, his fingers long and thick brushing yours by mistake as you took back your paper, a watch on his wrist gleamed in the low light of his office. You glanced around his office, saw the awards on his walls, pictures of him giving lectures or receiving honors, and the books that lined his shelves weren’t dissimilar to your own academic shelf at home. And your eyes fell back to his, as he stared at you curiously, lips pursed, as your paper slightly crumples in your fist. 

“Next paper is due in two weeks?” and he pauses, before his lips curl in that same grin. 

“Yes it is,” and a smile graces your lips, lightning quick.

Like hell you were going to let him win. You were going to get him to praise your papers (and maybe that wouldn’t be the only thing he praised) — if it was the last thing you do. You’d get an A in his class, hell, you’d get him to beg you to be his teaching assistant (he’d look very nice on his knees for you, wouldn’t he?). 

You rise from your seat, and grab your bag, “I’ll see you at your next office hours then, to discuss my paper topic,” and he watches you leave, his eyes piercing into your back as you do. 

“See you soon.” 

Oh, he would. 

“Right on time,” Professor Geto barely looks up now when you knock on his door, his door now always ajar for office hours. 

Now you had made a habit of showing up for his office hours, you’d bring your paper topic all picked out, along with your handpicked sources you had chosen for your paper, all typed up in a neat bibliography. And he’d kindly rip it apart with that same damn smile on his lips. It had been a few weeks, a few papers later — and you finally had worked your grade up to an A-, not quite an A+, but you’d get there. You had to. 

Because it wasn’t just about your GPA now — you were going to get Professor Geto to praise you — through any means necessary. The man was stubborn, even when you’d come back with an improved draft, he’d only hand it back to you with a smile barely tugging at the corner of his lips, with no compliment to be had — only small check marks scribbled in the margins in your papers, with the occasional “good” written next to it. 

“Well, we all know what happens when I’m late,” he laughs, a noise that makes the ice dagger clutched behind your back ever so slightly melt, “I made you laugh, extra credit?” 

And he rolls his eyes, and you notice that his dark eyes are hidden behind glasses today — and god, why does it only make him even more gorgeous? He’s already brilliant, it’s unfair for him to look as if he was sculpted by the gods as well, “It takes a lot more than a chuckle to earn extra credit,” and you can’t help but bite your lip. 

No, no, he’s the worst. It didn’t matter he was the epitome of every academic’s wet dream, you were above that. You had a goal. 

“So, can we discuss my next paper?” you hand him your bibliography, and he takes it, delicate fingers flipping through, your mind notes the absence of a ring on either hand, before brushing the thought aside. 

“You’re writing on the morality of good or bad actions,” he hums, as he looks over the sources you had chosen, “Scanlon, good — have you read—” 

“‘What We Owe to Each Other?’ Only about a million times — well more like six,” and he nods appreciatively, “of course you’ve read it,” 

“I didn’t just read it, I wrote a paper on it, similar to yours, actually,” and your eyes flick up to meet his, he’s leaning forward in his chair, red pen in hand, as he scribbles notes in the margins, as well as on the back of your bibliography, “of course I don’t have your penchant for rambling,” 

You pout, “I don’t ramble — I like to make my point—” 

“Many times, and the same one,” and your mouth opens, only to find a wry smirk on his lips, “I’m teasing, another one of my very tedious qualities, and how you stand it during class astonishes me,” 

You cross your arms, unable to meet his eyes, as you choose to stare at your bibliography instead, “You’re not completely tedious, more like irritating,” and he huffs a chuckle. 

You had to admit, begrudgingly, Professor Geto was a…good teacher. And you had your fair share of awful teachers — many of them were brilliant, accomplished people in their fields, but didn’t know how to translate and convey that in their lectures to students who simply knew less than them. But Geto…he knew how to break down complex concepts and theories of moral philosophy and ethics to a science, he knows how to make students understand these complicated topics that you had seen other professors fail to, and he does it while being an intellectual dreamboat to most of his students — the ones that swarm his desk after class, still there even as you slowly make your way out of the lecture hall. 

“A rare compliment from you,” he raises an eyebrow, “I’m touched,” 

“You’re one to talk,” you furrow your brow, and a smile pulls at his lips. 

“Didn’t know you wanted my approval,” he tilts his head, leaning forward to lean on his elbow on the desk, “well, you have improved remarkably in the class so far, and if you keep going like this, I may have no choice but to praise you,” 

“You will,”

“Someone is very sure of themselves,” a pause and then he adds with a quirk of his lips, “as you should be,” and he’s sliding your bibliography across the table again, and passes it back, “read the sources I recommended, and see about adding them to your paper — you may have some overlap in the other papers you chose so use your discretion on which ones you use,” 

“So don’t repeat myself?” You raise an eyebrow, and he leans back in his chair, crossing his legs. 

“You learn fast.” 

And you do — returning to your apartment to work on your paper, as you flip through his notes — as much as you hate to admit it, his notes and criticism did help — annoyingly so. He was far more detailed and perceptive than any other professor you had. Most had let you skate by without a second thought, and you wrote papers like you deleted your internet history after a scandalous romp through elicit websites — tools, clear history — and then onto the next paper or exam. But Professor Geto forced you to face your shortcomings, face the things that you didn’t like to give a second glance to, lest your rejection sensitive self feel the agony of having to deal with criticism. 

Each time you did it, you got a little better, and he had a little less to say — time and time again. 

You leaned back on your bed, scrolling through the papers he recommended, but so what? So what if he was a good teacher? Doesn’t mean he has to be as infuriating as he is — he knew exactly what to do to get under your skin, and he didn’t prod at it, he scratched it. 

And you found yourself typing his name (“suguru geto”) and T.M. Scanlon’s name into the search bar of your university’s library collection, and his paper pops up right on top. 

You stare at the paper for a good minute, before you click on it — and you start reading. And reading. And reading — and fuck— 

It was good. It was more than that — it gave you so much insight on this topic, it made you rediscover T.M. Scanlon’s work in a new light — and you bite your lip. And it wasn’t just the research — the way it organized, the way it was presented, the way it was written — it was eloquent, but it wasn’t unreadable or incomprehensible. It was…really good. 

You imagined him, pouring over Scanlon’s work as he wrote notes in the margins of his copy, pages dogeared and passages highlighted, as he sat in his office typing away at this paper. His sleeves rolled up, his hair let out of his usual bun, his glasses perched on his nose as he read, only his desk lamp and computer illuminating his office. The keys of his computer clacking under his touch, lengthy fingers pitter pattering as he wrote his thoughts and analysis of Scanlon’s work — his brow furrowed in thought. 

And you felt yourself flush, swallowing the lump in your throat, as you kicked off your blanket — it was so warm all of a sudden, pressing your thighs together. You shook the thoughts from your mind — what the hell were you doing? You glanced at the time, 2:39 AM it read back at you mockingly. You sigh, shutting your laptop down, and putting it aside — you need to do your skincare and brush your teeth. You glance back at your laptop—the familiar of your flush clung to your skin like a forbidden kiss— 

And you clearly needed sleep. 

“Can you read this passage to me?” Professor Geto’s voice said, as he stood in front of you in the lecture hall — as you stood behind the podium that faced the entire class — hands in his pockets, in an olive henley, his hair tied in the usual neat bun, his black bangs falling in his eyes as always, glasses on, instead of the usual contacts. The class sat all around you — his exercise in getting the class to participate and get comfortable speaking in front of others, just as philosophers had done in the past (his very own “literary salon” he called it). 

You swallow, keeping your eyes fixed on the book in front of you, “‘When I ask myself what reason the fact that an action would be wrong provides me with not to do it, my answer is that such an action would be one that I could not justify to others on ground I could expect them to accept—’” 

“What do you think Scanlon meant by this?” he asks you, but his gaze was different this time, it held the amusement it always did when it came to you, but it was warm — no — it was burning. His lips were pursed, as he crossed his arms, the henley’s fabric seemingly straining under the action. 

“He meant that an action that is wrong in his eyes when he couldn’t expect others to accept the ground on which he could justify it,” and his lips curve into that damned smile, as he takes a few steps closer, rounding the podium, as he brushes past you, the brief touch of temptation incarnate — the dangling apple of Tantalus personified before you. 

“And can you give me some examples of what kinds of actions would be wrong?” and he’s standing behind you now, and you can’t bring yourself to look at him — but you can feel his gaze on you. 

“Senseless murder,” and he hums in approval, his breath felt like it was warming your skin, “wanton violence, reckless assault—” 

“What other everyday wrongdoings could fall under this category?” and suddenly the class before you is gone, and it’s just the two of you in an empty lecture hall, “theft, lying, student-teacher relationships?” 

And your breath catches in your throat, his cologne strangling any sense left in your mind, as his body heat nearly radiates off him, “Professor Geto—” 

“Suguru,” he corrects you, and he’s reaching for you, but he pauses, “can I—” and you only can nod, and his fingers brush your hair aside, ever so gently, “would this be considered a moral wrongness, sweetheart?” his lips press a chaste kiss to your shoulder, and you shiver at the softness of his touch. 

“Well, I am a student in your class, and even though I’m of age, it presents a power dynamic and a favoritism that might be—” and your sentence cuts off as his arms wind their way around your waist, pressing himself to your back, “I—” 

“Go on,” he’s murmuring his words against the nape of your neck now, as he pulls his glasses off to place them on the podium, “might be what?” 

“Might be viewed as morally wrong—” and he’s chuckling, the vibration sending a delicious shiver down your spine, as he presses more butterfly kisses to your neck. 

“How can something be wrong when it feels so right?” he asks, and his hand is sliding down your side, “feels so good, does it even matter what society views as right or wrong? Do their rules pertain to what we’re doing here?” and his fingers toy with the hem of your pants, teasing and pulling, as he pauses, waiting for your answer, “what do you think—” 

“Please,” you swallow, as you turn to look at him, seeing his lips in that same smile that haunted you, “touch me,” 

And his smile only grows wider, “Good girl.” 

BUZZ. BUZZ. BUZZ. 

Your eyes flutter open, your breath caught in your throat, as you stare at your ceiling, your hand reaching for your phone to silence the alarm. And you squeeze your thighs together, a distinct ache between your legs, your skin all too warm. 

What the fuck was that? 

You skip office hours the next week. You couldn’t bear it — you could barely tolerate going to class now, as the dream invades your nights, with filthy variations that leave you perturbed and horny (mostly horny). The common theme only being that each time you get close to anything remotely that’s anything (a kiss, a touch that’s more than a caress, anything at all), you wake up. 

It’s as if your dreams are edging you — you groan into your pillow — and it was working. 

You’re so wound up, you’ve even resorted to using your vibrator before bed, wondering if that would make a difference — it did, but only with you having a dream of Professor Geto using a vibrator on you during class — the vibrations growing even faster when you were speaking as he watched you— 

You needed to stop thinking about this. But how can you? 

God, it’s even worse when you’re in class. You sit in your usual seat, front and center — and why does it feel like his eyes are on you far too often? Even as he lectures Professor Geto attempts to catch your eye during his lecture, trying to make a point, you all but glue your gaze down to the textbook and your laptop, typing away his words, trying to drown out the whispered words and groans from your dream that ring in your ears. You can’t stop seeing him — unless you want to skip class, which you really couldn’t when attendance and participation counted for a good chunk of your grade. 

Class ended and you were packing up your things. You had to weather the storm — avoid being alone with him until the dreams were just a distant memory— 

And then you heard him say your name— 

Your eyes flick up to meet Professor Geto — who had his usual swarm of students waiting by his desk, but he parted the crowd, he approached your own seat, hands in your pockets, “Do you have a class after this?” 

“No, I don’t—” the words slip out before your sleep deprived mind can put the pieces together. 

“Then can you please stay after class? I’d like to talk to you,” he says, and before you can say anything, he turns to speak to the students waiting for him. 

And now you wait — your anxious energy singing at the frayed ends of your nerves, as you tried to hold yourself together — wondering what he could possibly want to speak to you about. His students dissipated one by one, until it was just you and him left in the lecture hall. 

Just. Like. Your. Fucking. Dream. 

You round the row you sat in, before walking down to speak to him, “Is there something wrong? The next paper isn’t due until the end of next week—” 

“It isn’t about the paper,” and your heart squeezes, as you try to keep your breathing even, as he steps closer — and why, why did he have to opt to only wear a button up today —  and a deep royal purple one no less,  “I wanted to check in with you,” and he begins to undo the cuffs of his shirt, rolling them up — exposing his forearms and the pretty veins that ran along them — the same arms that he had used in one of your dreams to bend you over that desk, the whispers of heated kisses along your neck—

You needed to get out of here. 

You blink, “I’m fine,” and he tilts his head. 

“I only ask because you’ve looked tired the last two classes, and you didn’t show up for office hours this week,” he crosses his arms, unhelpfully, as he purses his lips, the lines of his brow furrowed. 

“I’m fine, Professor, I appreciate your concern — I just haven’t been sleeping well,” you admit — it was the truth, “and that’s why I didn’t come to office hours. I was trying to catch up on sleep,” 

He nods, sighing, fingers raking through his hair — those same fingers that would feel so pretty around your neck— “I know I’m hard on you,” oh he would be, “but it’s because I know you’re capable of more — most of these students are taking the class for an elective, but I know it’s more than that for you,” yes, it’s so you can finally earn his praise, “but I’m also here for your benefit, so if you need an extension or anything else, please let me know,” 

God, all you wanted was for him to maybe wrap you in his arms and kiss you, or bend you over, pull your clothes off and fuck you, or just to leave you alone all together. 

You weren’t sure which one you wanted the most at this moment. 

“I will, Professor Geto, I appreciate it,” you murmur, biting your lip, as you try to focus on the task at hand — getting out of here, “I don’t think I need an extension, I’ve made good progress so far. I just need to finish it, so I can revise,”

“Well, let me know if anything changes,” his lips curl, “ok?” And you nod, and if you weren’t so hyperaware, you swore you would have imagined it — but you didn’t, “good girl,” 

And you pause a moment — his lips did move, you pinch yourself discreetly — and you know it isn’t a fucking dream. You only smile in return, giving a curt nod and goodbye, before beelining out of the classroom. 

But you didn’t stick around long enough to see the slight flush on Professor Geto’s cheeks — nor did you know that you two were thinking the same thing about yourselves— 

What the fuck were you doing? 

But to your relief, the dreams do subside, and you’re finally able to rest — but the thing that doesn’t subside is your awareness of your professor. 

You sit in class, watching him teach — and you knew he was attractive, hell, it was one of the things that made you all the more embarrassed to have him ream you out — having your super hot professor rail at you for your mistakes wasn’t on your list of shining achievements (lest it was him actually railing you—). 

You needed to stop doing that. 

But it felt as if you weren’t the only one who was hyper aware. You felt as if his eyes skimmed over you during class this week, his replies to your weekly discussion board were less biting than usual, and his office hours were surprisingly canceled this week. First time all semester, but you weren’t so full of yourself that you thought it had anything to do with you — right? 

Either way, you had submitted your paper and now you were done with this week—and as class finishes, you slowly pack up, looking forward to the week being over with and for a personal rendezvous with your bed. But as the usual gaggle of students make their way to chat with Professor Geto, your eyes flicker up to meet his, as he stares back a moment. 

And you can’t make yourself look away, and for a moment, neither can he. 

But then a student calls for his attention, so his eyes flicker away, a smile on his lips as he spoke — and you turn to leave, grabbing your bag, as you look back— 

But why did his smile look so strained? 

There must be something wrong with him. 

Professor Suguru Geto drummed his fingers against his desk, but he felt more like shoving his things off his desk — if only to distract him for a moment. He pulls his glasses off, and runs a hand down his face—god, he hadn’t been sleeping well. No, his nights were plagued, plagued by you — you had slipped into his dreams ever since that day he stopped you. 

Why had he stopped you? 

It wasn’t the first time he had personally stopped a student who seemed to be struggling, he could count the times he had on both his hands. 

But this, this felt different. 

You were different. 

But why were you different to him? He rubs his temples, from the moment you had stepped into his office he thought he had read you — an overachieving student used to getting their way, As handed out to them, and an inability to take criticism. 

He knew, because he used to be one of them. But he knew you needed to be challenged to grow — but it was a matter if you would accept it. And from the moment you asked him when the next paper was due, he couldn’t help but smile. 

And his time spent in office hours with you grew more enjoyable each time you came. And when you hadn’t last week, he couldn’t sit still, checking the time, checking his email, and even checking if his office hours had been accidentally listed wrong in his weekly email to the class (they weren’t). And the hour and half passed with many students hungry for his time and his charm  — but not the  one he was looking for. 

Then those words had slipped from his tongue when he had stopped you, left his mouth like he was possessed, and now he had found himself here. Found himself thinking about how your lips parted when he said it, thinking about how you were feeling, thinking about you, you, you— 

There’s a knock at the door, “Professor Geto?” 

And it was you. 

“I apologize, I know you canceled office hours, but I just had a few questions I didn’t get to ask you in class,” your fingers toy with the ring you wore, a folder in hand, a soft smile on your lips. 

“Of course, come in,” and you did, your dress was painfully short, the fabric riding up as you sat, the folder in your lap, “is this about your paper?” 

“It is, I was reading a few papers, and after our conversation, I couldn’t help but find your paper,” and he tilts his head, “and I want to include it as a source in my paper, but I had a few points you made that I wanted clarified,” 

He raises an eyebrow, and he can’t help but tease,  “Clarified or criticized? Are you planning on turning the tables on me?” 

“Well I do have a red pen,” you click your pen, lips curved in a smile, and there’s a hint of heat that he wishes to unearth, pluck from the earth and possess himself, “but I promise I’ll be civil,”

 “I have no doubt,” he had a million when it came to you — but that wasn’t one of them. He runs his fingers through his hair, a few strands coming loose, “of course, let’s discuss it,” 

“You discuss Scanlon’s idea of a social contract, everyone within this moral society agrees on what’s right and what’s wrong — the basic principle is that if there is a rule no one can reasonably reject as a basis, but is there such a rule that can exist?” 

He tilts his head, “Scanlon’s theory relies on this premise — are you questioning me or the premise?” 

“Both, actually,” you shrug, crossing your legs, “is there a magic switch that changes every person to be rational? Because I think only rational people can agree on what rules cannot be reasonably rejected — what about people who are cruel, inconsiderate, self-absorbed? Do those traits go away when operating under Scanlon’s social contract? You propose in your paper that moral reasons are not subjective — nothing is uncolored by human opinion,” 

“No, but—” 

“How can we agree on what is truly right or wrong? How can one hundred people agree on that when everyone views these actions in different ways? Right and wrong? Black, white, or gray?” you rise from your chair to hand him his paper printed out, the paper more red than white with the amount of writing you’ve done, “like for example,” you lean forward, your hand braced against the edge of his desk, “can one hundred people agree that student-teacher relationships are wrong? Because one veto,” your hand trails ever closer to his, toeing that dangerous line either of you had even yet to approach to cross. But here you were, seemingly barreling toward it. 

And he didn’t want to pull away. 

He swallows, whispering your name, “This can’t—” and you were so close — too close, your perfume hypnotized him, your fingers brush against his and he can’t help but hold them, his thumb rubbing across your knuckles, “they can agree that it’s wrong — the power imbalance from the authority of the professor and the age difference—” 

“I disagree, so the rule isn’t legitimate, right? Even if one disagrees, the rule cannot be make valid,” and his breath catches as your fingers slide up his arm now, resting on his shoulder, as you lean over his chair now, as your other hand toys with the loose strands of his hair, “if the two of us can’t even agree, then how could a hundred, or a thousand, or a million?” 

“But—” 

“But what?” you pout, your fingers dragging down his chest, toying with the top button of his button down, “I don’t see you pulling away, do you want me to stop, Professor? Because I will,” 

And he swallows thickly, but he can’t stop you — he doesn’t want to, “But, we shouldn’t — it isn’t a reasonable objection—” he tries his hardest to stand firm, but he only crumbles when your fingers brush his cheek, tracing the cut of his jaw. And it feels like flames tickling at his skin, begging him to thrust his hand into the fire. 

“Like I said, people are not reasonable,” your lips draw closer, and he can feel your breath warm his own, and god, why are you so tempting? And your lips stop short, barely an inch between your faces, “and besides, would you rather be reasonable or satisfied?” 

And there’s only one answer — you. 

He leans forward, lips nearly brushing yours— 

RING. RING. RING.

He jerks awake from his desk, papers sliding as he does, his breath caught in his throat, and his eyes wander — and finds no one else there. 

A dream. He runs his fingers through his hair again, crumpling the paper he had oh so lovingly drooled during his nap. He needed to get his shit together. 

But his current predicament wasn’t making that easy — his cock strained against the fabric of his pants — was he a grown adult or a horny teenager? 

Fuck. It wasn’t going away — no matter what he thought, his mind kept circling back to you. 

And his eyes slide to the time: 1:40 AM. 

Far past the time any soul would be here, even cleaning staff would have been long gone. It was just him—

And you. 

“So good for me, baby,” he’s panting, palming his erection, an embarrassing amount of precum drips from his cock for a barely wet dream. He ignores the gnawing guilt in the back of his mind — but he can’t help but imagine the image of you, spread out on his desk, hiking that oh so teasing sundress up, only to find your underwear drenched — just for him. 

His fingers would slide up your plush thighs, squeezing to draw a gasp from your pretty lips, “Professor—“ you’d say, unable to form a sentence, all those brilliant falling away under his touch, until it was just him occupying every crevice of your mind. 

“Where’s that mouth now? So needy f’me,” he’d murmur, “but such a good girl,” and you were, his thumb tracing his slit, smearing his pre-cum, as he imagined you spread on his desk, your puffy folds nearly showing through your far too translucent panties, “my best student’s so pliant for me now,”

And his hand moves faster, and he can imagine your fingers reaching for him too, your smaller fingers wouldn’t be able to even touch as much as he can — but god it would feel so much better. 

But he’d want you to feel even better than he did.  

He’d tug your underwear down, stuffing it in his pocket (his fee for all of additional office hours), and he would prep you right — fuck you open with his fingers, two or three, before he tasted you. Your fingers would dig into his scalp as you moaned his name again and again, before you came all over his face. 

He’d lick his lips clean of your release, before dragging his cock down your sweet cunt, watching his precum mix with your cum, as your walls flutter around nothing, craving to have him sink into you. 

“Professor, please,” you’d beg with pretty, kiss bitten lips between pants, “please,” 

“Where’s all those quips now, sweetheart?” he’d tease, as he would let his tip tease your clit, pulling a moan from your lips, “all those words fall away when you want this cock, don’t they? Been thinking about you like this, wondering what you’d look like spread out under me,” and he would lean down to kiss you, “it’s even better than I expected,”

He’s jerking himself off in earnest now, the lewd noises of his hand around his cock filling most of the silence, his low groans filling the rest. And he’d finally sink into you, inch by inch, until he’d kiss your cervix with his weeping tip. 

And, god, he wishes his fingers fisted around his cock would be as good as your cunt would feel around him. He would fuck you slow at first, “I know those boys can’t fuck you as good as I can, as well as I can,” he’d tell you, as he would pick up the pace when you’d tell him to, making you cum again and again with his cock, thumb rubbing at your clit, until he was finally close. He’d either cum all over your stomach, marking you with his release, or if you’d let him, he’d cum inside you, filling you with his seed—and then he’d watch it drip out when he would pull out. He groans your name lowly, shuddering as he comes all over his hand, hard. 

Fuck. 

That’s the hardest he’d cum in a long time. He’s a mess — panting and flushed, as he leans back, head against the back of his  chair, too spent to even clean up. And then he finally does, cleaning himself up well, and collecting his things to leave the office. 

But he only treated the symptoms, not the problem itself. His hard-on is gone, but his mind is still filled with thoughts of you. How he’d kiss you sweetly after, how he’d clean you up, care for you gently, make you rest because you never seem to do enough of that, and he’d let you relax — finally relax, as you slept the night in his arms. 

As he heads to his car, he knows that he’s utterly fucked (without even being fucked) because he has feelings for you. And he didn’t know if they were going to go away as easily as he hoped. 

But he hoped they would. He owed it to you, your education, and your future career not to act on these feelings. 

And he sighs as he sits in his car, starting it, but why did it hurt not to? 

It was that time again. 

Your next paper had come around again, and you needed to prepare a topic before you went to speak to Professor Geto. You had put it off, something you had never done with his class, but you wanted to limit the amount of time you spent with him, if only for the sake of your heart. 

Watching him in lectures was bad enough, your thighs pressing together as you watched him speak, his impeccable looks and intelligence a deadly combination for your heart (and your body). You could barely focus, your eyes too fixed on the way he wrote on the board —  his fingers too lithe and too thick, his voice all too alluring when discussing Kant and Aristotle and you can’t help but think what he’d sound moaning your name. 

God. Fuck.  

Either way, you needed to listen to the lectures again since you weren’t able to pay attention. Maybe without watching the video would be better, you settle on your bed, notebook and pen in hand, as you place your headphones on. His voice filled your ears, and you’re scrawling notes. 

But your mind begins to wander. He’s lecturing on the deontological ethics, and all you can think about is how he could make you cum with just that voice of his.  

Shit, you shifted your thighs again, feeling that familiar ache again. What would he sound like when he moaned? How would it sound to have him touch you, run those long fingers down your thighs, and whisper filthy things in your ear? 

As you listened to the lecture, his voice became white noise as your fingers slipped past the waistband of your shorts, and you shut your eyes. 

“That’s it, sweetheart, spread your legs for me,” he’d murmur in your ear, his chest pressed to your back and he’s urge your thighs wider, and his fingers would press against the wet patch on your panties, and he’d hum, “so wet f’me and I haven’t touched you yet, Princess,” his lips would kiss your pulse, “you like my voice that much?” 

“Professor,” you gasp, as his fingers would tease you through your underwear, the fabric growing more soaked by the second, “please—“ and his thumb would ghost around your clit, teasing you, as his long fingers would piston in and out — they would reach so much fucking deeper “I need to—“ 

“Already begging? I knew you learned fast, but not this fast,” and his fingers would tug the crotch of your panties aside, his fingertips tracing around your outer lips, before a finger pushes past your sweet cunt, “fuck, my favorite student’s pussy is so fucking tight. These boys are not fucking you right,” and you whimper, his finger would be so much thicker than yours, as you glide another finger inside you, the two dragging against your walls, “listen to your pretty cunt,” he’d grin against your skin, “and the wet squelch of your pussy, “so pliant for me, takes my fingers so well,” he’d murmur with a chuckle, “practically swallowing me up,” 

And you’re bucking your hips against him, wanting, needing him deeper, because your fingers don’t reach as far as his does, moans leaving your lips. 

“I’m so—” you’re moving faster and faster, his lecture still filling your ears, your pre-cum soaking your shorts and onto the bed sheets, “I can’t—” 

“Come on, Princess, use those big words of yours, you have no problem usually,” his hot words would whisper in your ear, and you’d hear him rub his erection against your ass, trying to get himself off, and you’d grind against him, wanting any friction, “tell me,” 

“Let me cum, please,” and he would smile, running his fingers through your hair, before he bore his thumb down on your clit and sunk a third finger into your needy cunt, just as you did now. And it’s too much for you, your toes curl, your messy walls fluttering around your fingers, as you cum all over your shorts and sheets with a groan of his name. Your fingers were soaked, as you pant, trying to gather yourself, as you came down from your high. 

“Fuck,” you murmur, tugging off your headphones, so your cunt doesn’t have to twitch listening to his dulcet words again. And you’re pulling your fingers out, your cum dripped down your fingers, as you shifted, far too wet underneath you, as you tried to slip off your bed to take a shower and clean yourself up. 

And then you realized, you didn’t even hear any of the lecture. 

Double fuck. 

Why was this so difficult? 

You stood near his office, trying to work up the urge to approach his door for office hours? Since it’s almost the end of the semester, there had been an influx of students attending office hours, and with everything, you had found excuses in your head to avoid office hours. But you couldn’t avoid him anymore. 

For your final paper in the class, you had to have a meeting with him during office hours to discuss your topic, complete with bibliography and outline. And it was almost time for your meeting. 

But you didn’t know how to go in. 

The last few weeks in class have made things worse. You couldn’t help but watch the other students fawn over Professor Geto, his lips curled as he spoke to them. And you’d leave class without a word. You had to stick through the semester and your feelings would disappear with time. You wouldn’t have to see him, you wouldn’t have class anymore, and you couldn’t talk to him. 

Or wouldn’t. 

But now you had to. And you didn’t know how— otherwise than just to do it. 

You knock at his door, “Come in,” and you open the door to see an empty desk, blinking, “I’m over here,”

And your head snaps to your right, and Professor Geto is sitting on his couch, his legs crossed with a stack of papers in hand. His jacket is slung over the side of the couch, his deep maroon button up sleeves rolled up, glasses perched on the tip of his nose. 

“I thought you lived at your desk,” you raise an eyebrow, “decided to change it up for the end of the semester?” 

“Everyone needs a change of scenery,” he leans forward, placing the stack of papers on the table in front of him, “do you want to sit here or move to the desk?” 

You shift in place, before moving to the couch beside him, “This is fine,” he stares, “what?” 

“Just surprised, you always have something to say,” he leans on his elbow, “no smart remarks today?” 

“Fresh out, can I offer you my proposal for the final paper instead?” You say dryly, and he cracks a smile, holding out your proposal. He clicks his red pen, readying his sword. 

He takes it, his dark eyes darting back and forth as he reads, his brow furrowed in concentration — and you can’t help but want to reach out and smooth his brow for him, tease him that he’ll get wrinkles. But you can’t. Can’t because that would cross a line that neither of you should cross. 

“You’ve come a long way,” he says, as he flips it back the front, writing only a few notes here and there. 

“But?” You wait for it. 

His gaze flickers up, a tilt of his head, “That was the end of my sentence,” 

You pause a moment, “Really?” 

“Really,” he scribbles a few more notes, “I look forward to reading the paper, it will be excellent I’m sure, maybe you’ll even get higher than a B+,” 

“Oh, ha, ha,” sarcasm dripping from your tongue, but you can’t help but smile, “you’ll miss me and my endless need for academic validation,” but was it really academic validation you were after now — your eyes gazed at him sitting with the tip of his pen pressed to his lips — or was it his? 

And it’s his turn to pause, and his lips curl into a soft smile, “I will,” 

Your breath catches, “Really?” 

He chuckles, “Really,” he licks his lips, his eyes glancing downward at your proposal than at your face, “I’ve enjoyed our chats this semester,” 

“Have you? Even when I argued with you,” a half nervous half serious laugh dies on your lips when his gaze meets yours, far too serious for your heart to take. 

“Especially then,” his fingers run through his hair a moment, before he speaks again, “I can’t say you could say the same,” 

“And why couldn’t you?” his eyes flicker with an emotion you can’t grasp fast enough, before it slips away into the depths of his dark irises. 

“Because you stopped coming,” his voice is soft, his tone barely even, and this gives you a real pause, heat flushing your body, as if his words had set every nerve ending alight, your mouth growing dry along with it, and it gives him a reprieve he needs to brush it aside, “you don’t have to, of course, these office hours are not relevant to your—” 

“I didn’t stop coming because I didn’t enjoy it,” you cut him off, swallowing the lump in your throat, “I stopped coming because I did,” 

He stares, “What do you—” 

“I don’t want academic validation anymore, I don’t care about my GPA,” you consider it a moment, “ok I do,” and he snorts, “but I care more about validation from you,” 

“From me?” he says, and his gaze tries to meet yours and it can’t — but his fingers brush against your skin, making your breath catch, your eyes finding his, “and what kind of validation do you want?” 

And you can’t find the words, and you hesitation makes him shake his head, “I apologize, I shouldn’t have—” 

“Will you have a drink with me?” and he’s speechless for once, “after the semester is over, of course — I know it wouldn’t be ethical before,” 

And his eyes find yours again, “Some would say it would be unethical after too,” 

“I would say it depends,” 

“On what basis?” and you can’t help but smirk. 

“Am I being graded, Professor?” and you delight in a small crack in his smiling veneer as a light flush dusts the tops of his ears, “and if I’m good, will you call me a good girl again?” 

He swallows, “I don’t want to cost you your education or your—” 

“I understand the risks, but we aren’t contemplating shifting a trolley to hit one person or five, or murdering one healthy person to save five sick ones,” and he raises an eyebrow, “it’s a drink to celebrate the end of the semester,” 

“And if it's something more?” he nearly whispers, the softness of his voice reflected in his features, as his fingers that rested on the couch twitched beside yours. 

“Then we’ll cross that bridge then,” and then you add with a small smile, “Or hit the metaphorical person with the trolley,” and it pulls at the corners of his lips. 

“You make a fair point,” and you gasp in mock surprise.

“The first time all semester you agree with me,” and he chuckles, a noise you wished you could hear him make innumerable times more. 

“Not the first,” he replies, before leaning forward, pressing your outline back into your hands, his fingers brushing yours, “we both agree you’re a good girl, don’t we?” 

And your breath catches, his words warm your skin, turning your blood to lava, “Professor,” and he smiles again. 

“When we go for drinks, call me Suguru.” 

~~~~ 

The semester wears on and finally draws to an end, but finals induced hibernation begins for you. A mix of papers and exams, you finish everything — including your paper for Professor Geto’s class. As always, he has you submit a paper and electronic copy, the paper copy to be dropped off at his office mailbox. And you do just that, the mailboxes being only around the corner from his office, and your heart squeezes at the thought of him. After this, the class was over, it was done. You weren’t his student anymore. 

And you place the paper into the mailbox and sigh, chewing your lip as you pass by his office, but find the door closed (and locked, as you quickly turned the doorknob to test it). Where was he? This was the time he was usually in his office, but maybe he had left campus for the semester — had he forgotten about your drinks? 

Fuck. You hadn’t even discussed a time or place, you had left it vague — “after finals.” Your cheeks burned at the memory, you were far too flustered to elaborate. And you had spent far too many nights imagining him calling you a ‘good girl’ in many other situations. 

And then you heard a call of your name, your gaze snapping up, your heart leaping, but only to see the department head. 

“Hi Professor, how are you?” and the two of you make polite chit-chat, until he asks you. 

“Have you applied to be a T.A. for the department?” and you blink, “applications just opened and I think from what I’ve heard about you around the department, I think you would be an excellent candidate.” 

“I’d love to be — how does the application process work?” and he explains that it’s a double blind process where applications are viewed without personal information of the candidates, and then matched with a professor based only on resume and writing samples. 

You can barely listen to the department head, still far too distracted with thoughts of Professor Geto — so you agree to apply, if only to placate the department head, and make an excuse to leave. 

It had been a week or so, as you lay in bed in your apartment, staring at your ceiling — you hadn’t even bothered to get Professor Geto’s personal number. You couldn’t even reach out to him if you tried, as the only way you could was through his university email, which was out of the question — the university had rules against a professor and student dating, and if anyone found that email — you sighed — it wouldn’t be good. 

Maybe it was for the best. 

The only communication you had gotten from him was an email from Professor Geto’s mailing list to the class from a few days ago, stating that he was out of state in a conference, and he would return soon, but your grades would be emailed to you. But the paper copies would be available to pick up in his office from 3:00 PM to 6:00 PM on Tuesday. It was almost time to pick up your paper, and your nerves bit at you as you thought about the possibility of seeing him. Who knows if he would even be there to begin with. 

Would it be anything? Would it be nothing? Was there not any point to this at all? 

Oh, great, you were becoming existential. 

You sat up, the only thing you could do was go. So you do, taking your time to get dressed. If you were going to see him, you might as well look your best. 

Fuck. You couldn’t go in. It had taken you longer to get back to campus than you thought, and now there were only a few minutes of his office hours left.

And you’re about to knock when the door opens, and you find yourself face to face with the man who has consumed every thought of yours for the last few months — good and bad alike. 

“Late again?” and you can’t help but smile. 

“I prefer fashionably late,” and his eyes rake over your outfit, making your cheeks burn. 

“You certainly are,” and he steps aside to allow you into his office, and you glance between the couch and the desk, but he makes the choice and sits at his desk, “I have your paper right here,” and he’s rifling through his file of papers, “how did your finals go?” 

“If I have an A on this paper, perfectly,” and a smile tugs at his lips, and you raise an eyebrow, “what? Something funny?” 

“Not at all,” and he pulls your paper out, ha “I just recall you saying you wanted something more than, what was it? ‘My academic validation?’” 

And your cheeks flush, “I did, but I also didn’t hear from you,” and your fingers reach for the paper, and he holds onto it, “Professor,” 

“I couldn’t reach out to you because I was still your professor, but once you get this grade, I’m not anymore,” and his gaze is sharper without his glasses today, his dark blue Henley doing nothing to help the flush on your cheeks — memories of your dreams flooding your mind, “and once you get this grade back, I’m not anymore,” 

“And what does that mean?” you can’t pull your eyes away from his, but his fingers let go of your graded paper, “how about you look at the last page of your paper and see?” 

You pull the paper into your hands, flipping to the last page: 

99 — I was impressed by this paper not only by the content but by its comprehension and use of both ethics and philosophy. But I was also impressed by the person who wrote the paper. You’ve shown determination and growth throughout the semester — and you have reminded me what we owe to each other. And I think we owe each other a drink, and a chance for this. 

You feel his eyes watch you as you read, your eyes finally meeting his — his brow knit together, his lips pursed, concentrated gaze trying to decipher your reaction. 

“Why a 99?” And his eyebrows raise, as if to ask, “that’s your question?” 

“You had some spelling and grammar errors,” 

“Really? You couldn’t let it slide?” And he tilts his head, before he sees your lips curling into a grin. 

“So you think it’s funny to mess with your professor?” And his voice drops, a playful tone that makes you nearly shiver, as he leans forward, resting his chin against his elbow. 

“You’re not my professor anymore, are you, Suguru?” he likes that by the way his teeth bite his bottom lip briefly, his eyes flitting to your lips for a moment and back to your eyes, “so I guess we’re using that trolley after all,” 

“If you want to,” he says softly, “I wouldn’t blame you if you change your mind, it’s a risk,” 

It was. It was a risk to your reputations, your careers, your futures — especially to yours. But, your eyes met his again. 

“Contractualism is about avoiding risk,” and he nods, as his gaze falls away, “but some risk is necessary in life, and I think this is one that’s worth taking,” 

“We will have to be careful,” he murmurs, but already his fingers are twitching, far too eager to touch you, “we can’t make any mistakes. I don’t want to hurt you,” he adds softly. 

“I know, I don’t want to hurt you either,” and you rise before slowly rounding his desk, “but I want to know what it’s like,” 

And he can’t stop himself — he gets to his feet, his fingers finding your cheeks and he kisses you. You can taste the black coffee on his lips, his kiss is gentle at first, so chaste and fleeting that you’d swear he didn’t kiss you at all — and so it’s not a second before your lips find his again, in a deeper kiss that steals every ounce of breath from your lungs, and leaves only heat behind. This was dangerous. The very risk you were both trying to avoid, but as he’s pressing you into the edge of his desk, you can’t find the logic you misplaced when those goddamn fingers you’ve been dreaming about squeeze your hips. 

“Fuck,” he’s panting — god that word sounded more sinful on his lips than it should — as he presses sweet kisses to your neck, “we shouldn’t be doing this here,” 

“Not very ethical,” you chuckle breathlessly, as your fingers rake through his now disheveled bun, “but I can’t find the sense to care,” your noses brush, as you can’t help but smile, “what would Scanlon or Kant say about this?” 

And his arms lift you onto his desk, several papers crumpling underneath, “Who the fuck cares?” he’s hissing, his lips find yours in a searing kiss, as his thighs press yours apart, as he settles himself between your legs, his knee grazing your core, drawing a delightful gasp from your lips, “I know what I want,” and his eyes soften, his fingers tracing the length of your cheek, “do you?” 

Before you can answer, two pings catch your attention — your phone and his computer lighting up with a notification, and you both pause a moment, as your eyes glance at the banner notification on your phone, skimming over the words. The T.A. positions have been assigned. 

“Fuck,” you hear him mutter, and you gaze snaps up to his on his computer, the email now opened on his screen, “this can’t be right—” 

“What is it—” and the question dies on your lips as your eyes find where his rested — 

You — you were his T.A. for next semester — for the very class that you met in. 

Fuck, indeed. 

✧ read part 2 now

✧ a/n: lets all remember that student and teacher relationships are bad in real life. it's ok to live vicariously through reader but unfortunately no professor will be as hot as professor geto or gojo T_T. s/o to @/laneymusings and @bucky-of-the-opera for beta reading this for me and being just absolutely wonderful!!

✧ tag list: @sokkasmoon, @unoriginalideas, @waytootiredforthisss, @sinnerstardoll, @secret-pages-of-my-heart, @drthymby, @hanlay, @catsgomurp, @hatsunemitskislobotomy, @esuz, @difficultdomains, @poopyface222, @iwassentfromhell, @diogodxlot, @totallynotcc, @llovekami, @deadmarygolds, @teatreeoilll, @carcarcraziiv2, @forest-hashira, @aliyalala, @esuz, @that-goth-bisexual, @hehehehesthings, @imjustmememe, @j1jay, @iwassentfromhell,

[jurakan]

Fun Facts that could be mine, you say? I'm demanding a refund if it isn't as fun as the advertisement seemed to make it...

No pressure, huh?

Alright, then, go big or go home, I guess. Today You Learned about a architectural conspiracy theory.

Star forts!

Or bastion forts, as Wikipedia calls them.

So if you've looked at fortresses throughout history, you may notice that there came a point in which Europeans started building fortresses like this, instead of like standard castles with rectangular or circular walls. The change was the advent of gunpowder, or rather, the wide usage of gunpowder on the battlefield and in sieges. See, if you're defending a fort, and someone comes with cannons... well, they can blow the wall apart quite easily. You can also try planting explosives at the base of the walls.

Walls like this, which were thicker and lower, allowed you to have less of a target, a more difficult wall to blast through, and gave your defenders a chance to fire down at people who walked up to the wall in a way that you can't do if you don't have a good angle on them.

Or something. I don't know, I'm not a tactician. Anyway there a butt-ton of these around the world. They fell out of favor as gunpowder weapons evolved, so they became obsolete. That's not the wild part. The absolutely wild part is that there are people who have conspiracy theories about these things.

So as pointed out in this article, there's a website called starforts.org, which claims that these fortresses are not, as they appear to be, structures built for gunpowder warfare, but are actually the remains of a long-lost civilization that spanned the globe before recorded history.

I promise that I am not making this up.

The claims are things that are obviously nonsense--that these somehow harness electricity somehow to make them ancient power generators that we've somehow forgotten how to turn on, or that they're used to transport people around the globe. These whackjobs insist that Europeans didn't build these--they found them out there in the wild, or something, and built over them to disguise how old they really are. There's one assertion that they're actually grown like living organisms rather than built like... buildings.

[Ohmygoshweareadoomedspecies]

Obviously, no, this is bunk. No, it's more than bunk, it's remarkably stupid. We have records of these forts being built. You can look up why they were built the way they were! Heck, you can visit them and see their foundations and walls and see that they're clearly not organic, or ancient, or power generators, or whatever!

They look really cool, though.

[ao3commentoftheday]

i'm curious about the reason ao3 users subscribe to works, previously i assumed that it was used just for WIPs but since writing for a new fandom and reading your blog i've realized its far more common to sub to complete works than i thought. though i appreciate the attention on my works, i was initially frustrated seeing subscription stats on works that were complete, esp bc i have seen readers in this specific fandom insist that writers continue works that they stated were completed. i had considered creating a poll bc i would be interested in the statistics of why readers subscribe to works on ao3, is this a fandom specific behavior or remnants of fandom elders continuing old habits? you can totally ignore this if it's redundant, im mostly just rambling and feel like i dont understand ao3 bc i've only been posting for a few years that i haven't experienced much fandom interaction until recently.

AO3 users are no different from users of any other website. We all make use of features in ways that work for us - even if those ways are different from (or counter to) their intended use.

Some users subscribe to completed works and/or oneshots because they hope authors might come back some day and add on. I once left a oneshot for something like 2 years and then came back and turned it into a 10 chapter fic because I had an idea for something longer and the oneshot was the setup I needed. It saved me writing the start.

Some authors will also add a new chapter onto a completed work to let readers know they've posted a new work in the series. Again, the subscription lets readers know a new work is there for them to go and read.

Other reasons they might do this include:

wanting to show the writer more love. They've commented, kudos'd and bookmarked already, so subscription is all they have left to say "I LOVED THIS!"

similar to this, not realizing what the subscription is so they press it because they're pressing all of the buttons to say ❤️

thinking that the subscribe button on and individual fic will act the same as the subscribe button on an author's profile page. i.e., they think if they hit the subscribe button on the work, that'll set up a subscription to the author instead of the story

finding it easier to sort through subscriptions to find their favourite works because their bookmarks are too numerous or disorganized

This is an individual thing and not a fandom thing. There might be a generational difference, but that's mostly just because the nature of online subscriptions and creator subscriptions has changed over time and the way modern social media handles it is different from how the Archive handles subscriptions. Mostly it just comes down to personal preference and quirks of habit.

Readers, feel free to share if you have another reason for subscribing to completed works. Did I miss any?

[qqueenofhades]

Is it normal that I’m legitimately so scared of saying pretty morally tame things like “I don’t want to talk about genocide because it makes me severely uncomfortable” or in general expressing my political opinion.

Like i’m not even kidding when I say that all my drafts are just my possibly offensive (probably not) political takes i’m just so scared of everyone leaving me it’s not even funny.

Anyway i also think that if you talk about Palestine but not Ukraine you are a victim of Russian Propaganda™️

I’m sorry I don’t know why i did this have a nice day ok baiiiiiii

Here's the thing. You and every other average social media user should not have to masquerade as a sudden in-depth expert on every single social, political, humanitarian, etc. crisis that we are dealing with in this wretchedly miserable excuse for a timeline. It should not be a baseline expectation on you that when you log onto your little social media in your little average life, you have to come up with The Correct Opinions on everything and if you don't, you're "perpetrating oppression" by not vigorously spreading misinformation, instead of simply admitting that you don't know what to do, you as an average citizen are not in a position of making this change and therefore don't actually have to spend every waking minute obsessing about it, and that maybe, just maybe, you'd like to spend more time informing yourself until and/or IF you decide you want to talk about it. This is the same as the Instagram Activists (TM) who traumatize themselves to the point of PTSD by constantly consuming torture and/or war porn and/or graphic content about murdered children because they "don't have the right to look away." Actually, you do. You are able to make choices to control your personal social media use and to set boundaries as to what you do and do not want to do and/or see, rather than insisting that the only moral choice is to literally mentally destroy yourself with all the weight of human suffering in the world and then expected to act as a de facto expert on all of it, on pain of being Cancelled. This is a stupid, irrational, unhealthy, and generally idiotic expectation. You should not have to take part in it. Nobody should.

Likewise, I think that this is a large part of why people are so scared to voice any opinion that goes against the Prevailing Groupthink: they are afraid of losing friends, of having nasty bad-faith internet trolls say mean things about them, being accused of being a "bad person," or otherwise being guilt-tripped, shamed, and blamed for not centering their entire existence around something that they cannot actually do anything about. Once again, people think the only way you can be Known to Oppose Something Problematic (tm) is if you post on social media about it all the time. Forget whatever you might be doing offline, in your real life, or otherwise; it "doesn't count" if you don't make a big virtuous display of your Rightthink, or you will be viciously harassed. Now, look, I am old and/or tired enough that I don't give a shit what stupid internet users say about me, but I can tell you that I sure did when I was younger, it was incredibly painful to be on the end of those kinds of attacks, and it's (again!) not something you should just have to expect as a baseline level of gaslighting and harassment. As I have said. This is Tumblr. It is a stupid blue website mostly for fandom and/or three in-jokes. This is not a platform where we are expected To Do Social Justice all the time, nor should it be. As for Elon Musk's Twitter: yeah. No.

Also: yes, if you do spend all your waking moments obsessing over Palestine, but say nothing whatsoever about Ukraine and/or openly support Russia, you are in fact very much a victim of Russian Propaganda and you 100% support genocide when it's done by an "anti-western" state that you support for that reason alone. You only care because you can use the cause to make yourself look morally superior, and it has nothing whatsoever to do with opposing genocide on a basic, universal, or fundamental level. The end.

(I hope you have a nice day too. The anger in this is not directed at you. I support everything you've said here and hope that you're able to set healthy boundaries and protect yourself.)

[haee-elia]

spence-tober: day 21 - woodworker

pairing: woodworker!spencer reid x fem!pregnant!reader

summary: in which your husband has worked on your nursery tirelessly, so you give him a surprise of your own

word count: 1736

warnings: lots of mentions of pregnancy, the body detailing pregnancy, lots and lots of descriptors.

spence-tober masterlist

You had wanted to host a small get together with your friends and work together on decorating and putting some finishing touches on the nursery, but that hadn’t exactly gone to plan.

When you first announced that you and Spencer were pregnant, people offered their congratulations and a few even warned you of a few things you should be prepared for as your trimesters went on. One of those things was nesting, or getting your home ready in preparation for the new baby.

No one, however, warned you that your husband would be the one that was nesting. As soon as your belly ballooned and the nursery plans started, Spencer insisted on doing almost everything for you.

Mug on a top shelf? Spencer would grab it for you.

Cooked pasta needs draining? Spencer would do it for you.

You left your computer charger in the other room? Spencer would get it for you.

At first, it was endearing. You thought it was his way of caring for you since you were carrying the baby for nine months. Then, it started getting slightly annoying. You started pointing it out every now and then, but Spencer’s mother-hen mode wouldn’t turn off and you gave up on it.

Having a woodworking husband with a baby on the way is a nice thought. During your first trimester, you always found your husband hand-carving some wooden toy for your unborn child. 

Then, when the nursery plans were underway, Spencer started designing furniture and figuring out what he could contribute with his skills. 

Shelves, crib, table, dresser, chairs, nightstands, changing table, you name it. Spencer was working on it in his garage workshop.

That is why, while Emily, JJ, and Penelope are sitting awkwardly with nothing to do, you don’t blink an eye at Spencer darting around the nursery with his tool kit. He’s currently working on hanging up his handbuilt wooden shelves that you had planned to do with your friends today. 

JJ was sitting on the couch with Penelope, awkwardly watching Spencer with nothing left to do. She looks to you, unfazed in the handbuilt rocking chair Spencer had also made, “Can I get you some more tea?” She asks you, seeing as your mug is empty and abandoned on the small wooden table (also made by your husband).

Spencer whips his head towards your direction. his eyes locking onto your empty mug, “I got it!” He claims, stepping down from the small stepstool and putting down the hammer.

“Okay…” JJ says as she sits back down on the couch. Funnily enough, the couch was one of the few things not made by Spencer in the nursery. Even the sage green panel wall details were all Spencer.

You fear Spencer would have attempted the couch if you hadn’t caught him looking up springs on the Home Depot website.

Emily leapt up from her place on the floor, going over the instructions for the temporary pack and travel crib you had bought for the baby, much to Spencer’s chagrin.

“I can finish up the shelf.” She offers, already heading over to the array of tools Spencer has laid out on the floor.

Spencer hesitates for a moment, caught between a shelf and a tea mug. You see him pause, his brain strained to make a decision on what to do. 

“I can go get some more tea, don’t worry.” You say to him. You could get yourself more tea, but Spencer hated when seeing you struggle or take a while to do something he could do himself much quicker. He simply didn’t understand why he would sit back and watch you strain or tire yourself when he could just help you. You were carrying his child, afterall. 

“No,” Spencer shakes his head, already taking the mug from the table next to you, “I’ve got it. Don’t worry, I’ll be right back.” He says, quickly leaving the room. Not before pressing a kiss on the top of your head and a caress of your baby bump, that is.

As he leaves the room, Penelope sighs adoringly, “He’s so sweet!”

Emily scoffs but has a smile on his face, “Sweet? If he did that to me, I’d go crazy.”

JJ nods her head, “He is being more attentive than usual.” She comments, “How do you deal with all the attention? Aren’t you going stir crazy?”

“Of course I am. I’m eight months pregnant and can’t see my feet to put on shoes anymore.” You answer honestly, “But it makes Spence feel better about the pregnancy and the baby coming. I think he’s nesting.” You muse outloud.

You brace yourself and rock forward in the chair to get yourself back up on your feet. Penelope and JJ watch to make sure you make it while Emily is working on getting the shelf to be level and straight against the wall before nailing it.

“Alright, let’s get the paint out!” You cheer as you waddle over to the wooden cabinet that Spencer also built for the nursery. 

After Spencer had built it and attached it to the wall, there was no reason for him to open it again until you actually had something to put in there. You told him you wanted to leave it empty for storage, but you actually had taken a trip to Lowes to grab some fun wall paint colors for a small mural. 

You did this while Spencer was at his workshop helping a few of his clients load some furniture away. Ever since you had hit your second trimester, Spencer had been taking more and more time away from actively going to work so this was really the only time you could sneak away to buy paint for this planned surprise. Lowes was your pick because the Home Depot employees knew your husband very very well.

Penelope leapt up to help you, “Yes! I am so excited! I want to paint the stars!”

You had gotten some paint for a small cartoony mural of a cresent moon and stars. 

“Pen, you can’t just call dibs on all the stars.” JJ objects while still on the couch, nursing a glass of white wine. 

“Watch me.” She retorts. You all laugh. Penelope hoists the paint cans on top of the tarp you unrolled to lay on the floor. JJ soon joins the two of you to open cans and brushes.

“Why moon and stars?” Emily asks as she grabs a hammer and nails, preparing to attach the shelf finally.

You smile at the memory of why you chose it, “Spencer mentioned to me when we first found out that we were pregnant that Diana had painted a cresent moon and stars on his wall when he was a baby.” You inform the girls, “I wanted to do the same for our baby. I just thought it would be a nice surprise, especially after he’s done so much for me. I wanna do something special for him too.”

Someone sniffles and you look up from swirling a stirrer in the small colorful paint samples.

“Penelope, are you crying?” You ask with a chuckle.

She sniffs again, “It’s just so romantic and sweet!” She fans her hand at her eyes to wave off tears, “You two are going to be the greatest parents in the world!” 

“Stop, you’re gonna make me cry.” You tell her. It isn’t a lie either, this final trimester has made you super in tune to all emotions. 

JJ gets the paint ready in small cups with brushes, “And we can’t make the pregnant lady cry. Now, let’s start painting before Spence comes back.” She says.

You all do as she says and choose the wall opposite from the window so the natural light can come and illuminate the mural after its been painted. Emily finishes up hanging up the shelf and you don’t tell her that as soon as all the girls leave, Spencer would double check her work. It was inevitable.

Penelope is already finished with three stars and JJ is nearly done with the outline of the crescent moon when Spencer joins you four once again, now with a steaming cup of tea in his hand.

His eyes are trained on the cup in his hand and with his free hand, he’s waving the steam away to cool down the hot liquid tea. “Okay, it’s really hot so you might wanna let it cool off for a bit.”

When he gets no response, his eyes flicker up to the four of you working on a pretty night sky on the wall. 

There’s no reaction at first and you get a little worried, so you waddle over to Spencer who’s still hovering at the door. “Spence?” You ask your husband, waiting on any kind of response.

It’s only when you go to take the mug out of his hand that he reacts. 

“Be careful.” He instinctively says, slowly moving the mug away from your hands and carefully putting it down on a coaster on the small table next to the rocking chair.

When he turns back to you, his eyes still stare at the half painted wall mural. Penelope is still working on stars, JJ has moved onto coloring in the moon, and Emily finishes up a cartoony cloud you were working on.

“Y-you did this for me? The moon and the stars?” Spencer asks you softly, adoration twinkling in his eye just like the stars being painted on the wall.

You nod and can’t help as the tears well up in your eyes at his reaction. “I wanted it to be a surprise.” You say.

Spencer comes up behind you with an embrace and rests his hands on your stomach, something he’s gotten into a habit of doing since you started showing.

“Are you surprised?” You ask him. When you turn your head to look up to your husband, his eyes still are on the wall. 

He nods and presses a gentle and sweet kiss to the top of your head. “I am.” He answers, “I could cry.”

You smile up at him and when you hear a sniffle, you half expect it to be your husband with tears coming down his cheekbones. But when he meets you with the same confused expression, searching your own face and coming up with an absence of tears, you know who it belongs to.

“Penelope, are you crying again?”

a/n: i enjoyed writing this one and i see you all are enjoying pregnancy and dad blurbs so i decided to give you all a few more! honestly though, i had no idea how to end this.

[celticcrossanon]

BRF Reading - 21st of March, 2024

This is speculation only

Cards drawn on the 21st of March, 2024

Question: Why is Harry still on the royal website?

Interpretation: Because The King refuses to have him removed.

Card One: The Emperor in reverse

The Emperor represents The King, so this card is talking about King Charles.

In the reverse, the Emperor energy is stubborn, rigid, and domineering. It can also represent a tyrant. I don't think that King Charles is a tyrant, but I do feel that he is being stubborn and insisting that Harry stay on the royal website 'because he is my son'. The energy of this card is very rigid. It is the energy of someone who is insisting on having things his own way no matter what the cost.

The Emperor in reverse is the Emperor person acting out of their shadow side or their worst side. In this case, it is King Charles who is acting out of his worst side. The energy here is of someone who is very spoilt, who is used to getting their own way in everything, and they are tired and cranky and unwilling to consider doing anything that is not exactly what they want. If they were a two year old I would be expecting tantrums and early bedtime, but this is a 75 year old man we are talking about.

This is the first time I have seen a similarity between the King's energy and Harry's energy. The energy this card is giving me is a more refined version of Harry's usual petulant, sulky, spoilt brat energy.

Card Two: The Sun

The Sun is a card of optimism, warmth, positivity, success, believing that everything will be all right in the end. It can also be a card for children.

This card is giving me golden child energy. There is no other way to describe it. The energy is of a child who can do no wrong, who will always be protected, pampered and adored, and who will always be cosseted by his parent. This tells me that Harry is the golden child of King Charles and that the King will do whatever he can to cosset, protect, and smooth the path of his favourite child. This reflects the picture on the card, of the god Apollo, who was the favourite son of the chief god Zeus.

In answer the the question, this card tells me that Harry is the favourite child of King Charles and The King is not removing his favourite son from the royal website. I sense that it was a struggle to get Harry in the last position on the page, as The King wanted him right under Prince William, and only other people insisting on having all the working royals first, and all the royals on the page in rank order, prevented this from happening. So having Harry on the page was a compromise to prevent him being listed under Prince William (I could be wrong about this, but there is definitely an energy of being elevated above all others coming from this card).

Card Three: The Wheel of Fortune in Reverse

This card is about your current position and whether you are rising or falling in esteem. In the reverse, it says that your fortunes are falling, you are declining in esteem, you have no control or are clinging to control, and you face unwelcome changes.

Harry has obviously fallen in public esteem, so this card applies to him - he is not favoured by the public and as per his actions there is no reason to favour him by having him on the website or any higher on the website.

The energy of this cardis of someone facing unwelcome changes. I think this refers to King Charles, who is not happy about Harry being last on the website page. I think he may have had to compromise to keep Harry on the page at all, as per the energy of the previous card.

The reversal of fortune energy of this card could be an argument that was used to have The King agree to have Harry in the bottom position on the webpage - that to have him any higher would outrage the general public, who (quite rightly) have no good opinion of Harry after everything he has done, and the BRF can not afford the hit to their reputation if this happens.

Card Four: The King of Cups in Reverse

The King of Cups is a card that represents Scorpio, and in this reading it represents King Charles, a sun sign Scorpio. It represents King Charles as a person, not in his role as King.

The card being in reverse tells me that King Charles is very unhappy about the changes to the royal website with respect to Harry, not just as a king (the Emperor card in reverse) but also as a person. There are waves of unhappiness coming off this card. King Charles did not get his own way with respect to Harry and he is very upset about it.

The card in reverse also tells me that King Charles as-a-person is operating out of his shadow side in this matter. With the King of Cups reversed that means someone who is selfish, emotionally manipulative, over-emotional, making decisions with the heart and not the head, moody, volatile emotionally, and seeking vengeance on all who he sees as wronging him.

I expect repercussions from the decision to put Harry at the bottom of the page (and not return him to under Prince William). The King will be looking for someone to blame and possibly to punish that person in some way for not allowing his darling boy to be in his rightful place as a prince and son of the king.

Underlying Energy: The Five of Swords.

This is my card for duty. As a general card, it is a card of not being able to win for losing, of arguments, aggression, bullying, conflict, hostility, and stress.

This card tells me two things: Firstly, that an argument about duty was used to keep Harry on the website (maybe something like "He is my son and it is my duty as a father to have my sons on the website"). Secondly, that the decision to keep Harry on the website caused a lot of arguments, that The King got his way by 'pulling rank' or something similar, and that this has caused a lot of hostility from his advisors and perhaps other members of the BRF. The King has won the battle to keep Harry on the website, albeit in a compromise position (possibly), but his behaviour during the conflicts that arose has alienated some of his supporters and advisors. The end result was not worth the hurt feelings involved, and everyone can see this except The King.

Conclusion:

Harry has been kept on the website because The King wants him there. The King is not concerned about how this will appear to the general public, he wants his favourite son on the royal website and that is what happened. The King's insistence on this and his method of winning the arguments over this (riding roughshod over everyone) has caused a lot of hostility among his advisors and supporters.

There are suggestions in the energy that Harry's position on the page is a compromise and the King wanted him under Prince William. If this is the case, then The King is very hurt because he didn't get what he wanted, he is brooding over it (?sulking?), and he is looking for someone to blame and punish in some way.

In this reading The King was acting out of his shadow energy, his worse side, both in his role as King and as a person/parent. He came across as overly emotional, emotionally manipulative, almost a bully (pulling rank to get his own way), stubborn, rigid, and domineering. His energy was of a spoilt brat sulking because they didn't get exactly what they wanted, and very close to throwing a tantrum to get it. It is the first time I have seen the same energy in The King and his son Harry.

[misseviehyde]

WICKED WAX

Jordan had always known that his best-friend Micky was a total bullshitter - but this time the stupid douche-bag had got himself into real trouble.  Inventing an imaginary girlfriend called Ashley and telling everyone at school they were dating was one thing - but bragging to the school bully that he was bringing his girl to the pool party and wagering $300 on it was crazy.

"Look Micky - when 'Ashley' doesn't show up at the pool party with you, you're gonna owe that ape $300 ," groaned Jordan.  "You don't have that kind of money and the bastard is lining up practically the whole school to humiliate you tomorrow."

"Which is why it is totally going to throw him when she actually shows up and I actually humiliate him," grinned Micky.

"But Ashley isn't real you moron.  You downloaded her photo off a website, the real girl probably lives thousands of miles away - she might even be in a different country!"

"Relax bro," smirked Micky pulling out the offending picture from his wallet where he always kept it.  It showed an incredibly hot and busty teenage girl standing next to a car, her huge breasts barely contained within her tight white top.  Her nails were long and sexy, and her eyes had a sexy intensity to them.  She was the hot girl next-door and then some.  Most of the guys at school had enjoyed drooling over the photo - Jordan had been no exception.

Placing the photo down carefully, Micky opened a box and pulled out a candle inscribed with strange symbols.  He turned to his friend and grinned.  "You see Jordan, Ashley is gonna become real."

"What the hell are you talking about you total cretin," scoffed Jordan as his friend lit the candle which burned with a pinkish flame.

"My aunt is a witch.  I convinced her to give me this magic candle.  All you have to do is burn a picture in the candle flame and you will become the person pictured. I just need you to burn it so you turn into Ashley."

"Are you nuts? Magic isn't real dude... and even if it was, I don't want to turn into a girl."

"Sure you do.  It would be fun.  Are you telling me you'd really pass up the chance to be THAT hot?  Look, all you'd have to do is turn into Ashley for a couple of hours.  Just long enough to show up with me to the party and get the $300.  Then we'll burn a photo of you and turn you back!  I'll give you half the cash, you can't say fairer than that."

Jordan winced.  This was crazy, but his friend seemed dead set on it.  "Tell you what.  I'll go through with your stupid plan, but you have to give me 20 bucks when it doesn't work, just for wasting my time.  I can't believe you're going to get me to burn this picture... it's so hot."

"Yeah, but soon you'll be her and YOU'LL be that hot.  Go on, I've been dying to see this in action..."

Jordan reluctantly took the photo and held it into the candle flame.  It took almost instantly, burning bright pink and rapidly being consumed.  To his amazement the flames didn't emit any heat and the smoke that gathered from the burning, instead of dissipating, began to writhe and coil around him. Something magical was indeed occurring. "Woah, what's happening?"

Micky watched in amazement as his friend was completely obscured by smoke... cocooned in it.  From inside the haze he heard grunts and groans, his friends voice seeming to radically change and get sexier. "Oooooh, oh wow, ohhhh Micky, you gotta try this ahhhh I feel... mmmmmmmmh ohhh amazing!"

Inside the smoke Jordan was transforming and altering.  He felt his fingernails lengthen like those of the girl in the picture and he suddenly felt smaller and sexier.  His hair tickled his shoulders as he felt an insistent weight on his chest and looking down was amazed to see his chest was swelling and pushing out!  The magic was real!  He was turning into a girl!

"OHHHHH FUCK!" groaned Jordan as he felt a strange absence growing in his crotch area and his skin tingled prettily.  His clothing seemed to be changing to match his new body and he could taste lipstick on his mouth.  This was weird... but kinda nice.  His insides tingled and his features transformed, his mouth breaking into an infectiously cute smile.  He reached up to his face to feel soft, smooth skin... impossibly soft.  "Ohhhh yeah," he moaned in his new softer voice - turning himself on at how girly and sexy it sounded.  

As the last of the photo was consumed and vanished, the pink flames spluttered and the candle wick went out - leaving it ready to be used again sometime...

The smoke began to clear and Jordan sat down on the bed with a squeak, his plump new ass taking the weight nicely. His new sexy mouth curved into a grin as he examined himself and giggled.  His formerly male body was completely transformed.  He was now dressed in a tight, barely decent pink boob tube and had a light teal skirt on.  His formerly hairy legs were completely smooth and he had a big pair of big boobies bouncing on his chest.  He was incredibly sexy and feminine - he had become Ashley.

"Micky, this is awesome!" laughed Jordan in his funny new girls voice.  "For the first time ever in your life, your bullshit has turned out to be true!"

"See!  I told you my aunt really was a witch.  Pretty cool huh?"

"Oh my God, my dick is totally gone," gasped Jordan with a hand down Ashley's skirt.  His fingers felt the elastic of a pair of panties and he rubbed his flat front, gasping as he touched his new pussy for the first time ever.  Ashley's was totally smooth and shaven and it felt so good to touch.  Even better than a dick.  He began to massage his clit, groaning as his nipples got hard through his top - before realising where he was and what he was doing!

"Oh shit, sorry," he blushed realising what he was doing and snatching his hand out of his hemline. "Sorry dude, it's just weird.  Fuck, my tits are huge... I mean, I look so feminine now!  I must have bigger boobs than every girl at school.  Wow, these nails are super long too... are these those gel nail thingy's all the girls at school are always bragging about?"

"I guess so," grinned Micky. "Do you like them?"

"Hmmm, strangely... I do.  I never really noticed before, but long nails are kinda hot."

"I meant your tits!"

"Oh, yeah... sure, God... is that all you can think about?"

Standing up from the bed, Jordan walked over to the mirror.  Even his walk was different now.  He held his arms differently and his hips swayed when he moved.  He looked like a real girl.

"Hey, why am I dressed differently to the girl in the photo? I thought I was gonna turn into a copy of her, shouldn't I be in that white top and daisy dukes?"

"Well, the way my aunt described it - you didn't just become a copy of Ashley - you ARE Ashley.  Reality has altered to fit you in. So you're wearing what she would be wearing right now under normal circumstances... carrying what she would be carrying.  For the time being Jordan has ceased to exist and no one will remember him.  If you were to go home now, you'd find your room is now a girls room.   Look you even have a handbag."

Spotting the handbag on the bed, Jordan pulled it open and found an iphone and a purse.  Inside was a drivers license for 'Ashley Hilton'.  He guessed that was him now - he was Ashley Hilton.  Unlocking the phone, he found he had contacts galore for various girls - many of them the popular girls from his school.  There were plenty of messages from them, one or two of their half-naked boyfriends sent to the rest of the girls to check out.   Looking at a picture of the star quarterback with his rippling muscles on show was kind of weird... and kind of sexy.  There were plenty of private messages for Ashley.  Quite a few of them were variations on: Hey Ash... looking forward to seeing you at the party tomorrow... XXX

It was clear that Ashley was pretty fucking popular... which made Jordan think.  Now she was real and reality had changed... did that change this entire situation?

"Micky - if this thing changed reality, does that mean that Jackson won't have made the bet with you and this is all for nothing?  I mean it kind of looks like Ashley goes to our school, so why would he bet $300 dollars on her turning up at the party tomorrow?"

"Oh crap, that's a point.  Well ummmm, hopefully the bet is because he doesn't believe she would ever date a loser like me.  I better check though."  Micky began doing something with his phone whilst Jordan inspected his new body and prodded his face.  Looking through the handbag he found some lipgloss, mascara and some tampons.  "Holy shit, I get periods now!  Oh fuck, I hope I'm not on one at the moment..."

Opening up his phone and checking the calendar, Jordan breathed a sigh of relief as he saw 'Ashley' had marked her times of the month carefully.  Looks like he didn't have to worry about that right away!

"Okay dude, I just checked with some of the guys and the bet is still on.  It's pretty much like you thought though, you aren't my 'imaginary' girlfriend anymore... everyone knows you exist, it's just no one can believe we are dating.  Damn it - that's going to make things harder though."

"How do you mean?" 

"Well, you can't just 'show up' at the party anymore.  You're gonna have to tell people we are dating and maybe kiss me to prove it..."

"KISS YOU! You have got to be kidding!"

"Hey... am I that bad looking?"

Folding his arms under his boobs and giving Micky an irritated look, Jordan shook his head.  "Forget it. I am not kissing a boy."

"Why not?  You are a girl now, and if the candle worked right you should have a healthy female sex drive and sexual orientation."

"WHAT! You fucker! You didn't tell me it was going to do that!"

"Well I was hardly going to tell you that as well as changing your body, the candle would transform your mind was I?  I knew you'd freak out!  Haven't you noticed that you're already acting more feminine?  The way you're walking, the way you are talking?  It would hardly be of much use to either of us if you needed months of preparation to pass as female.  The spell made you Ashley and Ashley you are becoming."

Jordan stamped his foot in annoyance.  He should have known not to trust that little shit - this spell was fucking up his mind as well as his body.  That would explain why he had known the unlock code for Ashley's phone... why when he thought of some of the girls that were messaging him, he suddenly knew things about them he had never known before.  Details and events of a life that was now his were hazily beginning to appear in his mind.  For instance, he knew he had a hairdressers appointment next week and he also knew that he was meeting the girls on Monday to go shopping at the Mall.  The longer he stayed as Ashley, the stronger those memories would become.  

"Don't worry, we'll turn you back before those memories becoming too overwhelming, it's only for today and tomorrow."

Jordan suddenly pursed his soft lips and looked at his friend in dawning horror.  "Hang on though - we need a photo of me to turn back though right?  And since this stupid spell just transformed reality and made it so I have always been Ashley, surely all the photos of me will have changed too?"

Micky felt his stomach lurch and a flush of panic creep into him.  Grabbing his phone, he began looking back through his albums, but to his growing alarm - every photo of Jordan was gone.  "Ohhhh fuck, I didn't think of that."

"YOU IDIOT!" screamed Jordan.  "YOU MEAN I'M STUCK LIKE THIS!?!"

"NO!  Of course not.  There has to be a way to turn you back - I just need to errrr, talk to my aunt!"

"You better," screamed Jordan.  "I'll see you at this fucking party tomorrow and if you don't have a way to turn me back to normal, you're going to regret it!"

Turning on his sexy new heels, Jordan stormed out of the room and Micky ran to the window as he watched his friend run away, fighting back tears, to a cute red convertible, climb in and screech off in a cloud of rubber.

"Oh shit..."

****

Micky had never felt so nervous in all his life as he arrived at the party, butterflies in his tummy.  He'd hardly slept a wink last night and he had desperately wanted to call Jordan and check his friend was okay, but to his annoyance he found he didn't have Ashley's number in his phone and he had no way to contact her!

Urgent phone-calls to his aunt had been made, but so far there was no response.  He just had to hope that he could see Jordan, promise his friend everything would be okay and do whatever he could.

Arriving pool-side, Micky looked around urgently and gulped in relief as he saw Jordan.  His friend was sitting by a group of gossiping girls and Micky's eyes opened wide in amazement at how sexy Jordan was looking.  He had dressed Ashley's body in a tiny pink plaid bikini set and his hair and makeup looked incredible.  He was perfectly made up, from the sexy white gel nails still on his fingers, to the glittering belly button ring in his navel.  He looked every inch a hot girl.

"Give us a moment will you girls," commanded Ashley as Micky slunk over.  "I need to have a quick chat with this loser."

"Oh yeah, your so called 'boyfriend'," giggled one girl - Chloe.  "Give him hell Ash... what a fucking loser.  Imagining lying to the whole school that he was dating you, what an idiot.  See you later 'Little Micky' hehe... "

"Hey what did you tell them?" asked an embarrassed Micky as the girls walked off shooting his venomous glances and giggling to themselves.

"Ohhhh, just girl talk...  don't worry about it 'tiny'.  So did you find a way to turn me back?" asked Jordan almost disinterestedly.

"Jordan... I'm sorry, I'm waiting for my aunt to call me..."

"It's ASHLEY, now loser.  Since you've trapped me as a girl, I may as well own it," sneered Ashley as she inspected a nail.  "I had a feeling you'd let me down, so I'm going to have to go to plan B."

"Wh... wait... what's plan B?"

"Well you see Micky... the longer I stay in this body, the more comfortable and girly I feel.  I was pretty upset with you last night, but once I got home and started thinking about it - I realised this isn't so bad.  The longer I stay this way, the more I get to like it.  I can feel Jordan slipping away... soon I'll just be Ashley."

"What are you saying?"

"I'm saying that if I'm stuck as Ashley... I may as well BE Ashley. I'm not going to waste anytime feeling sorry for myself... I'm going to start enjoying being a hot girl right away. Being this way does come with certain advantages after all."

"But Jordan, my aunt might still be able to..."

"Fuck your aunt and fuck you.  You are such a selfish prick.  You just wanted to be the big man and show off your super hot girlfriend.  You thought you could use me to make £300 dollars and get the reputation as a stud you always desired.  But your little plan has totally backfired you dweeb.   You've made me into a hot, spoiled, party girl - but I have zero interest in helping you out.  In a way it's a shame.  You've turned me into your dream girl - but guess what... your dream girl isn't interested in your scrawny body and pathetic personality.  She prefers a real man. A man like Jackson."

"WHAT!  You have got to be kidding, that douchebag..."

"That douchebag is the richest boy in school, plus he's handsome and ripped. Why wouldn't I be interested in him instead of you?  Since you've turned me into this superficial slut, I may as well act like one."

"Jordan - please dude... I know you're mad at me. It was an oversight, I'm sure my aunt can help us out.  Please don't do anything crazy... we're best-friends."

"We WERE best-friends.  I don't feel anything for you anymore," sneered Ashley.  "In fact, it's kind of a turn on to betray you and fuck you over like this.  Just talking between the two of us, I don't think I'm a very nice girl, and I'm probably just gonna get badder the longer I stay like this.  It kinda makes my pussy wet to boss the other girls around and be the hottest one here.  I think I'm a bitch... and once Jordan fades away completely I'll just be a naughty slut forever.  Oh by the way, Jackson just showed up and he's coming over here... looks like you're in the shit..."

Micky turned round in horror as he saw Jackson was approaching.  The strong confident boy smirked as he saw his victim and easily read the cold body language between him and Ashley.  "Yo, dickweed.  I guess this is the moment that Ashley here tells me you are dating and I pay you $300? Or maybe not?"

"Me? Dating this loser," sneered Ashley like a cold-hearted bitch,  "you must be kidding."

"Guess you owe me $300," laughed Jackson.  "I can't believe you would make up such a stupid rumour.  Why would a hot girl like Ashley ever see anything in a loser like you?  Have you got my money with you?"

"I ummm, I'll get it you tomorrow," squeaked Micky as Jackson lifted him up by his shirt and leered into his face.

"You better... or you ain't gonna be able to walk for a month."  The bully turned to go, but Ashley suddenly smiled at him and beckoned him over.

"Hey Jackson, whilst you are over here, I'm trying to avoid tan lines on my back.  Will you do me a big favour and rub some lotion into my back?"

"What are you doing?" hissed Micky to Ashley as she enticingly pushed out her chest and flashed her perfect smile at the bully.

Loosening her bikini, Ashley smiled at Jackson and the bigger boy grinned back. "Well would you look at that Micky, look's like your 'girlfriend' needs a real man to help her out."  Grabbing the lotion bottle he squeezed it out onto his hands and sitting up behind Ashley began rubbing it into her back.  "Fuck you have amazing skin Ash," he grinned, "feels so soft and smooth."

"Mmmmh, that feels nice Jackson," purred Ashley like a cat.  "Ooooh, I don't suppose you could do my front too?" Grabbing his hands she pulled them slowly and irresistibly over her shoulders and onto her tits.  "Oooooh, whoops," she giggled.

"Holy shit Ashley, what are you doing?" groaned Jackson as he found his hands full of her boobs.  "Are you trying to get us kicked out?"  His hands slid down her body and Ashley helped guide one into her bikini bottoms.

"I'm so fucking wet Jackson, I need you to fuck me so badly."

"Mmmmh, we'll go inside and fuck there.   Make that dweeb Micky act as our look-out... he won't dare tell on us."

"Ohhh yeah, that's such a hot idea," giggled Ashley.  "Make him watch as you fuck me like a real man."

"Jordan, what the hell are you doing?  This is INSANE!"

"Who the fuck is Jordan?" asked Jackson in confusion.

"I have no idea," moaned Ashley, "this dweeb is such a little freak.   Lets go and fuck, I can barely stand it anymore.  I need your cock inside me."

"Come on Micky, you're gonna stand guard at the door whilst I bang her brains out.  I'll give you a one day extension on my money as a reward... plus you get to watch the show.  This little bitch is begging for it."

Micky had no choice as the bigger boy bullied him into following them inside and finding an empty room led them inside.  Making Micky stand by the door to watch out for other guests, Jackson continued fingering Ashley and they kissed passionately - Ashley moaning in pleasure as she got hornier and hornier.

I can't believe that's my friend!  Why is he doing this? What a bastard!

"Mmmmh, let me suck your cock baby..."

Sinking to her knees, Ashley eagerly pulled down Jackson's jeans and cooed happily as she saw his large penis. It was already huge, but it could only get bigger and her mouth was already watering at the thought. Grabbing it in her sexy hands she began to jerk it and suck on it, her big tits jiggling as she went to work on pleasing her man.

"Ahhhh, fuck that feels amazing.  Mmmmh looks like she likes it huh Micky?  Damn girl, you suck cock good."

"Mmmmh his dick is so big," giggled Ashley turning to her former friend with a slutty smile on her face, "so much bigger than a loser like you."

"Shut up and suck it bitch," groaned Jackson, forcing his dick back into her pink mouth with a pop.  Ashley eagerly obeyed, she loved sucking dick.

Grabbing Ashley's head, Jackson helped her suck his dick... the moaning slut gagging happily and sucking wetly as she bobbed her pretty head up and down.  Watching her give him head, Micky felt sick... a few days ago this had been his friend, now he was acting like some dumb spoiled cum-slut.  That wasn't the worst of it though... if he was being truthful, the real problem was he was jealous.  He'd give anything for Ashley to suck his dick instead.  It looked amazing.

"God damn it, I need to feel that tight pussy.  Stand up slut, let me fuck you and show our friend here what a big cock does to a hot bitch like you."

Grabbing Ashley and ripping off her bikini bottoms, Jackson spun her around and smacked and squeezed her ass.  She moaned in pleasure, and submissively used her hands to spread her ass cheeks... revealing her dripping hole and pushing it out to tempt him.  Jackson knew she was wet and ready, his fingers had already been deep in her slit.. he grunted as he pushed his massive dick slowly inside her tight cunt, and grabbing onto her tits began to fuck her.

"OOoooooh YES! Fuck me Jackson, mmmmmh, ohhh your big dick feels so good!"

Ashley was facing Micky directly and her face was one of ecstasy as her lover began to roughly pound her from behind.  She moaned in pure pleasure, pushing back to take him deeper as they got into a rhythmn and hot wet slaps filled the room.

"Ohhh mmmmh, this... is... how a real man... uuggggh fucks a girl," she cried, looking Micky directly in the eyes without even a hint of shame.  "You'll never get to know how good this feels."

"Damn Micky, her pussy is the tightest I ever had, fucking hell she's amazing.  Mmmmmh, it fits like a glove."

"Ooooh, I love being filled up with your big cock," screamed Ashley juices running down her legs as she got fucked so good.  "I... I... OHHHH YESSS DON'T STOP OHHHHHH FUCCCCCCCCCKKKKK!"  Ashley's eyes rolled as she cummed and Jackson grinned as he grabbed her hair and began thrusting even harder and deeper into her, not even giving her a break.  She continued to orgasm, moaning and screaming as she cummed repeatedly on the giant dick inside her and squirted over her lovers cock.

Meanwhile Micky felt sick to his stomach. His friend had totally transformed into a naughty slut and it was all his fault. Worse, she was making him watch all this... and it was making him hard. He wanted to cum his own pants, but he could barely watch as the couple continued to fuck, trying different positions out and filling the room with the stink of hot sex and cum as they rutted like animals in heat.

Suddenly he became aware that his phone was vibrating in his pocket and grabbing it out saw that there was an incoming phone call from his aunt.

"Micky, it's your aunt.  I'm so sorry, I only just got your messages."

"Auntie, please... you gotta help me, Jordan used the candle and he turned into a girl.  Now he's stuck!"

"Don't panic Nephew.  It's easy to reverse.  You just need to completely burn down the candle you used and everything will go back to normal... well... just so long as nobody had sex."

"Thank God... ummm, sex? Wh...what do you mean?"

"The magic locks and becomes permanent if anyone who has transformed has penetrative sex.  Just so long as your friend hasn't fucked anyone, he should be fine."

Turning around, Micky groaned as he watched Ashley slide Jackson's cock out of her pussy with a pop and jerk it till her came over her face and tits.  Hot cum dripping down her body, the slut luxuriated in the glow of sex as she basked in her new sexuality and power.  "Mmmmh, I fucking love being a slut... I feel like such a dirty whore and I love it. Being a hot girl is the best, I'm so glad I got stuck this way.  Jordan is dead... that loser is nothing compared to me."

Looking into Ashley's wicked eyes, Micky wanted to weep.  His friend was lost forever now and she didn't even care.  Ashley had consumed Jordan and turned him into a wicked, popular slut.  Her corruption into a bitch was complete.  Micky would never again see his friend - he had been completely replaced by her. And worst of all... he owed her new boyfriend over $300.

"So then Micky, lets talk about how you can get me my money," grinned Jackon as Ashley eagerly sucked the last of the cum out of his cock.  "After all, looks like I have a new girlfriend to pay for and I'm guessing she has expensive tastes."

This was not going to be a good year...

****

THE END

[sgiandubh]

Having just read a comment about it, I'm reminded of other comments and I've always wondered why people insist that Sassenach Gin is just FMN gin repackaged? The two gins don't have anything in common flavor-wise. The while thing around FMN has been shrouded in mystery (what was funded exactly and when?) and disorganization. The website was dormant for over 2 1/2 years before the only thing that changed was some incorporation details at the bottom. Sassenach is clearly a drinks company that is actively making spirits. It's an active business and all that goes into that and seems like a disservice to all the hard work clearly put into the business.

Dear Gin Anon,

ALL OF THIS.

This is exactly what I meant.

How refreshing.

Don't be a stranger.

Do dheagh shlainte!

[radioiaci]

I legit think it's honestly a result of younger individuals on this website being so wrapped up in the black and white use of label to justify a narrowed world-view. Like I'm 32 years old and it's taken me a long time to unlearn a lot of biases and judgments I had about identity, sexuality, and everything else. So in that way, I understand why they're so adamant at policing something like a fictional character who they want to remain so one-noted that they don't feel strange for being the one who wants them to be that way. But at the same time, the presence of an identity/sexuality spectrum is something that one eventually comes to terms with as they grow older and realizes that people are very often shifting, growing, changing entities that can experience such a range of emotion, understanding, and sense of self that to slap a perma-label on someone and insist that they can never be anything else seems so restrictive and nonsensical. I am an aromantic/asexual individual who has come to that conclusion over several years of self discovery and investigation. I still have some modicum of attraction to all genders and I love to explore facets of myself through fictional characters that I connect with and can play with like little fantasy dolls in ways that I would absolutely never be interested in experiencing for myself as a real life human being. It just does not thrill me. But to be able to write and craft a character - whether or not it is my original character - that can traverse those obstacles, hurdles, and exploratory notions FOR me is TONS of fun and honestly a very healthy thing to do! I'm not interested in outright bullying children for being prickly and annoying - because they ARE children, for the most part, and I want to give them an opportunity to grow the hell up LOL. But I think that there is room to understand and learn that IT'S OKAY to write about silly little characters in ways that may not necessarily make sense to their original intent - but if they make sense to YOU and you are not producing real harm in that exploration of the character - then, like. Do whatever you want, man. That's not to say that there are not topics which I think very much toe the line as to what's acceptable to share publicly on something like a public website/forum as a silly ha-ha hobby, but there is always room for nuance and critical consumption of media; even unofficial media. ANYWAY. thank you for coming to my ted talk. <3

[numinousmysteries]

Dancing the Tandava (2/10)

[on Ao3] @today-in-fic

Geneva, Switzerland 2023

Their plane touches down just as the sun is rising. It’s a smooth landing that Scully manages to sleep through even as the wheels bounce on the tarmac. Mulder smiles to himself. Thirty years and some things never change.

A lot has changed, though. Thirty years ago they would have been on a domestic flight headed to an anonymous town in the middle of the country to track down the latest unexplained phenomenon to catch his attention. He would have been hesitant to wake her up, unsure if he had permission to touch her. Now, they’re visiting their 22-year-old son a few months into his prestigious research internship at CERN. They have wedding bands on their hands instead of guns holstered to their hips; hard-earned wrinkles on their faces marking their years of fighting in the darkness.

Now, he knows the best way to wake Scully up after a long flight is a gentle kiss on the smooth skin of her cheek while brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. Her hair is longer than it was when they first met and he likes how it curls softly when it hits her shoulders. She sleeps peacefully, free of the threats that once loomed over them. He loved the sharp lines of her work suits, the expensive sartorial armor she used to steel herself against the world, but he likes the softer fabrics she’s embraced recently even more. In their narrow airplane seats, he’s soothed by the gentle brush of her oxblood cashmere sweater against his forearm. So much has changed for the better.

“We’ve arrived,” he whispers in her ear, his lips grazing the thin ridges of cartilage.

“Mmm, that was fast,” she says, rubbing her eyes.

“Maybe for you,” he smiles. “For those of us who didn’t conk out the second the fasten seat belt light turned off, it was an eight-hour flight across the Atlantic with disappointing film options.”

“They didn’t have The Lazarus Bowl?” she asks, grinning.

He grimaces at her and stands up to retrieve their luggage. His knees are creakier than they used to be. He knows his back will be sore in a few hours once his muscles realize they’ve been stuck in an uncomfortable airline seat for hours. At least he travels with his own personal physician who can work out the knots with her delicate but strong hands.

“I can’t wait to see William,” Scully says as she rises to meet him and stretches her arms overhead. “It’s probably too early to check into our hotel. Why don’t we stop by his apartment first and see if we can catch him before he leaves for work?”

“Maybe let him know we’re on the way so we don’t catch him in flagrante with Hannah.”

“Mulder,” she sighs, following him down the jetway and into the terminal. “They’re just friends.”

“You’re right, Scully. Two good-looking, intelligent, young adults who work together and have palpable chemistry between them can never go from friends to something more.”

“I’ll text him,” she concedes.

William and his friend Hannah Schwartz had a spirited academic rivalry in MIT’s undergraduate physics department and it was almost unheard of when they were both offered internships at CERN. It made sense for the two to share an apartment when they moved abroad.

Hannah had come to stay with them for a weekend over the summer. She’s a petite, whip-smart brunette from New York City who, Mulder could tell, drives William wild. As they were waiting for her arrival Mulder watched William anxiously refreshing the Amtrak website tracking her train’s progress on his laptop. Mulder hadn’t seen his son that excited since the Christmas mornings of his childhood.

Even though Mulder and Scully assured William they didn’t mind if they shared his bedroom, he insisted on sleeping on the living room couch and giving Hannah his bed. He told Mulder it “wasn’t like that” between them and all his father could do was take his word for it. Mulder knew from personal experience that some relationships can’t be rushed, but he hoped, for his son’s sake, that William didn’t take the better part of a decade to realize what was right in front of him.

In the airport, Mulder pretends to impress Scully with his high school French, pronouncing all the words on the signs (even though they’re paired with English translations) in an exaggerated accent, and Scully pretends to be impressed.

“Mon amour,” she purrs.

It’s fun to travel with her without the mystery of a case hanging over their head. Even when William was growing up they didn’t vacation much, as if subconsciously making up for a lifetime on the road. They spent a few Christmases with her brother’s family in San Diego and although Bill never exactly warmed to Mulder, the two men reached a detente. It helped that William was a cute kid who got along with his cousins—and that Scully shot daggers with her eyes if Bill dared to be less than perfectly cordial to Mulder.

Outside the airport, they navigate to a taxi stand and give the driver William’s address.

“You two scientists?” the driver asks with a hint of a Swiss accent. He’s a gruff older man with a black leather jacket and bony knuckles.

“My wife here is,” Mulder says, beaming at Scully. “Why?”

“You’re headed to CERN. Figure you’re visiting physicists. Lots of them pass through here.”

“Our son is a research intern,” Scully says. “We’re going to visit him.”

“Must be a smart kid,” the driver responds, turning onto the highway. “Strange stuff going on there, though.”

“Strange how?” Mulder pipes in.

“I don’t know,” the driver shakes his head. “But you hear things. Like they’re making new black holes that could eat us all up or trying to recreate how the universe was formed in that collider thing. Seems like messing with God’s business to me.”

“It’s fascinating research,” Scully says leaning forward. “But the large hadron collider is extremely safe. The particle experimentation is occurring on a subatomic scale. I can assure you there’s no risk of a black hole forming.”

The driver nods. “Anyway, that stuff’s all above my head. Like I said, your kid must be pretty smart.”

“We’re certainly proud of him,” says Mulder. He winks at Scully and she smiles at him in return. They’re both so proud of William—their miracle baby who, scientifically speaking, shouldn’t exist had grown into a curious kid, a bright if slightly awkward teenager, and now a young man with interests and passions of his own. It’s certainly not something either of them would have imagined when they met, and it’s more than they could have ever hoped for when they first dreamed of having a child together.

A glint of sunlight catches on a small gold medallion hanging from the rear view window. Mulder looks closer and notices it depicts the Hindu god Shiva dancing in a circle of flames. He turns to Scully to check if she sees it too, but she’s nervously thumbing at her phone.

“Hmm, he hasn’t written back yet,” Scully says.

“He’s probably busy getting ready,” Mulder reassures her, resting his hand on her thigh. She clasps her hand on top of his.

William still hasn’t texted Scully when they pull up to a square building striped with gray and white brick that matches the address they gave the driver. Mulder pays the driver and retrieves their luggage from the trunk.

“Did you notice his Shiva medallion?” Mulder asks as they make their way through the parking lot.

“His what?”

“The driver had a little gold Shiva symbol hanging from his rear view mirror. You know, the four-armed Hindu god whose cosmic dance supposedly created the universe—and has the power to destroy it.”

“No, Mulder, I didn’t notice it. Should I have?”

Mulder shrugs. “I dunno. Just seemed a little odd for a guy who seemed intent on mentioning the work of a singular god.”

“He probably doesn’t even know what it symbolizes. Or maybe it’s not his car?” she says impatiently. “I’m much more concerned about seeing William.”

William’s building is exclusively for temporary CERN employees and there’s a bustle of activity in the lobby. They overhear conversations in a mix of languages, picking up the occasional technical English term dropped in. Mulder feels the contagious energy of youth and intellectual curiosity. He looks at Scully, knowing she feels it, too. They ride the elevator up to William’s floor and knock on the door.

There’s no answer. Scully glances at Mulder with concern and knocks again.

This time, Hannah opens the door, her cheeks red and her eyes ringed with tears. She’s wearing sweats and her frizzy hair is tied in a knot on top of her head.

“Hannah,” Scully says, squinting with concern. “What’s wrong?”

Hannah whimpers, fresh tears streaming down her cheeks. “William’s gone.”

[thefreakydeaky]

After the Thrill is Gone

Part Six

Daryl Dixon x Reader

Negan Smith x Reader

Modern AU

Summary: From the first moment you laid eyes on Negan you were inexplicabley drawn to him. The passion between you is hot and only grows more intense the longer you see each other. There is only one problem, you're both married to other people.

Warnings: Dark Fic , Stalking, Stalker behavior, Smuttyness, Adult Language, I'll add more warnings as I post, so please check the warnings for updates on each chapter.

You put Millie in her stroller and went for a walk inside the mall, a small one level building that wasn't much to look at, but it was something to do. You didn't have much to do that day and since you couldn't shake the feelings of paranoia you were having,

getting out of the house seemed a good idea. Looking in the windows of stores you could never afford didn't really bother you. There wasn't much you wanted from the mall in the first place.

The most enticing thing was the smell of fresh brewed coffee coming out of the Blue Moon bakery. You slowed as you got near to it. You picked through your purse scrounging up change to see if you had the four dollars. You did not. So, you dropped the coins into the pocket of your jeans and carried on.

The next store was a toy store. You focused on quickly moving passed that for Millie's sake. You turned to see what was in the next window. Clothing. You couldn't believe some of the new styles people were wearing. The color combinations were so bright and loud.

As you took a look at the last manaquin's outfit, you found yourself choking on your next breath. He was standing there in the reflection, watching you. In jeans and a white tshirt, his leather jacket encasing his broad shoulders. There was no mistaking him for anyone else. You kept watching the reflection as he drew nearer and nearer. Your heart beat drummed faster in your chest and then he was standing right behind you.

"What are you doing here?" The words left your mouth with aggitation in every note of your voice. You turned to face him.

"We need to talk." He told you.

He had a paper cup with the Blue Moon logo on it. You looked up into his eyes uncertainly. He held the cup out to you. You grasped it, hesitantly.

You started forward again and took a sip from the cup. The coffee tasted as good as it smelled, the rich dark taste of espresso mixed with the slight hint of sweetness from, you suspected, the one packet of sugar you usually put in it. That he knew how you took your coffee reminded you of the familiarity between the two of you and it unnerved you.

"We don't have anything left to discuss. I know where you stand and you know where I stand. There's nothing to be done about it." You took another sip.

"I disagree, but I'm not here to talk about that." He rubbed at his stubbled chin. "Tell me about Camilla."

You frowned.

"Why do you want to know about Millie?"

"We've been together four years. How old is Camilla?"

Your eyes narrowed.

"She's three. Why are you- Oh! You have got to be fucking kidding me! We talked about this when I was pregnant. 'I always use a condom. There is no fucking way it's mine.' Those were your words, remember?" You huffed.

"You never fucking told me she had hazel eyes or that she had dark hair." He argued.

"Millie having dark hair doesn't mean she's yours." You remarked.

"Maybe, Maybe not, but at the end of the day, your husband doesn't have dark hair. Both your son's are dirty blond like their Dad. So shouldn't Millie's hair be the same?"

You blinked slowly. You didn't like what you were hearing.

"She's not yours."

"She has my eyes." He insisted.

"No. She doesn't."

"On some level you have to have known she is mine.You named her after my mother."

"Your mother happens to have the same name I liked from the baby name website I found it on. I chose it because I liked the nickname, Millie.You are making a conspiracy out of a coincidence." You declared.

"Yeah? You think, the fact that she looks like me is just coincidence? What about the fact that we were having sex around the time you got pregnant? The math adds up. You just don't want to see it."

"What?!" You scoffed. "You didn't give a single fuck about Millie this whole time. Didn't ask to see a picture of her. Didn't ask me a single thing about her ever. Now, because I broke up with you, suddenly you care?"

His brows dipped as he frowned.

"Be for fucking real! You are out of your damn mind if you think you can suddenly decide to be her father. She already has one." You tossed the coffee cup in the trash and walked away, leaving him behind.

You got to your car quickly, but found he hadn't followed you. As you picked Millie up out of the stroller, you looked into her eyes, her honey colored eyes and tried to remember if there was anyone in your family whose eyes looked like hers.

You resolved to cut Negan off once and for all. You complained to your mother, telling her it was going to be too much for you to pick Wyatt up from baseball practice. After some pleading she gave in and agreed to help you.

[try-and-try-and-try-again]

This is really random but I feel like I want to get it out and I don’t know where/who to so I’m getting it out here.

I am quite upset by my dad at the moment. In many ways he is wonderful. He supports me so much, more than he should have to. I feel bad that soon after he retired he basically ended up dropping his retirement plans and becoming my almost full-time carer but he has never complained and in fact continues to say he is proud of me and does so much.

However some of his views really bother me.

1. On Palestine - every time anyone mentions the atrocities going on he says everyone’s oversimplifying things. That Israel are not acting unacceptably, they are retaliating and defending themselves from Hamas. That Palestine started it etc. As if it makes what they seem to be doing less atrocious. I never know how to respond to him. He just insists everyone else is wrong.

2. On Covid vaccines - he attributes almost every death that happens at the moment to complications of the Covid vaccines (and says this is being covered up on purpose). He says it must be the case because people have died from blood clots etc. following vaccination but I feel like he is cherry picking data. He says they should never have been rolled out, the pandemic was an exercise in controlling people and making the vaccine/pharmaceutical industry large profits. Yes, governments did act questionably and wealthy people made a disgusting amount of money from the situation but to say that’s what the pandemic was all about when so many people died of Covid, especially at the beginning and everyone was so terrified… I feel like he is missing something. (Also he joined a rather sketchy seeming website called ‘Lockdown Sceptics’ which seemed to be used by lots of questionable figures).

3. Climate change - he says climate scientists are spreading panic, also humans can’t possibly be expected to drastically change their lifestyles, it isn’t fair so we should carry on business as usual. When I looked round environmental science departments at universities he’d try to pick arguments with climate scientists (when he has a college qualification in horticulture). When he was younger he used to be in Friends of the Earth. Now this.

4. Trans issues - he says it’s good that waiting lists for GICs are stupidly stupidly long and it’s really hard to access them because gender affirming care is not to be taken lightly and people are just confused about themselves and should be forced to take time to make decisions (but 7+ years for an initial consultation to just discuss things? Really? And what about all the time before asking to go to a GIC?). He says the Cass report does have validity. He says the new rules about no gender neutral bathrooms in new buildings and segregating trans people in hospitals are not unreasonable. (He also recently changed his mind about accepting my coming out as non-binary which kind of hurts).

5. Science - he says science in general, and particularly the medical field, is not trustworthy. That it is all funded and influenced by the government and Big Pharma and other corrupt corporations even if no conflicting interests are declared so no research is reliable. And he says “science isn’t about facts, it’s about debate” and that no one is letting things be debated. He is not a scientist. Why is he so sure he can claim this? He preached the words of YouTube ‘experts’ who make claims about things in fields they are not qualified in and YouTube doctors who say mainstream medicine is completely wrong and give diet and lifestyle advice etc. that personally I find quite unsettling. He says ‘well x says the data actually shows this’ and I say ‘have you actually looked at this data yourself?’. He says ‘no’ - he just blindly trusts these YouTube ‘experts’ opinions.

He is 76. And spends entire days trawling through Google on his laptop. I don’t know if that is worth mentioning. I don’t know, so many of his views sit uncomfortably with me and I just don’t know what to do or what to say to him. And he upsets my sister too because of some of these things so maybe it’s not just me being overly sensitive and wrong.

[granulesofsand]

System Accountability, Again

🗝️🏷️ RAMCOA, syscourse

My opinion has not changed since last time this was up for debate; system accountability relies on the system being seen as one whole, and we do not use that model.

There are pieces of decency that I extend as a person, but I won’t pick up any more than that because I share a body with others.

Some things I will do, as a person:

Try to mediate: if I care about the outsider or the insider involved, I do my best to deescalate and resolve. I am the only one who gets to decide whether or not to put myself at risk. If any of the participants are dangerous to me, I don’t give a rat’s ass what is morally correct — I am allowed to maintain my own safety, even if my giving it up would be detrimental for the situation.

Educate: either the insider about why their behavior was inappropriate/unhealthy or the outsider about why this behavior is appropriate/helpful. Still refuse to be forced into the role; it’s a decency thing, and I’m not respecting the personhood of an outsider over my own. We are both important, and we don’t have to coexist if one of us is being harmed.

Discuss: before or after a conflict does escalate, many of us are now able to clarify and communicate without turning to inappropriate behavior. Many is not all, and while I respect the right of an outsider to cease interaction with our system, I’m not taking responsibility for whatever that alter did. It’s not unlike social media, where the website is not responsible for the content unless they are knowingly hosting threats. It wasn’t me, and we will not be adopting a model that hurts us because it would be convenient.

Walk away: I, as an alter, have enough proficiency with technology to block off channels of access if an outsider does decide to cease contact. It’s okay if you can’t find safety with other of our alters after a bad encounter with one. You are allowed to leave (or ask us to leave, if it’s your space) and make decisions about your own boundaries.

Sometimes I do take it upon myself to repair damages another alter caused, but it is not required of me. I see it much the same as our external family; they can be dangerous, and they do cause harm both because we were involved and for other reasons — I did not cause that harm, and my reaction to that is up to me, just as anyone who faced that impact.

Some of our alters care more about relationships than others, and they might go further for the sake of preserving a bond. That’s great, and it’s their choice.

The choices are very important to us because we did not always have them. Our background in programming and coexisting with many programmed systems informs our opinions quite a bit, and we were not allowed to present ourselves authentically as a requirement of that environment. Our individuality is crucial to our existence, and while you are free to describe yourself/selves however you want, you do not get to choose for us.

I can talk more about why we insist on being separate people rather than feeling like separate people, or anything along those lines. I know it’s contrary to dominating clinicians, but I still value my/our lived experience over their learned experience. We do listen to their opinions and mind the evidence presented, and the stance we present externally is as close to a consensus as we can get. You don’t have to understand right now to give us this kind of respect, however, if you don’t, I will not continue to extend it to you.

There’s a lot of ideas in RAMCOA and general CDD spaces that are cultural, and that can be good and safe if it feels right to you. We will still reflect whatever you use when we address you, but please be aware that what works for you might not for us. Differences are okay, and I have yet to find the statement without exception. It’s part of being a person, and you are doing it just fine. I need you to consider we are doing the same.

[adrianasunderworld]

💕Gift for a Godmother💕

A valentines drabble of Crowley wanting to get Clara a present.

@mangacupcake @marrondrawsalot @writing-heiress @the-weirdos-mind

💝💝💝

The council was not very helpful. And by council he meant his ward and young cousin he had gone to for an opinion on what to buy for Valentine's Day.

Crowley sat on the living room floor of Ramshackle, his laptop open in front of him on the coffee table,several tabs open to various shopping websites. His coat and hat tossed aside on the nearby chair. He wishes he was better at gift giving. He had known Clara for years, getting her a gift should have been easier than this.

Dreary and Isabelle also sat on the floor, just as perplexed, eating the snacks he brought to bribe them into helping him.

“What about shoes?” Isabelle suggested through a mouth half filled with candy, “She always has the best shoes.”

“ Yes, but what kind?” That had been his first thought. “She buys every pair she wants from all her favorite brands. Everytime I peak at her wishlist it's seems to be after she's already bought them.”

“You mentioned she likes clothes,” Dreary said, “Maybe that? Or accessories, like a handbag.”

“Similar problem,” Dire said as he looked through the tabs of all her favorite shops. There was very few things Clara did not possess. If she didn't, it was not her style at all. He had known her long enough to tell her taste at a glance and somehow that made it all the more difficult to find something just right.

“What do you normally do for Valentine's anyways?” The prefect asked.

“A standard card, and flowers she likes,” Crowley replied, thinking of all the years past. They had been standard gifts, and he never forgot a year. “But I want to do something different this year, even if it's a small gift.”

“But why?” Dreary asked, leaning forward with her chin resting in her hands. Isabelle leaned forward as well. “What changed?”

Suddenly the Headmage felt coming to Ramshackle was a mistake as both girls looked at him expectantly for an answer. He cleared his throat and tried to play it off. “No reason. Just felt doing something different to show my appreciation for my fellow Headmage.”

“Uh huh. Now what's that real reason?” Isabelle replied, clearly not buying a word of it.

“It's ok, Dire. You can tell us.” Dreary said softly.

Crowley knew they would not leave him alone now. He could already picture them in his office pestering to tell. “I just… Want to make it special this year. Nothing big has happened to warrant it I suppose. I simply want to give her something she deserves for a change.”

“Translation: You like her and want to actually shoot your shot.” Isabelle said.

“Not how I would have put it, but in a manner of speaking, yes.”

Dreary seemed excited at this development. “That's sweet! I think this will go well.”

“Before you get your hopes up, I need a gift.”

“Ok well what does she like besides fashion?” Isabelle asked as she grabbed a piece of paper and a pencil. “You might be able to narrow it down more if you just make a list.”

“Besides clothing and shoes, she has one of the biggest sweet tooths I think I've ever seen. Especially for pumpkin flavored treats. Pie, coffee, you name it. It's one of the few things she refuses to share. She loves pastel colors. If it comes in a soft pink or blue, she'll take it everytime. Oh, she loves Romance movies and novels. She always insists she doesn't cry at them, but the happy endings always get to her-”

Dreary and Isabelle glanced at each other as Dire rambled on about Headmage Cristalería.

“-and don't even get me started on her and the autumn time-”

“Dire!” Dreary interrupted. “What about hobbies?”

“Hm? Oh she absolutely adores miniatures.”

“Miniatures?” Isabelle asked. “Like dollhouse stuff?”

“Yes, she's always found them cute. But she likes making and getting them for her mice and the pixies of White Ash to enjoy. She also adores her mice. She's told me she's looked after the mice in the school since she was a child, they mean a great deal to her.” As he said it, Dire finally had an idea. “Wait a minute.”

“What?” Dreary leaned over to see what he was looking up and smiled approvingly. “These are adorable.”

Isabelle peeked as well at the screen to look at the online store Dire was scrolling through. “Aw. She'll like these.”

“I hope so.”

***

“Good morning, Prudence.” Clara greeted her assistant as she walked into the main office of the school.

“Good morning, Headmage.” The woman replied with a nod of her head.

“Anything of note this morning?”

“No, but a delivery came for you shortly after I came in. I left it on your desk.”

“Delivery?” Clara asked, trying to think of what it could it could be. “I wasn't expecting any deliveries.”

“It's seems to be a gift, ma'am. The tag said it was from Mr. Crowley of Night Raven.”

“Ah, I see. I'll take a look at it now. Thank you Prudence.” Clara opened the door to her office and was immediately greeted to the sight of a bouquet of white and pink roses in a glass vase on her desk.

She smiled at the sight as she admired the flowers, picking out the card that was addressed to her from it.

Then she noticed the two small boxes as well. One of the mice that was always sniffing around her office seemed rather interested in the smaller box. Opening it, she noticed it had the logo of a bakery she regularly went to, so she was delighted to see it full of her favorite pumpkin cookies inside. She was already thinking of how they would taste with her morning coffee. Before she got ahead of herself, she opened the slightly larger box. In it was a miniature open carriage. Pink with all the intricate little details molded onto the side painted in silver, it's little seats made with a soft white material. Clara thought it was adorable with all its little details. She set it down, the mouse scurried over to it to investigate. Crawling in, the little seat was just the right size for the little creature.

“Is that comfortable, Augusta?” Clara asked as she reached over to pet her.

Augusta the mouse squeaked in approval.

The fae woman chuckle to herself a bit before finally opening the card.

I hope you enjoy these gifts. I wanted you to have something special this year, simply because you deserve it. Happy Valentine's - Dire Crowley

Clara smiled. As obnoxious as Dire was, he knew when to be sweet. She picked up her phone as she sat in her chair, looking at Augusta the mouse drift off to sleep in the tiny carriage.

“Good morning, Clara.”

“Hello, Dire. I just got your gifts.”

“I hope you liked them.”

“I did, I wanted to call and thank you. They're very sweet.”

“I'm glad. Clara, now that I have you on the phone, I hope you'll let me treat you to dinner as well tonight if you're not busy.”

The corner of her lips curled up into a smile. “I'd like that, Dire.”

[wavesoutbeingtossed]

Can I just say that as much as I'm usually talking into the void here, I'm so grateful for this community, even if I'm usually hanging out on the sidelines?

It's so nice to be able to come on here and write my silly little posts about the things Taylor's music makes me think about and to then have you wonderful people continue the discussion, or to read what you are all observing or analyzing and have my mind blown or chuckle or share in the joy or whatever.

For comparison, there are people who I used to love talking about this stuff with but over the years they've soured on Taylor (totally her prerogative) and we've stopped being able to have these discussions, because the nuance just goes out the window in the process. Like thinking Taylor was obsessive for writing as much as she did about JG because they were only together three months (when those of us who follow her realize it was more complicated than that), or insisting Midnights is a breakup album and the last year and a half of the relationship with Joe was fake going through the motions or fake and that they broke up way before tour (when... it's pretty damn obvious when it happened from the set list alone) and thinking TTPD is just going to be a diss album used to bury a helpless ex (...) or using the situation last May (ahem) as proof of her callousness or whatever, when again a more human answer is that she wasn't exactly thinking clearly and in The Pit in the wake of a life-changing upheaval etc. Or what really gets me, dismissing the Snakegate stuff as her being petty and holding onto grudges and ignoring the really intense mental and physical consequences that she dealt with for years afterwards.

Which is not to say this is all about her personal life, but that by being able to look at the music through a more nuanced lens instead of, like, taking it literally, for lack of better word, it colours in the lines and not only situates the music more in the context in which it was created, but also makes it feel richer to our own interpretations and associations with it. I LOVE when we all go back and find parallels with her other songs, and it's even more fun now because the mash-ups on stage show Taylor does the same thing with her own music! It's such a rich tapestry and we're in such a unique position as fans where an artist is reaching (if not has reached) living legend status in real time, while at an unprecedented level of creative output, and we get to digest the music and study it and watch it evolve before our eyes!

It's just really nice to have a space online where we *can* do that, because I feel like there just is nowhere else to really do that? It seems like people I know in real life either a) actively avoid her music (totally fair, not everyone's cup of tea) b) only care in terms of current pop culture value (also fair, although it gets annoying when it veers into TikTok brainrot into easter egging and shit instead of being about hte music) or c) obsessed with the Travis romance of it all. And I think most online spaces are kind of caught in these camps too. It's either unrelenting criticism (which is fine, not everyone has to like her and there are valid things to critique, even if I don't particularly care to myself) veering into hatred for the sake of hatred, or obsessing over her personal life to the point of dehumanizing her as a person and artist.

I know I'm being a cupcake but like, this is the cupcake website, so who cares. I use this space to delve into the shows and movies and music I love because there isn't anywhere else you can curate your experience as much as you can here. And when it comes to Taylor's music, I love that I can just spill my guts about what sets my brain on fire (affectionate) and the connections that emerge and just how much it makes me feel. And between the reblogs and comments and messages, it's slightly less lonely talking to everyone else too.

So, thank you friends! I don't know why I'm in my feels today but it seems like as good a time as any!