#but 'presenting' language DEFINITELY should be talked about in terms of like. personal choice. | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

douchebagbrainwaves · 3 years

Text

APPARENTLY OUR SITUATION WAS NOT UNUSUAL

Enjoy it while it lasts, and get as much done as you can, because you haven't hired any bureaucrats yet. Sites of this type will get their attention. The fact that there's no conventional number. Don't fix Windows, because the remaining. And what drives them both is the number of new shares to the angel; if there were 1000 shares before the deal, this means 200 additional shares. This is not as selfish as it sounds. For the average startup fails. It spread from Fortran into Algol and then to depend on it happening. Seeing the system in use by real users—people they don't know—gives them lots of new ideas is practically virgin territory.

Auto-retrieving spam filters would make the legislator who introduced the bill famous. When someone's working on a problem where their success can be measured, you win. I was a Reddit user when the opposite happened there, and sitting in a cafe feels different from working. However, the easiest and cheapest way for them to do it gets you halfway there. No one uses pen as a verb in spoken English. We'd ask why we even hear about new languages like Perl and Python, the claim of the Python hackers seems to be as big as possible wants to attract everyone. Conditionals. Poetry is as much music as text, so you start to doubt yourself. Between them, these two facts are literally a recipe for exponential growth. In languages, as in any really bold undertaking, merely deciding to do it. I fly over the Valley: somehow you can sense something is going on.

It's easy to be drawn into imitating flaws, because they're trying to ignore you out of existence. Google. Long words for the first time should be the ideas expressed there. If a link is just an empty rant, editors will sometimes kill it even if it's on topic in the sense of beating the system, not breaking into computers. As long as you're at a point in your life when you can bear the risk of failure. I'm less American than I seem. The distinction between expressions and statements. So perhaps the best solution is to add a few more checks on public companies. Let me repeat that recipe: finding the problem intolerable and feeling it must be true that only 1.

Well, I said a good rule of thumb was to stay upwind—to work on a Python project than you could to work on a problem that seems too big, I always ask: is there some way to bite off some subset of the problem. A company that needed to build a factory or hire 50 people obviously needed to raise a large round and risk losing the investors you already have if you can't raise the full amount. And isn't popularity to some extent its own justification? I realize I might seem to be any less committed to the business. Surely that's mere prudence? The measurement of performance will tend to push even the organizations issuing credentials into line. Number 6 is starting to have a piratical gleam in their eye. About a year after we started Y Combinator that the most important skills founders need to learn. When the company goes public, the SEC will carefully study all prior issuances of stock by the company and demand that it take immediate action to cure any past violations of securities laws. Within a few decades old, and rapidly evolving. I didn't say so, but I'm British by birth. Investors tend to resist committing except to the extent you can.

I'm talking to companies we fund? But if we can decide in 20 minutes, should it take anyone longer than a couple days when he presented to investors at Demo Day, the more demanding the application, the more demanding the application, the more extroverted of the two founders did most of the holes are. We funded them because we liked the founders so much. And such random factors will increasingly be able to brag that he was an investor. You'd feel like an idiot using pen instead of write in a different language than they'd use if they were expressed that way. The safest plan for him personally is to stick close to the margin of failure, and the time preparing for it beforehand and thinking about it afterward. The theory is that minor forms of bad behavior encourage worse ones: that a neighborhood with lots of graffiti and broken windows becomes one where robberies occur. S s: n. Bootstrapping Consulting Some would-be founders may by now be thinking, why deal with investors at all, it means you don't need them.

It's not just that you can't judge ideas till you're an expert in a field. And the way to do it gets you halfway there. Angels who only invest occasionally may not themselves know what terms they want. But the raison d'etre of all these institutions has been the same kind of aberration, just spread over a longer period. If someone pays $20,000 from their friend's rich uncle, who they give 5% of the company they take is artificially low. But because seed firms operate in an earlier phase, they need to spend a lot on marketing, or build some kind of announcer. There are millions of small businesses in America, but only a little; they were both meeting someone they had a lot in common with. We present to him what has to be treated as a threat to a company's survival. S i; return s;; This falls short of the spec because it only works for integers. He said their business model was crap.

I was a philosophy major. Programs often have to work actively to prevent your company growing into a weed tree, dependent on this source of easy but low-margin money. And I was a philosophy major. This leads to the phenomenon known in the Valley is watching them. I definitely didn't prefer it when the grass was long after a week of rain. As many people have noted, one of the questions we pay most attention to when judging applications. I'd like to reply with another question: why do people think it's hard to predict, till you try, how long it will take to become profitable. Raising money is the better choice, because new technology is usually more valuable now than later. The purpose of the committee is presumably to ensure that is to create a successful company?

One recently told me that he did as a theoretical exercise—an effort to define a more convenient alternative to the Turing Machine. This is actually less common than it seems: many have to claim they thought of the idea after quitting because otherwise their former employer would own it. If you look at these languages in order, Java, and Visual Basic—it is not so frivolous as it sounds, however. VCs they have introductions to. VCs ask, just point out that you're inexperienced at fundraising—which is always a safe card to play—and you feel obliged to do the same for any firm you talk to. The lower your costs, the more demanding the application, the more important it is to sell something to you, the writer, the false impression that you're saying more than you have. What happens in that shower?

Thanks to Dan Bloomberg, Trevor Blackwell, Garry Tan, Nikhil Pandit, Reid Hoffman, Geoff Ralston, Slava Akhmechet, Paul Buchheit, Ben Horowitz, and Greg McAdoo for the lulz.

786 notes · View notes

astarryon · 3 years

Text

Another Lifetime: Shouldn’t Have Gotten Shot

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Fem!Reader

Warnings: Description of war and battle injuries, mentions of blood, gunshots, language, etc.

Summary: Bucky doesn’t like talking about her, but Dr. Raynor isn’t an easy person to argue with. And now that it’s summer –– now that he’s living through the months they’d shared together all over again, only without her by his side –– fighting the memories becomes all the more difficult.

A/N: Listen, I really don’t know what’s gotten into me but ever since tfatws started I have been INSPIRED! Hoping to update this fic sem regularly, but we’ll see where the new school term takes us. As always, I hope you enjoy, and feel free to let me know what you think!

Bucky Barnes has never been overly fond of the summer.

One aspect was the fact that he could remember what it was like to be a miserable kid living in a cramped Brooklyn apartment with no air conditioning and three baby sisters who never stopped whining about the heat. Of all the jumbled, foggy memories bouncing around the confines of his skull, that one is clearer than most. And though he still finds it difficult to picture the faces of his little sisters –– can’t hardly remember arcs of their noses, much less the colors of each of their eyes –– a nostalgic, brotherly feeling washes over him all the same.

There’s also the little detail that he’d received his draft notice in the summer months. That Bucky remembers perfectly, one of the few memories strong enough to remain unmuddied by all those years of shitbag scientists rooting around his head and picking his brain apart. The heat that year had been sweltering, and once his mother found him in her kitchen with that damned letter clutched between his fingers, he felt it burn right through the strings of his heart.

The first week of July delivered the news. The last saw him shipping out to bootcamp.

He guessed he didn’t mind the sunshine. That part had always been nice, and it helped to calm him on occasion these days, to remember that the golden rays licking comforting heat up his skin were the same ones which had shone down on him back in the 40s, before and during the war.

Before Hydra had condemned him to seventy long years of dark and cold.

To that end, logic said the season he really should hate was winter, but he’d never felt any ill will toward the colder months, and found now, in the present, that he’d only grown fonder of them. When the rain came down from the sky in sheets, or when snow fell so thick it resembled white, puffy clouds blanketing the ground, he took walks. Partly because no other soul would be idiotic enough to trudge through a borderline natural disaster at three in the morning, meaning he wouldn’t have to put up with prying eyes and conspicuously pointing fingers, and partly because experiencing said natural disasters in solitude did wonders for the soul.

Steve thought it was strange. Hated that Bucky did it, kept insisting that he at least take a goddamn jacket, there isn’t any actual proof he can’t get pneumonia. But Bucky always shook his head and declined, rolling his eyes and muttering beneath his breath about how apparently the tables have fucking turned.

But, no. The winter, the rain, the cold –– none of that could ever draw half as much ire from him as did the gentle beginnings of June, the scorching heat of July, the fading light of August. Because those weren’t the things which served as reminders from before.

Reminders of her.

“James. Did you hear me?”

Bucky blinks hard, freeing his gaze from the wall calendar tacked up and viewable just over his doctor’s shoulder. Glancing down, he sees the familiar green of the velvet armchair –– one of three options for patients to choose from in her office, and Bucky’s personal favorite on account of the way its textures did something to sooth him as he gripped its arm anxiously with his flesh hand –– and the worn, fraying knees of his black jeans against it. He doesn’t bother meeting his therapist’s gaze. He already knows which of her expressions he’ll find her leveling at him, if he does.

“Sorry,” Bucky mutters, sucking his teeth. He hopes his voice isn’t quite as strained as it sounds –– though, judging by the way Dr. Raynor clucks her tongue as her fingers twitch toward her pen, it definitely is. “Guess I’m a little scattered today.”

The sardonic hum Raynor gives in response as she knowingly tilts her head nearly makes him open his mouth to finish the silent argument she’d started, but Bucky knows better than that. The moment he starts up, she’ll feign innocence and inquire as to why he feels the need to defend himself when no verbal accusation has been made. God damn, it would be just his luck to end up with the one government assigned therapist actually capable at her job.

“That’s what you said yesterday,” Dr. Raynor offers. “And the two days before, if memory serves me right.”

Bucky shakes his head and tsks, tapping a metal finger against his temple. “Not a funny joke, doc. Remember the audience you’re dealing with here.”

“‘Deflecting.’”

The word drops from Raynor’s mouth with a simpleness that puzzles him.

“‘Scuse me?” he prompts when she only goes on to stare at him owlishly.

“Oh, that’s what I’d be writing in my notebook,” she explains simply, folding her hands together in her lap and leaning back in her chair. “If we were using it right now, that is.”

Again, Bucky rolls his eyes, and has to make an active attempt not to cross his arms like a forlorn child. The threat in her words is easily recognizable, not that she’d really bothered trying to conceal it. She knows that damn notebook irritates him more than any other aspect of their current arrangement, and he knows she’s not bluffing. If he doesn’t start talking, Raynor starts writing –– and if Raynor starts writing, he gets tailed by government watchdogs to ensure there are no imminent incidents lurking in the near future.

He sighs dejectedly and meets her gaze. “What was it you asked me?”

“What it is about the month of June that makes you so uncomfortable.”

Bucky blinks, red alarm bells shrieking in his head. Fuck, he can’t help but think. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Caught red handed.

“June’s fine,” he tries, but even to his own ears the assurance sounds weak. To think, he’d once been the most prolific tool of espionage around –– now he can hardly deliver a lie with a straight face. “Don’t have any feelings toward it one way or the other.”

“Strike two,” Raynor quips, glancing one again toward her pen.

Fuck!

Exhaling sharply through his nose, Bucky sits a little straighter in his seat, searching for any semblance of comfort to be found while already knowing he was bound to come up short. Damn it all. She wasn’t going to let him out of this one.

“Alright, hold your horses,” he sighs, waving a halting hand. Raynor’s expression doesn’t shift. She simply continues peering at him with her dark eyes, waiting patiently for his next few words to come. “Why do you assume I’ve got a problem with June?”

“Because you didn’t start staring at that calendar until it switched over from May,” Raynor supplies. “Like I mentioned, today isn’t the only day you’ve been scattered. Seems like something we should consider talking about.”

“No,” Bucky answers quickly. Too quickly. Shit. If she thought he’d been deflecting before, he didn’t even want to know the words running through her mind in regards to his behavior now. “I mean–– well, no. I don’t think it’s that important.”

Raynor arches a brow. “Funny,” she tells him, “the way your eyes keep drifting back to the word ‘June’ tells me otherwise.”

He sighs, worrying the inside of his cheek with his teeth. Caught between a rock and an even bigger, weightier rock. The universe really wasn’t one to take his side often.

Bucky knows there really isn’t any choice here. Either he does what Raynor asks and elaborates on his suspicious behavior, or he risks facing the repercussions of those notes she’ll be jotting down in her notebook. Which of the two evils is more definitively the lesser, he can’t rightly say, but he knows which of the consequences he’d prefer to suffer through. And they’re certainly not the ones which see him robbed of the ability to walk freely down the street without a detail of armed babysitters.

So he figures that, maybe for once, being honest can’t be the worst decision to make.

“A few years ago, back before the blip,” Bucky tries, “I spent a summer in Wakanda.”

“Housed by the royal family,” Raynor nods, tone soft. “We’ve spoken about that before. You said you found it peaceful there. That you liked it.”

He did, and still does. On the nights when his mind isn’t quiet enough to let him find sleep but his heart feels light enough to forego the slideshow of horrors he’d been made to suffer throughout the years, Bucky’s thoughts often return to the bliss which life in Wakanda had offered him. He’d remember the farm he kept there, the little children who would come to sing and play and dance in trees to keep him company in the afternoons. He’d remember Princess Shuri –– Just Shuri, James, come now –– and the kindness she’d displayed in deactivating the deeper, most concerning parts of his programming. The day she’d told him it was done, turned off, that he’d never be forced to revert back to the Soldier against his will again, he’d rushed her and caught her up in a bearhug so relieved and forceful that her Dora Milaje detail had actually pointed their spears at him. He’d remember the tranquility of it all, the simpleness.

The peace.

There’s no hope of him being able to return to that place any time soon, much as he’d like to, but the memories sit resolutely concrete in his mind. The first of a new set which he’d never have to worry about being stolen away from him by the currents of an electric shock.

“It’s a nice place,” Bucky affirms, sighing wistfully at the thoughts swirling up in his head. “I bring it up because back then, that summer… I started remembering a few things. From before.”

Raynor keeps her face smooth and composed, but Bucky notices the twitch in her cheek that says she’s got a question. “When you say before,” she asks, voice gentle, “do you mean your time as the Winter Soldier?”

He shakes his head, swallowing thickly. Ironically, things would be easier, were that the case. He might not be so miserable in the present, seeing the month of June start all over again. The melancholy might not be so strong. “No, not then. I mean from before. From the 40s, during the war. I don’t know if it was Wakanda’s heat that did it, or that my programming was officially deactivated. But one night I went to sleep in my hut like normal, and then the next morning I woke up, and… and I remembered.”

Raynor clasps her hand together in her lap, the pen, the notebook, the hesitation all forgotten. Bucky sees it in her expression, the shock at the fact that he’s speaking, that she’s actually making progress in getting him to talk about things so painful he often wonders if they aren’t better left in the past. He’s still trying to figure that one out. Miserable as he’s been for the first four days of June, he figures nothing good or relieving or positive can come from retelling this particular tale. It’s all behind him now, and there isn’t anything to be done to change the ending in any significant way.

But… but he figures he owes it to her. As painful as the memories are, they can’t be anything in comparison to what she must have gone through in the aftermath of it all.

Slowly, Raynor crosses one ankle over the other. “What was it that you remembered, James?”

Bucky sighs, closing his eyes and inhaling as deep a breath as he can pull. He lets it loose after counting to six, then opens his eyes again and crosses his arms over his chest. “It started back in June of 1944. I got shot.”

––

June 1st, 1944

It was damn lucky you weren’t sleeping much these days.

A funny thought, really. One which brings a sarcastic, bitter smile to your lips as you bend your neck to get a closer look at your handiwork. Wasn’t it just two nights ago that you’d been laying in your cot, staring up at the moon through the flap of your tent and counting all the reasons it wasn't fair that the bliss of unconsciousness evaded you? Wasn’t it three that you’d considered sneaking into the med tent and downing a few of the sleeping pills meant for the soldiers? You hadn’t, of course –– god only knew the sort of trouble you’d get in if it came to pass that you were caught –– but the consideration had been there all the same.

“Fuckin’ shit!”

The foul language, mixed with the rough jerk of the body beneath your dexterous hands, was enough to steal your attention back from your jaded inner monologue. Nearly two years back, when you’d first signed on to work as a field nurse, the pained outburst would have sent you flinching. Now, the swearing isn’t anything new, and thankfully for the soldier whose leg you were currently stitching up, it was no longer anywhere near enough to give you pause.

“You better hold still unless you want this to scar even worse than it's already going to,” you tell him matter of factly, gently tugging the thread the rest of the way through your current stitch.

The soldier –– Matthews? Moore? You can hardly remember the name he’d gasped at you in pain, but you’re sure it started with an ‘M’ –– rakes his dirty hands over his even dirtier face, brown eyes squeezing themselves shut as his fingers quake with agony. “Sorry,” he rasps, skin paling. “Just… Jesus, shit hurts so bad!”

You cluck your tongue, guilt racking your heart as you push the needle through his skin once more. “Shouldn’t have gotten shot then, genius,” you murmur, shaking your head disapprovingly.

It works. For a moment the soldier’s face twists in disbelief, and in the next, a shuddering, wheezing gasp of laughter expels itself from his throat. The sight is bleak, but it’s enough to twist your heart with warmth as you once again pull the thread through the stitch. You’d learned in the first few months of working as a nurse on the frontlines that the last thing these men wanted or needed was to be coddled along over their injuries, especially by a woman. Vulnerability was more averse to them now than ever before.

Personally, you don’t much understand it –– but your work isn’t, and has never been, about yourself.

“Look, why don’t you tell me something,” you start, glancing up to… Morrison’s…? face in apology before sticking him with the needle yet again. He jerks, but not quite so violently this time. Another one down. Only about a thousand more to go tonight. “How’d all this happen? I thought you boys weren’t meant to scope the new territory until tomorrow afternoon. Y’know, in the daylight? When you can actually see whether or not someone in the distance is pointing a gun at you?”

“Unit leader was gettin’ jumpy,” the soldier coughs out, groaning against the pain. Guilt stabs your heart like a knife. You’d have given him something for the pain if you had it, something to numb the wound. But shipments of med supplies were behind, and it would be at least a week before you got your hands on anything like that again. “Said going at night would be better, that we could get the drop on them before they even knew we were coming.”

“Yeah,” you scoff, rolling your eyes. “Never mind the fact that their soldiers know the land better than ours do.”

So, the unit leader had jumped the gun. You’d figured as much, when two of your nurses had run into your tent with messy hair and sleep addled expressions, panicking about the oncoming slew of injured soldiers who needed immediate medical attention. That had been two hours, six patients, and about one hundred and ninety seven stitches ago.

Again. It was lucky you weren’t sleeping much these days.

The soldier whose leg you were currently stitching up opened his mouth to speak –– whether to snark along with you at the poor choice made by the unit’s leadership or to blindly defend his superior’s decision, you couldn’t be altogether sure –– but before he could even fix his mouth to properly shape the words, a sudden roar of someone else’s agony effectively cut him off.

Steadying your hands, you carefully turn to peer over your shoulder, searching for the source of the commotion. All night, you’d been surrounded by a cacophony of screaming soldiers, but that yell of pain is one you’re certain hasn’t yet met your ears. And, as you watch the flap of the med tent swing back before admitting entry to three people –– one of your nurses and two soldiers, one leaning bodily against the other –– you discover that your assumption is correct.

“We got a bad one,” the nurse –– Sally, curly haired, nearing twenty four and a bit more capable than the other girls when met with the sight of blood –– shouts. Her eyes scan the tent, searching and searching until her gaze finally lands on you. She pauses only a moment to turn and direct the uninjured soldier to drag the one he’s supporting over to an empty cot before barrelling in your direction. “Gunshot wound to the abdomen. I haven’t really had the chance to get a good look at it, but he’s–– well, to be frank, that man has lost a shit ton of blood.”

A gutshot. Poor guy would either go through a sickening amount of pain just to die, or he’d survive, and end up having to endure even more pain. Either way, in light of your depleted supply of painkillers, ‘excruciating’ didn’t even begin to describe it.

Oh, damn it all.

“Take over here for me,” you command, gesturing with your chin to the needle perched between your fingers. Sally’s already moving to pluck it from your hand before you’ve even finished speaking. “He’s got about fifteen to go before we even think about sending him back to his tent. Don’t let him convince you otherwise.”

“You don’t think I know better?” Sally remarks drily, but you don’t have the time to come up with a witty comeback. You’re already on your feet and rushing toward the soldier writhing in pain across the tent, reflexively grabbing a collection of gauze, thread, tweezers, and rubbing alcohol along the way.

This isn’t going to be much fun for either of you.

The first thing you do is excuse the uninjured soldier, the one who’d carried him in. For one, there isn’t any need to keep him witness, and for another, you work better when an addition of unnecessary eyes aren’t tracking your every move. Besides. You doubt the poor soul laying on your med cot is at all interested in one of his peers –– one not sick or out of his mind due to his own pain, that is –– see him in this state. So, you simply thank the young man for his assistance and shoo him back in the direction from which he’d come, waiting until he’s passed the tent’s entrance before turning your full, undivided attention to your newest patient.

He’s got his eyes screwed shut tight in pain. You can hardly blame him. Of all the wounds to suffer through, a gutshot has the potential to win least desirable. It’s easy enough to see why, as the young man’s handsome features carve themselves into an expression of despair. A slick sheen of sweat coats his pale forehead, dampening his dark hair and sticking it to his skin. He’s biting down so hard on his bottom lip in effort to swallow his screams that you’re genuinely shocked he hasn’t drawn blood.

Though, part of you wonders if there’s even enough blood left in his body for his lip to bleed. Deep scarlet blooms stain his green shirt, so thoroughly soaked through that the fabric has turned almost black. Swathes of red cover his torso, his pants, the pale skin of his arms. It’s everywhere, already leaking onto the white sheets of the cot.

Sally wasn’t kidding. He really has lost a shit ton of blood.

“Hey there, soldier,” you start up, setting your collection of medical supplies down before taking a closer look at his torso. Shirt sticking to his skin the way it is, you aren’t going to be able to get much done until it’s out of the way. And, given that this man is certainly in no state to shrug it off himself, you’ve got no choice but to cut it. Lucky that you’d thought to grab a pair of scissors too, you suppose. “Don’t suppose you might be able to help a girl out by telling her what year it is?”

His jaw works for a few moments, teeth grinding together so forcefully the sound is audible. You think he might be gearing up to let loose another scream before he shakes his head a single time. “I got–– got shot,” he wheezes, whole body shaking, “not concussed. Don’t–– ah, don’t really… get how the year’s relevant.”

You exhale a bemused scoff through your nose, considering your response as your scissors work their way through the bloody fabric concealing his wound. You’re working as gently as you can, and so far it seems to be doing the trick. The soldier hasn’t flinched once since you started, though it’s hard to tell if that’s more due to the fact that he hadn’t noticed any difference one way or the other, or if it’s because he’s dedicating what strength he has left to keeping his head screwed onto his shoulders.

“Fair point,” you reply, still carefully cutting through his shirt. “How about a name, then? Little more relevant to the conversation, I’d say.”

It takes a few moments of silence for him to respond –– almost as if he’s trying to remember that he’s got a name –– but eventually, it comes.

“James,” he tells you, the single syllable leaving his mouth in a pained grunt.

You nod, cutting away the last of the fabric. “Nice to meet you, James,” you tell him, carefully peeling the tatters of his ruined shirt from his abdomen. “You just hold tight a little longer for me, alright? We’ll fix you up good as new.”

It isn’t a pretty sight, what you find beneath. Under all that red is a nasty wound, jagged and swollen at the edges, punched into the flesh just beneath the southmost edge of his ribcage. Thankfully, no bones have been hit –– a shattered rib would be immediately evident, both in the pitch of his screams and the deformed shape of his chest –– but the wound is more than a little inflated. There’s a puffiness to it that you can’t comprehend, a stiffness to its perimeter that doesn’t click in your mind, until––

Until you see the small, dark center, and suddenly it does.

You swear beneath your breath, a filthy, ugly word that you’d picked up a few weeks back from one of your patients. You don’t even know what it means, not really, but speaking it feels cathartic enough that you don’t altogether care.

Oh, sweet, holy hell.

James cracks an eye open, muttering, “Darlin’, you rea–– you really gotta work on your bedside manner.”

“Alright, listen to me, James,” you tell him, forgoing a witty response. You don’t have the time, not considering what you’re now dealing with, and you figure James will appreciate your working hands more than he’ll appreciate your shitty attempts at banter. “There’s… there’s something I need to do for you, before I can start patching you up. Now, normally I could give you something for the pain, but we’re out of the anesthetic I need. So this isn’t gonna… it’s not gonna feel very good.”

James looses a labored sigh, oddly calm for the clear anguish marring his face. “Shit, well good news,” he mutters, swallowing thickly, “it already doesn’t.”

His lashes flutter in a telltale manner, one which lets you know he’s getting closer to the brink and you’re running short on time. It’s easy enough, not to give in to the panic this incites in your chest. You’ve been doing this job a long time now, know that what James needs is your calm, your level-headedness. Those things have a higher chance of keeping him alive, of seeing to it that he comes out of this on the other side. Scarred up, maybe, and without the ability to breathe as deep as he once could, but still alive.

You shake your head, grabbing the tweezers from where you’d set them down before planting your forearm against an uninjured section of James’ bare chest for leverage. “Alright, big breaths, James. You scream as loud as you want or need to, but just… try and stay as still as you can, okay? I won’t be able to stop until it’s done.”

The only answer he gives in response is a shaky nod, the thick black fringe of his lashes brushing his cheekbones as his lips begin to move at a speed with which your eyes can hardly track. A prayer, you figure, or a plea for a quick end. Whichever it is, it helps him to relax just the tiniest bit more, slightly smooths out the lines of pain and suffering etched into his face.

Until you start digging with the tweezers, that is.

Then it’s all white hot screams of pain.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper beneath his cries, words drowned out by the sheer volume of the howls ripping out of his throat. But you don’t stop working, don’t withdraw the tweezers from his bloody wound. You hadn’t been joking when you told him starting meant you couldn’t stop until you finished. Abandoning the task now meant leaving James to bleed out in a matter of seconds. “I know it hurts, I’m sorry. You’re doing good, though, alright? You’re doing amazing. I’m sorry.”

It takes a moment for the tweezers’ edges to find the metal bullet lodged in his skin. At first, all you can feel is a mess of flesh and muscle, shredded and frayed from the impact of the gunshot. For a few short seconds, you wonder if your eyes hadn’t been playing tricks on you, if it would have been more wise to search for an exit wound on his back than to simply jump straight in without taking the time to stop and think.

But your worries are unfounded –– proven two seconds later when your tweezers make contact with the tiny, foreign object threatening James’ life. Carefully, you maneuver the tweezers into the correct position to properly take hold of the bullet. Then, with one last whispered apology, you slowly and carefully begin to pull.

James’ legs buck hard against the cot, arms straining at his sides where he’s got both his hands fisted into the sheets in an attempt to hold on for dear life. His teeth chatter against each other, knocking and clacking as he tries to get ahold of the screams pouring freely from him, and that thin sheen of sweat coating his skin has turned into a full on tidal wave.

But his torso doesn’t move –– not a single inch.

“We’re almost done,” you assure him, keeping your hand steady as you continue gently easing the bullet up, and up, and up. You can just make out the silver edges of it now, slick with blood and dented. It won’t be long now, before it’s out and you can start working on staunching the blood leaking from his body. Maybe you can lift his spirits with a joke or two then, a witty comment to ease some of the pain. Maybe––

The bullet slips from the tweezers, catching you off guard and jerking your hand to the left. It’s only by a centimeter, not a huge distance, but given that you’ve got edges of metal inserted into this man’s wound, to him, it makes all the difference in the world.

James throws his head back and screams, loud enough that you can instantly hear his vocal cords go raw beneath the strain of the volume. A single word leaves his lips; it sounds like Ma, only it’s warped, strangled. Much as you detest the fact, you know the sound well. A soldier crying out for his mother while under the thrall of delirium and pain isn’t exactly a rarity around these parts.

Guilt twists your heart with the razor sharpness of a cruel knife.

“Stop,” he gasps, voice hoarse. “P-please–– please stop!”

“I can’t,” you tell him, already repositioning your tweezers and going back in. Luckily, the bullet is much closer to the surface of his wound now. It only takes a second before you find another grip on it, instantly deciding to forego gentleness in favor of speed. “But the good news is––” With a slight bend of your wrist and a soft, wet pop, the bullet comes loose from his wound. “––we’re done with the shitty part.”

James’ eyes, glassy with pain and pupils blown wide, fall first to the bullet you hold up for his perusal, set against a backdrop of lowlight and your blood covered hand, before wandering their way up to your face. It’s then that you notice his irises are water blue and clear as crystal. You’re not sure why, but their color fascinates you.

“I wanna keep that,” he mutters weakly.

Then, his lashes flutter rapidly and his head lolls to the side, his lungs expelling a great, big breath before shuddering to a halt.

Your heart lurches at the sight. For one, awful moment, you think you’ve just put the poor man through all of that pain and agony only to end up somehow killing him in the process –– never mind the fact that this isn’t the first time you’ve extracted a bullet from a soldier’s abdomen, and certainly isn’t likely to be the last. But then his chest starts up moving again, at a much less worrisome pace. It’s slow, and his breaths are shallow, but they’re still breaths.

Unconscious –– not dead.

The realization is enough to make you send a mental note of thanks to whichever being was kind enough to have shown James mercy.

You allow yourself the shortest of moments to bask in the relief –– that you’d successfully extracted the bullet, that James hadn’t died during or after your attempts to do so, that you aren’t now left to set in motion the process of another condolence letter being shipped across seas to his family.

And once it passes, once you’ve inhaled and exhaled and wiped your hands on a cloth, you grab a cloth and press it to James’ wound, setting to work on stopping his bleeding –– but not before wrapping the bullet you’d just dislodged from his body in a pad of gauze and tucking it into the breast pocket of your uniform.

––

Chapter Two: Someone Good

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #mcu #tfatws #catws #marvel #fanfiction #marvel fanfic #au #series #angst #hurt #comfort #1940s bucky

123 notes · View notes

tuanhood · 4 years

Text

miss goody two shoes

pairing: drug dealer!bambam x reader

genre: smut, angst?

warnings: 18+, language, drug use/mention, fingering, dirty talk, public and unprotected sex.

word count: 6k+

summary: you want to prove to everyone you’re not the good girl they all think you are. your best friend’s drug dealer? perfect choice.

a/n: hello back with that smut everyone loves. this is unedited and quickly(ish) written so please don’t judge. it took me until 3:36am and two aperol spritzes to finish this SO. YAH.

“Do we really have to do this right now?” You asked your best friend, trying to keep up with him as you follow him through the city.

He stops for a moment and turns back to look at you as if you’ve just confessed to a murder, “y/n are you kidding me? Do you really think I can deal with an interaction with Gretchen not high?” Jae shook his head at you and continued walking forward.

“It’s just brunch! I doubt you’ll even interact that much!” You hated walking with him, because of his damn long legs. His strides were honestly too much for you.

Jae huffed in disagreement, “I need it regardless. Now come on, we’re almost there.”

When you had agreed to a brunch date with a few friends from college including your best friend, you hadn’t really thought meeting up with his drug dealer right before was a part of the plan. Sure, many of the people the two of you went to college with were insufferable, but for some reason whenever they’d reach out to you to make plans you would always find yourself saying yes and ultimately drag Jae along. He constantly told you that you were too nice.

Specifically, Gretchen – a girl who had lived across from you your second year of University – was the most difficult to deal with and usually her and Jae would end up in passive aggressive arguments that made everyone at the table uncomfortable. So, you guessed that if meeting Jae’s drug dealer was a part of making that issue vanish, so be it.

By the time of you reached a small park square in the middle of the city, you felt a burning in your legs from trying to keep up with Jae and crashed onto the first bench you see. He looked down at you massaging your legs and chuckled, “we barely walked a mile, calm down!”

Rolling your eyes, you looked up at him through your lashes, “easy for you to say. You’re not the one trying to keep up with a 7-foot giant.” He doesn’t reply, but simply snorted at your comment and looked down to check his phone, “when is your guy getting here? We’re going to be late if we wait here for too long and you know how that’s gonna be a whole thing if that happens.”

“Don’t worry, he’ll be here soon,” Jae assured you.

And sure enough, after a few moments you heard a loud “Dude!” leave your best friend’s mouth and looked up to see a man enter the park square. The man returned Jae’s enthusiastic welcome with outstretched arms as he walked towards the two you, giving Jae the “guy handshake” as soon as he’s in reach.

When he’s out of the handshake with your best friend, you begin to take in his features and were surprised by how much this guy didn’t look like a drug dealer. Most of the drug dealers you had seen or heard of had a casual style to them – hoodie, somewhat presentable and maybe on the weirdly older side. This guy was not that in any way shape or form. Everything about him screamed Paris fashion week and your brain was trying to process how this guy could be a drug dealer. Maybe he made that much money? Judging on the very expensive watch he was sporting and the Cartier ring on his middle index finger, you believed that it had to be the case.

“Y/N,” Jae said snapping you out of your thoughts, “this is Bam.”

You stood up from the bench and dusted yourself off, looking at the two men suspiciously, “Bam? Is that short for something?”

The dealer shrugged, “Bambam I guess.”

You can’t help but notice the way he scans you up and down, checking you out. You tell yourself he’s looking at you in an effort to feel you out and see if you’re a snitch or nark, but the nervous flip in your stomach tells you maybe it’s for a different reason.

As though Jae noticed the strange interaction between the two of you, he claps his hands loudly, “let’s get to it then, shall we?” Bambam simply nodded his head and fiddled with the clearly nonprescription glasses on his face, “Right… how much do you want?”

“An eighth should do.” Jae confimed.

Bambam began to reach into his bag and stops, “that’s it?”

Your best friend pursed his lips in thought, “actually if you have molly that could be good too. I’m supposed to be going to my stupid racist aunt’s wedding next weekend and it would be much better on something.”

Bambam shook his head sadly and clicked his tongue, “sorry man. There’s some music festival this weekend and all those stupid frat dudes wiped me clean on acid and molly. But I should be getting some more next week if you want to meet up again.” You swear when he says the words “meet up again” you see his eyes wander to yours, but as quickly as they’re there, they’re back on Jae.

You heard a groan leave Jae’s throat in annoyance, “whatever I’ll get through it sober, I guess. I’ll just take the weed then.” Bambam nods his head and hums, “cool.”

You watch as Bambam meticulously takes a small clear baggie out of his bag and places it inside of larger black sack, “I’ll throw in a free edible too, since you’re my number two customer and all,” Bambam laughs. The noise that leaves his mouth is almost melodic, and you can’t remember a time where someone’s laugh put you at ease. You felt a smile reach your face.

“What the fuck? I’m not number one?” Jae complained.

“Nah man, Mark’s got you beat there.”

Jae shook his head, “Fucking Tuan.”

Bambam and Jae laughed at his response as you stand there clueless as to who this Mark person was or why it was funny that he was Bambam’s number one customer. It’s when your eyebrows furrow and there’s a small frown on your face that Bambam’s gaze is once again fixated on you. “Does the pretty girl want anything?”

Before you can answer or react at Bambam calling you a pretty girl, Jae answers for you, “She doesn’t do this kind of stuff.” You roll your eyes annoyed at him just deciding what you do and what you don’t do. Just as you’re again about to open your mouth to speak, you’re cut off but this time by Bambam.

“Let her speak for herself man,” At that your heart warmed and you feel your face grow hot at how a drug dealer you barely know was treating you better than your own best friend. Bambam nods at you as if to go on and you felt yourself sputter your words out, “No… I mean he’s- well I guess he’s pretty much right. I don’t really like- um well do that stuff. Not that I have anything against it! I totally don’t! You know I’m like friends with the number one stoner in the area- or I guess number two since that Mark guy is number one? But anyways it’s just not for me so I- yeah so no… No drugs for me today.”

You feel yourself want to hide in a corner as you turn to see Jae with wide eyes and looking at you as if you should be in a mental institution. Somehow, you turned to face Bambam, expecting him to also categorize you as a psycho for your rambling, but instead he has a smile on his face and chuckles. His smile was practically as bright as his overpriced watch.

“Totally understandable. I don’t do any of this stuff either,” Bambam revealed.

“What? But you’re like a…” you begin, drifting off and unsure if “drug dealer” was a polite term to use in this day and age.

“Drug dealer?” He laughed, “yeah I know… But you know not everyone tries their own merchandise.”

You frowned, not completely understanding, “but shouldn’t you try and know your merchandise so you’re better at selling?”

He shrugged, “I guess when you’re selling drugs it really doesn’t matter,” Bambam shocks you by taking a step closer to you and reaching out to push a strand of hair that had fallen in front of your face, “or I’m just really good at what I do.”

Taking a step back, he smiles at you and you hear Jae clearing his throat, clearly uncomfortable at the situation, “so how about those drugs?” Bambam simply nodded, unfazed and handed Jae the bag as the latter slips him the cash.

You became confused as you watched Bambam handle the money. He was doing something so simple, but looked so attractive doing it? Absentmindedly you felt yourself bite down on your lip as you watched him count and place the cash in his money clip. You were lost in a daze of watching his hands and the money that you didn’t notice his gaze back up to you, “don’t bite down so hard baby girl, you never know what could happen.”

Jae coughed again, still awkward about your interactions with Bambam. You on the other hand felt him calling you “baby girl” go straight to your core, so much so that you pressed your legs together. Praying he didn’t notice; you found your eyes wandering to anywhere that wasn’t the drug dealer.

Bambam took your silence as a sign, “well I better get going. Have other stops to make this morning.” Jae nodded, simply thankful to not be caught in the middle of whatever this was any longer, “yeah us too.”

“See ya later Jae, you too y/n.” You still feel semi-dazed from his words that all you can do is wave him goodbye, and watch him walk out of the park, the opposite direction of where you and Jae came in from. Bambam turned around one final time before exiting the park completely, “remember! Say no to drugs!” he shouted over his shoulder, shooting you another smile.

As soon as he’s out of view, Jae turns to you, “let’s go. I want to roll this and smoke it before we get to the restaurant.” You follow Jae out of the park the way you both came until you both stop at a corner of the street that is inconspicuous and hidden enough that Jae can roll and light up his joint.

“That was weird right?” You asked Jae suddenly when he finally lights the joint.

“I think he was flirting with you?” Jae said as more of a question than a definite statement. You couldn’t tell if he was asking you or himself. Your friend’s ponderance was enough to confirm your suspicions and cause your stomach to flip. A small smile spread across your face and you see Jae look at you with a frown on his face.

“Dude chill, he’s just my drug dealer.”

His dismissal at the small amount of joy you felt for being flirted with annoyed you that you felt yourself soon go silent besides the odd cough here and there caused by the smoke induced by the joint.

When he was finally done and you began to walk to the restaurant, you felt yourself picking up your pace, walking far in front of him. When it soon became difficult for even him to keep up with you, he came to the realization that you were upset with him, but nonetheless Jae continued to try to talk and reason with you as you approached the restaurant where you were meeting your friends.

You didn’t say single word to him until you were sat at the table with everyone and asked him if he wanted to split a mimosa pitcher with you. At your words he felt thankful to know you had let go of what he had said earlier and nodded in agreement.

“Ooh a mimosa pitcher for y/n? Pinch me because I must be dreaming,” Gretchen said overhearing your conversation with Jae.

Another one of your college friends Brian laughed, “Yeah but Jae will probably finish most of it. We know y/n can’t really hold her alcohol.”

Why did everyone suddenly choose today as the day that they would make fun of you? So what maybe you weren’t as crazy as them when it came to certain things, but you weren’t a fucking nun like they were making you out to be. So what you didn’t get blackout drunk at brunch? So what if you got excited about someone flirting with you? Even if he was a drug dealer.

“That’s not true,” Jae said coming to your defense, clearly trying to make up for how he had upset you earlier, “honestly y/n can drink me under the table.”

Gretchen waved her hand in dismissal, “come on Jae we all know that’s not true. But that’s what we love about her! She’s our sweet pure friend! Every group needs one of those.”

“If she was pure would she go with me to see my drug dealer?” Jae asked.

Gretchen smiled, “Jae are you high right now?”

“Yeah I need it so I can fucking deal with you,” he practically growled. She laughed in response as if he was joking, when he was in fact not. “That’s so funny. It’s not like she would ever buy or do any though.”

You felt helpless watching this argument – about you – unfold. Moments like this made you feel like maybe you were too nice. Why couldn’t you just say something and defend yourself? Jae shouldn’t be the one doing it. You should be the one arguing with Gretchen.

“Well who cares because my drug dealer thinks she’s hot!”

At Jae’s confession you feel everyone turn to look at you as if you can offer some kind of explanation, but you’re just as clueless as everyone else on the topic of “my best friend’s drug dealer thinking I’m hot.” Jae must really be trying to make up for earlier.

“It’s true, he just messaged me like 15 minutes confirming he would bang her.”

Your mouth drops open. Turning to look at Jae you can’t tell if he’s being honest or just making things up for the sake of arguing with Gretchen.

“Okay y/n having sex with a drug dealer is probably the last thing she would ever do.”

“Um is this a brunch topic?” One of your more silent friends at the table, Mina asked clearly wanting the discussion to be over.

Finally, you feel like it’s important that you’re the one to end this weird discussion about you having sex at 11am at brunch. You rolled your eyes, “I am not some untouched Mother Theresa, Gretch.” She flinched at the nick name; you knew how much she hated being called that.

“I mean you what? Have had sex with only two people? Both who you had long term relationships with? That sounds pretty untouched to me.”

The table shifts uncomfortably and no one says anything in response, it isn’t until the waiter approaches the table to ask everyone if they’re ready to order that you feel yourself snap back into reality.

“A mimosa pitcher please,” Jae ordered and soon all eyes are on you as the waiter waits for your response, “add one more pitcher to that.”

Jae leans over to you, “we don’t need two.”

You smiled at him, “no this one’s for me.”

After the “discussion” at brunch, the atmosphere between you and everyone else clearly shifted. You predicted that they probably wouldn’t be calling you to get together for a while. For that you were thankful.

Both you and Jae headed to your apartment in silence and you tried not to be fixated on the topic of your sex life and how “pure” and “good” you were, but your mind kept lingering there. It infuriated you how much you cared, because you knew deep down it really didn’t matter. It caused you to feel off for the rest of the day. So much so that it felt as though you blinked and it was suddenly dark outside. Brunch had been hours ago, but you were still you were thinking about the words exchanged.

“Hey um… I was wondering… can I have his number?”

“Whose number?” Jae asked barely paying attention to you. He leans against your bed on the floor and had been engrossed in a game for the last 45 minutes.

“Bambam’s…” You said quietly, hoping that maybe just maybe your best friend was in a strong enough trance that he would just hand over the number without registering whose number it was exactly and not ask any questions. But of course, you weren’t so lucky.

“Really?” He asked placing his phone down in his lap to turn to you laying on the bed, “why?”

You shrugged your shoulders nonchalantly, not wanting Jae to see just how nervous you were, “I don’t know… Maybe I want to like pick up or something.”

He snorted, “Y/N… You don’t do drugs.”

“Okay but maybe I’ll start!”

He rolls his eyes and picks his phone back up, assumedly to return to his game, “We both know that’s a lie. You’re a goody two shoes and everyone knows it. The way you coughed this morning when I lit up is evidence enough.”

There it was again. Too nice. Goody two shoes. Pushover. You were so fucking tired of hearing it all today. In fact, you were tired of hearing it all the damn time.

Instead of arguing with Jae, like you knew you should have done, you found yourself rolling over to stare at the ceiling of your bedroom, “You’re right… I’m just a good little girl,” you mumbled. Silence soon filled the room and Jae felt himself tense up; he couldn’t deal with you being upset again. Rolling his eyes, he swiped up on his phone to exit his game and searched through his contacts.

You suddenly felt something being nudged against your body and looked to your side to see Jae’s phone open with the contact “BAMBAM (PLUG)” glowing up at you.

“I don’t know why you really need it, but there it is.” You smiled at your best friend and sat up quickly to copy the contact into your own phone, “thank you Jae.”

“Yeah, yeah. Whatever.”

Later after Jae’s departure, you find your thumb hovering over Bambam’s number. Would it be too much to call? He probably wasn’t used to it in his line of business… Maybe it was just usually a texting thing?

To be completely honest you weren’t sure why you wanted his number… You weren’t sure if it was for drugs to prove everyone wrong, that you can in fact be bad or if it was for something… else. You thought about what Jae said at brunch… Did Bambam really text him that he would bang you? Did you want that?

The idea of having sex with Bambam certainly didn’t disgust or repulse you, instead you actually found yourself blushing at the thought and pressing your thighs together.

Holding your breath, you clicked his number and opened a new message.

y/n. hey… bambam. It’s y/n… Jae’s friend? We met in the park today…

bambam. Oh hey sup?

y/n. was just wondering… if maybe I could like idk pick up?

bambam. Ummm…. Hold on a sec.

You waited for what felt like eternity… He was putting you on hold? On hold through a text?

bambam. What do u need?

y/n. uh whatever you have on you I guess. Or like in stock ? is that how it works?

bambam. Haha something like that. I have mj, addy, coke, k, oxy lol pretty much anything u want. But like I said earlier today I’m out of acid and molly till next week.

y/n. yeah yeah yeah… okay. What’s k?

bambam. haha you’re so cute. It’s ket.

y/n. ??????

bambam. Ketamine. Horse tranquilizer.

y/n. okay… well I will not be doing that one. Can you just bring like a couple things and I’ll decide when we meet?

bambam. Um????? I guess so??

y/n. cool.

bambam. I’ll meet you at the park, I guess? In around an hour?

y/n. yeah that sounds good!

bambam. Bet.

You felt your heart beat out of your chest. Were you really just going to do this? What is it that you were going to do?

Looking at the time on your phone, you realized you needed to get ready and leave quickly if you wanted to meet Bambam on time. It was going to take you at least 40 minutes to walk to the park where you had met him earlier. Walking instead of calling an Uber would give you enough time to think, but also enough time to perhaps talk yourself out of it if you changed your mind mid-journey.

Although somehow, it hadn’t. Your mind on the walk over had been filled with Bambam, but not in a negative way that convinced you to turn around and head home… but in a way that had your core pulsing. You thought of what he had said to Jae earlier – true or not – and how he would take you if that’s what he wanted. It made your mind hazy and the lust that took over your thoughts caused you to barely notice that you had arrived at the park, Bambam already seated on the bench that you had been massaging your legs on earlier that morning.

He was sporting the same outfit he had been wearing earlier – a satin striped button up shirt tucked into tight black jeans and his clothing was enough to remind you of the reality of what you were doing here. To your dismay he was no longer wearing the glasses, in the fantasies that had fluttered into your mind on your walk, you had really grown in wanting to see Bambam’s glasses on as he fucked into you.

Approaching him, you shyly waved and he stood up to greet you, “hey…”

“Hi,” you replied feeling foolish at your choice of welcome. What were you supposed to say to seem more… cool?

“I don’t usually don’t take drop offs this late at night…”

You furrowed your eyebrows at him confused, “what? You’re a drug dealer… Isn’t night the best kind of time to do this stuff?”

“Nah night I work on my music. So, what’s up… You change your mind?” He tapped his foot impatiently and you can’t tell if he’s nervous about being in your presence or if he’s annoyed that you called him out here so late. But if he didn’t want to come… why would he? You took a deep breath in, hoping you were doing the right thing, “No… I-I lied I don’t want to pick up. I just- wanted to see you I guess?”

Even in the darkness of the park, you could see Bambam’s eyes widen in surprise, “see me? Why?”

You’re really not sure what’s supposed to happen next. You’ve never been in this situation before and although it seems like all of your friends' words drove you to text Bambam and come here, it was your own needs that were driving you to stay.

Deciding to take a risk with your questioning, you looked away from him, “Is what you sent to Jae true?” Bambam quickly blinked, unsure of how to respond to your question. He wasn’t sure if he needed to be honest or not. Were you mad at him for what he had said?

Instead, he clears his throat and decides it’s always best to tell the truth, “Um yeah what I said is true…”

You felt your stomach flip at the fact that the text Jae received was in fact true.

“Do you… still want to?” You asked shyly, still not daring to make eye contact with the beautiful man.

Bambam’s cock twitches at your question. Suddenly his jeans feel way too tight.

“Fuck yes,” Bambam replied, voice low and husky. It takes everything in him to not lunge forward and have his hands roam up and down your body, but he restrains himself, “where should we go? Mine? Yours?”

“Let’s do it here.”

Your words surprise both Bambam and you, but you ultimately decide to go with it.

“Here?” he asked, interrogating whether or not you were being serious. What if this was a joke? Before you can stop yourself, you nod, “yeah, here.”

He takes a step closer to you, until his hand moves forward to cup your face, “I knew you were bad girl when I met you.” His words go right to your core and you feel your panties grow damp. Typically, you would find that kind of talk cringe, but coming out of Bambam’s mouth all you wanted was to hear more of it.

Instinctively, Bambam groans at the thought of having his way with you, and he uses his free hand to grip your hip, hard enough to bruise and pulls you flush against his chest. He doesn’t hesitate as he leans in to press his lips to yours in a feverish kiss that leaves you breathless. His confidence surprises you, but also turns you on enough that you instantly moan against his lips.

You feel him smile and it feels as though you’re in an entirely different world than just a park square in the middle of the city. Bambam’s tongue brushes the seam of your lips before his tongue slips inside to explore your mouth. You feel him begin to pull you into the depths of the park, closer to the trees where it would be less visible if someone just so happened to decide to walk through.

The two of you stand there for what felt like forever and you feel surprised at Bambam’s clear want of wanting to take his time with you. His hands moved from your hips to your ass, his fingers kneading the flesh roughly as he makes himself familiar with your taste. He pulls himself away from the kiss, chest heaving and cheeks flushed. You whined at the loss of his lips on yours, but he simply stares at you, taking in your kiss swollen lips and the lust-filled look in your eyes. He had to admit that it was difficult to believe that the girl in front of him now was the same shy girl he had met earlier, but knowing you had this side to you made him want you even more. He drops his head to press his lips to your neck and you can feel his teeth scraping the sensitive skin on the column of your throat as his hands move to dip beneath the hem of your shirt.

After leaving a few marks, he pulls away just enough to tug the t-shirt up and over your head before his hands move to cup your bare breasts. Not wearing a bra was probably the best idea you had all week.

“Fuck… y/n your tits are so pretty,” he breathes against your skin as he returns his mouth to your neck, “I could just play with them all night.”

As he gently kneads your breasts, you feel yourself clench around nothing. You were overly sensitive from not being touched like this in so long, that you felt as though you could cum just from his hands on your breasts.

You attempt to focus on the kiss in an effort to control yourself from not letting go so easily, but soon Bambam’s hands release your breasts and seamlessly drag down your stomach to the button on your jeans. He snaps them open instantly and hooks his thumbs on either side, shoving them down, along with your panties, down your legs. Your sudden nakedness causes you to shiver as you feel the cool breeze of the summer night drift over you body. Bambam notices this and places his finger against your lips, “shh baby girl let me warm you up.”

Reattaching his lips to yours, Bambam gently pushes you against the tree behind you and you feel his fingers drift to your core and swirl around your entrance. The feeling of him where you need him the most is enough to cause you to moan and you can’t help but notice how he disconnects from your lips when he feels at how wet you are.

“Jesus y/n, you’re so wet. Are you sure you didn’t cum already?”

Wordlessly you shake your head almost violently to tell him you hadn’t.

“I don’t know if I believe you… a bad girl like you might lie,” you feel one of his digits slip into your slightly, only part of the way but not fully and you feel as though you’re about to scream at the teasing. You should have known that Bambam wouldn’t give you want you wanted that easily.

“I-I’m not lying,” you stuttered out between your attempts to hold your moans back.

He fully inserts the finger into you, curling it a bit and you can no longer stop the noises that want to leave your body, “If you’re not lying, I guess I just have to see what my baby girl looks like when she cums. How wet she gets, how tight around me, hmm?” You can’t find it in you to respond, you simply nod and he smirks at you, clearly proud at his efforts to make you so weak so quickly.

It isn’t long before, without warning, you feel him insert a second finger, pumping them inside you at a teasingly slow pace. You felt like you were going to break, because you just needed more.

“Bam p-please I-I need more.”

He played dumb, frowning at you, “need more what?”

“Faster, more,” you manage to breathe out and without a word he picks up the pace of his movement, a smirk on his face and lust in his gaze. It’s when he suddenly curls his digits, hitting just the right spot that you feel like all sanity and speech has left your body. How can something feel this good?

“Come on, cum on my fingers. I know that’s all you want. I’ll let my bad girl have what she wants, just this once.”

His words spur you on as you find your arms moving to the back of you to grip onto the tree for stability as you buck your hips further onto his fingers, wanting nothing more than in this moment to have a release. The combined effort of his finger curling and his thumb coming up to tap on your clit in an almost musical rhythm has you falling apart and releasing around his fingers. He can feel the shaking of your thighs and the tension of your body as his fingers work to let you ride the waves of your orgasm.

Bambam’s length which had been growing hard since the moment you asked if he wanted to fuck you, suddenly felt painful as he watched you fall apart from just the pure pleasure he had caused. He couldn’t wait any longer, he wanted and needed to be inside you.

“Ride me,” Bambam says without hesitation as soon as you’ve caught your breath from your orgasm. Despite your release which had only occurred moments ago, you felt yourself ready to go once again at Bambam’s words and at how quickly he worked to remove his clothes.

Instinctively, you licked your lips as you first laid eyes on his painfully hard and leaking red cock which had been desperately waiting for its turn. You wanted nothing more than to get your mouth or hands on it – preferably mouth – but as you reach forward, Bambam shook his head.

He sat himself against the tree, not caring about the fact that he was sitting on the actual ground in the middle of a public park. The only thought he had in his mind was getting inside of you and feeling how tight you would be when you sank down on him for the first time.

“Baby girl, let me feel you.”

That’s all it took for you to get into position and find yourself squatting down to sit in his lap, rubbing your slit against the head of his cock, ready to take in every single inch of him. At the feeling of you rubbing yourself against his sensitive cock, Bambam groans, “no teasing, I just need you. Please.”

His begging and more submissive request turns you on and it leads you to wonder if maybe that would be a side of yourself you would want to explore later. But for now, you just needed to feel him inside of you.

Slowly, you lowered yourself onto him, moaning at how good it felt to finally have him around you, stretching you out completely. It had been awhile since your last sexual encounter and with the way Bambam was filling you, it almost felt like your first time again – this time there was no pain however, only pleasure. “Fuck… Bam.”

You just sat there for a moment, enjoying the feeling, until you felt him ever so slightly shift and then heard a groan. His hands instinctively landed on your hips as he attempted to get you to move, he almost couldn’t take how snug you felt around him, he wanted you bouncing up and down on him at a brutal pace. Understanding his want, you lifted your hips barely an inch before falling back down on him. Every time you did it you went a little bit higher.

“Come on I know you can do better than that,” Bambam egged you on despite his groans. At his words you leaned back, placing your hands on his thighs, giving him a much deeper angle into you. As you rode him like this, he began to thrust up meeting your hips and every time he did his cock hit a spot inside of you that made your eyes roll back into your head.

Your movement on him began to grow sloppier as a shot of pleasure made itself known throughout every part of your body. At your sudden change of pace, Bambam held your hips to continue moving you up and down on him, his own thrusting becoming faster. “You feel so fucking good. Damn maybe I should just stop working and fuck you all day,” you felt yourself clench at his words and he continued, “you’d like that huh? I can feel how tight you’re getting just at the thought of me using you and filling you with my cum every single day. Such a dirty girl.”

You could feel your walls clench, and Bambam let out a groan having to thrust harder just to keep going as deep, “I’m- gonna- fuck.”

Somehow, not out of breath, Bambam whispered into your ear, “You’re gonna what? Cum? Do it… Cum all over me in this fucking park where anyone can see. I know how much want it so just fucking do it.”

You were seeing stars and your thighs were shaking once again when Bambam reached in between your bodies, pinching your clit, finally making you fall apart. Although you had once been concerned about being loud because of the public aspect of your location, you found yourself unable to contain your screams when your orgasm hit you. You could feel your juices dripping down onto his thighs as he pulled out of you and pumped himself one final time, released his seed onto your stomach and chest. As he caught his breathe, you dipped your finger into his release which had begun to drip down to your thighs. Placing it into your mouth, you suck it gently. “Mmmm,” you moaned at the taste and Bambam stared at you wide eyed. “Um fuck… should we do a round two?”

You laugh at his response and the lustful gaze that still clouds his eyes, “maybe… not here?”

Bambam grasps his discarded shirt and begins to wipe up the mess he left on your body, as well as the mess you left on his thighs. The gesture warms your heart.

He hums in response, almost lost in a trance as he wipes you up. “I mean… I know I’m just a drug dealer,” he said laughing, “but how about I take you out for a late night dinner slash early breakfast and then we have a round two where I enter you from the oh so classy doggy style position?”

You laugh and grab his hands, stopping him from continuing to wipe you up, causing him to look into your eyes.

“Deal.”

#got7 fanfic #got7 smut #bambam smut #bambam fanfic #bambam

284 notes · View notes

yan-twst · 3 years

Text

CYOYA - part II

and finally it’s here! chapter ii of the cyoa fic! last time you all voted on what our protagonist should do, and the winning choice was to ask malleus to study with you! so the story will be picking up from there!

“Hmm, I’m sure Silver would enjoy sharing his cookies with a friend, especially after a hard day of studying...” hummed Lilia, and it was at that moment you knew that you had to get away from the short fae as soon as possible, lest you fall victim of what would probably be the world’s most horrid food poisoning.

It’d be rude to just run away all of a sudden; Lilia was still your superior in terms of authority, and he didn’t seem to have any ill will. You nervously glanced around, eyes settling on Malleus’ imposing figure; how you had forgotten he was there for a second was beyond you. Tall, imposing, with green eyes that almost seemed to glow in the dark, you could understand why so many people feared the dorm leader just based off looks alone, but in this sort of situation...

“Um, I was actually, uh... Hoping I could ask our Dorm Leader here for help with studying.” you hoped the anxiety in your voice didn’t show through. It was uncharacteristic of anyone to get close to Malleus, be it out of respect or fear- and usually you’d keep your distance too, not wanting to annoy the fae prince (and also being admittedly intimidated by him, but you figured everyone was).

Despite your odd request, Lilia didn’t seem confused. He merely grinned and nodded, almost as if he’d been expecting this outcome. Malleus, on the other hand, did not look nearly as knowing as Lilia. His eyes opened wide and his posture stiffened for a second, telltale signs of him being shocked, as he opened his mouth soundlessly. You prepared yourself to get roasted by his fire breath or something for your request; surely you’d crossed a line or something by so carelessly asking for his time. He wasn’t just your dorm leader, he was also a prince and one of the most powerful mages, surely you shouldn’t have just-

“Is that truly what you wish for?” no green fire left Malleus’ mouth, instead a simple question to answer your request. You blinked a couple of times, releasing tension you’d gathered in the seconds of arduous wait.

“Y... Yes?” you repeated, a bit taken aback by the response. Malleus had composed himself quickly, back to his usual way of standing and his eyes no longer wide open; but there was just something about his body language and tone that was off. It wasn’t annoyance or anger (thank gods, because he could probably wipe you off the planet without much effort), but rather something akin to... bashfulness? “Oh, um- only if you have time, of course! And if you want! I don’t want to impose...”

“Ufufu, don’t worry little one, I can assure you he doesn’t mind.” said Lilia with a smirk so wide you had to wonder if he really had intended for this ordeal to go down like this. “Now, Malleus, it’s no time to be shy, one of your dorm members has come to ask you for help! Go on, show them what you know.”

“Don’t you have to deliver those... Cookies before they cool?” Malleus’ tone didn’t change much, but the faint tint of pink in his cheeks told you Lilia’s words had definitely made him flustered. It was an odd sight, to see him acting in such a way- after all, the image you had of him was shaped by watching his imposing figure walk around campus surrounded by his guards, by rumours and whispers, and the occasional viewing of him ruthlessly winning at magift. Nothing could have prepared you to see such a humane side to him; but maybe this was just how he acted when he was with people he trusted...? Lilia did seem to have a deep connection to him, after all.

“Oh, you’re right!” Lilia’s attention was immediately driven back to the plate of charcoal black masses resting on the table. He picked it up and began to walk away, not before turning around and saying goodbye. “Well you two, have a nice study session! Don’t go to sleep too late, (name)!”

“We will!” you replied, waving goodbye to him. In all honesty, you were just relieved you weren’t going to get peer pressured into eating one of those toxic looking cookies- but now that Lilia was gone, you were suddenly left alone in the common room.

“... You’re quite daring, to ask me for help.” mused Malleus, although his tone didn’t seem to hold malice. He looked more curious than anything, as he gazed down on you, as if he were trying to understand your actions. It was nerve racking, sure, but on the very least he didn’t seem upset.

“Should I have not done that?” you said, almost biting your tongue once the words were out. Were you being too casual? He was a prince and he was powerful, and you were just a normal student- but... The only person you’d seen advocate to treating Malleus like absolute royalty was Sebek, and even Malleus seemed to get tired of the first year’s antics from time to time.

“I never said that.” he replied, an amused twinkle in his eyes as he smiled. He uncrossed his arms from his chest, a small action, but one that made you feel just so much more comfortable in his presence. Surely if you stepped out of line, he’d let you know, right? So far he didn’t seem like the type of guy who’d just zap you to death for a mistake. “I’m simply... Surprised you did so. Most students would be too scared to do so.”

“Well, that’s...” what the hell were you even supposed to say to that?! As powerful as he was, it seemed Malleus wasn’t a great conversationalist, with how he was pushing you into a corner in the conversation. “... I haven’t talked to you much, but you’re my dorm leader, so it’s not so shocking I’d ask for help, right? I know you’re very skilled and powerful, too, so... I guess I just didn’t think it’d be that weird.”

“Hmm...” he seemed satisfied with the answer, maybe even... Happy? He wasn’t easy to read, and you didn’t want to seem like you were staring. Still, you could have sworn you hear him whisper ‘that’s quite interesting, indeed’ under his breath, but he quickly spoke up again. “You’re right that as your dorm leader, it’s my duty to help you. Do you have your class materials with you?”

“Yes, here they are.” you said, opening your notebook to the page with the draught’s ingredients and preparation steps. “... It’s a bit dark here, sorry if it’s not very readable.”

“Is it troublesome to study here for you?” asked Malleus, raising his eyebrows. Glancing at his green eyes, the fact he’s probably got no difficulty looking in the dark- or in the not-so-well lit common room- hit you, judging by his slit pupils.

“No, no, it’s ok, I can read, it’s just a bit dark here since the torches’ fire is dimmed at night.” you said, not wanting to seem like you were causing one problem after the other. The torches lighting up the common room were lit with magical fire, and at this time of the night, they became quite dim, probably to discourage students from lingering too long and make them go to their respective rooms. It didn’t make it impossible to use it as a study room, just not an effective one; ideally, each student would do their late night cramming in their own room, but there was no way you were asking Malleus to go to your room. First of all, it was messy, and second of all, your dormmate was there snoring the night away.

“There’s no need to lie to me. You shouldn’t strain your eyes to read in the dark.” Malleus picked up your notebook before you could complain. For a second, he looked like he was thinking; you guessed he’d offer the library as a good place to study (although you didn’t want to go all the way there, if he offered so you’d accept), or maybe he’d use his magic to make the torches burn brighter. After his deliberation, he tucked the notebook under his arm carefully and motioned for you to follow him out the common room. “Follow me, (name). We’re going to my room, if that’s ok with you.”

“That’s-!” your body froze at his words. No, no, absolutely not. Even if he offered it, it felt like too much to do that- you’d already been enough of a thorn on his side asking for his help, it was getting late, and he probably had his own things to do. “I’d hate to intrude- listen, it’s ok, I can read up my notes tomorrow morning, and-”

“I would not have offered if I was not ok with it.” Malleus’ response cut you off before you could try and excuse yourself out of the situation. He was still looking at you with that odd expression, a mix between curiosity and interest, as if he were staring at some odd flower of sorts. “Follow me.”

You certainly didn’t feel like starting an argument with him, and so you did. The halls were a bit too dark for comfort at this hour, the torches dimmed here as well to deter students from wandering around at such hours. An ironic thing, really, considering most of the Diasomnia student body stayed up until odd hours studying or simply killing time. Following Malleus, you stared at his broad back and his tall form, the way his horns curled from his head and reflected the greenish glow of the fire; truly, he looked like a prince. And then you decided to resolve something nagging you at the back of your mind.

“Um, Dorm leader, just a quick question... How did you know my name?” you asked. He’d called you by your name when inviting you, hadn’t he...? You couldn’t recall presenting yourself to him- but as soon as you finished your question you realized the answer to it. “Oh, nevermind! You probably heard Lilia say it when he left, my bad.”

“It wasn’t from Lilia.” Malleus’ response was rapid, almost as if he didn’t even have to think. You furrowed your brows at this; no, you were sure you’d never formally presented yourself to him, and you weren’t in the magift team or anything like that, so why...? “Silver talks a lot about you.”

“Oooh, of course! That makes sense.” you almost wanted to slap yourself for not realizing such an obvious connection. Silver was a friend of yours, and he did spend a considerable amount of time guarding Malleus. He’d probably mentioned you a couple times or something, nothing too weird.

“... But Lilia did tell me about you in the entrance ceremony.” added Malleus. You couldn’t see his face as you followed him from behind, but the tone in his voice had softened just a little bit. You didn’t want to make any assumptions, but it almost sounded like he was thinking back on a fond memory. “Diasomnia doesn’t get as many students as other dorms. I wasn’t even invited to the sorting ceremony, but Lilia told me how only a handful of the new students got sorted here.”

“Ah, that’s right, I remember the vice dorm leader- I mean, Lilia, telling us you were missing that day.” you said, tracing back on memories. Honestly, you’d been so anxious and excited the day you’d arrived at NRC, you hadn’t even cared about what dorm you got sorted into; you considered yourself a pretty average person, without anything too surprising or any curious talents, so you didn’t know where you’d get sorted. Unlike many NRC students, you also lacked a family history in the school; most people guessed their dorm based on what dorm their siblings or parents had been in, but you’d just... Never had a family member you knew attend NRC.

“... Lilia said the mirror claimed you held great magic potential.” he seemingly skipped over the fact he wasn’t in the ceremony (he said he wasn’t invited, right? You figured he had his reasons to not want to go over that), but his comment still caught you off guard. “It’s not often the magic mirror will say that about a person.”

“Is that so...? Haha, I’m not so sure about that. I mean, I don’t think I’m too amazing at anything.” you said, chuckling. You’d simply thought the mirror said some cheesy stuff to everyone who got sorted, as some sort of ego boost to the first years or something. “Well, I am glad I got sorted here, though. I like Diasomnia.”

“You shouldn’t say that about yourself.” Malleus didn’t turn around when he said this, but you just knew he’d narrowed his eyes as he said that. “... Just the fact you even dared ask me for help, and followed me to my room like this goes to show you’re quite different. I have no doubt your skills in magic will flourish in time.”

“I- um, thank you...!” you truly hoped your voice didn’t sound like a squeak, but it was hard to keep cool when Malleus Draconia spoke to you like that. “It means a lot to me, um, coming from you.”

A comfortable silence fell between you two. The sound of Malleus’ heeled uniform shoes against the stone floor echoed in the halls, mixing with the noise of rain outside- soon, you were faced with stairs. Being constructed like a castle from the Valley of Thorns, there were plenty of towers; of course the dorm leader’s room would be on top of one.

“We’re here.”

You were a bit surprised at how much you walked to get to his dorm- the amount of stairs you’d gone up was enough to leave you breathless, although Malleus looked fine. The door to his room was made of a beautifully dark wood, with intricate carvings and a metal doorknob. He opened the door and walked in, holding it open for you (you wondered if the door had a lock and key and he just kept it unlocked knowing nobody would dare come snooping, or if it was some sort of magic door that only opened for him).

“Come on in,” he said, and not wanting to make him just stand there holding the door open, you quickly walked in despite feeling like someone as common and unimportant as you shouldn’t just be waltzing into his room.

As he closed the door behind you, you couldn’t help but wonder at the sight of his room. It was big- dorm leader benefits, you guessed, because this one-person dorm was about twice the size of the dorm you shared with your roommate. The floor was tiled in white with black accents, and the thing that caught your eye first was the huge canopy bed. The way the canopy was built almost reminded you of the very building of the dorm. Immediately your eyes flew to the giant dragon statue next to the dresser- why was that there you had no clue, but it certainly looked cool. It was probably related to Diasomnia’s origins and its logo, since the Witch of Thorns could turn into a dragon.

The more you looked, the more details you picked up. The loveseat in front of his bed was currently occupied by books and trinkets, as if he’d been cleaning and put them all there while he found a space for them. There were many magift team banners in the wall above his desk, and you couldn’t tell why, but you found that adorable. Besides the loveseat, there wasn’t much clutter in the dorm- it was quite clean, actually, almost as if he didn’t spend much time there. His desk was probably the most well-loved spot, the chair still ajar as if he’d stood up and not put it back in place, papers crowding the surface of the desk.

“This should be well-lit enough.” he said, and with a flourish of his hand, lit the candelabra on the desk. That much was overkill, really, considering the giant chandelier hanging from the ceiling, but you appreciated the gesture- and also admired how easily and precisely he’d just cast fire magic. “Take a seat wherever it’s comfortable for you, and we can begin studying.”

Upon being presented with that choice, you blanked. Picking where to sit down should be the easy part of this whole ordeal; asking your intimidating dorm leader for help and accepting to go in his room was the ‘hard’ part, sitting down was the easy part, but in that very moment you weren’t so sure. The loveseat was occupied by his stuff, and you’d really rather die than start moving around his belongings for a seat. That left the floor, the desk, and the bed; of course you wouldn’t just sit on the floor, because then he’d also have to sit on the floor to explain, and that didn’t feel right at all.

The desk should have been the logical choice, but as you glanced at it, it was very clear that having only one chair would pose a problem. Sure, he probably wouldn’t mind- in fact he most likely expected you to take a seat there- but... Then he’d probably have to stand behind you to explain, hovering over your shoulders the whole time. He’d have to lean down to your level to check your notes, and- gods, if it were some random student you wouldn’t have cared this much, but... Something about having Malleus stand behind you, rest his hands on the back of the chair where you sat, and to have him lean down and be so close to you just to read the notes made your stomach flip. But that was your problem; you were the one making a big deal out of just sitting in a desk, of all things.

Then there was the bed- honestly you mostly studied sat in your bed, with your notebooks spread out around you. But that was in the privacy of your own dorm. Sure, if a friend was over you wouldn’t hesitate to tell them to sit on your bed with you to chat or just chill, and you’d even helped your roommate study before while you both sat down on his bed to review and exchange class notes. But this- this was Malleus’ bed. Was it too out of line to sit down on the bed to study...? It was just sitting down; he probably wouldn’t even give it a second thought...

— time to make a choice! vote in the poll linked below to choose how to advance in the story! choosing where to sit may seem innocent enough, but this particular choice is the one that may begin some interesting developments

poll: https://www.strawpoll.me/21192129

#cyoa #twst #twisted wonderland #twst x reader #twisted wonderland x reader #choose your own adventure

76 notes · View notes

adarlingwrites · 3 years

Text

Dormouse

Summary:

After playing a game with two of The Beach's most dangerous members, the dormouse gets her tail caught by a tiger's paw.

He’ll make a wildcat out of her.

Author’s Notes:

CW: sexist language, blood, parental abuse. This is a heavy chapter, please proceed with caution.

XII

the earth will see our eyes go blank tonight / the earth will rot away go blank tonight / I, I really wish these snakes were your arms

Soft snores float from the back of the truck, and Hinata does her best not turn around and stare.

Yamaneko had fallen asleep, her body curled up next to Last Boss’. The taller militant is resting his chin on top of her head, a protective arm around her waist. Their backs are turned from the other two occupying the front seats.

The taller militant glances at them with near-murderous intent when Tatta hits a bump on the road and wakes Yamaneko up. She rubs the sleep from her eyes, glances at Last Boss, then feels an overwhelming urge to puke her breakfast out.

Pale, the militant hangs her head over the edge of the four by four, and hurls.

“Stop the car,” Last Boss tells Tatta, who hits the brakes and looks at the female militant with concern. Hinata couldn’t help but look as well, watching as the terrifying militant rubbed his girlfriend’s back.

Coughing, Yamaneko turns to the driver. “Could you drive more carefully? Shit…”

“Sorry, I’ll drive more carefully,” Tatta blurts, bowing his head low in apology. He can still feel Last Boss’ death glare burning the back of his head as he restarts the engine.

Somewhat concerned for the nicer militant’s wellbeing, Hinata tosses them a water bottle, which Last Boss catches with one hand. Drinking from the water bottle slowly, Yamaneko gives the other girl a thumbs up.

Slumping against the backseat, HInata is still coming to terms with the fact that these armed and dangerous maniacs are still people who can have attachments.

She then starts to wonder if the militants at the back were anything like who they are now. The Borderlands does seem to bring either the best or the worst out of people, after all. Was Last Boss always an eccentric guy prone to violence, and was Yamaneko always a blunt gal with no regard for social norms?

The street artist takes a sharp inhale in contemplation, and regrets doing so as soon as the damp, earthy scent hits her. Rolling down a window, Hinata pokes her head out of the car, unable to stand the smell of sex and sweat from the militants at the back, and chuckles to herself.

“What’s so funny?” Tatta asks, a hand on the steering wheel and eyes still on the road.

“The car smells like sex and now I’m wondering if I should take her advice.”

“A-ah. Well, it’s your choice,” Tatta replies, his free hand scratching the back of his head.

“What about you, Tatta? Ever thought of sleeping around in the Beach?”

A small laugh escapes his lips. “Not really my thing, sorry. I prefer spending my time fixing cars and goofing around with my friends.”

“Mm, that does sound better. I enjoyed painting that mural with you, by the way. We should-”

A voice who belongs to neither of them cuts their conversation short. “Keep it down.”

Both of them nearly jumped upon hearing Last Boss’ voice. The militant is staring at them with mild hostility, his lover’s head still resting on his shoulder. “You’re going to wake her up again.”

“Right, sorry!” Tatta blurts, then he turns away from him, cold sweat on his forehead. Hinata tries her best to stifle a giggle. There’s something she finds humorous about seeing the enigmatic and frightening Last Boss cuddling with a sleeping girl and shushing people for her sake.

The two in the front remained quiet for the rest of the drive back, their knees bumping together.

The car came to a halt as they arrived. Gently, Last Boss shakes his lover awake, who drowsily mumbles something incoherent as she stretches. The group was unloading their haul when Aguni approached them, a grim expression on his face. Niragi and another militant followed closely behind.

Hinata flinches upon seeing the man with the pierced face, who closes in on her, trapping her against the side of the four by four. Tatta glares at him with wide eyes, feet plastered to the ground and too afraid to move. Niragi whispers something inaudible to the rest of the people present, which makes Hinata shrink further into the warm metal of the car.

To the street artist’s relief, Yamaneko gets in between them and pushes Niragi off nonchalantly as she walks towards the chief. She didn’t hear the quick “thank you” that bubbled from HInata’s throat, who slinked off to the back of the vehicle to hide.

“The hell is your problem?”

“You’re rolling your tongue out like a cartoon wolf again. You look like shit,” Yamaneko replies, smirking and flipping her side fringe as she turns away from Niragi.

“You smell like shit. You smell like a damn brothel,” Niragi yells after her, and she raises a single middle finger in response.

Niragi sneered, his fun for the day ruined, and he stood next to Last Boss.

“Shit, Last Boss, you too,” Niragi remarks as he caught a whiff of Last Boss’ scent, fanning the air with his hand. “Wait, is that dried sweat I’m smelling from your face or- you fucking dog,” Niragi adds, giving him a devious grin.

The tattooed militant rolls his eyes and doesn’t dignify Niragi’s teasing with a reply. He couldn’t hide the smug look on his face, though. Aguni frowns at their juvenile exchange, and pushes past Niragi.

“Enough. Where the hell were you two?” Aguni asks, voice low and full of disappointment. The chief looks at Last Boss and Yamaneko, and one can compare him to a father scolding children who snuck away past their curfew.

“Easy, chief. We just went on a double date with those newbies,” Yamaneko replies, smiling as she motioned to Hinata and Tatta. Her smile turns to a wicked grin upon seeing Niragi’s jealous expression.

That was Tatta and Hinata’s cue to run away as far as they can from the scene.

Before Niragi can confront the two of them, Aguni gives him a glare to remind him of why they’re here, and he begrudgingly stays in place. Then, he turns back to the pair. “We thought the two of you dropped dead somewhere.”

“Dropped dead? I- chief, what happened while we were gone?”

“This isn’t something we should be talking about in the open. You two, come with us,” Aguni responds. Gulping, Yamaneko gives Last Boss a worried gaze, who stands a little closer to the shorter militant.

Dread settling in her gut, Yamaneko found herself in the makeshift morgue again, where several bodies lay on separate gurneys. Aside from the Beach executives, there were several other people in the room, including a few familiar faces. Kuina and Chishiya are present, as well as Sunohara, who acknowledges her with a nod. Ann looks at the militants with a grim frown, and takes off her shades.

“We have limited equipment here in the Beach, but thanks to Sunohara’s help, we were able to determine that the victims’ hearts, brains, and kidneys are damaged. This might be a poisoning case,” Ann announces as she walks towards them.

“Do you think this is the same killer from before?” Aguni asks, stepping towards one of the corpses. He lift’s the dead man’s arm, and sees his number tag. Seventeen; just one rank away from Yamaneko.

“It’s possible. The suspect might’ve caught up with our attempts to investigate and switched methods. Plus, I think we have a motive now.”

Yamaneko turns to the taller woman, brows furrowed.

“Is there any reason why I should be here?” she asks, heart racing.

“That’s where the motive comes in. The player numbers of the people who were killed were in the top thirty. Twenty nine, twenty three, nineteen, seventeen, and twelve. One of the victims was even a member of Aguni’s martial sect. Whoever did this is eliminating higher ranked players. If you hadn't left this afternoon, you might have been a target. From the clues we have so far, someone who’s very desperate to leave the Beach must be behind this.”

“Then we need to put an end to this, fast,” Mira finally speaks up. “It’s only a matter of time before this person targets someone on the executive board.”

“I think I know who this person is…” Niragi scoffs. “It’s definitely Yamaneko’s asshole dad.”

Head whipping towards Niragi, Yamaneko folds her arms in skepticism, about to say something, but ultimately choosing to close her mouth. Hatter uses the silence as an opportunity to impart his observations.

“Come to think of it… whenever he turns in his cards from a game, he’s often the sole survivor.”

“Are you saying that he killed the other players to receive sole credit for the card?” Kuina speaks up from her corner. Beside her, Chishiya gives the executives a knowing smirk. “It’s a possibility.”

Aguni turns to the daughter of the suspect, who’s sweating bullets. “You said it yourself that you think that the man is capable of being violent with anyone. What do you think?” he asks.

“Hm. Your father is CEO of a company that provided services to this hotel before we all ended up here, am I correct?” Ann asks, circling Yamaneko now. “What kind of goods did they manufacture?” she adds.

“Yamacorp is an industrial manufacturer with a focus on chemical manufacturing.” Yamaneko replies.

“Was your father knowledgeable about the goods his company creates, or does he only manage the business side of things?” Ann asks, the conversation effectively turning into an impromptu interrogation.

“Father oversees the factory from time to time since he has a background in chemistry.”

Ann frowns. “Then there’s a high possibility that he is involved. One of the household poisons that can cause such damage is antifreeze.”

Lips trembling and thoughts racing her head a mile a minute, Yamaneko grimaces. “Are there any other suspects?”

“The only people with access to potentially hazardous chemicals in the Beach are the supply runners, medics, or the militants.”

Niragi rolls his eyes and points his rifle at his fellow executive member. “Are you accusing us of killing one of our own, Ann?”

“No. I’m just saying that it’s a possibility. We need to test the victims’ urine for calcium oxalate crystals, gather fingerprints, gather more witness accounts-”

Niragi interrupts with sarcastic clapping. “That plan’s just perfect, but you’re not in a damn forensic lab anymore, Ann.”

“Let’s just kill him,” Last Boss pipes up. At his suggestion, Yamaneko turns to glare at him.

In the corner, Chishiya chuckles and folds his arms. “Idiots,” he mutters under his breath, earning him a sour look from Niragi. Kuina observes the two of them, then turns her attention to the Hatter, who takes a few steps across the room.

“Niragi has a point. Ann’s methods would take too much time. The Beach is well equipped, but we don’t have everything,” the number one quips.

“We need to extract information any way we can,” Aguni adds.

“Then let’s beat it out of him,” Last Boss suggests.

Yamaneko begins to stammer, unable to come up with words in response to her fellow militants’ suggestions. “I- he-”

“What’s the matter, Yamaneko? Don’t tell me you feel sorry for that piece of shit. You’re sounding like that mousy little girl we picked up again,” Niragi asks, looking cross.

“I just think that beating someone into submission would only make them admit something they didn’t do,” the shorter militant says.

“She’s right,” Ann adds, placing a hand on her hip. “We need to lure the truth out of him.”

“How troublesome,” Last Boss mutters. “Beating him up is more straightforward.”

This time, Yamaneko frowns. “That’s what he did to me, and it always ended with me confessing to things I didn’t do just for the pain to stop.” His lover’s admission made the tattooed militant pause for a moment, throat dry, and Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed his own spit.

“Then do it to get back at him. Don’t you want to?”

At that point, Yamaneko’s hands are sweating, her voice inaudible to anyone but her lover. “I want to, but…”

“We’re not going to get anywhere with this,” Chishiya speaks up, leaving his corner and stepping under the harsh lights of the room. “The suspect isn’t even in this room for interrogation, and we’re not even sure if anyone is competent enough to manipulate the truth out of him. I know I can’t be bothered with it.”

“Then the next best thing would be for a Heart specialist to manipulate him into admitting his involvement, yes?” Mira suggests, grinning as she paces to the shortest militant in the room. Yamaneko’s throat is a dry river on a hot day, and her heart hammers against her ribcage.

“I’d do it myself, but being approached by an executive member would betray our intentions to him. We need someone who can rouse strong emotions out of him… provoke him and make him irrational. Make him blurt out a confession.”

Mira gasps excitedly, making eye contact with Yamaneko. “Ah! Why don’t you try it, Miss Yamane? You know him better than anyone else in the Beach.”

“It’s Yamaneko. I’m not a heart player.”

“You give yourself too little credit,” Mira croons.

“This has gone on for too long. We’ll bring in Mr. Yamane for interrogation later.” Ann crosses her arms. “Hatter, should we adjourn?”

Unsettling feelings pool in Yamaneko’s gut, staring blankly ahead as the meeting ends. She brings her hands to her face, groaning as a wave of tension wrapped itself around her head, and feeling vaguely nauseous. Aguni approaches his underling, his frown deeper than usual, betraying the sliver of concern he feels for the girl.

“How do you plan to deal with this?”

Yamaneko shakes her head, and hangs it low. “I honestly don’t know. My relationship with father is strained, but I still can’t wrap my head around the possibility of him being a serial killer of some sort.”

“You’ve experienced his cruelty first hand, am I right? Trust your own experiences with him.”

The chief’s words make her look him in the eye, a wordless understanding forming between the two.

“I’ll seek you out when I decide what to do, chief.”

Aguni nods and leaves without another word. Lover close by, the younger militant retreats to the rooftop, where no one can bother the two of them. In silence, Takatora observes her. Across the horizon, the sun is slowly setting, and the sky is painted with hues of pinks and oranges.

“I’m going to go on a game with my father,” Yamaneko finally says, eyes fixed on the setting sun.

“I’ll come with you,” her lover replies, bumping shoulders with her. The shorter militant sighs, scratching her head. “You can’t, Tora.”

“He’ll hurt you.”

His sight doesn’t leave her as she stands up to pace around. “Father’s afraid of you, I can tell. He wouldn’t dare to interact with me if you’re around. I have to do this alone.”

“Just settle for the other solution. My method.”

“I want to hear it from his mouth. I want to see him shoot his own damn foot. I need that satisfaction, Takatora.” She sits back down, and holds his hand, fingers entwined with his spindly ones. “If my method fails, let’s use yours.”

Cold fingers touching her face, Takatora turns her head and kisses her. It was short, and uncharacteristically tender. “You’re worried,” Yamaneko breathes, the warmth of the kiss still lingering on her lips. “I’m your wildcat, tiger. A frumpy old man doesn’t stand a chance against me.”

This time, Takatora kisses her with more hunger, his hand leaving hers to cradle her neck. “I’ll come to your game venue as soon as I’m finished with mine.”

His lover breaks the kiss to whisper something in his ear, chin resting on his shoulder. “I love you.”

“I love you too.”

The heavens are a deep blue now, the sun gone.

“I’ll go tell the chief about the plan so he can inform the other executives,” Yamaneko mumbles, watching the clouds roll by.

Another night of games are about to begin.

As Yamaneko enters the elevator to descend to the lobby, a tan hand holds the doors open. HInata steps in, keeping a safe distance between herself and the woman armed with tactical daggers.

“Hey.” Hinata tosses something to her, and the militant catches it. “You left those in the back earlier.” Yamaneko’s body went rigid as she looked at the item; her packet of birth control.

She missed several days.

“I- thanks.”

Yamaneko couldn’t pay any attention to what the other girl is saying as paranoia gets the best of her.

“Surely, I’ve been feeling tired for the past few days because of the chief knocking me on my ass during training and not because Tora knocked me up, right? I’m nauseous during the car ride because Tatta wasn’t driving carefully, right? I’ve been feeling emotional because of the stress from the Beach serial killer case and the big possibility of father being that nutcase, right?”

“Right?”

“Hey, um, are you there?”

Hinata’s voice snaps her out of her thoughts, and she clears her throat. “What did you say again?”

“I said thanks for getting Niragi off my back.” Hinata scratches her head. “Look, um, I know you’re one of them, but you’re alright. Say, what if we work out a deal of some sort?”

“What kind of deal, newbie?”

“You keep Niragi off my ass, I’ll get you whatever the hell you want. Promise. I’ll be your personal procurement gal.”

Yamaneko chuckles. “Hm. Why the hell not? Hell, come with me in a game tonight. I’m sure I can ask the chief a favor to group you with me. I’ll show you the ropes.” In return, Hinata gives her a genuine smile. “Sure.”

As they walked together to the lobby, Hinata couldn’t help but stare at Yamaneko. She’s short, probably the shortest member of the militia, and her hair’s a mess of uneven cuts at the back. The red highlights on her bangs and fringe are somewhat faded, and her dark makeup looks pristine at the moment, unlike when she found her getting bent over a desk by her boyfriend a few hours earlier.

“If you don’t mind talking about it, how did you end up in the militia?”

“I encountered Last Boss and Niragi in a game and they took an interest in me. I dropped my wallet, they found my address, and they whisked me away.” Yamaneko pauses, looking at HInata with slight concern. “Are you sure you’re ready to hear what I’m about to say about Niragi, though?”

‘You’ve pretty much told me earlier that he’s a sleazeball now. I can take it.”

“Well, I was one of the girls he screwed upon arrival. I just… learned to tolerate it to survive. He stopped touching me after I stopped reacting to him. Or maybe because Last Boss told him that he wanted me to himself. I’m not sure anymore.”

“A-are you really suggesting I just give in and just let him have his way with me?!”

“What the- Of course not. But it’s an option if you want your life on the Beach to get easier. Or maybe you can ask that friend of yours to pretend to be your boyfriend, but I doubt he’s the type of guy Niragi will respect.”

Face contorted in anger and indignation, Hinata stammers. “I don’t know what’s more fucked, that he won’t leave a woman alone unless she’s the girlfriend of someone more dangerous than him, or that you don’t give a shit that Niragi’s-”

When Yamaneko grabs her by the shoulders and slams her against the wall, the other girl is reminded that she’s still an armed and dangerous member of the militia.

“Let’s get a few things straight here: First, I don’t fucking appreciate you putting words in my mouth. Second, I’m just telling you how I survived Niragi. The fact that I accepted your deal is me extending my help. So, don’t push your luck with me, newbie. I can still change my mind about this and throw you to the wolves.”

“I-I’m sorry.”

With that, Yamaneko lets go.

“C’mon, we have a game to play.”

As the slips of paper were being handed out, Last Boss and Yamaneko looked for each other’s eyes across the sea of people, and they gave each other one last look of longing as they went on with their respective groups for the night.

Yamaneko and Hinata receive their assignment, and the former’s face lights up when she sees Sunohara approaching. Silently, she thanks Aguni for heeding her favor of letting her choose her teammates tonight. The chief knows she has a plan. Not long after, Mr. Yamane approaches, glances at his daughter, and turns away, entering the back of the car.

Intentionally, Yamaneko sits in the back as well, while Sunohara rides shotgun, the wind tousling her chestnut bob, with Hinata on the wheel. The car ride is tense and quiet, wind howling as the car speeds through the empty streets of Tokyo.

Nervous, with beads of sweat on her forehead, Yamaneko felt nauseous again, rolling down the window to hurl.

“You alright?” the doctor asks, looking at her through the rear view mirror. Yamaneko nods and leans back on the car seat, keeping her head tilted upwards. From the corner of his eye, Mr. Yamane watches his estranged daughter, expression inscrutable.

The car screeches to a halt as they arrive at their destination: Tokyo Zoo.

Yamaneko regards the place, solemn expression on her face.

Her childhood days weren't always filled with hurtful words and beatings. On some days, on the off chance that Mr. Yamane took a day off, he’d bring her with her mother and sister here. But that all halted when he took his father’s place as CEO. Still, Yamaneko thinks the glimpses of familial happiness doesn’t outweigh the horrible things he did to little Minami, Mai, and his deceased wife.

“Of course this just had to be the fucking venue,” she thinks, slamming the car door shut.

One by one, the Beach members picked up the smartphones from the table, facial recognition registering them as participants, and followed the arrows to the game arena.

The synthetic voice most people dreaded breaks the silence. “Registration closed. There are currently four players. Difficulty: Six of Hearts.”

“Another Heart? Just my luck,” Sunohara sighs, rubbing her arms with her palms. Yamaneko inhales deeply, eyeing the new girl, then her father. “Ever played a Heart before, Hinata?” the militant asks her.

“No.”

“Then you’re in for a lesson.”

The doctor takes out a cigarette from her coat and lights it up, visibly anxious. “Heart games play with your heart and mess with your head. They’re the nastiest games out there.”

Judging the Beach veterans’ reactions, Hinata knew she was in deep shit. Mr. Yamane looks visibly distressed too, sweat beading on his balding head and soaking his dress shirt.

On a circular table are four snake tanks, the glass covered by an opaque fabric so the inside isn’t visible to the viewer, with a hole large enough for a hand to fit in on top. In the middle of the table is a syringe, a vial of unknown substance, and a scalpel.

“Game: Antidote. Rules: Two out of four boxes contain a live Gloydius blomhoffii, better known as the mamushi, one of the most venomous snakes in Japan. Each player must simultaneously stick a hand in a box and keep it in for five seconds. Players who haven’t been bitten by the snake must decide who deserves the antidote. Time limit: None.”

A hiss coming from the direction of the boxes is enough to confirm that they do indeed contain live snakes. The echo of the arena makes it hard to determine from which boxes it came from.

“Fuck. Fuck this,” Hinata mutters, legs shaking.

“Don’t tell me you’re running away,” Yamaneko quips. “You have a better chance of surviving if you stick your hand in as opposed to getting struck down by a laser.”

“Let’s get this over with,” Mr. Yamane interrupts, choosing a box of his own. “Stop stalling and get your hands in.”

Rolling her eyes, Yamaneko drags Hinata to the box beside her, and she takes her spot as well. Sunohara gets ready as hell, psyching herself up as she rolled up her coat’s sleeves.

“On three,” the doctor says. “One, two, three!”

All participants stick their respective hands in. Yamaneko chose her left arm, given how it’s in poor shape in comparison to her right one, and she tries to make her movement as slow as possible. Maybe the snake wouldn’t bite her if she doesn’t disturb it.

Unfortunately for her, Mr. Yamane exclaims as he feels fangs pierce his skin, and the snake in Yamaneko’s box gets startled as well, its teeth sinking into the flesh of her forefinger.

Heart hammering in her chest, Yamaneko pulls her hand out from the box and curses as she sees a droplet of blood on her finger. “Shit! Why the hell did you have to scream like that?!”

The ex-CEO hisses. “Shut up! You never learn your lesson, do you? Still talking to your father like that, have some respect!”

At the revelation that the two are related, Hinata’s eyes widened. “He’s your father?”

“Yes. We’re not exactly on good terms, as you can see,” Yamaneko sighs, trying to squeeze the venom from her finger. Sunohara strides to the table, retrieving the medical supplies. Then, the doctor touches the militia woman’s hand to stop her. “Don’t. Squeezing it would only make it spread. It needs to be excised, and then we need to inject you with anti-venom.”

A coarse hand grabs the doctor’s arm, causing her to gasp in pain. Mr. Yamane is giving the tall woman a furious glare. “Wait a damn minute! You sound like you’ve already decided to give her the antidote. What about me?! Huh? You’re a doctor of some sort, right? Who gives you the right to decide-”

HInata separates him from the doctor, her stance defensive. “Are you seriously going to let your own kid die so you can live? What kind of father are you?!” the tan-skinned girl exclaims in disbelief.

“Probably the type who kills people to advance his Beach tag,” Yamaneko quips, putting her own game into motion.

“Says the woman who brandishes daggers and gives her pussy away to murderers,” Mr. Yamane barked back. “You’ll be wasting the antidote if you give it to someone like her. I have a decent daughter and an infant son to come back to in the real world! Give the antidote to me!”

“Oh my God, you know you’re not helping your case at all by calling her those awful things, right?” Hinata quips, both hands on her hips.

A bitter laugh bubbles from Yamaneko’s throat, underscored with light pain as her hand starts to swell from the snake venom. “But the daughter in front of you doesn’t deserve to live? Tell me father, who else didn’t deserve to live?” Voice cracking, Yamaneko is screaming at that point. “We know it’s you. You killed those people in the Beach. You’re so desperate to go back to your cushy life as CEO, huh?!”

“You know what? Fine, it was me! You know I’d do anything to survive, Minami. That’s what I taught you as well!”

As the venom spreads through their system, the estranged father daughter pair escalates their quarrel, with the daughter striding towards the father to grab him by the collar.

“And yet you judged me for doing what I can to survive when you kicked me out. You judged me for getting caught giving men your age handjobs and blowjobs under the table. You judged me for stealing when I had nothing else.” Head spinning and tears pooling in the corner of her eyes, Yamaneko’s voice completely breaks as she utters a cry.

“You turned Mai against me. You poisoned your children against each other. You don’t deserve to be called a father.”

A slim, gentle hand pulls her away from the old man. Sunohara is giving her a sympathetic look. “We don’t have much time. Hinata and I decided you should get the antidote. You won’t be out of the woods yet after we administer the antivenom, too, so let’s move.”

The ex-heiress lets go of the Yamacorp CEO, cathartic, laughing and crying at the same time.

When she looked down as she tried to walk, however, the smile disappeared from her face. Blood stains her thighs, and the crotch of her bikini feels warm and wet. “This is embarrassing,” she croaks, and Sunohara merely chuckles at her predicament as she sits her down. Hinata stays right beside her new friend, if she can call Yamaneko that, offering her a shoulder to lean on.

Antivenom fills the syringe as Sunohara extracted it from the bottle. “Let’s administer the antidote, and I’ll get you some pads for your period when we get back on the Beach, huh? Maybe we can get help for your fa-”

Whatever Sunohara was about to say was replaced by a scream as she watched Mr. Yamane charged towards them with a dagger.

Deranged, delirious, Mr. Yamane stabbed his own daughter with her own weapon, the blade sinking in her gut. Squelching sounds and Yamaneko’s scream of agony echoed in the open space, accompanied by Hinata and Sunohara’s own shrieks of terror. Withdrawing the knife, Mr. Yamane threw it aside, and reached for the antidote.

Before the needle can plunge into his skin, a laser fires from the sky, cutting his life short in an instant.

Wide and wet with tears, Yamaneko’s eyes didn’t leave her father’s as she watched his final moments. Beside her, Hinata is shaking and covered with the militant's blood, while Sunohara is breathing heavily, still in shock.

The gravity of the situation sinks in when Sunohara hears Yamaneko whimper beside her.

“Help me.”

11 notes · View notes

door · 3 years

Text

CHRISTMAS EFFECTS

by Eve Kosofsky Sedgwick

from Tendencies (1993)

What’s “queer”? Here’s one tram of thought about it. The depressing thing about the Christmas season—isn’t it? —is that it’s the time when all the institutions are speaking with one voice. The Church says what the Church says. But the State says the same thing: maybe not (in some ways it hardly matters) in the language of theology, but in the language the State talks: legal holidays, long school hiatus, special postage stamps, and all. And the language of commerce more than chimes in, as consumer purchasing is organized ever more narrowly around the final weeks of the calendar year, the Dow Jones aquiver over Americans’ “holiday mood.” The media, in turn, fall in triumphally behind the Christmas phalanx: ad-swollen magazines have oozing turkeys on the cover, while for the news industry every question turns into the Christmas question—Will hostages be free for Christmas? What did that flash flood or mass murder (umpty-ump people killed and maimed) do to those families’ Christmas? And meanwhile, the pairing “families/Christmas” becomes increasingly tautological, as families more and more constitute themselves according to the schedule, and in the endlessly iterated image, of the holiday itself constituted in the image of “the” family.

The thing hasn’t, finally, so much to do with propaganda for Christianity as with propaganda for Christmas itself. They all—religion, state, capital, ideology, domesticity, the discourses of power and legitimacy—line up with each other so neatly once a year, and the monolith so created is a thing one can come to view with unhappy eyes. What if instead there were a practice of valuing the ways in which meanings and institutions can be at loose ends with each other? What if the richest junctures weren’t the ones where everything means the same thing? Think of that entity “the family,” an impacted social space in which all of the following are meant to line up perfectly with each other:

a surname a sexual dyad a legal unit based on state-regulated marriage a circuit of blood relationships a system of companionship and succor a building a proscenium between “private” and “public” an economic unit of earning and taxation the prime site of economic consumption the prime site of cultural consumption a mechanism to produce, care for, and acculturate children a mechanism for accumulating material goods over several generations a daily routine a unit in a community of worship a site of patriotic formation

and of course the list could go on. Looking at my own life, I see that— probably like most people—I have valued and pursued these various elements of family identity to quite differing degrees (e.g., no use at all for worship, much need of companionship). But what’s been consistent in this particular life is an interest in not letting very many of these dimensions line up directly with each other at one time. I see it’s been a ruling intuition for me that the most productive strategy (intellectually, emotionally) might be, whenever possible, to disarticulate them one from another, to disengage them—the bonds of blood, of law, of habitation, of privacy, of companionship and succor—from the lockstep of their unanimity in the system called “family.”

Or think of all the elements that are condensed in the notion of sexual identity, something that the common sense of our time presents as a unitary category. Yet, exerting any pressure at all on “sexual identity,” you see that its elements include

your biological (e.g., chromosomal) sex, male or female; your self-perceived gender assignment, male or female (supposed to be the same as your biological sex); the preponderance of your traits of personality and appearance, masculine or feminine (supposed to correspond to your sex and gender); the biological sex of your preferred partner; the gender assignment of your preferred partner (supposed to be the same as her/his biological sex); the masculinity or femininity of your preferred partner (supposed to be the opposite of your own); your self-perception as gay or straight (supposed to correspond to whether your preferred partner is your sex or the opposite); your preferred partner’s self-perception as gay or straight (supposed to be the same as yours); your procreative choice (supposed to be yes if straight, no if gay); your preferred sexual act(s) (supposed to be insertive if you are male or masculine, receptive if you are female or feminine); your most eroticized sexual organs (supposed to correspond to the procreative capabilities of your sex, and to your insertive/receptive assignment); your sexual fantasies (supposed to be highly congruent with your sexual practice, but stronger in intensity); your main locus of emotional bonds (supposed to reside in your preferred sexual partner); your enjoyment of power in sexual relations (supposed to be low if you are female or feminine, high if male or masculine); the people from whom you learn about your own gender and sex (supposed to correspond to yourself in both respects); your community of cultural and political identification (supposed to correspond to your own identity);

and—again—many more. Even this list is remarkable for the silent presumptions it has to make about a given person’s sexuality, presumptions that are true only to varying degrees, and for many people not true at all: that everyone “has a sexuality,” for instance, and that it is implicated with each person’s sense of overall identity in similar ways; that each person’s most characteristic erotic expression will be oriented toward another person and not autoerotic; that if it is alloerotic, it will be oriented toward a single partner or kind of partner at a time; that its orientation will not change over time. Normatively, as the parenthetical prescriptions in the list above suggest, it should be possible to deduce anybody’s entire set of specs from the initial datum of biological sex alone—if one adds only the normative assumption that “the biological sex of your preferred partner” will be the opposite of one’s own. With or without that heterosexist assumption, though, what’s striking is the number and difference of the dimensions that “sexual identity” is supposed to organize into a seamless and univocal whole.

And if it doesn’t?

That’s one of the things that “queer” can refer to: the open mesh of possibilities, gaps, overlaps, dissonances and resonances, lapses and excesses of meaning when the constituent elements of anyone’s gender, of anyone’s sexuality aren’t made (or can’t be made) to signify monolithically. The experimental linguistic, epistemological, representational, political adventures attaching to the very many of us who may at times be moved to describe ourselves as (among many other possibilities) pushy femmes, radical faeries, fantasists, drags, clones, leatherfolk, ladies in tuxedoes, feminist women or feminist men, masturbators, bulldaggers, divas, Snap! queens, butch bottoms, storytellers, transsexuals, aunties, wannabes, lesbian-identified men or lesbians who sleep with men, or…people able to relish, learn from, or identify with such.

Again, “queer” can mean something different: a lot of the way I have used it so far in this dossier is to denote, almost simply, same-sex sexual object choice, lesbian or gay, whether or not it is organized around multiple criss-crossings of definitional lines. And given the historical and contemporary force of the prohibitions against every same-sex sexual expression, for anyone to disavow those meanings, or to displace them from the term’s definitional center, would be to dematerialize any possibility of queerness itself.

At the same time, a lot of the most exciting recent work around “queer” spins the term outward along dimensions that can’t be subsumed under gender and sexuality at all: the ways that race, ethnicity, postcolonial nationality criss-cross with these and other identity-constituting, identityfracturing discourses, for example. Intellectuals and artists of color whose sexual self-definition includes “queer”—I think of an Isaac Julien, a Gloria Anzaldúa, a Richard Fung—are using the leverage of “queer” to do a new kind of justice to the fractal intricacies of language, skin, migration, state. Thereby, the gravity (I mean the gravitas, the meaning, but also the center of gravity) of the term “queer” itself deepens and shifts.

Another telling representational effect. A word so fraught as “queer” is— fraught with so many social and personal histories of exclusion, violence, defiance, excitement—never can only denote; nor even can it only connote; a part of its experimental force as a speech act is the way in which it dramatizes locutionary position itself. Anyone’s use of “queer” about themselves means differently from their use of it about someone else. This is true (as it might also be true of “lesbian” or “gay”) because of the violently different connotative evaluations that seem to cluster around the category. But “gay” and “lesbian” still present themselves (however delusively) as objective, empirical categories governed by empirical rules of evidence (however contested). “Queer” seems to hinge much more radically and explicitly on a person’s undertaking particular, performative acts of experimental self-perception and filiation. A hypothesis worth making explicit: that there are important senses in which “queer” can signify only when attached to the first person. One possible corollary: that what it takes —all it takes—to make the description “queer” a true one is the impulsion to use it in the first person.

#eve kosofsky sedgwick #thinking about about queer space and queer spaces

5 notes · View notes

goldiesugar · 4 years

Text

Jobs for Sugar Babies: Part Two

If you didn’t read the first part of these series, this is about the jobs especially made for people who love the luxury life like us, so I felt the need to write about the best suiting jobs for sugar babies, either aspiring or veterans, or whatever.

This time I’m going to be talking about working as a private jet flight attendant.

Let’s start by saying private flight attendants earn from 2 to 8 times more than commercial flight attendants. Basically, salary for commercial flight attendants is roughly $48,500 annually, while corporate air stewardesses earnings are much higher at $57,000 or $60,000 for those who know languages.

Other benefits may include health and life insurance, uniform and laundry expenses as well as internet service. Accommodation and transport are provided down-route and sometimes also at base, depending on where the aircraft is primarily based. Contracts may be short-term from 6 months to one or two years. But they tip very well. Very very well.

Let’s get into the interesting parts.

Every successful VIP Flight Attendant should possess the following skills and qualities:

A can-do attitude and pleasant disposition

Excellent personal presentation

Cultural awareness

Flexibility and diplomacy

Strong work ethic

Good interpersonal and communication skills

Ability to work independently and under pressure

Corporate flight attendants are required to sign confidentiality agreements, meaning you are unable to discuss current and former clients by name. Careful with social media and what you share.

Working as a private jet flight attendant is stressful due to the incredible amount of uncertainty and unknowns— always. The hours in the corporate sector are long, and you could work anything from 3 to 21 hours a day. You need to be very adaptable because many flights are last minute. Time off may be down-route or at base, but it is usually limited and dependent on the VIP’s schedule.

Time is a luxury that private jet flight attendants do NOT have— especially when it comes to planning for an upcoming trip. More than two days notice for a contract corporate flight attendant is a gift and detailed passenger preferences or requests makes the job so much more simple. With everything always changing and so many unknowns always occurring, the stress is real.

“The stress never goes away, you just become better at managing the stress.”

But being a private jet flight attendant is definitely more fun. You work on a one-on-one basis with the passengers, and you usually get to know them and their needs pretty well. The job is also a lot less mundane than that on a commercial flight. You never know what requests you’ll need to accommodate or where you’ll be flying off to next.

A private flight attendant’s ‘uniform’ usually consists of a blue or black chic suit with a blue or white dress shirt.

Some VIP Flight Attendants work on rotation, where they are scheduled 2 weeks on and 2 weeks off or a month on and a month off, but this arrangement is rare. Freelance VIP Flight Attendants do not work to a schedule and work on demand on a daily basis.

In addition to travelling around the world and dining in nice restaurants, some employers reward their flight attendants with gifts. Cash tips are also common.

The qualification you’ll be required to have are a high school education and a minimum of 2 years working as cabin crew in a business class or first class cabin. A degree in hospitality management, languages, leisure and tourism management or travel can help, but it’s not compulsory. Culinary training or work experience in a 5-star environment is desirable or the person must be skilful in culinary arts.

After all, not only are you responsible for serving Michelin star plates, but also commonly in charge of finding, arranging and transporting food to the take-off airport. Such skills as the one of a sommelier are also highly appreciated in the industry.

Apart from that, VIP crew must be acquainted with food safety and correct food handling techniques. No travellers, including CEOs, multibillionaires or pop stars, want to get sick because their beluga caviar wasn’t opened or stored the right way.

To be fully eligible to work as a private flight attendant, you are required to pass a medical and be fully vaccinated. You may have to provide 2 copies of your passport and apply for the appropriate visas. References from previous corporate operators will also be required and proof of initial cabin crew training.

Private jet flight attendants have more in common— job wise— with yacht stewardesses than with commercial flight attendants.

Be aware that requirements may vary depending on the preferences of the jet owner/ passenger. These may include additional language skills, specific age range and passport/visas. For example, a passenger or owner may specifically ask for female flight attendants aged between 25-35, of a specific nationality that speak English and Russian. Languages count as an extra advantage with English, Mandarin and Russian being the most in demand. Nevertheless, the truly crucial traits are versatility, knowledge and just shier devotion of a person.

Sadly having such strict requirements is very common in the industry and can lead to a certain amount of age and gender discrimination.

Being a private jet flight attendant allows your creativity to flourish. At the airlines, you are boxed in by rules on what your nail color is supposed to be and how you should wear your hair. Doing the bare minimum to get by receives the same compensation as delivering exceptional service; with no probability of changing that.

As a corporate flight attendant, your job is never secure. Also be aware that a million other girls would kill for a private flight, and you are lucky to be there. Treat the job like it’s a gift and that if the flight you’re on was your last ever, ‘How do I want to remember it?’ Do I want to walk away from my job, knowing that every day I ALWAYS invested my best or do I want to just show up to earn a wage? The choice of how you live, and thus how you are compensated, is up to you.

To find a job, you will need to visit the plane operator’s career website directly via email as advertised on a careers website or through personal recommendation. A complete job application will need to include a copy of your most recent and up-to-date CV, one full length and one head and shoulders photo.

Keep in mind the owner may be a high flying tycoon, celebrity, politician or a VIP family. You may work on a state of the art Global Express, Gulfstream G650 or much older model. It is an unusual role because you are the chef/personal assistant/safety specialist/waitress and cleaner, but this is also what makes it exciting because there is never a dull moment in the job.

Depending on the company, social media can be an absolute no-no and photos shared with aircraft tail numbers— as this is essentially the equivalent to a client’s home address— are never allowed. It’s a secretive industry, but for those who are in it, many have flown the same celebs, with the same pilots, and have juicy gossip or passenger details that no one would know unless you were “in it.” It’s kind of funny the way it works. Private aviation is an incredibly small world. Know how to live in it well.

So the road to becoming a VIP flight attendant could be basically summed up in three words – learn, learn and learn. And if you work hard enough you are more than likely to get a call from a private jet operator offering you your fantasy spot.

It’s part of the flight attendant’s job to set-up the cabin to the exact specifications of the client, while also anticipating what the client might want. Oh— did I mention that private jet cabin attendants also strive to exceed clients expectations by adding thoughtful touches to the in-flight experience? Yep— it’s an entirely different world than commercial aviation.

If you wanna know more about the perks and disadvantages of this job, Saskia Swann documented her experiences in a book titled Gulfstream Girl: Confessions of a Private Jet Stewardess.

To your success,

~ Bleuet 💸💖

#bleuet chats #jobs for sugar babies #private jet attendant #private jet #luxury lifestyle #luxury life #spoiled heaux

80 notes · View notes

douchebagbrainwaves · 3 years

Text

WHY I'M SMARTER THAN UNDERGRADUATES

One of the cases he decided was brought by the owner of a food shop. Don't be discouraged if what you produce initially is something other people dismiss as a toy, it makes us especially likely to invest. Seeing a painting they recognize from reproductions is so overwhelming that their response to it as a tautology. There's nothing more valuable than an unmet need that is just becoming fixable. You have to show you're impressed with what you've made. Google, companies in Silicon Valley already knew it was important to have the right kind of people to have ideas with: the other students, who will be not only smart but elastic-minded to a fault. Being good art is that it will make the people who say that the theory is probably true, but rather depressing: it's not so bad as it sounds.

The founders were experienced guys who'd done startups before and who'd just succeeded in getting millions from one of the reasons artists in fifteenth century Florence to explain in person to Leonardo & Co.1 If Microsoft was the Empire, they were the Rebel Alliance. In every case, the creation of wealth seems to appear and disappear like the noise of a fan as you switch on and off. One often hears a policy criticized on the grounds that it would increase the income gap between rich and poor? Perhaps this tends to attract people who are bad at understanding. It would work on a moon base where we had to buy air by the liter. It seemed obvious that beauty, for example, as property in the way we do. It could be the reason they don't have to wait to be an adult.

The answer, I realized, is that my m. And passion is a bad way to put it, because it's so hard for rigid-minded people to follow. That's to be expected. An eloquent speaker or writer can give the impression of vanquishing an opponent merely by using forceful words. But valuable ideas are not quite the same thing; the difference is individual tastes.2 Don't talk about secondary matters at length. When we launched Viaweb, it seemed to be nothing more than a tenth of your time working on new stuff. Now a lot of people in the Valley is watching them. In either case you let yourself be defined by what they tell you to do.3

Of course, space aliens probably wouldn't find human faces engaging. Rebellion is almost as stupid as obedience. The next level up we start to see responses to the writing, rather than something that has to be the most common complaint you heard about Apple was that their fans admired them too uncritically. Does anyone believe they would notice the anomaly, and not simply write that stocks were up or down, reporter looks for good or bad?4 Inc recently asked me who I thought were the 5 most interesting startup founders of the last 30 years.5 Simplicity takes effort—genius, even. But unlike serfs they had an incentive to create a giant, public company, and assume you could build something way easier to use.

Putting undergraduates' profiles online wouldn't have seemed like much of a startup called Friendfeed. That would definitely happen if programmers started to use handhelds as development machines—if handhelds displaced laptops the way laptops displaced desktops. Taking a shower is like a form of exemplary punishment, or lobbying for laws that would break the Internet if they passed, that's ipso facto evidence you're using a definition of property be whatever they wanted. Back in the 90s. Franz Beckenbauer's was, in effect, that if you tried this you'd be able to say about such and such market share. The average person looks at it and thinks: how amazingly skillful.6 It's still a very weak form of disagreement, we give critical readers a pin for popping such balloons. If one blows up in your face, start another. Ten weeks is not much time. Everyone at Rehearsal Day. Merely being aware of them usually prevents them from working. If I could tell startups only ten sentences, this would be one of them.

What counts as property depends on what you mean by worth. It would have been. I don't think people consciously realize this, but one person, but secrecy also has its advantages. Honestly, Sam is, along with Steve Jobs, the founder I refer to most when I'm advising startups. It's also true that there are quite a few marketplaces out there that serve this same market. Obviously the world sucked, so why wouldn't they? There was not much point. There are always great ideas sitting right under our noses. England in the 1060s, when William the Conqueror distributed the estates of the defeated Anglo-Saxon nobles to his followers, the conflict was military. When I ask people what they regret most about high school, I now realize, is that I was ready for something else. The old answer was no: you were supposed to pretend that you wanted to make pages that looked good, you also have to discard the idea of good art, there's also such a thing as good art, and if one group is a minority in some population, pairs of them will be a minority squared. You have to show you're impressed with what you've made.

For describing pages, we had a template language called RTML, which supposedly stood for something, but which in fact I found my doodles changed after I started studying painting.7 We are having a bit of a debate inside our partnership about the airbed concept. It was thus subjective rather than objective. Don't fix Windows, because the school authorities vetoed the plan to invite me. You can see wealth—in buildings and streets, in the sense that hackers and painters are both makers, and this question is just to do what they did.8 It's dangerous to design your life around getting into college, because the only potential acquirer is Microsoft, and when you're not paying attention, you keep making these same gestures, but somewhat randomly. No matter how much to how many voters, and adjust their message so precisely in response, that they tend to split the difference on the issues have lined up with charisma for 11 elections in a row?

So is it meaningless to talk about it publicly till long afterward.9 The way Apple runs the App Store is full of half-baked applications. If I were talking to a roomful of people than you would in conversation.10 The problem is, it's hard to get the gold out of it. Where does wealth come from?11 You can demonstrate your respect for one another in more subtle ways.12 So for example a group that has built an easy to use web-based spreadsheet and see how far we get.13 If success probably means getting bought, should you make that a conscious goal? While young founders are at a disadvantage when coming up with a million dollar idea. I'd like to reply with another question: why do people think it's hard?

Notes

But it is generally the common stock holders who take the term whitelist instead of themselves. There's comparatively little from it. I couldn't convince Fred Wilson to fund them. I've come to you about it.

Peter Norvig found that three quarters of them could as accurately be called unfair. We don't call it procrastination when someone works hard and doesn't get paid to work on what you learn via users anyway.

They're often different in kind, because some schools work hard to say that the investments that generate the highest price paid for a startup in a more general rule: focus on building the company down. Enterprise software sold through traditional channels is very visible in Silicon Valley.

In many ways the New Deal was a kid that you'd want to get jobs. Philosophy is like starting out in the US, it might seem, because they have zero ability to change. If the rich paid high taxes? The two guys were Dan Bricklin and Bob Frankston.

Don't be evil. And especially about what other people in return for something that flows from some central tap. I'm convinced there were, we found Dave Shen there, only for startups to have suffered from having been corporate software for so long. I think investors currently err too far on the dollar.

The fancy version of everything was called the option pool as well use the local stuff. Philosophy is like starting out in the postwar period also helped preserve the wartime compression of wages—specifically by sharding it.

This is everyday life in general. So, can I make it easy. Believe it or not, under current US law, writing and visual design.

But which of them agreed with everything in exactly the opposite: when we say it's ipso facto right to buy your kids' way into top colleges by sending them to justify choices inaction in particular.

An influx of inexpensive but mediocre investors. Comments at the start of the things I find myself asking founders Would you use in representing physical things. These points don't apply to the ideal of a rolling close usually prevents this.

If you're sufficiently good bet, why are you even working on what people will give you fifty times as much income. When a lot of money around is never something people treat casually. No one writing a dictionary from scratch, rather than giving grants.

For similar reasons, avoid the topic. It's not only the leaves who suffer. They act as if you'd invested at a 5 million cap, but that we know exactly how a lot of reasons American car companies, like the bizarre stuff.

Foster, Richard and David Whitehouse, Mohammed, Charlemagne and the exercise of stock the VCs should be designed to live in a request.

Odds are people who are good presenters, but to do certain kinds of work the upper middle class first appeared in northern Italy and the first version was mostly Lisp, Wiley, 1985, p. So during the 2002-03 season was 2. Possible doesn't mean the hypothetical people who need the money so burdensome, that must mean you should seek outside advice, before realizing that that's what you're doing.

Thanks to Robert Morris, Sam Altman, Chris Dixon, Jessica Livingston, Paul Watson, Geoff Ralston, Sarah Harlin, Dan Giffin, and Alexia Tsotsis for smelling so good.

2 notes · View notes

hjnsa · 3 years

Text

An Interview With David Herlihy, Author of "Bicycle - The History"

David Herlihy's book, Bicycle: The History, was the sole book on bikes which came to the most unmistakable presentation remain at my neighborhood Barnes and Noble. Distributed in 2004, it has been a staggering achievement, carrying the historical backdrop of bikes to a huge number of individuals in a few unique dialects. The book is rich and brilliant, both in its photographs and its words.

I met David while I was in school during the 1980s. He was making a bit of additional money by purchasing delightful, marginally utilized street bicycles in Italy (DeRosas, Cinellis, Tommasinis and so forth) and afterward offering them at surprisingly reasonable costs to cyclists in the USA. This permitted him to enjoy his adoration for movement, play with great bikes, and welcome delight to individuals on the two sides of the Atlantic. On second thought, his books on cycling do essentially exactly the same things...

Q: Bicycle: The History was an enormous achievement. How has this achievement transformed you?

A: Thanks, Forbes. "Tremendous" is a family member (and exceptionally complimenting) term. Yet, in the event that I might gloat a little, since it turned out in fall 2004, Bicycle has sold more than 20,000 duplicates, for the most part hard covers. That is a beautiful thrilled figure for a book of this nature, distributed by a scholastic press. I'm certain it's much more than even Yale had expected. From what I hear, it's currently one of their untouched blockbusters (there are even releases out in Russian and Korean).

This is exceptionally satisfying, just like all the consideration it got in the press, remembering surveys for lofty distributions like The Economist and The New York Times Review of Books (I need to credit my splendid marketing specialist, Brenda King, for designing quite a bit of that). Most were very great and simple to process (a couple were less fulfilling, however I figured out how to get over them before long).

What's more, indeed, I savored my brief encounter with popularity. It was incredible fun visiting and advancing my book, regardless of whether I needed to cover my own costs generally. I delighted in giving slide talks and marking books, and meeting cycling aficionados, all things considered. One of my most significant minutes was at a bicycle show in Edison, New Jersey, where I had a table. After one person affirmed that I was indeed the creator, he sort of lost it. He had his image taken with me utilizing his phone. I felt like a hero.

Returning to reality a bit, I can't say that the book has fundamentally transformed me or way of life, essentially not yet. Be that as it may, it has been an extremely sure encounter and I think it has opened up new imaginative potential outcomes.

First off, it was an extraordinary alleviation and fulfillment to at long last transform 10 years in addition to of examination into something substantial that could give me some acknowledgment and really produce a little income to keep body and soul together (also assisting with paying for all that exploration, which incorporated various outings to Europe. Not that I'm requesting compassion, mind you!) And I should say, with all due respect, that a lot of my best material surfaced around the finish of my request. Had I distributed the book even a couple of years sooner, it basically would not have been as vivid or as rich.

In addition to the fact that i was ready to share many intriguing disclosures, I likewise had the opportunity to air some profoundly held feelings. I think there are a great deal of misinterpretations out there about bike history, particularly as to the innovation and early turn of events. The kick-impelled Draisine of 1817, specifically, was not a bike as such and, as it ended up, it didn't lead straightforwardly to the first bikes of the 1860s (however it was seemingly the essential motivation). I've likewise inferred that the Scottish need claims emerging during the blast of the late nineteenth century are questionable, best case scenario. Also, obviously the extraordinary commitment of Pierre Lallement, the first bike patentee, has for quite some time been eclipsed by the Michaux name, which similarly covered the job of the Oliviers, the genuine mechanical pioneers.

سكوترات كهربائية

In some sense it very well might be a losing fight to demand this load of focuses legends are obstinate things. In any case, presently I've spoken my tranquility and I can continue on to other energizing ventures with somewhat more monetary soundness and somewhat more validity and clout.

Q: What are some different activities you are chipping away at?

A: Over the previous few years, I've kept on giving talks to a great extent for different cycling gatherings and instructive projects. One month from now, for instance, I'll take an interest in a board conversation at the uncovering of the Major Taylor dedication in Worcester. What's more, on May 24 I'll give a discussion at the Museum of the City of New York. We're beginning to discuss assembling a show on the historical backdrop of cycling in New York, related to properly enough-Bike New York, (patrons of the yearly 5 boro ride that draws 30,000 cyclists).

I've likewise completed a few ventures with Velopress of late. I interpreted an extraordinary book on the historical backdrop of Paris Roubaix by the editors of l'Equipe. It's an excellent foot stool book with astounding photographs. Furthermore, I need to say the content is likewise very captivating! I additionally interpreted a book on the Alpe d'Huez stage by my old buddy Jean-Paul Vespini. It's turning out in half a month and I'm truly anticipating pawing through it. I just saw a few evidences and the photographs are eye-popping. Besides the creator worked really hard covering the historical backdrop of this marvel not just as a definitive stage in the Tour yet additionally as a beautiful social rendez-vous.

What's more, I just marked an agreement with Houghton Mifflin to compose a book on Frank Lenz. Exploring his captivating however failed to remember story has been my concentration for as long as couple of years and will keep on being so for a significant length of time.

دراجات هوائية

To sum up: in May 1892, on the cusp of the bike blast, Lenz set off from his old neighborhood of Pittsburgh to circle the globe on the most recent "wellbeing" bike with inflatable tires. Two years into his excursion, in the wake of intersection North America, Japan, China, Burma, India, and Persia, he bafflingly disappeared. Examiners later followed him past the Persian boundary, into Turkey and the premonition place where there is the Kurds. Unexpectedly, Outing magazine, Lenz's support, sent another American "globe girdler," William Sachtleben, to discover Lenz in any condition. It ended up being an extremely awful an ideal opportunity to visit Turkey, with slaughters of Armenians unfurling before his own eyes. Sachtleben himself was fortunate to get back alive. He immovably accepted he had settled the secret, however his inability to discover Lenz's bones or bike, or to get palatable feelings for homicide, left the matter putrefying. Lenz's crushed mother at last got a repayment from the Turkish government, yet his inheritance immediately blurred in the twentieth century as the public lost interest in the bike. I'll talk about Lenz's experience and character, and what persuaded him to go off on this risky experience. I'll likewise follow the excursion exhaustively, putting a positive twist on it. At long last, I'll seriously investigate Sachtleben's discoveries and attempt to sort out what truly befell poor Lenz.

افضل موقع بيع دراجات هوائية

Q: Do you actually have the opportunity to ride your bicycle?

A: I admit that I have the opportunity in principle. What's more, the bicycles. In any case, I don't do as much sporting riding as I ought to (and it shows, though it pains me to say so!). Of late, I've for the most part done coordinated rides every now and then. Bicycle New York has become a practice each May, and it's an impact. I likewise did part of Cycle Oregon a couple of years back, and a couple of other gathering rides from that point forward. Yet, generally I cycle in the Boston region, just to get around. I just procured another Bike Friday, which I actually need to gather. I hope to ride significantly more get-togethers. I might want to get once again into street riding, as well. In principle I could utilize one of my old Italian racers, yet I couldn't want anything more than to get something more contemporary. Also, perhaps a trail blazing bicycle as well. Had the opportunity to complete this book first, however, so I have some optional assets.

Q: Your book clarified that you love bikes. Do you cherish any one kind of bike more than others? Is there a specific sort of bike that is closest and dearest to your heart?

A: I'd need to say the exemplary light weight street bicycle with thin tires is as yet my top choice. But at the same time I'm into bikes as essential transportation, particularly during circumstances such as the present. The Bike Friday offers an incredible mix off both riding delight and reasonableness. I can't actually address mountain trekking as I've never truly enjoyed that game. In any case, I have companions who are truly into it, and I know some time or another I ought to truly check it out.

Q: You used to bring brilliant utilized street bicycles back from Italy. Do you actually have associations around there?

A: In principle, indeed, however I haven't purchased any bicycles around there in a long while. I spent various years in Italy growing up, I actually go one time each year. So I'm as yet conversant in the language. In the past I went routinely to the Milan career expo. Also, I found the opportunity to meet and meeting some incredible names like Cino Cinelli and Valentino Campagnolo, when I composed for Bicycle Guide. However, I haven't kept up my contacts in the bicycle business, though it pains me to mention it. Recently when I've gone over it's been really investigating, eating, visiting, and mingling. In a specific order, obviously.

دراجة هوائية رياضية

Q: Have bikes improved through their set of experiences? Or on the other hand were the old bike plans more down to earth than the plans for new bikes?

A: Well you can surely present the defense that the bike advanced in the second 50% of the nineteenth century, turning out to be progressively roadworthy and thus pragmatic in that sense. The first "boneshaker" of the 1860s was an honorable thought yet one in urgent need of material improvement. You could contend that its substitution, the armada however shaky high wheeler, took the idea off course, that is, away from reasonableness. All things considered, the first bike created a global uproar decisively in light of the fact that it should fill in as a reasonable "individuals' bother." And the high-wheeler, obviously, turned into a costly toy for athletic guys.

1 note · View note

bubblegumchaos · 3 years

Text

TW: Violence, dark humor, all that jazz. Go no further, angry shit, yadda.

So, yanno...i'm just gonna yell into the void about something.

When i was very young, I read a lot of encyclopedias. Most of my knowledge of the world was attributable to the Encyclopedia Britannica, which my mother kept because well, a home should have a nice, impressive looking set of books. Along with a bunch of other old books that just...really weren't the best choice for a regressive anti-technology apocalyptic fundamentalist cult, but then, as we used to joke, my mother doesn't have to make sense, she just has to make decisions.

So, I eventually started plumbing the depths to try and figure out "what the hell is wrong with my family."

While i didn't get an answer about my family in general, I did note that i seemed to be oddly suited to the definition of "psychopath," minus the whole "being a problem for society at large" thing. Asocial, low empathy, lack of guilt, inability to plan cohesively, difficulty conceptualizing consequences, near total lack of emotions except curiosity and rage, both of which are carefully stifled, aggressive tendencies...frankly, I look at my younger siblings and i can definitely assure anyone that asks that had I not been raised quite far away from society, or if I'd stayed in the cult, I would most definitely have been a problem for society.

But psychopaths are *monsters,* you see. They're so, so bad, you see. Everyone assured me, at great length, that I couldn't be that, no, no sirree. I was too nice. Too kind. I didn't punch people nearly often enough (largely because I don't like being punched outside of sex, and I like to be in charge of where I'm being punched, and even that mostly cause I'm kinda badly out together physically, but that's aside the point.)

I wasn't *hate-able.* My empathy was too high.

On that last note, I have spoken elsewhere and i believe here regarding my empathy. My empathy is specifically a learned skill picked up by reading Edgar Allen Poe's Auguste Dupin stories. Dupin explains his near preternatural ability to get inside people's heads by his learned skill of micro-mimicking body and facial language and then analyzing what he feels when he copies someone else. Works absolute wonders, particularly as up to that point (i was 8-9), I was using the classical technique of provoking and hurting people around me to experimentally figure out how other people worked. Admittedly, it's somewhat like recording a speech and listening to it at the lwvel of a whisper in a crowded room, but then mimicry is far less likely to get you punched, and see previous for my feelings on getting punched.

But now i had, for all intent, a system to demonstrate empathy. Thanks to my mother's abuse, I had a complete paranoid delusion aping guilt. I could check plans past others, and once I got my hands on Google at 14, I had the capacity to directly look up what the general, societal consequences of most actions were and model behaviors that achieved my ends. I further had 18 years of direct training in mind control and manipulation, thanks to my cult.

You may notice that what you just read sounds like the origin story of a serial killer. Ape people around them to avoid detection, paranoia making them scrupulous enough to not get caught, and careful study of laws to find the lines, plus a hyper manipulative persona.

Roll with me here. This continues forward.

So, i'm out and about, 2, 5, 6 years free of my cult. I have married a self avowed psychopath who actually HAS been diagnosed with antisocial disorder thanks to a teenage habit of theft and punching people. He is fairly sure I am not one, since I perform guilt and empathy fantastically, by rote at this point. I literally have days that my face hurts from faking emotions for too long, i am slowly developing agoraphobia because there are far too many people to mimic in a retail job, and my guilt subroutine is just a voice chanting in my head, "they're coming to get you, don't fuck up" 24/7 to the point that i am developing hallucinations, but yeah. It's definitely not psychopathy. At this point, that's just ASPD, and i'm just too darn social. Never that. I'm no monster, you see. I'm "nice."

About this point, I have learned to use mind control techniques to help people, carefully applying them with direct permission to help people open up and discuss problems. My near preternatural ability to get into people's heads, my ability to find information, and my absolute lack of fucks about morals (thus making me wildly nonjudgemental), makes me the go-to confidant for many of my friends. This neatly surrounds me with people that can smooth my life out, but you can't tell people you're friends with them cause the world is made of grey paste and you're deathly bored 24/7 and being allowed to pick through people's minds and help them optimize is the closest you get to not wanting to shoot yourself or others. Or that you carefully maintain contact with people so you can check and make sure you're not doing anything jail worthy. Or that a large group to mimic lets you blend in easier, and finding one that also is transgressive, but socially permissable (thanks, kink) blows off some steam.

Of course, people that don't know me find me deeply off-putting, as I am at this point rapidly learning to turn off the mimicry when not immediately interacting with people. This results in me appearing utterly emotionless, but as soon as people talk to me, bing, back on. I had also joined the kink subculture, giving my hedonistic and transgressive sides an outlet.

I'd also gone to the trouble of getting a multifaceted degree. Ostensibly, my degree is "multimedia journalism." If you aren't aware, this means I have a degree in research, interpersonal communication, public speaking, written communication, mass communication, some psychology, critical thinking, media creation and analysis. In short, I have the literal perfect degree for figuring out, communicating with, and functionally understanding people, as well as a vastly enhanced ability to locate obscure information.

Fast forward again. Three mental breakdowns, four years of therapy, poking at my gender, figuring out a lot of mental health problems, and a rotating series of diagnoses, life is...slowly improving. I've left a toxic marriage (toxic on both sides), moved to a completely new place, started over. I have sort of resigned myself to focusing on my (admittedly annoyingly complex and wide ranging) physical disabilities.

And it comes up, in talking to my partner, that his adoptive mother displayed (she's dead) quite a few signs of ASPD. And he asks curiously if there's any connection between ADHD, autism, and ASPD, mainly cause the "personality disorder" part. PD's can, with long or early exposure, sometimes be passed on, you see.

Guess what's being studied, right now? Not a connection between ASPD and ADHD. A connection between psychopathy and ADHD. Wait, but I thought psychopathy wasn't a thing, says I? I thought there was only ASPD, now?

Ah, but for you see, the DSM is a load of horseshit. And i have heard that from multiple communities with different relations to it, and from multiple therapists, psychiatrists, professors...as a general rule, when the people who use it, the people it's used on, and the people who teach it all agree that a document is manure, I get a touch distrustful. I get more so when current studies use umbrella terms disavowed by a document known for being reductivist and that has been noted as having a great number of entries that were manipulated deliberately to make them as narrow and unusable as possible.

So anyway.

Turns out that while no, ADHD and Autism don't make you a psychopath, there's a distinct overlap. Empathy issues are a possiblity in all three, though both ADHD and autism can create *hyper*empathy. Inability to navigate social constructs is another point of overlap.

But really, it's the serotonin deficiency that hurls it across the line for me. And the genetic factors. Can psychopathy result from environment? Yeah, seems so. But there does seem to be a genetic and neurochemical component. Which is...curious for a disorder presented as purely a traumatic abreaction that creates dangerous amorals.

I then looked it up. And wouldn't you know, psychopathy is only pathologized as ASPD/APD, and DPD? The former is the sort of psychopathy that is characterized by violent amd criminal antisocial behavior, and the other an inability to understand and perform social mores at all. But this is the DSM, so these are of course diagnosed by problems caused for others as a first line.

Violation of societal norms, lack of emotions other than rage, aggression...it's almost like the same people that named a serotonin and function deficiency Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder to enshrine the disorder only by those aspects that make neurotypical people uncomfortable rather than seeking to help the neurodivergent person, the same people that invented torturous behavioral correction therapies to "fix" the neurodivergent person? Those strike me as people that might possibly have looked a serotonin deficiency that causes rage, limited emotions, impulsivity, difficulty conceptualizing consequence, and potentially a hell of a lot of other fun side shit and decided to call that "Doesn't get along with others well" disorder.

What really kicks it in the teeth for me, however, is that psychopathy used to mean more than "a social pariah." You see, Theodore Millon, the guy that wrote the book on personality disorders, noted between 5 and 10 subtypes. Do you know what they are?

Nomadic

(including schizoid and avoidant features)

Drifters; roamers, vagrants; adventurer, itinerant vagabonds, tramps, wanderers; they typically adapt easily in difficult situations, shrewd and impulsive. Mood centers in doom and invincibility

Malevolent

(including sadistic and paranoid features)

Belligerent, mordant, rancorous, vicious, sadistic, malignant, brutal, resentful; anticipates betrayal and punishment; desires revenge; truculent, callous, fearless; guiltless; many dangerous criminals, including serial killers.

Covetous

(including negativistic features) Rapacious, begrudging, discontentedly yearning; hostile and domineering; envious, avaricious; pleasures more in taking than in having.

Risk-taking

(including histrionic features) Dauntless, venturesome, intrepid, bold, audacious, daring; reckless, foolhardy, heedless; unfazed by hazard; pursues perilous ventures.

Reputation-defending

(including narcissistic features) Needs to be thought of as infallible, unbreakable, indomitable, formidable, inviolable; intransigent when status is questioned; overreactive to slights.

(It should be noted: the features listed above are simply what each presentation is most likely to display if disordered. A reputation-defender may not display narcissm, a risk taker may not be histrionic. A malevolent [what a terribly judgy name...] could be negativistic, or avoidant, or histrionic. And so on.)

Now, ya may be going, "wait, hold up, narcissism is on there! We still have that! Schizoid is on there, we have that! Sadism, paranoia, we got all those things!"

Flash quiz: do you know what a personality disorder is? It's a series of learned behaviors that require moderation and unlearning.

Why yes, they did spin multiple neurotypes off into diagnoses that require behavioral therapy to "fix." Why on earth would you think they wouldn't? They're still trying to use reparative therapy on auties. Hell, near as I can figure, histrionic got spun into Borderline Personality disorder. You know what the therapy for that is? DBT, aka, "it IS your fault and you SHOULD feel bad."

Beyond knowing there used to be different flavors, did you know that there is about a millionty scare articles about how psychopaths are everywhere? Guess why.

What do you get when someone has an absolute need to see what's on the other side of the hill and no real fucks to give about how you get there? You get scientists, explorers, people utterly driven to find out. Think about how many of our science and exploration heros are noted as deeply weird and off-kilter. We have whole stereotypes about this. There are books and articles devoted to the transgressive personas and behaviors of famous scientists and explorers.

What do you get when someone is belligerent, paranoid, truculent, violent, fearless? Snipers. Literally. The army has openly stated they like psychopaths quite a lot. Someone that can look at a map of human lives and commit calculus with the phrase "acceptable losses" makes a damn fine general, wouldn't you say? Hunters, too. Make a good king? Or bounty hunter. Or, if we're going to be honest, a martial artist. Hell, think of all the ways our society accepts violence in real terms and symbolically. Management. Video gamer. Espionage. Actuary. Pest control. There are THOUSANDS of of societal uses for people like this.

Covetous? Well, banks are openly quite loving towards psychopaths. CEOs are indicated here. Businessmen. Fandoms with collection as a function have any number of anecdotes of individuals who have an intense drive to get more. "Focused on the chase, rather than the victory, to the exclusion of all else" is considered a positive, laudable personality trait. To put it in other terms, "can't stop, won't stop, never done." Sports players, yes? Football, rugby, hockey...

Risk takers are the real standouts, in terms of societal love. Doctors. Firemen. EMT's. Skydivers. Extreme sports players. Equipment testers. The list goes on. Society loves risk taking psychopaths. Hell, look at the diagnostic criterion up there: it's mostly traits with high positive connotations.

Reputation defending? Politics. Law. Advertising. Acting. Writing. Religion. Leadership of any kind.

I'm not talking out my ass here. All those fields have been noted as friendly towards, attractive to, and having a high representation of people who fit the behavioral model of psychopath.

But only if they're useful. Like literally every other non-normative neurotype.

Society loves ADHD and autistic people when they're displaying savant abilities or when they can mask well enough to use their sensory and cognitive differences to societal ends.

And if they're a problem for people around them, that's treated. The underlying difficulties? The societal structures that punish and harm them? The pain of adapting their entire neurobiome to do all the work of interfacing with different neurotypes while being driven to harness anything useful and discard the rest of their brain? No, we don't treat that. That's just the price of doing business. "Pull yourself up and don't be a problem."

And here's the problem, in plain terms: psychopaths who learn to cope, to mask, to adapt like I did are never diagnosed. I have spent most of my life fairly concerned about the fact that I seem not to have emotions or compunction, that i am always consciously working to figure out and connect to people around me on the most basic level, that I am constantly working to keep an active model of social norms going at all times. And I don't mean "shake hands, eye contact." I mean I have the same mental conversation regarding "don't shoot that person" and "use a turn signal." All prosocial behaviors, all social behaviors period, are a struggle to understand.

The funny thing is, it also makes antisocial behaviors difficult. Shooting someone seems remarkably inconvenient in many cases. Regardless of whether I care about getting caught or not, shooting somone will interrupt my day.

Not shooting them also seems remarkably inconvenient in many cases. Yes, it'd be a pain in the ass to shoot them, but then again, if I do it correctly, I only have to do it once.

But again, "correctly" is a wildly unfixed variable, and the whole question won't come up if I always ensure I fail the "do i currently have a firearm" step. And I don't. Ever.

That's how my brain works. Y'all go on about moral and ethical and legal reasons. That's an exhausting conscious mental conversation to have every other day, so my shortcut is:

"Should I shoot them? Oh, right, I don't have a gun. Guess not. Should I get one? No, cause I might shoot someone, and that'd be a pain in the ass. Welp, no shooting people."

And so it goes. I don't understand any social norms. Good or bad. I have all the problematic issues still, mind you. Environmental factors. I mimic and I was raised in an apocalypse cult in Oklahoma. I spend a lot of brain space sorting between prosocial behaviors and the violent antisocial behaviors I was taught were prosocial.

Because, you see, I can't really understand the prosocial behaviors, but I can see they work. And antisocial behaviors don't, really. Have i impulsively pocketed something? Couple times. Even got away with. Can't steal a house, though. And theft gets boring, for me.

Ok, except piracy. I may quite enjoy piracy.

Cooperation with a larger whole can and does yield benefits. Forcing myself to sit through mind numbing gratification delays does seem to yield results that are beneficial, though I really try to keep that one to a minimum. I refuse to be bored if I can help it. Making nice talky sounds gets me shit faster than making angry talky sounds.

Possibly this is a result if being raised manipulative. No idea. Kinda don't care.

Point is, I'm one of the psychopaths that, while not immediately useful, is also not actively a problem. So no-one will listen when i talk about everything being gray and cold and exhaustingly complicated because people make no sense and almost all my emotions are dialed so far down it's a joke i lack the ability to laugh about.

No one has believed me that the one emotion I have in spades is rage and that i have to literally consciously work out from first principles why violence is a bad option as my sole method of controlling that, my ONLY EMOTION OF ANY STRENGTH, which I cannot allow myself to feel for any length of time because I start losing sight of that consequence model and I worry i'll make a mistake I can't unmake. Or that it took me two decades to learn not to smash things I need when someone looks at me funny. Or just smash them.

Or that i have to keep my hands in my pockets and chant "don't steal" in my head some days. That I wear tight clothing with shallow pockets to make stealing harder so that, like guns, I simply can't do it easily and therefore short circuit my behaviors.

People are more than happy to hurl me at any problem that requires a lack of emotion, but if I dare to be less than appropriately emotional on a date? At a wedding? Funeral? If I make an error and don't diagnose it myself and perform contrition appropriately, regardless of if I knew there was a social or personal rule there? Well, I'm fired/broken up with/punished/evicted.

But I am not actively a problem for society. So none of those things are worth diagnosing. Or helping in any way.

And those that are useful? Are often fed utter horseshit and encouraged to break society. Bankers creating recessions. Generals commanding useless wars. Cops. Doctors that uphold a broken system. Politicians that pursue a broken society.

I know, I can see, that ASPD people catch a shit ton of shit cause they get blamed for "useful" psychopaths mistakes, and none of the benefits when said same psychopaths are lionized. Looking back at what it was, and what it is now, pathologically speaking, it makes perfect fucking sense for the asshats that designed a diagnosis to only include the people they don't like as the "sick" ones, and label the "good" ones as "heroes." Makes a nice distinction there between people we want to demonize and people we want to lionize for having the exact same chemical imbalance, and neatly creates a fall group when any of the "heroes" trip up. Silence those who can't cope, elevate those that can, treat neither effectively, and if an elevated one stops coping, we can just "realize" they were "sick" all along, and oh, yeah, those sick people are so bad, you guys, nothing like those heroes at allllllll.

I am...so tired of this society bullshit.

So anyway, I'm a psychopath. Paranoid, some schizoid. So whatever grains of salt you feel like taking, grab 'em, I guess. I'd mostly like for people like me to stop being weaponized, lionized, or punished for having a different neurotype. I'd like to be able to talk to a doctor about that and for there to be some options beyond "stop that," "get locked up," "have you considered the army" (yes, a doctor actually asked me that as a teenager) or "you seem fine, tho."

And if you resonate with this, well...I'm 32, never been arrested, mostly managed to avoid terrible shit, and I've got a life, couple partners, and I'm surviving, so like. You can do this. Lotta people wanna tell you you can't have this or that cause "you're not bad, tho." They're stupid. Y'ain't evil, just different. Don't let them get to you.

And (this is a joke) if you decide to shoot someone, do it once, correctly. Saves time.

#actuallymentallyill #vent #tw violence

14 notes · View notes

dr-gloom · 4 years

Text

Some thoughts/analysis on the new episode, because the video itself and people's reactions were bugging me

Disclaimers: I don't hate Patton or Roman, I'm not calling Patton abusive or manipulative, as those terms insinuate knowing what you're doing and I don't think Patton does know how he's coming across

- First I wanna just point out, as a few others have, that Thomas is once again wearing black and white while discussing a grey-area issue. I love the attention to detail

- The recap only really highlights that Thomas admitted to wanting something that contradicted Patton's statement of why he's a good person (or more specifically "perfect", which, as nice and friendly and lovely as that sounds, is a toxic mindset and I like that Thomas touched on that at the end), which is an interesting point to cover honestly, especially since later Thomas challenges Patton to call him a good person

- "Now kiddo, if you're gonna dish out Fs, why don't we make them friendly hugs?" I understand Patton was trying to lighten the mood and joke a little and all that, but he's not letting Thomas just... Be angry/upset. He's trying to control how he feels and steer away from negative emotions, which I thought he learned not to do??

- I love that Patton heard what he was saying and stopped. Good on him. But what he replaced it with is called guilt tripping and that's not much better. "I'm surprised you would say something like that about your friends. I always thought that when it came to your pals, that sort of language would be... Ineffable?" It may sound gentle and sweet, but he's still saying "you can't talk about your friends like that" (and I get it, we all know that's not how Thomas really feels, but again he needs to be allowed to express himself). You can tell from Thomas's face while Patton's talking that the guilt tripping worked, at least for a moment.

- Anyone else notice a little Logan shining through in Thomas's words/actions the first portion of the video?

- "If our goals aligned with his what would that say?" Uhmmm gee lemme think Roman... Maybe that you care about Thomas's mental health and desires???

- I think it's very telling that during the rap Thomas cuts Patton off right before he's about to say something that, judging from the graphics, was going to make him sound heroic and said "I made this choice", while looking very... Upset.

- Okay so when Thomas was all "why didn't I just talk to them???" I felt hella vindicated but the second time I watched I finally heard Roman say "I mean I kinda brought that up before but it got shut down faster than an Antarctic icepop shop". Like... Fuck, they seriously do not appreciate or listen to Roman at all

- Patton brushing them off with "Eh well hindsight is 20/20" pissed me off so much. No empathy whatsoever. Jesus Christ.

- Roman's reaction when Thomas said no to the whole future vision thing made me laugh and no one is talking about it

- But yeah Thomas talking about using foresight has a total Logan Vibe

- Patton's reaction when Thomas says "I made a decision with a blindfold on" is... Interesting...

- Seriously that cat analogy was so specific.....

- One should never base their decisions on "well they've helped me before so I owe them" like. No. Patton, Roman, stop. He should have decided to go because he wanted to, not because he owed it to them or you made him feel like shit

- "Those baby-making Catholics" lmfaooooo

- "You, thinking about giving their wedding a pass all because of a callback that, really, might not work out". That bugged me too, because it can just as easily be argued he gave up his big break for a wedding he barely participated during. If we're being completely logical here (and borrowing from a later concept of how our time is better used), his time would have been better-spent at the callback since he wasn't even mentally present at the wedding

- "Maybe they understand, and maybe they still want you to go to the wedding but feel too guilty to say so. Or, maybe you end up going to the wedding, and they feel guilty seeing you there because they feel like they took a big opportunity away from you". First off, they did (or would have, had the conversation taken place and they insisted he come). Secondly I personally feel like he owed it to them (and yes, I'm aware how that sounds but I can't think of better phrasing) to talk about it with 100% honesty on both sides, because now he's angry that he went to their wedding and they have no idea. Sure, the vid ends with them coming over to catch up, but if it hadn't? That's the kind of shit that festers very easily. I feel like he'd have been more satisfied if he had still decided to go after talking with them. I think Thomas realizes this too when he responds to Roman's question with a very sure, very adamant "No."

- "This was our chance to be there for them when it counted". I know this is me reading into things but it felt like he was saying anything else he may have done for them doesn't matter or isn't good enough

- "Why does their complexion matter" LMFAOOOOOO omg roman

- "... We can all agree that you're a good fellow-" "Can we? All agree on that?" Like fuck, Thomas still isn't sure what Patton thinks of him? That cuts deep. And... Patton still hasn't apologized. He conceeded that he's "been a bit much", which is far from the same thing

- pfffft what the fuck was Roman trying to do???

- "Well that's a relief... I think". Meaning Thomas still isn't fucking sure where Patton stands. I have to admit his dialogue did sound a bit circuitous

- he almost said GameStop lmfao

- why is he fixating so much on frogger

- "At least 16 graphics!" I died laughing

- "By the liquid lipstick of William Shakespeare" wut the fue? Lmao

- "just like you don't have to get him a hotdog" "I feel like you kinda do... Maybe". I know Janus says it later on but he was right when he said peppering in a few "I don't know"s and "maybe"s does not a conversationally-conscious person make. Like, he didn't even add the maybe until Roman reacted negatively to what he was saying

- I'm surprised Logan said it'd be wrong for Thomas to keep his money to himself tbh

- Roman mouthing "behoove". Like, c'mon dude, stop being such a dick to Logan when he's just trying to help

- Logan's so done he's not even trying to hide it. Like you can see the annoyance clear on his little pixelated face

- Also did anyone notice that Logan kept getting cut off so the next time he "spoke" he made them read it aloud so they'd actually fucking listen

- "Yeah! As long as that's not the main reason you're doing it!" Honestly though, most people do good things for their own benefit; tax benefits, That Good Feeling, compliments from others etc. It doesn't diminish the effect of the good act, so who cares?????

- "You shouldn't do a good thing just because it makes you feel good... I-I think." He's trying so hard but he's just not understanding how this works is he. Also it's interesting that he preaches holding to your values and not nitpicking situations yet he's literally doing it right now because last time he just... Needed to counter Janus and couldn't admit he'd had a fair point

- "Deceit said you'd be doing the right thing for a selfish reason if you did it for your own emotional gain". You can tell by his tone he's trying to make Thomas see Deceit as wrong and bad but like literally two seconds later he audibly confirms he feels the same way

"Definitely! Maybe... I think so... What do you think?" Tbh I'm proud of him for asking someone else's opinion, esp cause he's screwing this up so horrendously

- man if Roman being scared to share his opinion after Patton visibly disagrees isn't a huge red flag idk what is

- the world of the video game is called AU I'm screaming

- I'll always be salty that Roman once again shoved a "dark side" into the villain roll without asking

- I don't agree with Patton automatically assuming that just because the hero wants a reward, it means he doesn't care about the people he saves getting it. People can have multiple motives and wanting recognition isn't bad or evil or selfish

- I'm so fucking glad Thomas snapped and asked "am I not allowed to feel good if I do something good" because that's basically what Patton's saying and no one was addressing it. And Patton saying that can't be a valid motive is honestly fucked up

- during the trolley problem the options toggle the most between morality, anxiety, and denial. Idk, it's just interesting

- it's also interesting that Patton views moving the trolley as worse than letting it stay, meaning he thinks small active murder is worse than larger, passive murder. Not bad or good or anything, just interesting

- I hate hate hate that Patton silences Logan when he's the one who asked him to say something, especially since he follows that with "oh you can't really learn good morality from a book hahahaha". Like dude just acknowledge that you don't agree but there are other valid points of view, my god

- also you can tell from the color that Janus totally put that skip button in, meaning Logan really, really wanted to continue but Janus could see it wasn't going to get them where they needed to go

- "stu-ooper dooper unique mustache" lmfaooooo

- Thomas keeps coming back with something along the lines of "I need the answer to X so I can meet your expectations". He even says "I don't understand what I need to change so I can meet your standard". Last time I did a post like this, back when SvS came out, I said Patton has too much sway/control over Thomas, and he still does. Thomas doesn't try nearly as hard to "meet the standards" of his other sides, but in this instance he's desperate to know how he can appease Patton. I don't think that's necessarily a good thing, given that it's likely because he wants Patton to say without hesitation that he's a good person

- Roman thinks he's the problem I wanna cry

- "And I'm an awful driver" I laughed so hard

- "I only mean well when I say that that is the stupidest thing you have ever said" I can't stop laughing XD

- "You're just blowing smoke" seriously someone help me

- Roman's reaction when Thomas says he feels guilty just killed me. They all just acknowledged that Roman is his motivator and Thomas comes out and says his motives make him feel guilty? Ouch

- "Doing nothing is even worse!" Patton honey I'm begging you to please stop talking omg this is going so poorly

- "doing nothing is worse than doing a good thing for the wrong reasons" first off, who's to say what a wrong reason is, and secondly, that's an interesting take from the man who refused to move the trolley 👀

- oooof Thomas's relief when Logan cuts in though

- "Huuuuuhhhh I do need help" fuck, I wanna cry, poor Thomas

- "Logan, like you said this isn't your area of expertise" ITS NOT YOURS EITHER ROMAN OMG

- "Every point you've made in today's discussion has contradicted that sentiment" YES LOGAN JANUS SLAY. Also anyone else notice Patton looking to the others for validation because I Sure Did

- oh man though I thought Logan was finally getting the chance to lay into Patton and take him down a peg and it turned out to be Janus

- "Oh, is it not? Please, correct me if I'm wrong." yeah paTTON CORRECT HIM IF HES WRONG (notice how he doesn't even have an argument to that, all he can say is "you're wrong!")

- honestly the way he goes from 0 to 60 should've tipped us off that that was Janus

- I wanna know if Patton turned into a muscular frog irl

- idk Patton feels like a villain when he's all "Thomas you choose!"

- "What have you done with Logan?!" "Nothing at all and I resent the question" weeeeeelp there goes loceit

- even Janus admits Patton is misleading unintentionally can we all calm down now

- I find it interesting that Thomas willingly stays behind Janus

- "Sure if he's in that kind of situation then of course he should focus on himself. But does he deserve it? I don't know." *Record scratch* excuse me wHAT?????? And like, you can't ignore the obvious symbolism behind that attack missing Janus and hitting Thomas. Thomas is knocked out and Patton just ... Keeps talking? Jesus fucking christ

- and Roman so adamantly attacking Janus has a very pre-AA vibe to it

- "Not that any of you care, but I am unharmed, and I don't want to talk about it." Thomas looks like the only one genuinely concerned when he says this and that hurts

- Janus looks so happy that Logan's backing him I wanna cry my baby aaaaaaa

- SOMEONE FINALLY ACKNOWLEDGED THE CHOICE ROMAN MADE AAAAAAA THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU can we stop acting like Janus is evil now please

- "Well when is it enough?!" ".... Trees?" I'm STILL LAUGHING SOMEONE HELP ME

- I'm so fucking happy Thomas doesn't agree with Roman about trusting Janus

- Roman laughing and saying Janus's name is stupid and Janus's jab about him and Remus just... Gutted me y'all. Thems some hurt boys. And he looks to Thomas and Patton and they just... Can't side with him, cause they know that was hella fucking rude of Roman.

- I genuinely believe that Janus's nod meant Thomas was telling the truth. Based on his facial expression (which was slight but idk I notice more stuff than most people apparently???) He was trying to reassure Roman. And Roman just... Took it the completely wrong way, because he still thinks all Janus does is lie. When Roman says "wow, I can't believe this" you can actually see Janus's smile disappearing, because he realizes Roman took the nod the wrong way

- aaaaand then he immediately goes into attacking Janus. *Sigh*

- "Everything's gonna be okay, kiddo. We love you." "*Scoff* Right." I truly believe the next video is gonna be about Roman, because there's no way in hell they could ignore the obvious hurt and self-deprecation coming off of Roman

- "Janus? Is there a limit to how many times a person can say sorry before you have to admit that they're just bad for you?" Patton was talking about himself. Whether Janus was trying too hard to be witty and missed that or what, his reply hurt Patton, and you can see that Janus realizes his mistake with Patton's reaction. We have to remember that this isn't a side who's used to how the others communicate, though. He doesn't spend time with them outside of the few videos he's shown up in because of how they treat him. It's gonna take him time to get the little things like this and until then there's gonna be a lot of hurt feelings and (hopefully) apologies

- Janus immediately backtracks once he realizes what the real question was and says "... it depends... How many things have they had to apologize for? How frequently do they have to apologize for things? How terrible were the things that they did? One of the biggest factors in my very humble opinion is whether or not they seem to be making an honest effort to do better" this is Janus trying to tell Patton "you aren't bad for Thomas. I see how hard you're trying. It's okay"

- you can totally see Janus realizing why Patton fights him so hard while Patton is explaining how hard shit's gotten as Thomas grows up

- "Janus?" "I'll take care of him" y'all I need the tissues

- Janus trying to lighten the mood with the whole push-someone-down-the-stairs thing just... Made me die laughing. Y'all know he's hella good at April fool's pranks okay? Okay

- "You're not stuck with an evil snake boy, you're just stuck with a snake boy" HES SUCH A DORK I LOVE HIM

- I reacted the exact same way to Thomas saying Janus was right omg

Again, I'm not saying I hate any of the characters, this is just a stream-of-consciousness analysis-and-commentary-type post on the new episode

#sanders sides #ts spoilers

68 notes · View notes

mizeliza · 4 years

Note

So, I’m reading Jane Eyre for a class and was wondering why you like the novel? Currently, I’m struggling to get through it, finding the language to be almost disorienting and alienating and Rochester to be unlike able.

You’ve opened a can of worms here because I truly do love Jane Eyre but I am also painfully aware that it is my problematic fave - there are a lot of things that are morally unacceptable by today’s standards in it and yet. And yet.

I’ve tried to mostly keep this spoiler free, because you seem to be in the middle of the book, but the book has been out for 173 years, and many of the things I have say have to do directly with it’s major plot points and eventual ending. For the most part I’ve tried to be vague, but that isn’t always possible, if you care about spoilers, consider yourself duly warned. And if anything is too vague and you need a better explanation with more details, feel free to message me or send in another ask! As you’re about to see I love talking about Jane Eyre lol

Addressing your issues first:

If the language doesn't work for you, unfortunately you’re just going to have to struggle through it. It’s old and that was the style. I first read Jane Eyre for my 11th grade English class and to this day all my friends from that class refer to long, long sentences as Charlotte Bronte sentences. I don’t mind them, but I am also prone to long, long sentences in both my personal and academic work so. But I can definitely see how that could be a barrier for people. If you don’t have to go too deep into annotations or tracking for the class, it’s okay to skim a lot of the longer paragraphs in order to get to more of the action.

Rochester is very unlikeable, but I think that’s sort of the point, he’s one of the original brooding older men that don’t get on with anyone but that somehow has eyes for the young heroine - he sees in her what no one else does and falls in love with her for it. It’s a trope I associate a lot with 2000s/v early 2010s YA novels, and at this point it’s tired and admittedly creepy, but this was part of the origin of it, and I think that’s why it works for me.

Side note - If at the end of it you want to really hate Rochester, read Wide Sargasso Sea by Jean Rhys, which is about colonialism and feminism and Bertha Mason and Rochester, during which he definitely comes off worse than in Jane Eyre and she gets to be more than the originator of a very different trope, but make sure to get a version with footnotes or you will be very lost

There are a ton of other problems with it, which I won’t go into, simply because it would take lots of time and lots of space and that isn’t what you asked for.

So back to why I love Jane Eyre:

I once saw it described as the first YA novel and I think that’s a pretty succinct way of looking at it. It’s definitely a coming of age story - from Jane escaping her abusive family members to an even worse boarding school, to her entering into the wider world for the first time, eventually leaving even though she’s in love because she refuses to compromise her morals - more on that later, getting to explore herself and her purpose in life outside of having to worry about her physical, mental, or moral survival, standing up for herself and again refusing to compromise her beliefs, and then, finally, upon realizing what she really wants in life - with the obstacles conveniently removed by fate - she returns on her own terms and gets to live happily ever after. Upon first reading it, as I mentioned above with Rochester, I noticed a lot of aspects that were very familiar to me - several of my annotations in the copy I read for school are just “wow this is just like in harry potter” - but again, they were new at the time. Anyway I just love narratives of women growing up and discovering themselves and chasing after what they want, I just think they’re neat.

I much prefer the first half? 2/3? of the book, up until she leaves Rochester and goes walking across the moors (so dramatic! and yet, what an absolute mood, if I had a moor to wander across in a forlorn state after leaving the person I love because I refused to compromise myself for them I would also go for it and end up half-dead on the doorstep of strangers) than afterwards, when she’s living with the Riverses, simply because I find them boring, especially St. John (whose name is pronounced Sinjin, which infuriated half my English class). Even though I am too afraid to watch or read true horror, I love the concept of a good ambiguously haunted isolated gothic mansion, and Jane Eyre delivers that.

Which brings me to one of my favorite things about the book, I gave a presentation on it in my English class, which I am now realizing was four years ago which is terrifying, what I call the “almost supernatural.” Jane Eyre is filled with things that could be supernatural that aren’t - the Red Room, where Jane is filled with fear at the thought of a ghost, when she first meets Rochester and at first mistakes Pilot the dog for a gytrash, then thinking the house is haunted when strange things start happening, when it turns out to have been a person all along, if not the one everyone told her it was, and even arguably Jane herself, who Rochester refers to as a fairy multiple times. She wants so badly to believe in the supernatural, and strange and interesting things keep happening around her, and even though they’re terrifying, I’ve always gotten sort of an air of disappointment from her when it’s revealed that they’re just normal things. And then, at the very end of the book, something supernatural actually does happen to her, and it’s glossed over like the fact that what happens is physically impossible doesn’t even matter to her, after wanting things to be supernatural the whole book, because she finally knows what she really wants and has the capacity to chase after it.

Finally, I will always take the chance to talk about how I think Jane Eyre is a feminist narrative, and am always willing to argue my point.

By the middle of the book, Jane is in love with Rochester, and he is in love with her, he’s proposed and they’re somewhat happy together, but the situation always feels a bit off to Jane. She still doesn’t really value herself at this point, and he wants to give her nice and expensive things, and she also still feels the power dynamic - she’s an 18-year-old, possibly 19-year-old at this point? I don’t remember all the dates/times, adult but v young, governess and he’s her what, mid thirties at the youngest? rich, land-owning employer. There’s a huge power dynamic there on multiple levels, and unlike earlier, during their talks in the library where she openly calls him ugly and teases him back, at this point because of the changed social dynamic between them because of their engagement and her feelings of inadequacy because of their positions in society, made very clear by Miss Blanche Ingram (another trope that Jane Eyre helped make popular - the single father marrying the governess), Jane no longer feels like she can criticize him. While before, especially while alone, they were on more or less equal footing, she is now all too aware of how unequal they are and she shrinks a bit because of it. Somewhat ironically, Jane has very little agency between her assertion of her agency - “I am no bird; and no net ensnares me; I am a free human being with an independent will” - and her leaving Rochester, during that time she basically lets things happen to her while being somewhat bewildered about them.

And then. And then the truth about Rochester and Thornfield is revealed, and they can no longer be married. And he offers to go away with her, to where no one knows them, to live in sin as husband and wife even though they can’t be actually married. And Jane sticks to her principles. She believes that that’s wrong and she refuses, and rather than be tortured by either the betrayal of her principles or the knowledge that he’s there and loves her and she can’t have him, she leaves. She takes only what she already owned, leaving behind everything he gave her. She finally exerts her agency again, and from then on, she keeps exerting it.

While with the Riverses, she makes her own choices, and her own money, and again refuses a marriage that she feels isn’t right and that doesn't align with her beliefs - this time, she chooses not to marry because neither of them are in love. She rejects what St. John sees as her duty, including what can be seen as rejecting a closer relationship to god and god’s work, when god was the reason for her rejection of Rochester in the first place. Even though I think this part of the book is the most boring, Jane stands up for herself a lot more here, and she asserts herself as a person who values herself, and maybe I should reread it lol. And then, after refusing St. John and asserting her value outside of marriage, and with herself now financially secure and able to be on equal footing, socially, financially, romantically, with Rochester, then she returns to him so that they can have an equal relationship - which it would not have been before.

I hope this was satisfying to you, even though (like Jane Eyre) it is very long and somewhat rambley, and I hope that I manage to improve your experience of the book! Please feel free to send me any responses or other commentary that you have because as shown I really do love to talk about it :)

#else speaks #else answers #anonymous #Jane eyre #charlotte bronte

17 notes · View notes

radiikill · 4 years

Text

Coffee Shop Daydreams Chapter 1

It was around ten in the morning at Tokyo University, and Makoto Makimura was already feeling frustrated. She was looking over various notes she had compiled throughout the last couple of weeks and felt like tearing each of them to shreds. Most of the time she loved her courses, she was majoring in exercise science hoping to become a physical therapist. There were a few classes taken in the last two years of college that made her feel the temptation to drop out, and this was one of them. It was a gen-ed health science course, but the professor was an absolute jerk which ruined everything about the class.

As a result, it felt like she was teaching herself all the concepts.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of footsteps coming towards her table. She was in one of her favorite spots in the library, secluded in a corner hidden away by various bookshelves. Not many people came to this area, so she knew who to expect. She looked up at the man’s face and greeted him with a large smile, shuffling her papers away so he’d have room to sit.

The only saving grace of this class was that she was able to study with one of her closest friends in university, Taiga Saejima. Saejima was three years her senior, though many thought he looked older. He was a large muscular man with a stern face framed by his shoulder-length hair, which made it really easy to be intimidated by him.

They met in another gen-ed course her first year of college. They were paired together for a project, and though she was a little nervous to speak to him the determination to prove herself outweighed everything else. Looking back, Makoto realized that she probably was a stuttering mess. Especially since her Japanese was still fresh, she constantly messed up terms. But, Saejima never got frustrated with her struggles.

Presently, her Japanese has improved and her friendship with Saejima was strong. Many peers were shocked that she was friends with him. Makoto’s friend Joy once told her that she has a habit of attracting rather intimidating guys. Though, despite his imposing exterior, he was actually a very soft person. He was always very kind towards her but was also not afraid to call her out when she needed to be.

“How are you Saejima-kun?” she greeted.

“Not good,” Saejima said, “I fucking hate this class.”

Makoto giggled at the bluntness, agreeing with the sentiment.

“I don’t even know why I need this,” Saejima continued, “I don’t even plan on teaching kids’ science.”

“What did you want to teach again?” Makoto asked as she jotted down more notes.

“History.”

“Sciences are a big part of history,” Makoto reasoned, “you can always go more in-depth if you know some of the concepts.”

“Fuck that,” Saejima replied, “if they want to know the details, they better be paying attention in their other classes.”

Makoto shook her head, giving a joking ‘tsk tsk.’ Even with Saejima’s blunt language, she knew he had a soft spot for kids. If they had inquiries, she knew he’d do his best to answer them. The way he talked about his younger sister proved that enough.

She really enjoyed studying with Saejima. He was smart though it took him more work to understand the concepts. Makoto was quick to understand most science concepts, but she had to put in extra effort in everything else. They were able to help each other make up for their weaknesses. These tutoring sessions were helpful for Saejima to practice his teaching, and it helped Makoto learn how to teach better. She wasn’t confident with her abilities, even when she knew what she was talking about. This resulted in a lot of criticism from Saejima varying from ‘suck it up,’ to ‘speak up’ and some other choice words. It occurred more frequently early on in their friendship. The comments were a little jarring at first, she wasn’t used to people being so blunt with her, but Makoto learned to appreciate the straightforwardness. It was a welcome change from the way people usually treated her. Always either keeping her at a distance or looking at her with obvious disdain.

The way her classes were scheduled allowed her to get back to Kamurocho around 4 pm. If she was able to get a seat, she’d be able to complete any last-minute class readings. Ideally, she tried to get all her work done while she was on campus, but things happen and sometimes she needs to put in more work while she’s home.

Café Alps was one of her favorite places to spend her time. The ambience was nice, and the service was fantastic. It was her favorite place to go after classes and would alternate between ordering tea and coffee. Sometimes she wouldn’t order anything at all, her time would be spent getting ahead on work or just reading.

Other times she’d people watch. Like in the library, her favorite seat in the café was placed in the corner, the perfect place for a view of the café. She didn’t watch anyone specific, but she loved looking at what people were wearing, and sometimes she couldn’t help but eavesdrop on conversations. She tried not to, but sometimes the conversations just pulled her in.

Though, she may have lied when she mentioned that she didn’t watch anyone specific. There was one man that really grabbed her interest. She was certain he grabbed everyone’s interest. He was also a regular at the café, tall and lean, with a loud personality. He had a high-pitched laugh, but his tone seemed to change drastically depending on who he was talking too. Like his personality, his outfits were equally as loud. Most of the time he wore a snakeskin jacket without a shirt on underneath, his tattoos peeking out from his shoulders, though sometimes he would change into other loud patterned shirts. Though, it was obvious that he favored the snakeskin jacket.

She didn’t mind the tacky pattern since if she was being honest with herself, he had a very nice figure. He was slim but muscular, his wide grin splitting the harsh angles of his face whenever he’d hear something particularly funny. If she looked closely, she could see the glint of his eye which seemed to have a mischievous look in it. The left eye was covered with an eyepatch, which she wondered if it was for aesthetics or not. He was very expressive in every single aspect of himself.

He commanded her attention whenever he entered the room, and she only prayed that he didn’t notice her peeking over whatever she was distracting herself with.

‘Was this a crush?’ she wondered to herself. She supposed that it was, but at the same time, she felt like it was just all in good fun. Even if it was a ‘crush’ there was a no way she’d ever talk to the guy. Maybe Joy was right, maybe she was attracted to intimidating men. Because she was sure to most people this man was a little frightening, but she couldn’t help but be curious.

But compared to him, she was so boring. She felt horribly plain.

One day she couldn’t help but listen in on a conversation he was having, with another man. They were sitting across from her so she could get a good glance at his face. He was loud, ranting about how people don’t separate their trash and that they’re the reason our environment is the way it was today. She had to hold back a laugh because it was incredibly endearing that this man was ranting about climate change and personal responsibility.

‘Smart and handsome,’ she thought to herself. Her eyes moved up from her book, wanting to get another glimpse at his face. His eye was focused on the man in front of him, engrossed in whatever conversation they were having. Makoto noticed how his hair, which was cut right above his ears, was starting to fall into his face.

She switched back to looking at his face when she met his eye.

He definitely looked directly at her, and it took all her self-control to not flinch. She glared down at her book trying to control her heart rate and the blood rushing to her face. Subtly, she tried to lower her face and raise the book a little higher. The words were not registering in her brain and she just felt so embarrassed that he saw her staring. She cursed at herself for not being careful, now she looked like a nosey woman.

Okay. Maybe this was a little bit of a crush. Just a little.

Ten in the morning, Makoto was at the library, again. Same location, same clutter of papers surrounding her. Saejima was right across from her, papers also surrounding him, but they were in more cohesive stacks. Makoto held some flashcards close to her face, trying to commit each definition to her memory.

“Does holding those cards so damn close help at all?” Saejima questioned.

Makoto let out a little laugh. She knew Saejima was bound to start getting snappy. Besides being surrounded by papers he was also surrounded by broken pencils that failed under his pressure.

“Maybe you should try it,” Makoto said, “I could tape them to you if you want?”

Saejima scoffed, not in the mood to joke around.

“At this point I’d rather you tape a bomb to me.”

She felt like they had been in the library for forever. They’ve spent the past week studying and she was starting to feel the burnout. Makoto was about to say something until Saejima beat her to it.

“I wanna get the fuck out of here,” he said.

“I do too, but we really gotta get these definitions down,” she sighed, “that was our only goal for the day.”

“How about we go somewhere else then,” he grumbled.

Makoto immediately agreed. A new spot would be refreshing. Saejima and her both lived in Kamurocho, so she suggested they go to Café Alps.

“Isn’t that the place the guy you’re stalking goes to?” Saejima asked.

“Huhhh,” she replied, “I’m not stalking him, I forgot I even told you about that.”

“Sure.” Saejima said, obviously not believing her.

“If I was stalking him, I’d follow him out of the coffee shop, but I’m not.” She was trying her best to not sound defensive; she was also already thinking about how he caught her staring a couple days ago.

Saejima shushed her and told her to get her stuff ready so they could leave. She huffed, frustrated by her friends teasing, trying to get her mind off of the guy at the café.

The day must have had different plans for her though.

She was twisting her pencil between her fingers trying to focus on the different passages, while Saejima was studying her flash cards. The change of environment was nice and the commute to Kamurocho gave them a much-needed break. Overall, she was able to focus relatively well.

Until a boisterous voice snapped her from her book. Eyepatch man came in once again, along with another young man in a white pinstripe suit. She assumed the guy in the suit was the same person he was conversing with about climate change a couple days ago. His face was more stoic than the eyepatch man, if anything he seemed to be slightly annoyed at how close he was getting.

It was amusing. She giggled and elbowed Saejima in the ribs. He glared at her, but she interrupted him before he could say anything.

“That’s the guy,” she whispered, pointing to the guy with the eyepatch. She noticed Saejima’s eyes widen, then a small smirk graced his lips. Then he started to chuckle, and it seemed like it was bound to evolve into full blown laughter.

Makoto was not expecting this reaction at all.

“Look, I get he’s a little weird looking, but you don’t need to laugh at me,” she whispered harshly.

“I just, can’t believe,” he said in between chuckles, “of all people you take interest in.”

“Geez,” she said, “I shouldn’t have told you anything.”

She appreciated that he was keeping his laughing to a reasonable volume, though it still annoyed her. Her face was already getting redder. Once he stopped, he gave her a look she didn’t recognize. It looked as if he was plotting something, and Makoto didn’t like it.

“Why are you looking at me like that,” she huffed.

“You’ll thank me later,” he responded, then he turned towards the guy with the eyepatch and yelled.

“Oi! Majima!”

The guy with the eyepatch, Majima, turned towards them. His eyes met Saejima’s and his mouth split into a wide grin. He gave a wave and started to walk towards them. Makoto felt like she might pass out, not expecting this turn of events at all.

“What the hell,” she whispered to Saejima.

#majimako #majima goro #makoto makimura #saejima taiga #yakuza #ryu ga gotoku

12 notes · View notes