#Car Inurance

[nanaminsmoon]

hiiii, so sorry if this is a lil long but bare w me pls, i love ur writing btw <3

ok: reader & plug!ony broke up about a year ago bc of something ony did (something bad but not like 100% unforgivable) but the feelings never left. he’s been tryna get her back over the year but she wasn’t budging cus she hadn’t seen any growth. recently tho she’s noticed he’s growing & she misses him. then at a function, she sees him pop out w a new girl & all their friends are staring at her like waiting for a reaction and in a littleee moment of jealousy, she goes up to ony like “you’re mine for life right?” and he jumps away from the other girl so fast like he BEEN waiting on this news 😭😭

omg thank you!! i was about to write something just like this but this is so much better!! i hope you like it and i'm sorry it took so long i just wanted it to be okay😭

cw: kinda angsty, oral (f receiving), car sex, ony calls reader 'ma', n word usage, mentions of breeding.

wc: 3913

atonement is hardly ever easy, and ony knew that first-hand. closing the gap between you and the person you once held closest to you can, surprisingly, be very difficult. even if a year of ‘separation’ is spent showing up at your ex-lovers’ door, or workplace, nail tech, or hair lady’s house. sometimes getting back to where you once where is needlessly difficult. especially if your definitions of said place are vastly different.

from the outside looking in, you and ony’s relationship had been picture perfect. he loved you as much as you loved him, and he wasn’t shy about it. everyone knew not to even look at you wrong, because they knew that they would have ony to deal with—and no one fucked with ony’s girl. except for him. because that picture had been held by a fraudulent frame; purposely hung over the large dent in your relationship. that being, his occupation.

from small kickbacks, to rich white kids who want to snort rebellion off their house keys, everyone had one thing in common—ony. no party started until ony got there and, as happy as you were for him, that didn’t come without its burdens. ony was almost always out dealing, giving you very little quality time to hang out. on the few occasions you got his undivided attention for more than a few hours, your peace would be interrupted by the ear-splitting noise erupting from his stupid nokia burner phone.

of course, small huffs of disappointment would slip past your lips when he told you that he had to leave. but you were used to it now, and that’s what helped ony sleep at night; knowing that you had become inured to his disconcerting disappearances, and abrupt reappearances. you knew that other people needed him, even if it meant that your needs were temporarily pushed aside. one time you had asked him, why it always had to be him that they called, and his response had been:

”my shit is the best, ma.”, said through a chortle, as he put his shoes on by your front door.

”i get that, but what about me?”, your arms crossed, as you tilted your head at your man—ony’s weakness. once you did that, with that look in your eyes, he couldn’t say no to you. but tonight, his priorities were different.

just let me do what i gotta do, and i’ll come right back to you. then i’m yours for the whole night.”, he had reassured, kissing your temple.

”just for the night?”, you scoffed.

”for life. now stay here, and i’ll be back.”, and that would appease you for the evening. but there’s only so much cracking one heart can do, before no adhesive can keep it whole, and it shatters into a million pieces. that night, you stripped yourself of ony’s shirt you had been wearing, and threw it into the corner of your bedroom; it smelt too much like him, and you hated it.

harmless hatred became deep disdain on the evening of your birthday. you had organised a dinner for a few of your closest friends and family, and had vehemently stressed to ony that he had to be there on time. because, if he wasn’t, he wouldn’t just be wasting your time, but he’d be wasting that of those closest to you as well. and he had promised you that if there’s something that had to be handled during the time of your dinner, he’d get connie or eren to do it so he could be with you. but 15 minutes of waiting for him became 30. and 30 soon became an hour, and your friends grew reasonably irate due to hunger. so you said they could order, and you’d just call ony one more time. but in a time where all you wanted to hear was your boyfriend’s voice, all you were met with was rings on the other line. that sound resounded all over the side of your face. and that feeling grew once the realisation hit that had you been a client, he wouldn’t have let the phone ring for more than five seconds. and that gave you a lot to think about.

you didn’t know how long the dinner lasted because your focus had remained on keeping your tears from falling into your food. you hated how pitiful you looked, lifting your head up every time someone walked into the restaurant, and the crestfallen expression that landed on your face each time you saw it wasn’t ony. it made no sense to you how the man who swore he would do anything for you, the man who placed a band on your ring finger, promising you that one day he’d marry you. the man who swore he had never loved anyone more than you, refused to put you before something so fleeting.

ony finally did show up though…two hours after the dinner had ended. heartbroken cries in your bedroom, had constantly been interrupted by calls coming from ony’s contact. but every single one went unanswered; he needed to feel what you felt when he had embarrassed you in front of your loved ones. though mere missed calls could never compare to the taste of your celebratory dinner food meshing awkwardly with the swallowed cries in your throat, you had to make him feel a morsel of the anguish he had put you through.

if ony could’ve gone full 2000s rnb music video; shirtless, singing outside your window with his chain blowing in the windy rain, he would’ve done. he would’ve even started throwing pebbles if he could, but your apartment was too high on your building. so he just settled on incessantly pressing the button next to your door number. and, after the nth try, you opened the door for him and he ran inside—pressing the elevator button a thousand times once he got in. and, just as he was about to knock on the door, it opened. and you stood on the other side, utterly unimpressed; bonnet on, your own pyjamas (instead of one of his shirts), and eyes reddened by tears. the impact caused by his heart unceremoniously dropping to the pit of his stomach caused a soft sigh to leave his mouth. then his lips began moving to explain himself.

“look, i'm sorry. i lost track of ti—”, his explanations were waved off—your own thoughts outweighing whatever he had to say to you.

“we're done, ony.”, was all you said to him before closing the door, and ony’s brain turned off, then back on again because what the fuck did you just say??

“y/n, open the door”, he banged on the door. and, not wanting any noise complaints, you opened it.

“what?”, you scowled.

“the fuck you mean done? talk to me”, ony’s hand reached out to yours, but quickly retreated when you pulled back from him. you had never done that; even when you were mad at him, you at least gave him a chance to get back into your good books again.

“you missed my birthday dinner, ony”, your voice was small, tears about to fall yet again.

“i know, and i'm sor—”,

“two years in a row.”,

“like i said, i'm sor—”,

“and my graduation, the party we had when i finally got my drivers license, the lunch you promised me on my first day at my new job. and you were meant to be my date at my sisters wedding.”, every example was punctuated by your fingertip harshly poking at his chest, and the tears just started falling on their own.

“i'm sorry, y/n”, ony’s voice started cracking, as his hand embraced the hand you had been poking him with.

“sorry isn't good enough anymore, ony. i deserve someone who prioritises me”,

“but everything i do is for us.”, he kissed your hand, “imma use this money to buy you ever—”,

“do you not understand that i don't want your money or gifts? i want you, ony.”, your breathed out, exasperation deeply set in your voice, and in your slumping posture, “anyone could give me bags and shoes, ony. but only you could give me your time. but you won’t, and that's the problem”

“so what, this is it?”,

“until you figure yourself out, yeah.”, you slid your hand from him, “it pains me because i love you so much, but i can’t keep living like this. if you're not ready for a girlfriend then you should've never got with me”

“but i am ready”, he pleaded.

“then act like it.”. were the words that echoed in ony’s head every time he showed up to the places he saw you posting on your story—heart holding hopes that your paths would cross. you didn’t know how he did it, but ony became your shadow for nearly the whole year you spent separated. even when you told him to give it up, he refused; sending bouquets of flowers to your workplace every few days, talking to you through your friends and family, and even showing up to your job to make up for that lunch he promised you. it hurt you to turn him away when you could see in his eyes that he would give up the world to have you in his orbit again. but, when you would ask him about where he got the money to even buy you these flowers in the first place, his silence was very telling.

but word on the street was that ony was a changed man now. your sources told you that he wasn’t dealing as much, and he had gotten a job. those sources being his instagram story that you watched through a burner account. seeing him everywhere made it impossible for you to wash yourself of him completely, so desparate times called for desparate measures. you missed that man so much, it was driving you crazy. it pissed you off seeing him being the man you had asked him to be, but not having the chance to bask in his progress. your love for ony wouldn’t vanish overnight, but it sure as hell hadn’t faded in the year you had been separated either. you kept his shirts and hoodies, and the promise ring he bought you was still on your finger.

so elated didn’t even begin to explain the feeling in your chest when, upon arriving at some house party, one of your girls told you that ony was there too. you tried to not seem so eager, but you had no control over your heart beating rapidly at the idea that you might see him again. all you needed was for him to apologise one more time, and you’d be all his. that was until you came to find that there was a hole blocking your reunion—that hole being in the shape of some girl giggling in his face, as his arm sat around her waist. every fibre of your being urged you to stomp over there, and scream his ear off. but he wasn’t your man anymore so there was nothing you could do but kiss your teeth and glower that them.

no man, not even ony, could get in the way of you and your friends enjoying yourselves. so that’s exactly what you did. for an hour, or two, ony didn’t exist and you just laughed and danced with your friends. however, the end of that would be marked when you stood, talking some guy you had just met, and one of your friends nudged you and nodded in ony’s direction.

“that doesn't bother you?”, she asked, obviously asking about the girl sat on ony’s lap.

“why would it?”, you shrugged back.

“you ain't say you missed the nigga?”, your other friend chimed in.

“okay? that doesn't mean i want him back”, you lied through your teeth.

“so you’re just missing him as hobby?”, sasha laughed.

“leave me alone.”, you chided, and your friends dropped the whole thing. but you wished those saltine whispers of jealousy would leave your eyes, and let you at least pretend to enjoy yourself in peace.

and if it wasn’t them ruining your fun, it was the girl’s friends staring at you.

“why are her friends looking at me?”, you whispered to connie. he had come over to speak to you, and that had caught ony’s attention. mainly because he wondered why you were willing to speak to his friend, but not him.

“they’re gloating.”, connie put a comforting arm around you, and pulled you closer to himself.

“well, tell them to stop.”, as if you could feel ony’s eyes on you, you moved connie’s arm from you, and connie laughed before putting it back where it was.

“they won’t. in their mind, she stole ony from you.”, he explained, and you scoffed.

“pfft, i could get that nigga back anytime i wanted”, you retorted, earning some knowing looks from your friends, before unprecedented words fell from sasha’s mouth.

“then do it.”, she nudged you, “you keep saying you want him so bad, go get him. he’s your man. go collect him”, that didn’t sound like a suggestion, it sounded like a dare. and you were never one to back down from a dare.

“fuck it”.

you didn’t know where your strides were leading you until you were barging past ony’s friends to link your arm around his own. at first, his body went into fight or flight because he thought he was about to be robbed, then calm came in the sound of your voice,

“ony, baby, where did you go? i've been looking for you everywhere”, you made sure to stick yourself onto him, and he didn’t move from you because he was too busy comprehending what the fuck was going on.

“y/n?”,

“i thought you guys were done?”, miss.whatever-her-name-was, linked ony’s other arm with her own, and pulled him towards herself.

“yeah, so did i”, ony spoke under his breath, looking down at you in bewilderment as he thought to himself; ”how much did i fucking smoke?”.

“who’s done?”, you looked up at him, “you’re mine for life, right?”, you pouted up at him, and all those memories of that night he had promised you he wouldn’t be long, came flooding back—ony folded immediately.

“always.”, he grinned at you, simultaneously yanking his arm away from whatever her name was.

“ony?”, she complained—now it was your turn to gloat.

“what?”, he sneered at her.

“you told me you guys were done”, she whined, and he rolled his eyes at her.

“well then don’t believe everything a nigga tells you”, was his final rebuttal before he pulled you outside.

at first, you just sat in silence, taking in the cool summer breeze. but ony had questions and, more importantly, he wanted to hear your voice.

“you forgive me then?”, his elbow gently met your arm.

“who said that?”, you stared down at your feet, kicking into the ground beneath you.

“you don't forgive me but you wanna do all that shit back there?”, he laughed.

“she didn't look good for you”, you finally looked up at him, and ony just laughed at you.

“you don't know her”,

“i just got that vibe”, you feigned a shudder, eyes still on him.

“what'd you really want, y/n?”, his index finger lifted your chin.

“you.”, your frank demeanour, and sincere eye contact, blew ony’s eyes wide open.

“well, you got me.”, as much as ony had changed in that year, his love for you remained incorrigible, and he’d be dumb to try and convince you otherwise. so he wouldn’t; he’d been wanting you back for far too long, and he’d finally gotten what he wanted.

“that easy?”, you teased.

“even if you’re not mine, i’ll always be yours, y/n. you know that”, ony’s words directed themselves at your lips; brown irises stuck onto your shining gloss.

“well then…can i be yours again?”, you muttered apprehensively, and the pause after that comment was unreadable.

“y’don’t even have to ask, c’mere”, ony reached his hand out to you.

gentle fingers, interlocked with yours, led you out of the party, and down a road that would end at ony’s car—parked overlooking the local area. he wasted no time; unlocking it before opening the back door, and gesturing for you to get in.

"already? you don’t at least want to talk first?”, you laughed at how keen he was, and a lazy smirk graced his face.

”we’ll talk after. get in.”, any anger, or disappointment, built up over the time you were together, had been mollified with just one comment. missing ony was something you never wanted to do again, and seeing the person he had apparently become, meant that you probably never would. all memories of past arguments, and splits, dispersed in ony’s mind once his lips met yours in a fervent kiss. it was one of longing, and regret. the heat emanating off his body causing particles of his internal regret to fill the inside of the car. you could feel it bouncing off your skin, as his tongue met with yours, and his hands kneaded at your flesh through your clothes. ultimately moving south to help you shimmy your way out of your jeans and underwear. he wouldn’t take them off completely, just leave them by your ankles as he laid you on your back, his mouth already placing soft kisses on your upper thigh. that lasted all of five seconds before ony’s tongue was wrapping around your clit, sucking on it gently. for him, this was a meal that was long overdue, and you could feel it in the way he ate you out like a starved man. taking no breaks; wet noises and thirsty moans, omitted by the ever-moving mouth entertaining your core, pervaded the vehicle.

ony had always luxuriated in eating you out, so it wasn’t long until you came; a rivulet dousing his lower face, before he finally came up for air.

”you still taste as good as i remember”, he uttered lowly, moving to give you a taste of yourself as he pressed his lips against yours. his kisses were haste as his hands fumbled to pull down his jeans and boxers, to angle himself at your entrance. the way you took in that first inch of him had him incapacitated; his forehead dropped to meet yours, while deep groans left his mouth.

”fuck…”, ony had to pause to compose himself before he gently pushed the rest of his length inside you. once he did, he just stayed there; eyes locked with yours, thanks to the streetlights, and you could’ve sworn that this man was close to tears with the way his eyes were glossing over.

the way he was fucking you was ineffable; a year was nothing compared to the others ony had spent studying your body, and the things it reacted to. like the way you’d grow tighter around him at his hands pressing your legs against your chest, as he fucked into you. even in the confined space, head crouched down so he didn’t hit the ceiling, ony still fucked you like you were in the comfort of his bedroom—with all the space, and time, in the world. his ireful tip would caress that spongy spot inside of you, over and over again, making your head spin. all those years of learning your body had not been in vain, because a few minutes in that position, and you came around him. keening his name, as your back lifted off the leather seats. ony was planning on taking you back to his place, and making up for lost time properly. but, for now, he would just turn you around and fuck into you from the back—your hands immediately finding the steamy windows,

”don’t do that, ma. people will know what we’re doin’ in here”, he chuckled at you and you moaned out a distorted version of,

”and the moving car doesn’t make it obvious?”. somehow, ony understood you; he was just used to your fucked out rebuttals, and he scoffed at you before giving the moving flesh surrounding your hips two quick slaps. your hands grabbed at anything they could to gain balance, ultimately deciding on the arm rest on the door. and ony’s hands would follow suit, but as he went to intertwine your fingers, his hands were met with cold metal. it was pretty dark in there, so he couldn’t really make out what it was, but a fleeting headlight revealed the ring he had bought you.

“still got that ring on?”, he smiled to himself.

“you p-promised me…”, you stammered out.

“that i’d marry you.”, his eyes softened at the fact that you had been wearing that ring, despite not being together. all because of that lovestruck vow he had made you,

“and imma keep to that promise. imma marry you, then imma fuck some babies into you”, he spoke to you, “that okay with you?”, you moaned out in loud agreement, and that drove ony to fuck you harder.

“good.”, the thought of you being his wife, sat in your marital bed, with his child in your arms sent him over the edge, and ony came in you. deep hums, containing declarations of his love, spilt all over the back of your neck. but his hips didn’t still because he could feel you coming again.

once you both came down from your orgasms, ony laid you down on your side, before pulling his boxers and jeans up and leaving the car momentarily to turn the car on. he opened the windows slightly, before returning to the back of the car. his back would soon be attached to the back door, yours against his chest as your fingers intertwined. even though you hadn’t covered yourself yet, and his nut was leaking out of you onto the leather seats, everything just seemed perfect. in its own weird way; you in ony’s arms again, and his lips pressing loving kisses on your temple.

”y’know it would’ve taken just one more knock at my front door for me to forgive you?”, you looked up at him. and, once the initial shock subsided, he chuckled at you.

”but i kinda think it’s better this way.”, he shrugged.

”how?”, you sat up to face him properly.

”it felt good to finally be able to give you my attention when you asked it of me.”, he smiled, reaching out to stroke your cheek, ”no interruptions. just us.”, after all the emotional turmoil, it was nice hearing that word again; ”us”.

”for life.”, you kissed his knuckle.

”for life.”

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[wistfulcynic]

as an American who’s spent the past 15 years in the UK it’s always been both interesting and clear to me that Ted Lasso, while set and filmed in the UK with mostly non-American actors, is a show made for Americans. The language choices, the references--even many of those made by non-American characters--are all chosen for maximum impact on an American audience. 

never has that been clearer than in this latest episode. Isaac, who we know was raised in London, hears a fan call his best friend what the team later refers to as “the other f-word.” His temper snaps and he leaps into the stands to confront the fan in Colin’s defence. 

it’s a powerful scene and--with an American audience in mind--it does make sense that the writers would choose that word as the one to set Isaac off. It’s a word some Youths have been reclaiming recently, but for American-grown people my age (not coincidentally also Jason Sudeikis’ age), we grew up knowing it as a vicious slur and have a visceral reaction to hearing it. 

British people don’t. They use it casually, in reference to a cigarette. In its longer form it means meatballs. People here are broadly aware that it’s a slur in American English but they don’t feel the impact of that, not the way Americans do. It was years before i stopped flinching every time my coworkers went out for a cigarette. I’ve had gay coworkers who used it (to mean cigarette) without a twitch. Both Isaac and that fan would have grown up hearing it, would be completely inured to it as a word that carries a powerful message of hate. It’s unlikely both that the fan would use the word as a slur and that Isaac would have such a deeply felt reaction to it. 

and honestly? That did take me out of the scene a little bit. Similar to the S1 episode where Keeley teases Roy about meeting in a “parking lot.” 

however, unlike parking lot which has no place in that dialogue, i fully understand the choice of “the other f-word” over a British slur. The aim of the scene was to provoke a visceral response from viewers, to make them want to get up in that fan’s face the way Isaac did. No British word, however more authentic to the setting and characters, would provoke the necessary reaction from American viewers. Call it linguistic licence, i guess. 

it’s very interesting though how Ted Lasso is set firmly in Britain when it wants to be a fish-out-of-water comedy but can’t be so British that it confuses American viewers. A delicate balance. Jokes about biscuits and tea are a-okay but car park goes a step too far. There’s a linguistics dissertation lurking in there somewhere. 

someone else can write it. 

[seat-safety-switch]

The humble potato is man’s greatest ally against the forces of nature. This calorie-packed fistful of carbohydrates has been specifically bred by our ancestors to offer an easy solution to needing to eat. You can throw these suckers out your car while hauling the mail down the highway, and they’ll grow. Right there in the drainage ditch, year after year, forever, slowly taking over the biosphere.

Or at least that’s what I was told. A couple years ago, I decided to try and grow my own potatoes. Those billionaire turbo-fash ruling our grocery stores from their orbiting space stations had raised prices on staples one too many times, and it was my turn to take the mouldy Yukon Golds at the back of my fridge and bury them in the Earth. Like my proud forebears, I too would become a subsistence farmer, hewing food out of the very earth itself.

Friends, this manic urge lasted for about five seconds. And then I went back inside to try and find the loose float bowl for a Honda Monkey’s carb (it was in my cutlery drawer.) I forgot about it all summer, and then the next fall. In the middle of the night in November, I briefly remembered my spud project, but I soon forgot again. Then, the next fall, I had to move a front k-frame from a Thunderbird out of that corner of the yard, in the vain hope that the rat-infested 302 mounted to it was still a viable enough core to net me a Craigslist trade for a primo Mopar thermostat housing. And that’s where I saw it. Poking through the Earth were the leaves and flowers of my potato plant, struggling to reach sunlight.

I didn’t want to dig it up. I was afraid. I didn’t want to see that I had somehow failed at the anyone-can-do-it, super-easy introductory gardening project. And yet – I had visitors coming. Visitors from the newspaper. Perhaps they would want a baked potato. They would think glowingly of me and the profile would not immediately open with a story about my degenerate behaviour and generally erratic coot-like ideology. The fame might make people turn up to see my hoard of shit-box cars, at which point I could sneak out and remove their differentials while they weren’t looking. With a new resolve, I dug up the potatoes using an old fender liner, and washed them using the neighbour’s hose. They were perfect.

I’d like to tell you that my dinner with the newspaperman went well. Unfortunately, I didn’t have quite enough time to cook the potatoes, and especially not to boil off all the various solvents, oils, and heavy metals that had accreted in my soil (already marked for “reclamation by some other sucker” by the original owners) over the years. Sometimes I forget that not everyone has become as inured to the contaminants as I have. Weak stomachs and all that.

On the plus side, I had a handy new hole in my yard in which to dispose of the evidence. In a couple years, I’ll be able to wear their clothes without anyone becoming too suspicious – they were about my size, and it’ll save me a few bucks at the thrift store. They say gardening takes patience, after all.

[renaultphile]

That Bunny car scene

Hi there @telltaleangelina I just wanted to think a bit more about the scene with Bunny and Laurie in the car scene on the back of your ask/answer.

I think you really got to the heart of it with that line ‘the practiced inflection’.  Laurie uses his intuition a lot (sometimes without even being sure what he is picking up) and it’s just such a creepy line, indicating how Bunny seamlessly adopts that tone.  Although I suppose there is an analogue with Ralph giving Bunny ‘the straight look’ for the first time back at the flat.

It suddenly occurred to me that cars are so symbolic of male power at that time, and it evokes that horrible trope of men taking women out and expecting some kind of ‘payment’.  I wonder if Bunny is just so cynical that he assumes Laurie is paying Ralph back in kind for the lift, and decides he wants a piece of the action.  Or he thinks Ralph is being ridiculously gentlemanly about Laurie and wants to bring him down to his level.

I realised the scene provides a contrast to the earlier car scene with Ralph.  I know we love the little knee touch in the 1953 version when they are parked up at the scenic spot, but to me, she took that out for a reason in the 1959.  It shows the high level of tension (not just sexual!) between them and the way both of them are being hyper-vigilant – Ralph trying very hard to judge the moment with Laurie, and Laurie trying very hard to be respectful of the fact that Ralph has a boyfriend.  And also, Laurie sits in silence to avoid attracting Ralph’s anger when he hits the traffic.  And he is so uncomfortable with being dependent on Ralph – the number of times he tries to leave the party to get the bus, and he tries it again at Bunny’s.

I also realised that it almost doesn’t matter whether Bunny would have followed through with his threat or not.  It just conjures up the horrible thought that he is used to getting what he wants, and most of the time, people don’t stand up to him.  So perhaps this is a neat way to show Laurie’s strength of character in a crisis.

The other thing that is quite disturbing, if not surprising, though, is that Laurie then plays it down with Ralph.  Partly because he fears not being believed (a bit like Alec silently taking the blame for Bunny’s gossip for a quiet life), and partly to spare Ralph’s feelings.  I realised he would be very influenced as well by the ‘no snitch’ rule in school, where telling on another boy would be considered worse than the original offence.  But it is cowardly too.  I wonder if his anger on the staircase is partly fueled by his frustration at being put in that situation, the suggestion that Ralph is so inured to that kind of behaviour that he doesn’t even notice any more.  And in a way Ralph is responsible, because even if Bunny spiked his drink, he still chose alcohol over tea.  But Laurie is also too passive.  In the end Ralph ends it with Bunny without knowing for sure what he did.  Unless he knows because Bunny has form.  In which case why is he with someone like that?  Either way, Laurie’s horrible accusations on the staircase have the ring of truth.

And finally I can’t go without mentioning that other linked car scene – Ralph kissing Laurie on the first night at the party (very heavy hint anyway) when he is dreaming about his mother kissing him!!  And Ralph sitting there having a cigarette while he waits for Laurie to wake up is so sweet.

[yishuns]

“settle down, yūta.” despite the words of admonishment, there’s an amused quirk to kazuna’s lips, small and private but there nonetheless. yūta’s enthusiasm was catching — it was near impossible to remain stoic in the face of it. (that is, so long as you weren’t a member of thrive. for better or worse, those guys seemed inured to yūta’s antics.) even so, kazuna couldn’t afford to be distracted, especially since he was currently at the wheel.

a glance at the gps on the car’s console left him with no relief: their destination was a few hours away yet. there was no other option, then… kazuna scrabbled around for the aux cord, waving it triumphantly at yūta when he managed to untangle it from the rest of the cables they kept in the car. he was getting tired of the radio himself, in any case. if he had to offer a spontaneous karaoke session for a measure of sanity, he’d resort to that easily. “here, you can connect your phone to the car speakers, so please… will you stay in your seat?”

@7hell, for yūta. call.

[jack-of-crowns]

@flashfictionfridayofficial

'V Is For Vectory' by @jack-of-crowns

At first it was scary, the bi-weekly trips up to Montreal that dark and stormy autumn. The long car rides in your mother's Starfire as the mountains raced past the three piece rear window all streaked with stonefly wings and leaf-littered rain; nodding silently at the blank faces of the border guards at LaColle; counting the long miles up the A-15 by the rhythms of the rubber thumping out a steady drumbeat. Then dharm-mata's comforting presence, always the first person at the handleless door in that yellowing brick building off Pine Avenue. She would sit with us, holding your hand and sharing a Mounds bar as we would wait for the doctors to call us down into the long labyrinths beyond the inner door; she'd return the soldier's salutes as they would pass through in their hushed twos and threes with that wistful smile in her eyes.

But those are the good memories looking back now, aren't they? Those weren't the ones we were scared of; what lay beyond the inner door as dharm-mata let go of your hand and the soldiers led us down and through into the bowels of the Allan, that was what was scary at first. The pain as the sharp needles pierced your soft flesh; that was hurt that would linger for days, mottled bruises to remind us of how we came into each other's lives. That would have been enough for any child, but the scars we both bear from those days of our awakening are wounds from which no balm of Gilead can ever bring blessed relief; for that I will never find forgiveness for those who restored my brokenness and brought me forth from the depths of Naraka to forge anew a weapon that should never have been used with such magnification of force upon mortal minds again.

You got used to our ghosts, eventually. We would meld into each other's consciousness, and the truths of all those deemed foes whose lives I had taken across aeons of armed conflict would become as numbingly inured to your own superego as they had so long ago in mine, an endless parade of terror tales that began to blur and fade like the four-colour panels of a dime store comic book as they ceased to trouble your waking mind less and less. That's the beginning of the meld; that's when the artificers are watching us most closely. At length we became inseparable, you and I; and we grew together, and the memories of those long nights on the ride south home to the lake chalet as we slowly became aware of what we were becoming faded away as surely as the curls of smoke from your mother's cigarettes.

So wake up, soldier. Don't pretend that what we have done together for whatever gods-forsaken causes never happened, don't try to pretend that it was all some schizoid nightmare that you would have eventually recovered from. You and I; we were never anything else than what we became- a living weapon, a perfect psychic vector of death to turn the innermost fears of our wielder's enemies into the instrument of their defeat as surely as though we ourselves were the blade that had pierced their hearts. I say again; wake up, soldier. Worse things have been brought forth upon this world than the symbiotic myxozoa that I am; a karmic ultraphage, bound to one sent forth infected and infused with a warrior's purge for the transfiguration of sin. There are irredeemable demons in hells innumerable who have committed atrocities a thousand times more evil than thou. Once in a great while we will meet these damned who are worth fighting, and those are the victories that will bring us to the only possible redemption that such as ourselves will ever attain.

[contentment-of-cats]

We now return to your regularly scheduled chaos of daily living.

When I was first diagnosed with cancer, it was as if my world stopped turning. I was terrified. Reading the diagnosis in my release paperwork from Asshat General, it felt like I was in freefall, looking at the ground rushing up at me, helpless. I went through the preparations for radiation and chemo in a daze, but over time the terror transmuted into... well... Tuesday. You get used to it, you live with it, going from one day at a time to what day is it? Your mind bends to accommodate.

Our consciousness is already bending to accommodate the loss of five lives out of thousands lost last week. The nature of their existence set them apart from the drowned of the Mediterranean and the dead in wars declared and undeclared. Your mind bends to accommodate. I asked my aunts and my gran years ago what it was like to live during WW2, and they replied that you just got up and got on with it. You comforted the friends who lost their sons and daughters, you hoped your family who stayed in Europe were all right, then you did the dishes and got the kids to school.

Our collective consciousness is bending, much of that bending accomplished by the media in its ever lasting mission to feed us adulation of the plutocrats and oligarchy as a goose is fed for foie gras. A friend of Nargolet said,

Cut for rage-inducing bullshit.

“And I’m tired of people coming in now to insult the high achievers and disparage wealthy people that want to break trail for the rest of humanity. “These are risk takers, risk takers have always driven humanity forward and taking risk is what distinguishes us as men, and it’s the divine spark."

The divine spark is apparently for wealthy male risk takers, heroically blazing the way. At least Jeff Bezos had the balls to go up in his own rocket, and Rush was piloting his own unclassed, insufficiently tested, experimental jack-job of a vessel. However, the difference between Bezos and Rush is a gulf of knowing what you do not know. Bezos hired experts, did not cut corners, and kept his ego out of it so that people could do their jobs. Rush openly spoke of hiring 25 year-olds because people with decades of experience under their belts were 'not aspirational' enough.

In truth, the only reason a company hires young, inexperienced people - however brilliant - is because they are going to pull some straight up bullshit and young folks are too intimidated to speak up. I am happier than I can tell you that Millennials and first cohort Gen Z are calling that shit out. I love you, babies. You are the revolution.

Nargeolet and Harding were both experienced adventurers. Of the two, Nargeolet had the experience that should have spotted any red flags with the sub. Were they inured to danger, as many adventurers become? Did they believe that after decades of not being shot that they were bulletproof? Did OceanGate use men like this as window dressing to give the impression of safety - or that safety is to be had two miles down in the dark and cold at 6K+ psi? In my opinion, the answer is yes. We become blase about danger - when we learn to drive, we're terrified as we pilot a ton of metal, plastic, and fiberglass in a parade of unknowable lunatics. Five years later, we hop in the car and go to the store thinking about nothing more than the price of gas or hamburger. I believe that Harding and Nareolet expected to come up Sunday evening, have a few beers and think about a TED talk.

I'm sorry that they didn't.

I'm sorry that Suleman Dawood, while being terrified, did not want to disappoint his dad. He might have looked at his father and these impressive men and his own thrill-seeker father and put aside his misgivings, assured that these adults of many years experience would not put him in danger. He might have been calmed by the fact that Stockton Rush, CEO of the company, would be their operator to the ocean floor. He wouldn't put his ass on the line if there was a hint of danger, right? If ignoring danger made it go away, those five men would be back in St. Johns right now, and Suleman would be thinking about heading back to university in the fall with one hell of a 'what I did on my summer vacation' talk.

I'm sorry that he's not.

His dad was not an adventurer. He was a thrill seeking partaker of extreme tourism, an expensive gilded-age hobby that has resurfaced in an era of unimaginable wealth, just as it did in the late 1800s and early 1900s. The plutocrats privatize the 'thrill of discovery' and put the onus on their extreme thrill seeking fuckups on the shoulders of the rest of us. Us - the dull, plodding class of people who can't look up from our jobs for a minute to dream of a vacation that won't put us in the hole or lose us our jobs. The rest of us who are one disaster away from homelessness, squeezed dry as the ladders of social mobility or even a comfortable few years of retirement are pulled up, rungs sawn out, left fighting for crumbs in a dystopia.

I'm bitter - yes.

Of all things, I hoped to leave the younger generation a better world.

Instead, I watch as the machinery of wealth-worship spins up again, knowing that people will stretch up their necks and willingly be stuffed for the table.

[sithwitch13]

AEW Collision/Battle of the Belts 7/27/24

Starting with Orange in medium denim and black shirt

Lol the clips from the Adult Swim show

For fuck's sake, AEW sound folk, you've been in the same building for a week, I'm begging you to do better

WILLOW SAVING HER FRIEND

I adore Willow running in to save the day. She's so fun.

Claudio and Yuta! I've missed the crab dance so much.

Hell yeah Moriarty! Also, why is Brian Cage there? Just ambient grudges?

Top Flight adorable as always.

Dead at Moriarty's trying to call a time out

Aww I saw that smile, Orange

Kyle's face journeys are my favorite thing

WAIT KYLE CARING FOR THE BELT LIKE A BABY IS MY FAVORITE THING

Digging Hologram so far

Also, really liking Mortos. Wondering who made his mask.

Did Nigel just call hum "Beef Mortos"?

There's a bit of Tron: Legacy in Hologram's theme (and general look)

Thunder Rosa with the Wolverine gear. I guess you kind of have to this weekend.

(Brian Cage doesn't count, he always does Wolverine gear)

Lance Archer has been too long without enrichment and is exhibiting behavioral problems

CONGLOMERATION LET'S GO

The Conglomeration may be the most adorable faction. Just folks having fun.

I want to see them do a group activity like going to a carnival or a nature walk

"You're just jealous because you haven't passed the bar!"

I feel like the pinkie phalanges are objectively the most comical bone to break (don't come for me with your "what about the humerus?" bullshit, my mom has inured me to that joke)

(My mom's humerus popped through her skin when she was hit by a car as a kid, so whenever she mentions it she goes, "IT WAS MY HUMERUS BUT IT WASN'T VERY FUNNY TO ME")

MxM, I am begging you to shake these two into doing something silly and fun

Continuity: Mansoor can't stand baldness

I get the intent of this match, showing that MxM can hold their own instead of just being a comedy act, and I think it's doing a good job of that

I've always liked Bowens but he's absolutely on another level now. He needs a singles run like now.

PAC VS LIO RUSH TIME

Love that "slam here" sign getting played with

Battle of the Belts time!

Ooh, starting with Toni vs Taya

I'm trying to figure out what Toni's current look is inspired by. It feels so familiar.

God I love Toni

"You were perfect." I adore every second of this

KIP

I desperately need a continuation of the Kip/Orange storyline

Hell yes Willow! Part of me wants one of the Conglomeration to accompany her, but I do think she seems stronger coming out on her own.

DEONNA. Still not over her.

Oh shit, Taya here with the turnbuckle

"What else could she be doing with that turnbuckle?" "YOGA!"

Ooh, Thunder Rosa vs Taya in the future, yes

Just for RoH? Aren't the Trios belts unified? Or was it just wishful thinking?

SHIBATA IS DOING THE CLAW

I still wish it was Dark Order, but this got a smile out of me

Aww, the in-ring celebration. Good for them

[gloriousmonsters]

run into a popular blog dismissively saying everyone involved in the porship/anti discourse is childish and it doesn't matter and in all ways but physical i was once a fresh faced youth who was drafted and sent to war without truly knowing what it's like. thinking innocently i would be glad to fight for what is right. i lost my faith in humanity in that war, and gained it back. i huddled in foxholes with men who had suffered far more than me. i made cherished friends. i was astounded by the depths of cruelty the enemy could reach. i pitied those ensnared by their propaganda, and yet feared what they might do. i saw comrades fall, be grievously wounded. we became so inured to the violence that another cry of 'they're bombarding an artist with death threats and accusations of pedophilia again!' across the field only invoked a round of weary head-shaking and a humorless laugh. now in all ways but physical i am in a dining car on a train and just heard a richly dressed patron announce, to the applause of their companions, that the war is a silly thing anyway, and does it really matter? i clearly contemplate throwing away my life by knocking the bastard down but in the end only look out the window as i cry a single masculine tear

[lovelanguageisolate]

Figure that really stunned me from Where Is My Flying Car:

It costs $343,710 to fully fuel a 747 for a transoceanic flight with Jet A kerosene fuel at a cost of $6/gallon (57,285 gallons of jet fuel, containing 7.5 TJ of energy)

The ~200 tons of weight this fuel adds is equivalent to an additional 1,946 passengers.

The same energy could be produced (in principle) by fissioning 94.3 g of uranium, available at a cost of...$8.66.

---

I thought I was totally inured to the orders of magnitude more energy density nuclear fuels provide than chemical, but this really hit home for me.

Basic physical and economic reasoning suggests humans could live in true clean, environmentally pristine energy abundance, with people qualitatively more profligate in their consumption, and hopefully energy poverty eliminated, assuming we overcame the right parochial set of engineering and political problems. Of course, people both smarter and easier to forgive than me for saying "nuclear energy too cheap to meter" will never live that turn of phrase down. I've even looked at all those learning curve papers saying fission is dead.

But...I dunno, man. It really does seem like the capital costs could come down some day. Some of those small modular reactors are pretty ingenious. A lot of very high end manufacturing is automated now.

And, while I'm very pro-nuke (and frankly don't see humanity/sentience having a long term energy future that isn't nuclear-powered), I won't disparage renewables by elision: the energy flux from solar irradiance is many orders of magnitude higher than current power consumption. And solar panels make the cheapest electricity in the world right now.

What a shame we live in an ergophobic age where drawing down net human energy consumption is taken seriously as a political project (and one that would probably require killing many people by means of a living standards collapse).

[ravenkings]

For Calvin Klein’s Spring 2018 collection, designer Raf Simons applied imagery from Andy Warhol’s “Death and Disaster” series to leather totes, tank tops, and gauzy dresses. Warhol’s source images — photographs of a lone electric chair in an empty room or a gruesome car crash, with bodies strewn among the wreckage — disarm and shock. Repeated in his screen-printed paintings, they enact the inuring effect of mass media. It is a powerful indictment of the press and its lust for tragedy. But taken out of context and printed on clothing, they register as edgy decorative motifs, in service — and thus subordinate — to Calvin Klein’s commercial agenda.

Context is a major part of what makes art art. Artworks can be many things — from found objects to performance, involving no objects at all. What distinguishes art from non-art is its intention to be understood as such. Its context helps signal that it should be seen as having meaning beyond ornament or decoration, whether that be personal expression, commentary or criticism. Recontextualization muddies this intention and risks drowning out the story an artwork tells with another story: the marketing narrative.

The biggest threat, however, is not that art is overpowered by its commercial context, but that its understanding of its own nature and purpose changes. In drawing closer to fashion, art abandons the pretense that it exists independent of commerce. Yet this pretense has historically allowed it to reject normal rules and metrics of success. The point of art has never simply been to attract an audience or accrue value. Rather, it’s seen itself as serving a unique role in culture: registering complaint, critique and protest; exploring realms of experience beyond transaction or exchange; realizing what the market could not or would never think to.

When art ties its fortunes to profitable enterprise, something vital is lost. The commercial realm is incapable of accommodating the full range of art’s potentialities — the politically sensitive and the staunchly anti-market being among them. Art must abide by the brand’s rules, and brands cannot afford to unnerve or offend consumers. What does art become when it can’t, either?

–Natasha Degen, “The Met Gala, or When Fashion Consumes Art,” The New York Times, May 1, 2023

[russanogreenstripe]

Meet Dr. Charles "Charlie" Slott, my Son of Ether in a MtAs chronicle set just after the turn of the millennium.

His Paradigm is essentially "Nuclear Power Can Do Anything" - just like the Golden-Age Science Fiction he grew up reading. He's still very inured in his background as a nuclear physicist and still filters all the magical phenomena surrounding him through "rational" lenses - even if he knowingly and directly manipulates Matter, Forces, and Prime. And listens to too much Coast to Coast by Art Bell and browses too much alt.conspiracy usenet boards. And smokes like a chimney.

By far the oldest biologically in the chantry at 39, there's noticeable gaps in his experience and perspective between the younger player characters (an Akashic and Ecstatic, respectively). Doesn't mean he won't or hasn't literally put himself in harm's way to protect them. He gets along best with a rescued NPC Virtual Adept and our chantry's custo. Long term goals include perfecting his thorium-salt mana reactors, providing unlimited Quintessence to all and enabling mass ascension. Notable feats so far involve frying an entire literal boatload of Sabbat shovelhead shocktroops with floodlights hooked up to car batteries, reverse-engineering stolen Technocracy equipment, and using a Geiger Counter as his focus.

[ruiniel]

Ok so gotta write about the most vivid first person shooter type post-apocalyptic dream I've had *glares at sertraline*

It all began with an ill little girl on a beach at night (???). Someone or something with Big plans had injected her with a solution that made humans inured to death.

But catastrophic side effects: the person developing this used resources from another dimension which caused permanent, sporadically reversible yet uncontrollable transformations.

The little girl (she had long dark hair with bangs, I see her so clearly) began to expand like lava until half of her was a formless, blue and orange-red apparition with the likes of wings sprouting from her back. The other half was steadily absorbed, and reached out for the one who injected her.

Switch scene to a sort of cultural historical re enactment event. It was all very colorful, by the seashore. Fireworks, decked ships, people wearing period specific clothing.

When the flying morph appears at first they think it's a part of the show, until it grabs someone and by mere touch transmits the side-effects. More turn, it's all happening too fast.

I'm there. I run home, lock the door and sit in the dark, wondering if I'd hallucinated when I hear a voice outside booming through a megaphone.

All citizens are to stay indoors. Preparations are being made for evacuation.

I run to my parents' house (no timeline in this dream as you imagine) tell them.

Then I find myself in a friend's apartment fretting about where they are. It's closer to the outskirts and there are fewer infected. We're running, myself and others, to escape one here and there. When I see my parents, great relief.

"We'll run somewhere. We'll ... We'll fly to Finland, where none of this reached there yet, then we'll see," says my mom.

I'm fretting. I run up the hill behind the houses on a foggy day, picking up metal tools from an abandoned stand a merchant must've fled. All I see are fire pokers, I grab two, then run over to my place then parents' place which is empty, thinking to get some essentials.

I scramble: pick up my only sturdy bag, a black leather one, and throw in a spare pair of seeing glasses, my wallet containing my entire identity. I throw in a pair of spare jeans, another jacket since I had nothing but a hoodie and the fog was freezing, deodorant and a nail clipper apparently (hey, it's a dream), a big ol knife, but forget about my meds as a sudden rapping is at my door.

Carefully I approach, hear odd growls. I wait for them to pass, then rush over to my parents', but I forget the door open and some guy with a rifle comes in, tells me he won't hurt me if I just let him scavenge so I comply, I want to get those essentials asap and be away.

I rush to grab my family's stuff, all my mom's stack of essential thyroid pills and others, and rush out. I then remember I forgot the cancer treatment pills but it's too late to turn back, I search for my folk through the fog and somehow find them. Relief.

The megaphone outside now assigns families by name to different, faraway locations. It's in alphabetical order, and we're pretty down the list so we wait.

Then we're in their old car they had when I was 13, a Dacia 1310, on one of those suspension bridges and they tell us the place: Selegren (???)

My mom, in the driver's seat: "Selegren it is." And hits it.

Anyway, what a headride.

[ohblackdiamond]

ace’s eighties vlog

this home movie of ace before and during his hammersmith odeon concert in 1988 london is oddly interesting, in places. the video/audio quality is not good. it’s not exactly a kinder, gentler ace or anything, but it is a pretty off the cuff, honest ace. he films a brief, somewhat deprecating overview of his hotel room (including a look at a framed photo of a woman that’s definitely not his wife and the comment that “the best part of this trip so far is this jacket,” followed by a zoom in on the jacket’s patch, which he found cool) before heading out to join with the rest of the band and head to the venue. 

you get the very obvious impression that for all that ace had been to london prior as a member of kiss, he had never gotten much of an opportunity to sightsee. (lydia comments on this regarding kiss’ first trip to japan, saying she and jeanette were really the only ones who really got a chance to see anything while over there-- the boys were mostly stuck.)

during the drive, he’s pointing at various tourist attractions/historical buildings and asking about them (”this is... this is hyde park? this is hyde park. ... i should’ve taken this camera with me yesterday.” “is that where princess di lives?”) as he tries to record them on the camcorder.

it was kind of neat to see since i’d assumed at this point in his career, roughly 15-16 years in, he would’ve been basically inured to any interest in any area he was performing in, since he’d toured all over the world. he keeps pointing his camcorder towards a much fancier, modern hotel (the royal garden) and saying “this is the hotel we should’ve stayed in... and didn’t...” he’s definitely bitter, though it’s no comparison to paul from around the same time; ace seems more resigned. there are about a dozen fans outside of the venue hours and hours prior to the show, holding albums and yelling excitedly. around the very end of the recording, you can see the fans crowding around as ace and the band leave as well.

cameos include a very young eddie trunk, the 1988 members of frehley’s comet (of course), and, unless my eyes deceive me, gordon gebert. it may not be worth a close perusal or, indeed, much perusal, but it’s an interesting look at the way things were for ace at this point. ace is fairly quiet and toned-down, though he cracks a few jokes and makes some dry comments here and there. per basically everyone who ever worked with ace, up until probably the 2000s, he was able to play even when trashed out of his mind. he’s definitely sober for at least the early parts of this in the hotel/car, though-- that being said, it looks as though they arrived at the hammersmith odeon around lunchtime, probably a solid seven or eight hours before the show, so i can’t exactly vouch for his sobriety any time past that. kind of neat stuff.

[avictimofthejazz]

Late Night Visitor

@timeguardians​

Continued from HERE

“Let me put my coat away and I’ll go check on the twins.” Face directs his words toward his wife as he makes for the stairs. Amy is busy chatting with Maggie, thanking her for watching the kids while the adults enjoyed a night out. Callie and Temp are both still awake, and dutifully swearing that their homework is done (Face intends to check on that later—he knows how easy it is to dutifully swear to something that never happened). Mandy and Richard were both permitted to stay awake until their parents got home on the understanding that they would go to bed right afterwards. The two littlest members of the Peck household had a strict bedtime of eight, so they should have been asleep for hours now—it is almost eleven. Going into the master bedroom, Face flicks the light on. It is a product of long habit—blissfully wandering into dark rooms is how a man walks into ambushes and hanging snakes. Even in his own house in a quiet suburb in Texas, he never drifts too far from those memories. The sudden burst of light in the room catches Missy red-handed in the act of climbing through the window. At least the girl has the dignity to look properly startled and then abashed at being caught… but Face’s main concern is why she is climbing through the window. He knows the Coopers are fighting again—their house is close enough that Face heard the yelling when he got out of the car. Normally, fighting is not enough to force Missy from her home though. The girl is alarmingly inured to it by now. Something else must be going on… Missy finishes pulling herself through the window as he requests an explanation for her presence. The one that comes is painfully familiar… but Face detects something else under her words, something more alarming.

“Missy, are you slurring your words?” He narrows his eyes. Missy is barely twelve—far, far too young to be drinking but the way she’s sloshing her syllables together is unmistakable. Either she has been drinking, she took some pills, or she is having a medical problem. The fact that she made it up the side of the house and into the window leans him toward the first option. A tipsy person can successfully navigate a lot more then a drugged or ill person can. Going around Missy, he closes the window again and takes her elbow. It is not to escort her unceremoniously from the room though. Instead, he guides her to a chair in the corner and settles her in it before dropping down on the ottoman so he can see her face clearly. “What’s going on, Missy?” His tone is patient, an echo of Father Magill hovering under it. He can only hope it encourages Missy to spill the full story about her exodus from her house, and her flight down the street to their home… and why she picked the window as an entry point instead of the front door.

[elkian]

It’s kind of hilarious how absolutely useless car alarms as an anti-theft feature are. Every car alarm could be personalized to the owner and shout a code phrase or “Help, Help, I’m being stolen!“ and the owner themself would still not go out and see if their car was being stolen. How have we become completely inured to the concept. It’s amazing.