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catfern · 5 months

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outback.

in support of palestine ∙ the reality of tlou ∙ resources

pairing: trucker!abby x afab!reader

music: her - unloved

word count: 1.7k

summary: the night shift at a remote petrol station sounded like easy double pay. but nights get lonely. you've gotta find something to keep yourself entertained.

warnings: porn with a smidgen of plot, fingering, some perverted staring, tiny tiny implied age gap, australia. this is rlly just porn

fern says ⎯ THIS ONE IS FOR ALL THE AUSSIES IN THE AUDIENCE MAKE SOME NOISE!!!!!! this truly is self indulgent cause i miss flirting with hot women who call me darl.

you brought this on yourself, really.

the pale blue of the bug zapper fought a contrast with the dying fluorescents, painting half the aisles in an eery, twilight movie shade. the heat of a high december night was creeping, clinging to your shitty polyester uniform as you camp out in front of the only standing fan.

you had begged for a job, pleaded for it really, in the wickedness of this economic climate. you had run, tail between your legs, from your local chain grocery at the sight of the price of an avocado, and thrown yourself at the feet of the next passing employer. like a squire to the knights of old.

you just hadn’t expected it would be this job.

the gatekeeper of one of the last vestiges of civilisation. the night shift at a deserted highway petrol station.

the flickering floodlights by the pumps fighting an uphill battle to keep the creeping night at bay, you can do nothing but stare, eyes adjusting, ‘unadjusting’, readjusting to the dark over and over again. you’d had a total of two customers since you took over from the day shift crew. one just threw a gatorade your way in exchange for the bathroom key.

the high beam headlights of an oncoming truck shake you from your fading thoughts, baking you into the linoleum tile as you squint, blind. asshole.

you’d been warned about truckers, briefly. handsy rednecks, your manager had called them in passing while giving you a tour of the storage room. desperate old fucks who crawl like dogs to anything with a hole.

you watch with an almost bated breath as the peeling yellow cabin of the long-haul truck pulls into park, your eyes following its jaunty movement through the glass of the front windows. you’re starting to think maybe you should have brought an illegal switchblade to work. if you had one.

you avert your gaze quick, grabbing at something from the magazine rack in desperate hopes to appear disinterested, unapproachable. 15 Ways to Homeschool Your Kids. sure, that works.

the bell above the door chimes, you spy the scuffed leather boots crossing the plastic tiling with heavy footfall.

“y’got a lounge?”

standing at the counter, you have to admit, she’s not what you pictured when you saw the truck. not that what you see is at all worth of complaint.

a thin sheen of sweat clings to her, echoes of the heat of the road. her skin is flushed, the contour of her muscle sitting, almost man-made, in a thin, cotton singlet. her hair is tied tight, her features, sharp, discerning, eyeing you down. you try not to stare, too obviously, at the soft outline of her nipple piercings beneath her shirt.

“hm?” you’re distracted.

“a lounge, darl. trucker lounge?” she repeats slowly with a bite of a smirk, looking at you like you were only a little bit stupid. your stomach drops with the honey of the nickname.

your eyes dart around the small space of the shop. you barely had space for the 3 aisles and the dingy bathroom. you clear your throat, trying to shake the feeling of fascination, “oh — uh, nah.”

she scoffs, a wicked, small laugh, before retreating to browse the snack section.

you watch her, when you think she isn’t looking. small, caught glimpses in your feigned disinterest. she’s been on the road long, a tension in the broadness of her shoulders obvious as she readjusts her posture, eyeing the chips. you try bury whatever rears its head in your stomach when you hear her groan as she squats to better see the canned fruit. a roughness in her voice, lead with age and smoke.

you drop your reading material and smile, tight lipped, polite, as she approaches the counter. a cold meat pie and a ginger beer.

"and uh — pack'a rothmans, thanks, love.”

you nod, turning to wrestle with the rusting cigarette cage behind the counter, when you hear her chuckle, breathy and deep as she talks,

“y’look a little young to have kids.”

spinning back so quick you make yourself dizzy, you swipe the shitty magazine off the counter, discarded and unimportant, “nah, i… i was just bored.”

she rakes her eyes over you, slow, and you can’t help but feel the pull, magnetic, a knot in your stomach as she studies you. you feel caught in a trap, under her gaze. looking up at her, her looming presence is becoming all too real.

you slide the pack of cigarettes over the counter, trapped meeting her eye. a smile, something sly, plays on her lips as she thanks you, moving to catch a breeze of the fan.

an uncomfortable beat of silence passes between you. well, it’s uncomfortable for you. no longer able to hide behind disinterest behind glossy paper, you instead wrestle with yourself to seem at least neutrally interested, not utterly obsessed. you wring your hands behind the shelter of the till.

the woman shakes a cigarette free from the pack, holding it between the skin of her lips. “you smoke?” she’s looking at you, through the corner of her eye.

no, never.

“uh, yeah.”

you follow her out the shop, tied to her artificial shadow in the fluorescents. something is crawling in the night, when you step outside. a cicada silence echoes across the gathering dirt and dust.

she offers you the cig she had been holding, you take it gingerly, holding it in your mouth as she holds her lighter up. she brings her hand to cup the flame, to keep the absent breeze from destroying it. you feel, just slightly, the brush of her calloused palms against the low of your cheek, and you pray that the navy hue of the bug zapper is enough to hide the heat on your skin.

smoke fills your lungs, foreign and quick, an itch inside you that feels impossible. you cough and splutter to the chorus of her raspy laughter.

“you haven’t smoked a day in your life.” she says with a lopsided smile, plucking the cigarette from your hand and bringing it to her lips, taking a long, constrastly confident draw.

you shake your head in between wheezes, “is that what everyone is always going on about?”

“you’ll get used to it, here,”

she hands it back to you, you feel obliged to take it. to try again, as she so quietly commands. your second go is met with an only slightly irritating tickle in your throat.

“that’s it, good girl,” something that seems so unsure rolls off her like syrup, something you had never known you were so desperate for. her hand finds the small of your back, her fingers dancing circles in something akin to comfort, to praise.

you look up to find her eyes already on you, tracing the contours of your neck in icy blue form.

the smell of artificial pine and day-old dust clings to her, swallows you whole as you fall victim to her touch, light-headed and weak at the knees as her breath fills your lungs.

she’s nothing if not vocal, desperation falling from her lips in tortured moans as she presses herself into the crook below your jaw, drawing your soft skin beneath her teeth, softly licking the littered aftermath, a trail down your chest.

she’s quick to undress you, pulling impatiently at the scratchy fabric of your worn company polo shirt. she’s not phased by any forgotten need for privacy, for decency. she’s only here in passing, after all.

“oh, sweetheart,”

the lace of your bra is a temptation not lost on her, a delight she so happily indulges in after days on the road. in some perverted part of her mind, you wore it for her. maybe, in some cosmic, fated way, you did.

her hands snake down your body, helping themselves to the lux of your curves as her lips press, all-consuming, against yours. her fingers lightly spreading your legs, a mean chuckle souring the kiss.

she’s not at all easy, or kind, the way she pulls you open, watches you fall apart in the brutality of her control. she touches you like she aims to destroy you, her fingers working relentlessly to the pull of your walls, unheard to your pleas to — please, slow down.

“that’s it, darling. come on,” it’s sharp, delirious and oh so pleased to hear you, a whisper tickling the dip of your chest, watching you through the blonde of her eyelashes as you throw your head back, your body rocking to the rhythm she sets.

“p-please, fuck, jesus, fuck!” if she was any meaner, she would have laughed. but god, she’s distracted. driven mad by her own dripping need.

“you wanna come, baby? yeah, yeah?” she’s slowing down, and you chase her question with a desperate, shakey nod. “yeah, you do. come here.”

she takes your hand in hers, delicate, kind, a wicked contrast. under the guidance of her touch, you grip the stiff denim of her jeans, tender, unsure, until she leads you to the heat between her legs and you nearly melt. her hand goes to fiddle with her belt, her eyes finding yours, bleary, in the haze.

“think you can help me out, sweetheart?” she nods along with you, and you’re unsure if she’s copying you, or you are her.

“yeah — i can, please, please,” you whine, your hips still rutting a lazy pace against the now stagnant force inside you. your hand pulls, impatiently, at the waistband of her cotton boxers, pulling them down to sit unceremoniously at her hips.

“fuck, good girl,” she seethes at the languid circles you draw on her clit, gentle and paced, as you chase your own euphoria on her fingers, “come on,” a whisper, hot on your neck, “i’ll go faster if you do, darlin’.”

you pick up in a daze, so compliant to the whim of her demand, so desperate to feel her calloused fingers trace the tide against your centre. rushing that feeling, wretched to have her tear you apart.

her fingers rock against you without care, wrenching every ragged moan from the cut of your throat as her speed picks up, “that’s it, fuck, you feel so good, sweetness. keep — keep going.” hoarse whispers against your chest as she presses sloppy, undone kisses to the ghosts of your ribcage.

you watch, above the broadness of her shoulder, as a peak of the sun paints the horizon a muddy pink, your moans a soundtrack to the emptiness of the desert as you practically bounce on the stranger’s fingers, loud for your own release.

yeah, you lost your job.

⎯ kofi

taglist; @whore4abby @endureher @beemillss @afraidofheightss @sentimentalyellow

#abby anderson x reader #abby anderson x female reader #abby anderson smut #abby anderson x you #abby x reader #abby tlou #tlou abby #abby x you #abby the last of us #abby anderson #abby tlou2

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brahmsthirdracket · 1 month

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another little fic from bits of ancient and unfinished google docs - baby lando and max f

2008

“Hey bug,” Jon doesn’t need to look up from where he’s holding Oli’s kart steady to sense Lando’s presence, “You okay?”

Lando’s quiet for long enough that Jon does look up then, takes in his small, damp figure, the way he’s fiddling with the zip on his jacket.

Jon straightens up.

“You didn’t wanna hang out with those kids?” He can see them through the driving rain on the other side of the car park, roughhousing under one of the other marquees.

Lando shakes his head, leans his whole body against Jon’s in an unspoken request for comfort. Jon pulls him in for a cuddle.

“Well you can help me then, yeah? Teach me how to be a mechanic?”

He doesn’t let go until he feels a nod against his chest, and Lando blinks up at him with a weak smile.

For all that Lando follows Jon around like a lost puppy in the garage, once he’s pulled his helmet on, it’s all business. Jon’s not sure he’ll ever get used to how fucking good the kid is.

On the ferry back to Portsmouth Lando trots after Jon out onto the wet, windy deck instead of whacking the buttons on the fruit machines in the lounge with the other kids.

The deck is practically deserted this time of year, the other passengers taking refuge in cheap pints and chips laced in salt and vinegar.

They huddle into their raincoats and lean against the railing. Lando’s got the little green frog sporting a striped Breton shirt and beret that had Jon fished out of the bargain bin in the onboard duty free and shoved over the counter with a Snickers and pack of smokes. Lando’s whole face had scrunched up in surprised joy when Jon handed it to him with a Nice work this weekend.

He watches now as Lando gives it a little kiss and tucks it carefully down the front of his raincoat with its froggy face sticking up over the zip. It’s strange, Jon supposes, an adored child of a multimillionaire, in raptures over a cheap toy.

They lean against the railing in companionable silence, content to let the thrum of the ship’s engine and the fine mist of drizzle wash over them.

“Jon?”

“Hmm?”

“Will you be with me forever?”

Jon looks down at him, at his sweet, earnest face, half-hidden by his hood and the frog. His eyes are the same colour as the churning sea and sky.

Jon, shrugs, doesn’t say Until I get a better job than performance coaching nine-year olds.

“S’long as you need me, bug.”

“Cool,” says Lando. He turns his face up into the rain and closes his eyes. “We’re gonna win a World Championship then.”

2009

True to his word, Jon drives down to Glastonbury for the first weekend of the offseason. He sets off while it’s still dark; stops for fuel and bitter, petrol-station coffee that he downs in two, burning gulps somewhere near Dudley, and turns off the M5 just as the sun is coming up over the rolling Somerset hills.

It’s only been a month or so since he last saw Lando, but it still feels like something’s shifted since Jon started uni. He wonders, again, if he’s out of mind for agreeing to this, agreeing to miss out on Friday nights at the SU and lazy, hungover mornings with bacon sandwiches and embarrassing pictures. The friendships he’s made still feel new, tentative and he knows that none of them understand why he’s missing parties and intramural football to babysit some kid at karting races.

He doesn’t say that he could work at Spoons and JD and do the night shift at fucking Asda and he still wouldn’t make the money Adam’s offering him to do this.

He also doesn’t say that it’s not some kid, it’s Lando and he’s going to win a World Championship someday.

The last few miles through the patchwork green Somerset countryside, the dew still glistening in the patchwork fields and the spires of sleepy villages, somehow feel like coming home.

The gravel crunches under his wheels as he turns down the wide, poplar-lined driveway. His mum’s Kia feels small and grubby parked next to a Range Rover with brand-new ‘09 plates. He’s half-in, half-out, hastily shovelling the accumulated debris of protein shake bottles, t-shirts and overdue library books onto the backseat, when something small careers into him from behind.

“Jon!” Lando squeals, vibrating with anticipation and probably sugary cereal. “I missed you!” He’s run out into the driveway barefoot in what must be his little sister’s dressing gown.

“Me too, bug,” Jon says, scooping him up easily. Lando winds his arms around Jon’s neck and keeps up a constant stream of chatter in his ear.

The kitchen is as warm and noisy as Jon remembers. He sets Lando down onto a countertop, so he can shake hands with his parents. He gives his sisters high-fives and Oli a fist bump; drops down to scratch the elderly retriever behind the ears.

Over tea, toast and scrambled eggs from the family chickens, Adam spreads out a meticulous printed calendar across the table.

Lando wedges himself in between them, puts his elbow in the butter dish and beams at Jon.

“You’re gonna be here like, every weekend. How cool is that?”

They talk logistics for most of the morning: new season regulations, upgrades, race calendars and training schedules. Jon’s not sure if he feels sorry for Lando and Oli or envious. It’s not much of a childhood, but perhaps if he’d spent more time doing interval training as a 12 year old, and less time watching Top Gear reruns and eating Monster Munch, he’d be doing something better with his life.

They don’t seem any the worse for it. They show Jon the new Scalextric set up in their playroom and Oli roundly thrashes him at Guitar Hero.

Lando for his part, provides a running stream of helpful commentary from the arm of the sofa: “You’re like, okay, Jon, well actually you’re kind of slow but you’re trying so hard!”, until Jon decides that Adam is probably paying him for more than Wii golf and drags them both up onto the hills for a bike ride.

2010

RFM brings a gruelling European schedule, a truly obscene technical and logistical setup and the stocky, baby-faced son of two stockbrokers who’d apparently dominated the Asian circuits. Max is the same age as Lando, curly-haired and just as weird.

Max is also very good.

Jon watches them make shy eyes at each other from across the garage for the best part of a morning before he loses patience.

“Go and play with him,” he tells Lando, who’s making a nuisance of himself under Jon’s feet, and sends him off in Max’s direction with a gentle shove and a football he has no idea what to do with.

Max turns out to be steady and gentle foil to Lando’s jittery hyperactivity, and by the time they arrive at Genk for the first race of the season, they’ve sporting Lando Norris friendship stickers on their helmets and Jon has to make actual conversation with adults.

Inseparable as they are, it’s easier than not for Jon to take Max under his wing as well: to get them racing up and down the tiny hotel pools and endless corridors, to wrangle them under a single big umbrella during rain delays, to tuck them into bed together with Wallace and Gromit on Max’s portable DVD player.

“Night, half pints,” Jon murmurs when he comes in to turn off the light. They’re already fast asleep, little hands entwined on top of the covers.

#lando norris #jon malvern #max fewtrell #nortrell #fic

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nieded · 19 days

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what are Ezira and AJ like on a long road trip? Which car from their garage would they take? What snacks do they bring? Which one gets pulled over for going eighty in a thirty?

aj and ezira did go on a road trip across california when they were first starting out as a couple! though of course, it would have taken a lot of work to import a car to the states, and so they had a rental. if they could have taken one of their cars, they would have settled on the la ferrari, which could handle the switchbacks of the serria nevada.

maybe someday they will take the road trip that newt and ligur talked about from montpellier to cologne.

the actual reality is that they would take the gti, if they had a choice from their own garage. hypercars are notoriously unreliable. they are not meant for road trips. they aren't really meant to be driven, honestly. replacing brakes on a la ferrari (which is a common maintenance item!!!) costs 40k. the SO works next door to an italian repair shop that exclusively does ferraris, lambos, alfas, and fiats. they have had a lamborghini aventador sitting in the shop for months because it requires a new set of special tires, which they only release every couple of years. so it's just waiting for a random shipment that may or may not come in the next year. the lifespan on hypercars for maintenance items like oil changes and brakes are much much shorter than the average car.

also, where would their luggage go? they will definitely need boot space. crowley's a pain to fly with because he always has extra luggage for stuff: skincare, haircare, nail polish, nail polish remover, extra hats that he will not wear, extra shoes that he will also not wear, but he has them just in case they do the beach or a hike. (and still, he wears his boots.) chargers for his electronics and back up batteries just in case. and weed. road trips are excellent when transporting the goods.

but crowley has no opinion on snacks. thankfully, ezira has all the opinions on snacks. healthy choices such as snacking peppers and carrots and seaweed chips to just cake. lots of biscuits. he has a kettle in the back so they can make periodic petrol stops to boil hot water. and should they stop and pick up more ice for the cooler? just in case? and in the end, they only eat half of it because every four hours, he's on google maps researching local restaurants and cafes for nibbles.

and realistically, neither of them will get pulled over for speeding, but if one of them had to, it'd be crowley. ezira hates driving around civilians. it's much safer to be going 190 on a race track. but average joes are unpredictable. get off your phone! use the indicator (to the beemer, i'm looking at you). oops you missed your exit and are now crossing six lanes of interstate... everybody's out here being lance stroll. ezira absolutely hates it, and if you spend 15 minutes on r/idiotsincars, you will too. there's very little ezira sticks his nose up at, but civilians. *shudders*

but they wouldn't drive over the speed limit, not too much. that's for work. crowley will take it slow through the alps so ezira can take pictures of the clear blue lakes and snow-capped mountains. they'll take turns with the bluetooth, donna summer and pink floyd for crowley, abba and death cab for ezira, and they'll talk about the race season and the spots they want to revisit in america and italy and japan. they'll wonder what ceres has destroyed at marnie and lili's and what the nibling is up to. if she's crawling yet because that means she's almost walking and if she's running they can stick her in a go kart.

but the silence would be good too at night, windows down, one of crowley's feet out the window when it's ezira's turn to drive (less people, more deer, but he will take his chances). and they'll stop on the side of the road in the middle of nowhere between two cities and look up and up and up at the sky, stars twinkling above. and crowley will think about how he's crossed finish lines filled with fireworks, stood on the platform in monza once upon a time when the tifosi flooded the track, sat in the cockpits of wheeled rocketships, unbelievable feats of engineering from mankind, and think nothing could compare to the darkest night in the quiet with his beloved.

it's not about going fast. it's about drawing it out, sitting in the cabin with each other and no one else, as if they could sneak one more minute, one more hour together before they're pulled across the globe in opposite directions. they love it. they love the racing and the adrenaline and the fireworks (but not the jet lag and missed calls and wondering if the other is sleeping ok). they love that feeling of peeling their racing gloves off after hours of sweating and swearing, the long drink of water after a long drive. but. but they love each other more.

#ni answers #rainbow road

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encoreabj · 3 months

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#day1ofsavingsforPS5

Scenes where i cannot save my money #1 :

I filled petrol in my scooty worth 200 rupees, 250 in total , and 50 left in my wallet, which I gave 40 to side stall for chole kulche , 10 more is left in wallet right now ,

Then I thought what would I do with 10 rupees so I buy lays chips worth 10 rupees.

so this was why today's stubbornness made my savings 0 and had 100% fun

( colour signs in this challenge

Red Are Expenses

Orange Are Needs

Green Is Total Before First Expense

Pink Is Left Over After Expenses

motivation track of the day ;

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saucyjothoughts · 3 months

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This one has been on my mind for a couple of days now, so here we go: festival sex with Jan.

Girl meets boy, reader x Jan, at a metal festival. They don't know each other but meet at the festival and end up making out during the headliner show. Where are they going to take it to the next level? Back at the crowded festival camping in a tent that is a bit too small for 2? Or do they try to find a dark and secluded spot in the nearby forest?

Anonyboo, I am in love with you for this concept.

Edit: part two here

(nsfw under the cut)

The crowd has been amazing and you've spent all of the first day spotting band shirts and battle jackets, admiring all the obscure tattoos and brazen piercings on show, seemingly not a single person there with normal coloured hair. You've been making friends with tipsy strangers, exchanging compliments and feeling good in an outfit you don't normally get the chance to wear, co-ordinating between your small group which stages to flit between to catch your favourite artists. The air is full of the smell of mud and grass, your belly is full of overpriced beer and salted meat, your skin a little sunburnt, your body a little achey. But he's just the same, pushing through the sweat and dehydration to enjoy the music and the atmosphere.

You saw him at one of the smallstages; an obscure indie band that none of your friends liked so you went alone. Long black hair, a nose ring and chipped nail varnish. Effortlessly vicious style and kind eyes. Cute. Slightly drunk. Jan, he said his name was. He preferred their older stuff and thought your hair was cool. Were you here for the whole weekend? You're sharing a tent with some friends with shit taste? Him, too.

You thought that would be all, just some harmless flirting with one of the hundreds of hot alternative guys here (so many to choose from and it's only the first day of the festival). But then he's stood near you for the headline act. He's with some friends but you catch each other's eye and before you know it, you're screaming the words at each other as loud as you can, your voices buried in the crowd. Between songs, he's stood behind you and it's easy to back up into him just a little, close enough that he knows it's on purpose and places a hand on your waist and warm breath on your ear. What are your plans after this last show? Do you want to go somewhere?

You do. His dark hair is a little sweaty from exertion under the show lights and the summer night is darkening. Yes, you really do.

"Somewhere" ends up being through a gap in a fence and behind a row of closed food stalls. It's dark back here and smells of petrol from the generators, but there is an illusion of privacy that makes you brave. It's you who makes the first move, shutting up his rambling with your lips, but he soon takes the hint.

Mostly clothed but his hands are everywhere, his breath this close full of sweat and smoke and beer, slim frame deceptively muscular. You're stroking his erection through his pants, hungry for each other, and he's moaning into your kiss and squeezing at your hips, wanting to take you, pushing you back so your butt presses against the top edge of a locked storage trailer. You don't realise how wet you already are until his hand snakes down inside your underwear and he explores you, spreading slick from your pussy all over your lips, all over your clit. His fingers feel good but you both need more. He unzips, letting his fat erection free, and it throbs in your hand, your pussy feeling emptier than ever, needing him urgently. He fumbles with a condom for a moment, taking just long enough to let you shift your clothes to give him access and then he's lifting you to sit on the trailer and pushing your knees apart to stand between your legs. You've known him for a matter of hours, you don't know where he's from and you're not even sure if he remembers your name. You're a young pair of misfits, meeting by chance and crashing together and he uses his hand to position the tip of his cock against your pussy and pushes. The festival ground is still noisy with crowds but it all seems distant, irrelevant, while your fucking is secret, just out of sight. He has his lips on your neck and his fist in your hair while he's fucking you deep and hard, right there in the open air.

He's slurring compliments at you as he comes, hips thrusting erratically where you can feel him deep in you, his skin slapping against yours. You're not there yet. His teeth are on your shoulder, his arms around you, while you both catch your breath. You figure it's over (maybe you can get yourself off in the tent later after your friends have fallen asleep) but after he's dealt with the condom and you've hopped down from the trailer onto your feet, he doesn't let you fix your clothes. He's not done. He sweeps his long hair out of his face and drops to his knees, hitching one of your legs over his shoulder to push his face hungrily against your dripping cunt.

He's good at it.

Afterwards, you need to find your way back to your respective tents. He's pretty sure he can kick his tent-buddy out tomorrow night, if you were maybe free to hang out again? Maybe you will be. You put your number in his phone. Your real number.

#umazane misli #jan peteh #hookup!jan #hookup!boo

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seraph5 · 1 year

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Ignacio “Nacho” Salamanca

When Nacho chooses Lalo he slips back more into his season 1 persona. Back to being more cold-blooded, back to being more sarcastic. He figures in for a penny in for a pound, he's lost his soul already, he might as well burn down everything he was.

There is a part of him when he stares in the mirror that sees his father's son and when Lalo asks him to marry him Nacho wants to cut out that part and bury it in the earth. Bury the part that whispers that Lalo is a different kind of monster from him. True evil while he himself is just a ghost. That's when he decides to embrace everything Salamanca.

His first tattoo is the blue flower on his neck, a reminder that he nearly died for his betrayal of the Salamancas. Then two rattlesnakes biting the flower from either side, he and Lalo eating what might have been the end but instead became a new beginning. A lucky poker chip on his neck. A pill to remind him that drugs built the world in which he lived. Fire running up one arm so that every time he fired a shot it was set alight. Petrol tattooed up the other. Lalo thinks the petrol is fuel for the flames and Nacho does not disabuse him of this idea. In actuality, it is to remind him he will never be clean in this life - never able to expunge his acts. The owl across his ribcage is an agent of Santa Muerte, Lalo's patron saint. He got it the day after Lalo gave him his necklace "for protection" Lalo had whispered against his skin.

Lalo traces the lines of the tattoos, kisses the colours and does not worry about the part Nacho has buried beneath.

Image Description: Nacho Salamanca is sitting on a wooden stool against a wall in Lalo's Hacienda. He's leaning back letting his legs hang wide his right arm casually hanging between them and holding a gun. He is shirtless and shoeless wearing only an expensive pair of navy pinstriped pants. His upper body is covered in the tattoos described above. His face is serious, slightly threatening. Perhaps Lalo is entertaining a cartel don with breakfast while Nacho sits and watches silently, though protectively, off to the side.

#myart #ignacio salamanca #ignacio nacho varga #Ignacio nacho salamanca #nacho salamanca #nacho varga #lalo #lalo x nacho #eduardo lalo salamanca #lalo salamanca #lacho #finally its doneeeeee #my nacho salamanca headcanon #better call saul

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goats-of-bandcamp · 1 year

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#Nuage Fou #Petrol Chips

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thestrangestperson · 1 year

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TINY WEE PSA

Hi! Are you trying to write some British people? Here are some random thoughts about exaggerated Britishness (With heavy chat about Scotland because I know Scotland the best):

"I'm going to the store!" Store is not a popular word for a place to buy things. People from the UK will generally say "shop". If they're just going to get milk or something, they may go to the "corner shop" - which people from NY especially will know as a "bodega"

"Hand me an eraser." While some people do say eraser, "rubber" is more common. This is amusing to me because to people from the US especially, it's very different in meaning.

If your character is visiting someone, it's very common to be offered tea. "Fancy a cup of tea?" or more casually "Fancy a cuppa?"

Pub ≠ bar. Pubs include bars, but are also places to get a meal. People do go there to drink ("Get a pint") though, and some pubs don't serve children or allow them in. Many do, however.

There are 100s of accents across the nation, more than just typical posh English, Welsh and Scottish. Please pay attention to your character's background and dialect. The city of London alone has 4 major accents. (For Good Omens fans, Crowley and Aziraphale are both sensationally posh. Aziraphale speaks "The Queen's/King's English" which is notably more formal and collected - Crowley does not.)

Some good swears include "Bellend", "Pillock", "Knob" and "Twat". In Scotland we also have the tamer "Daft(ie)" and "Tube"! Any object can become an insult: "You FUCKING MICROWAVE"

Some good pet names include "Love", "Pet" and "Poppet"

Along with tea we have a carbonated drink called Irn Bru. This is ESPECIALLY popular to Scots but you can find it in England. It is bright orange and fruity in taste.

We buy milk in pints

The chocolate bar Freddo is typically how we measure inflation these days. (I wish I could say this was a joke but tabloids love the chocolate test)

It does rain a lot. Like a shit ton. There are sunny days but nonetheless. The way to start conversation is ALWAYS weather. "Lovely weather innit?" always works, especially in terrible weather.

Sarcasm and dry humour are very popular.

IT IS A PETROL STATION, NOT A GAS STATION

A lot of people smoke or vape. This is very evident especially in cities like London and Edinburgh.

People from southern England especially are typically very removed and tend not to pay attention to anyone else. It's a massive "Not my problem". They can be very friendly by all means, but typically keep to themselves and don't talk to many people.

Biscuits rule the world, especially custard creams. (Jk, they're very loved though)

The school systems are different from that in the rest of the world. Even to one another. The Scottish, Welsh and English education systems are different - but are all composed of Primary school and Secondary school.

Typically people are either passionately wild for the Royal Family or REALLY dislike them.

Terraced and semi detached housing is very common. In Scotland we have "closies" which are blocks of flats that home lots of people, and are typically very square and deshevelled.

McDonald's did not arrive here until the 70s. People were confused by it to begin with.

Fish and chips is a stereotypical yet popular dish. Many people refer to going to a fish and chips shop as "Going to the chippy". Often they do not have seating, and are takeout exclusive.

Britain is a geographical reality, composed of Scotland, Wales and England. The United Kingdom is political and composed of Scotland, Northern Ireland, Wales and England.

Irish people may not enjoy being referred to as "British". Furthermore do not call a Welsh, Scottish or Irish person "English". This is a bad idea and will make people mad.

Day in the life of a true Brexit geezer is a documentary. (Jk)

Basically everyone "hates" the English. Whether this is playful or genuine varies from person to person. Even the English hate the English.

Older women especially have very strong feelings about Princess Di (She was so beloved)

For Good Omens fans: Soho is a small tiny little area in the BOROGH of "The City of Westminster". This is a borogh at the heart of London. You can walk Soho in a day.

Most cities don't have boroughs, but do have wee areas which are basically suburbs or collections of areas.

In schools, it's very common to refer to your teachers as "Sir" and "Miss". This also applies outside of school for young people, but generally is seen more in schools.

"Mate" is the most common way to address a male presenting person passive aggressively, along with "Love" for female presenting people. "Mate" is more common and works both ways.

"Pissed" means drunk. "Oh, he's pissed" = "Oh, he's drunk". Increasingly you'll find people say "pissed" to mean angry, especially young people. However "peeved" is what was originally used to mean angry.

#This is mostly about Good Omens fanfictions like please write the English as English #writing #british people #uk #writing advice #mildly humorous #idk ANYMORE #help #character writing #bad writing advice

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earlofbats · 17 days

Text

Eight Hours of Vigorous Praxis

The curdling hiss of the water pot sputters, the evening light creeps through the grates of the cage built atop the tenement building. Two young student communists read silently amongst themselves, a comfortable width apart, on a couch refuged from the side of some degrading road or back alley.

The scent of cheap coffee grounds, also likely salvaged from the garbage bin of some upscale Bougie cafe alongside the collection of dust-ridden rugs, almost covers up the smell of drying petrol oil, bright red as it drips off of white canvas onto gray concrete.

“Uli-” Steban looks up from the book he wasn't reading.

“Yes, Steban?” Ulixies acknowledges, flipping a page over, perched atop the highest vantage point the couch's shambled body has to offer.

“You remember when the gendarme slapped me?” Steban taps a nervous finger against the cover of his book.

Tap Tap Tap

Against the cheap waxy paperback.

“Yes.” Uli scans the words down the page, he's read this book perhaps a dozen times before.

“I'm concerned about how much I enjoyed it.” Steban closes the book over his finger, holding its place over the sentence he hadn't been reading.

“What do you mean?” Ulixies perks up from his reading, the words are mostly known, the essence absorbed, only the nuances left and the particular turns of phrase.

“I mean that the scenario was stimulating.” Steban elaborates.

“Stimulating?” Uli raises an inquisitive brow, glancing shortly between the text and his compatriot, unsure as to where the most appropriate place to place his gaze would be.

“Yes.”

“…In what sense?” Ulixies makes sure to tread carefully, lowering the book slightly to show he is present.

“You know what sense, Uli. Don’t be thick.” Steban rolls his eyes, bending the cover of the book over his finger, curling the paper around it.

Uli raises his free hand up in a placating manner “Okay, I was just making sure.” lets his book rest against his knee “Well, what element of it was concerning? You said you enjoyed it. Was it the physical stimulation? In the way that the pain may have activated your fight or flight responses? We’re academics. It’s only natural that we would be susceptible to the effects of endorphins.” Ulixies explains.

Steban nods sagely in agreement “Too many comrades have been addicted to substances. That hadn’t occurred to me, but does add to my concerns that my need for academic stimulation is an extension of a physiological need for addictive substances.”

They both turn to the coffee pot. Its feeble body is dented, paint chipped off and tarnished by use.

Steban shakes his head “But no, it wasn’t just that…” trails off.

Ulixies closes his book “You’re being cagey, then. I think you know what it is that’s concerning.”

Steban pinches his chin in thought, presses the knuckle of his pointer against his lips “The stimulation of pain and the rush of endorphins was definitely part of it, but I fear mostly that the key part of my–ehm–interest was the dynamics at play.”

Uli's eyes stare in direct line with the top of Stebans head “ I see.”

Steban looks up “Exactly.”

Uli doesn’t break the eye contact. “ I have a confession to make, Steban.”

“Go ahead, comrade.” Steban urges.

“I also found the situation stimulating.”

“…”

“Physically?” Steban asks.

“… “

“…”

“Okay.” Steban turns his head back towards its previously front facing position.

Uli, however, does not turn his gaze away “The question is: Do we address the fascist elephant in the room or not?”

Steban nods “We should address the fascist elephant.”

“Alright. So.”

“So-” Steban takes a long sigh “Clearly, fascism predicates itself on being an ideology founded in violence and force; this is often done through fetishizing strength and authority.”

“The gendarme, of course, being an unfortunate extension of the fascist ultraliberal and moralist state. “ Uli continues.

“Yes.” Steban exclaims, punctuating a finger in the air.

“The uniform was hot.” Uli remarks.

“It was.” Steban concurs, thoughts drifting off for a moment as he reconstructs the outfit in his mind.

Once again Steban shakes his head, forcing himself to reorient in the discussion “But this is by design. The regalia of the RCM is fetishistic costuming meant to impose a sense of authority and violence.”

“This simply means we’ve succumbed to the propaganda.” Uli reasons, “No one is immune to propaganda.”

Steban nods once again in agreement “So now that we’ve established that our excitement is simply the intended effect of the state, we can overcome it by acknowledging and recognizing it, thus robbing it of its power.”

“Excellent. Good work, comrade.” Uli gives a curt smile, opening his book back up.

“Awesome.” Steban follows suit, tracing over the words with his finger to follow back to where he was.

A moment of disquieted silence maneuvers through the space.

“ …Actually Uli?” restlessly Steban folds the book over again.

Uli does not remove his attention from his book “Yes?”

“You said you were also excited by the scenario. Does that mean you were empathizing with my position?”

“What do you mean?” Uli thumbs over to the next page.

“Were you imagining yourself being subjected to the fetishistic power of the fascism?” Steban worries his bottom lip.

Uli gives a moment of pause “…Why do you ask?” Hesitant to answer.

Steban takes a moment to think, crossing one leg over the other “Well, if you were similarly affected by me being subjected, wouldn't that be direct evidence of plasm exchange?” Steban uncrosses and recrosses his legs “Normally, when one sees another being assaulted, the reaction would be of fear and panic, which could be an expression of plasm or could be survival instinct; but in the situation in which I, the subject, was reacting atypically, you having a similar, mirrored result would be definitive evidence of plasm and psychic connection!”

“That would definitely be a strong argument.” Uli nods in agreement, eyes still locked onto the page.

Another pause.

“So, were you?”

Ulixies gives a sigh and closes his book once again “I have another confession, comrade.” He stares out beyond the grates, at the place where the ocean must meet the horizon.

Steban swallows, nervous at the sudden intensity of his companion. “Go ahead.”

“I was not imagining myself in your position. Shamefully, I was imagining myself in Gendarme’s position.” Uli continues to look out where the sea air finds its way through the warm colors of the sky.

Steban looks down to his hands, “Hm, that is a dilemma.” There's a small scar across his left hand that he doesn't remember being there.

“I know I’ve always had a penchant for violence,” Uli explains, “but it’s always been in the context of liberation or academic understanding of the enemy's tactics.”

Steban turns to look toward Uli, arm reaching out over the back of the couch. “I know this,Uli. I do.” his hand rests just next to where Uli sits “… Perhaps we’ve been looking at this from the wrong perspective.”

Uli looks down at the hand, he remembers the scar, remembers that Steban got it trying to shave while a little too intoxicated.

“Perhaps engaging in these kinds of theatrics is a matter of subversion; a kind of parody of the fascist propaganda, a forceful reclaiming of iconography for the sake of pleasure. Empowerment of the proletariat through choice. “ Steban argues.

Uli gives a quirked brow “Steban,” a small incredulous smile slipping over his face “what the fuck are you talking about?”.

“We invited the gendarme to slap me; that was a decision we made together.” He gestures between the two of them “The state never gives the people a choice when they enact violence against us, but in this scenario, we had full control over what was going to take place. It wasn’t a genuine partaking in violence. I wasn’t in real danger, and the expression was intended for show, not for subjugation. We, in this situation, subverted the power by dictating how it was going to be wielded.”

Uli mulls it over for a moment before responding “I think I understand your position, but is roleplaying fascism any different materially to being a fascist?”

“Hmm,” Steban pulls his hand back to brush the underside of his chin in thought.

“ If I were to put myself into the position of the gendarme and slapped you around, would I not be partaking in enforcing the virtues of the fascist dichotomy between oppressor and oppressed?” Uli questions.

“I guess it would be like If a woman asked me to hit her. Hitting her would still be wrong, because it's wrong to hit women.” Steban reasons.

Uli shakes his head “But you’re not a woman. Also, I feel like not hitting her would be more sexist than iIndulging her because it would perpetuate the idea that men and women aren't equal.”

“Okay, that was a bad analogy.“ Steban admits.

Uli lets out a small sigh “But I guess, in that same line of logic, would it be more oppressive to deny your request for me to slap you around, in the same way that not hitting a woman ,on the virtue of her being a woman, would undermine her autonomy?”

Steban gives a sigh in return, “But my point is that, even in any given situation when a woman might request to be slapped, wouldn't doing so perpetuate the idea that hitting women is okay, even if it's theatrics?”

Ulixies adjusts his glasses “Mhh.” he takes another moment, ruminating over his thoughts, “This was the same argument made in your oppositional essay regarding tiptop; that the sport was an exercise in glorifying violence and over consumption and that, regardless of the external reason, those who enjoyed the sport were ultimately partaking in the fetishization of those elements.”

Stebans eyes widen in realization “Yes, and the gendarme did a fairly good deconstruction of that argument, didn't he?”

“That the circumstances of capital requires funding into all pastimes and thusly twisting the subject to its will; if there were no branding, tiptop would not be able to exist.” Uli runs a hand over his beard, “This isn't the fault of tiptop but of the way capital subsumes all things into itself and corrupts it.” gestures the hand outward in front of him, “That, while the destruction and violence of the vehicles and injury to drivers is a real present threat, the goal of the sport isn’t in this destruction, but in the execution of sportsmanship towards a collective spirit, as well as creating and innovating under the name of bettering the engineering and strategies involved. Most people who are actually fans of the sport are radically displeased when the vehicles crash, only the sensationalization of the coverage of these events paints them as exciting.”

Steban deflates “He even sourced the way that two competitors -despite the sport’s desire to have them be in opposition with one another in the way that Capital would like us to be in opposition with one another- through the sport, fell in love.”

“Jacob Irw and Alfie Deletraz. High Speed Love, yes.” Uli Interjects, “After it was mentioned, I went ahead and read it. They were brought together through the sport and the competition but ultimately were separated through the ruthlessness of capitalist greed and demagoguery.”

“So,” Steban raises his finger inquisitively into the air “If we are to assume that you slapping me was a neutral behavior due to my personal enjoyment of the action -and is only wrong in the context that capitalism and fascism's monopoly on violence has made any act of harm outside of their direct control taboo-, you and I partaking in the power dynamic for our own pleasure would actually be a subversion of that power.”

“Correct.” Uli concurs.

“I see.” Steban rubs a thumb across his jawline.

“ …”

“… “

“… Does that mean you should slap me?”

“… “ Uli gives it a moment of thought “I suppose… but I think my intention matters.”

“Your intention?”

“Yes.” Uli continues “Your intention in wanting me to slap you is about subverting the dynamics of oppression by dictating the circumstances in which that oppression takes place. That control gives you comfort and that pain, through your physiological responses, gives you pleasure, correct? “

“Yes, I suppose that's it. Like choosing to get on a roller coaster.” Steban adds.

“No, Steban.” Uli chides, “Roller coasters are bourgeois. We’ve already established this.”

“Right, sorry. Continue.” Steban apologizes, gesturing for Uli to proceed.

“What about my motivations?” Uli proposes, “Me partaking in your oppression isn’t a neutral act for me because I know something about that dynamic is giving me pleasure.”

Steban taps his book against his knee “I mean, would you giving me pleasure not in itself be pleasurable? In the same way seeing fellow comrades succeed produces plasm?”

Uli shakes his head “ If that were the extent of it. But there's something particularly appealing to being A: In a position of authority and B: Enacting violence on you.”

“Hmm.” Steban steeples his fingers in thought.

“Especially the violence part.” Uli reiterates voice slipping down an octave.

Steban swallows “You want to hurt me?”

Uli turns to look back down at Steban, “I would want whatever I did to you to hurt, yes.”

“Past my desire to be hurt?” Steban darts his eyes over nervously to where Uli’s feet rest against the couch cushion.

“Possibly…Hypotheticals aren’t as concrete as realities. Imagining doing something and actually executing on that image are very different things.”

Steban nods in understanding “Subject vs Object.”

Uli gives a small smile.

The two share a quick glance at one another, “‘This is not a pipe.’” they state in unison.

Steban gives another moment of consideration “Hmm… I mean, what if we just tried... doing it?” he offers.

Uli shakes his head “No, that would be dangerous. Especially if we don’t know the source of the desire. Perhaps this is a manifestation of years of anger towards the oppressive nature of capital taking form as a strong desire to enact violence and abuse indiscriminately.”

Steban hums contemplatively “The continuation of the cycle of abuse.”

“Capitalism does corrupt and put people in opposition with one another. Perhaps this is another prong of the propaganda I’ve been subjected to unwittingly.” Uli readjusts his glasses.

“It is true.” Steban stretches his legs out, nudging his chin to gesture at the coffee cup stationed directly to Uli’s left “No one is immune to propaganda.”

Uli obliges, haphazardly tossing the book to the side. He leans his body over to grab the mug, gently taking hold of the pot and pouring the coffee a little more than half way.

He turns his head to look up at Uli, an odd affection in his voice. “But do you think you want to abuse me?”

“I’ve already said; I want whatever I do to you to hurt.” He hands Steban the cup of coffee, the steam fogging up the lenses of his spectacles as he passes it over.

Steban dips his head in thanks, “I don’t think wanting to hurt me is the same thing as wanting to abuse me.”

“In what way?”

“In the same way that the subject isn’t always the object and that causation isn’t correlation. Think about it in this way; do you want the outcome of the violence to be that of my subjugation, to break my communist spirit?” Steban blows a few soft puffs of air over the top of the coffee, the steam floating off and away in streams of whispering vapor.

“…” Uli pauses, swallows.

Steban tips the cup up to his lips, eyes looking up to check on Uli.

Uli looks upwards and away “No, I want that look in your eyes…”

Steban sputters “Ehk,” Hot coffee spills from his lips and down his chin “Sorry, uhmm… What ‘look’?”

Uli flinches, moving to find some way of helping “Ah. Sorry, comrade. I didn’t mean to-”

Steban waves him off “No no. Its fine, just unexpected. ‘Look’?” he asks.

Uli waffles, shifting in his seat “Yes, ah- not to insult you, but you have a tendency to have a far off look. I actually don’t mind it. It reminds me of the portrait of Mazov actually. It gives the impression you are in deep philosophical thought.”

Steban places his book to his side, balancing the cup in one hand. He pulls a handkerchief from his inner pocket. “I usually am, comrade. That’s probably why I look like that.” He explains, dabbing the coffee off from his neck and chin.

“Right, and I appreciate this about you, but… “ Uli drifts off, seemingly transfixed on some far away thought.

“But?” Steban urges.

“But'' Uli continues “when you were slapped by the gendarme, it seemed like you didn’t have a single thought in your head… and then, uhmm, that you, uhh…” Uli trails off once again

Steban gesticulates for Uli to continue … “Yes?”

Bashful, Uli looks back to his friend, “Then you looked like you wanted it to happen again.”

Steban lets out a breathy self deprecating laugh. “I have to admit that, at the time, I most definitely did, which was concerning. “

“I think I want you to want me to hurt you.” Uli hypothesizes.

“Interesting.” Steban squeaks.

“Hmm.” Uli hums absentmindedly, digesting this newfound observation.

“Perhaps my prior theory isn’t entirely wrong then.” Steban raises his coffee to his lips, hiding his face. “That this is an extension of our camaraderie, that you’re understanding of me wanting to feel pain because pain gives me pleasure is then extended into you wanting to be the one who provides me this pleasure by inflicting pain.”

“Hm… That's possible. I’m still worried that some part of me wants to do this for the thrill of inflicting pain; for the power it would give me.” Uli taps his finger against his temple, along the thin line of wire that slips behind his ear.

“Why would you think that?” Steban lowers his cup.

“Because I don’t just want to slap you.” Uli admits.

“Okay.” Steban gives one long extended nod “Elaborate on that for me here.”

“Since the incident, I’ve gone beyond thinking about things that I know you would find enjoyable and have created fantasies of things I know I would find enjoyable to subject you to.” Uli elaborates.

“Hng, o-ohkay.” Steban stammers, “Wh-what kinds of things?” Steban asks, deciding to forgo holding onto his cup during such a precarious conversation, shakily moving to abandon it off to the shitty, industrially produced end table to the side of the couch.

“The most appealing one is choking you.” Uli watches Steban as he goes about gingerly moving the cup.

“Huhng Ohkay-” Flustered Steban lurches forward as he places the cup down, sloshing a bit of its contents over his nervously trembling fingers and onto the small pile of snuffed out cigarette stubs that litter the end tables surface “What about that sounds appealing?”

Uli takes a heavy disappointed sigh “Unfortunately, it’s hard not to interpret this as a subliminal desire for control. Restricting your access to air? The very essence of life? I fear there’s nothing more capitalist or fascist than that…”

“B-breath,” Steban stutters “-in a symbolic sense, has uhm, long been associated with love…D-Dolores Dei and her lungs as well as the stations of breath. Perhaps this is just an evolution of our camaraderie that we-” Steban swallows, “-through our ideological proximity- have likened ourselves to Mazov and Nilsen, a- a desire to receive and control my very breath…” and runs a nervous hand through his hair.

“But that's the crux of the issue. There, control is a hierarchical structure. Mazov and Nilsen were equals. They allowed each other to breathe freely.” Uli frets a tight, pursed frown curling at the sides of his mouth.

“But perhaps you were simply intuiting my desires subconsciously?” Steban offers.

“What do you mean?” Uli asks tentatively.

“I also want you to choke me.”

“God.” Uli gasps, gut-punched and breathless.

“M-maybe if you tell me more of the fantasies you’ve had since then,” Steban words slur around their edges, tongue heavy in his mouth. “perhaps we can compare notes and see if there's a correlation.”

“Thats-” Uli hesitates, unsure.

“It could be evidence for the psychic connection Mazov and Nilsen had; maybe this is the first step.” Steban assures, “Sexuality is a base primality. Maybe you’re just connecting onto a leyline of plasm that has bound us together?”

“Okay, that's a fairly sound theory.” Uli admits. “I want to leave marks on you-”

“Mhmm” Steban squeeks affirmatively.

“…I want to leave marks so that, when you look at them or if people saw them, they'd think that you… belonged to me.” Uli mulls over each word carefully in a strange mix of sultry and academic.

“That is pretty problematic.” Steban attests, “It insinuates ownership. That's definitely antithetical to non-hierarchy.”

“I told you.” Uli sighs forlorn “I've definitely been affected by capitalist propaganda. It's wedged itself into my brain.” Uli places an exasperated hand to his mouth and chin.

“Confession:” Steban states with clear and concise intent. “I want you to put a collar around my neck and treat me like a dog.”

Ulixies runs his hand up his face, pinching at his brow, nudging his glasses up to his forehead as he groans.

Uli shakes his head in exasperation “Like a dog, Steban? Really?”

Steban turns his head down in shame “Uli, I think we might be bad communists…”

“Shit.” Uli bewails, slumping down from his perch and firmly next to Steban with an audible Humph from the couch as he lands.

They look to one another with utter unabashed defeat “…”

“No.” Steban exclaims. “No, we can fix this, right? We’ve already established that by the virtue of me being the subject of oppression, by dictating a version of self-inflicted oppression for the sake of my gratification, that I can't be perpetuating my own oppression.” Steban, frantic, turns his body to face Uli, waving his hands about in the air. “I'm simply subverting it and in this case, my theory still stands that as our camaraderie is so deeply and ideologically intertwined, you're just reflexively drawn into meeting my needs. It's a perfect synergistic loop.”

“Right, but what if it's actually you intuiting my desires?” Uli counters.

“Hmm… Desires that you feel have been corrupted by the system's propagandizing.” Steban states, contemplative.

“Exactly!” Uli stresses “What if we're both being complicit in engaging with fascistic fetishism because we're being conditioned to do so.”

“Then I’d say we're fucked, Uli.” Steban mutters “Because, I'll be honest,” shakes his head in utter loss. “I've never been this horny in my life.”

“Me neither Steban,” Uli concurs “me neither.”

There's another moment of pause as they stare out numbly into the distance, unfocused and haunted.

“Uli,” Steban absently breaks the silence “it just occurred to me…We've been discussing this in the context of specifically you enacting violence against me as a potential continuation and propagation of state violence, but I feel like we're skimming over the other, perhaps slightly smaller or larger, non-fascist elephant in the room.”

“Which elephant is that?” Uli responds, inattentive, unpresent.

“Well,” Steban wavers “I guess we got so caught up in the praxis, I forgot to ask if this is at all explicitly sexual in nature or not.”

“Oh. Huh,” Uli marvels “I guess we didn't specify explicitly whether or not fetish was being used academically or colloquially.”

“We were definitely using it interchangeably.” Steban assures.

“Right.”

“So?” Steban urges.

“Huh?” Uli turns to Steban

“Did you want to fuck me or not?”

“OH!” Uli snaps back to himself “Uh, yes, having sex and achieving sexual gratification is a big element here. You're right.”

“I mean, couldn't we simply…write it off as…” Steban trails off.

“Steban!” Uli scolds.

“No, no, you're right.” Steban acquiesces. “Sex and sexuality are also valuable venues of political thought and shouldn't be brushed aside. Otherwise, we might risk undermining the serious nature of sexual violence and sexuality itself as a tool of the state.”

“Right, exactly.” Uli gives a curt nod.

“So I guess another avenue of questioning is whether or not you only want to cause me pleasure through physical harm, assuming we've definitely established that ultimately you want your pain to be pleasurable for me.”

“I’m not entirely convinced in either scenario yet, but we can circle back to that later.” Uli muses, gesturing for Steban to continue.

“Excellent!” Steban chirps “In that case, I'll ask you this: do you want to kiss me, Uli?”

“Hmm, yes I think so.” Uli ruminates, “For the sake of closeness, I would. But that isn't necessarily romantic. The platonic fraternal kiss of the communards is something I've wanted to explore for a while now, even prior to this.”

“Okay, and about you fucking me?” Steban asks.

“What about it? If you mean whether or not I’d like you to take the -” Uli trails off again, struggling to find the right words.

“Uli?” Steban probes.

“Sorry,” Uli cringes. “I can't think of a better term for this- the feminine role?”

“Oh, yeah.” Steban winces, “Hmm, that doesn't sound very good.”

“You're not a woman,” Uli laments “and using that as a comparison would once again relegate women to a specific role.”

“The patriarchy really is a slippery bastard. “ Steban tuts.

“That it is.” Uli shakes his head in disappointment.

“Though if you think about it,” Steban wags his finger in thought ,” similar to capitalism, patriarchy also corrupts. Being the one to be on the receiving end of ‘insertion’ is only seen as demeaning because of the way it's been associated with women through the sexist framework of the patriarchy. Just in the same way that being a proletariat is seen as lesser than being a member of the ruling class.”

“Good observation Steban!” Uli nods in agreement, before shaking his head in disappointment, once again. “But once again I fear it's that exact subjugation of the dynamic that I find appealing.”

“In what sense?”

Uli wrings his hands together, nervous fingers running over the tight tendons and stray veins that pop through his skin “In the sense I would like to fuck you like a woman. Which includes the insinuation that I want to demean you in some way. That I would be exerting power over you.”

Steban wheezes all the air leaving his lungs fast and fleeting, his head spinning as he pats a limp hand over his pockets “I need a cigarette…” He mumbles to himself breathlessly.

“But in that situation I would also want you to feel good, very good, maybe even too good.”

Steban pats over his pockets more fervently “Ff-fuck, where the hell did I put those cigarettes.”

Somewhere in the distance, the Gendarme and his partner lie in bed with one another. One of them picks a white lounge jacket from off the duvet only to have a pack fall out of the coat's inner pocket. Pleasantly surprised by the find, the two of them decide to share the last of the cigarettes amongst themselves, their legs tangled over one another beneath the sheets.

Uli, entirely caught in the maze of his own mind, continues, unaware or uncaring of Steban’s current predicament. “I think in that situation you losing control of yourself would be the goal. Mostly for the reaction or satisfaction of relegating you to something more sub-human, or maybe it'd be better to say primal.”

Steban remembers that Cindy keeps a pack somewhere, briefly he returns his attention to Uli “I mean- one moment.”

Steban leans forward, rummages his hand below the couch. He feels over the underside of it for the pack Cindy stashes there and tugs at it- it gives, and Steban holds his prize up, victorious.

Steban hits the bottom end of the carton, freeing a cigarette from its confines.

He raises it to his mouth. “Light?” Steban murmurs through pursed lips.

Uli pulls a lighter from his pocket, rips the cord from its casing and holds the stick to light Stebans cigarette.

Steban takes a few soft puffs before pulling the cigarette away from his lips. “What was I saying-” he waves the smoke off and away from his face “Oh! Right I mean I brought up the collar thing before, so I feel like we're in line with that.”

Uli tucks the stick back into its home “Yes, but that was extremely problematic. ‘Communist dog?’ It's a little on the nose, isn't it?”

Steban taps a bit of ash off to the side. “Perhaps that's what makes it enjoyable? I bet you Gendarme and his buddies are all into being ‘pigs’ in their free time, heh.” He pulls the cigarette back to his mouth and draws in.

Uli watches the ember glow red “…Which gendarme do you think…” He shakes his head. “No, sorry, that's wildly off topic.”

Steban lets the smoke pool out from his nose “what was it that the-”

Uli jumps to interrupt, the thought already at the tip of his tongue: “‘Thrashed like a schoolboy.”

“Yeah,” Steban agrees absentmindedly, pulling the cigarette back away from his mouth.

“Yeah” Uli keeps his attention on Stebans lips. “Do you want me to kiss you by the way?”

Steban gives a shy little smile “…Yeah, I do. I like the dip of your cupid's bow.”

Uli touches his upper lip “…My?”

Stebans smile widens at the display “Uli…”

Uli whips his hand away from his face. “Yes?”

Steban tucks his smile back into his cheek and thumbs the filter of his cigarette nervously. “I realized there's yet another elephant.”

Uli nods for Steban to continue, giving a little grunt of affirmation.

“Does this make us homo-sexual?”

Steban puts the cigarette to his lips and intakes air once again.

Uli takes a measured pause to think. “Not necessarily.”

“We've both admitted to wanting to engage sexually with one another, and we both- you do identify as a man right?” Smoke trails out from his mouth as he speaks.

“Yes.”

Steban nods “Right. Me too.”

Uli holds his hands over themselves “I mean it's often rumored Nilsen and Mazov were-”

“I always thought that was slander, perpetuated by the moralists to condemn communism by associating it with a disliked minority outgroup.” Steban rubs the worry lines of his furrowed brow, cigarette hanging loose from his fingers

“Which ironically probably just drew in support for communism from that outgroup.” Uli muses.

“I think any minority outgroup is more likely to engage with communism because as an outsider they're able to get a better understanding of the mechanics and flaws of the current system via the fact they're typically on the outskirts and the most victimized by said system.”

Uli nods. “When you're told your existence is wrong by the system, but you know better, it forces you to question what else the system is wrong about. Or you fall victim to internalizing those harms, which I would consider a tragic spiritual death.”

“Exactly.” Steban gestures for Uli to continue

“There's nothing wrong with being homo-sexual.” Uli states.

Steban purses his lips “so are you?”

Uli turns his chin up in contemplation “I still don't know.”

Steban gives an impatient little sigh. “Have you ever been attracted to a woman?”

Uli shakes his head. “No, but equally I've never been attracted to a man, other than you.”

Steban twitches upright in genuine surprise “You find me attractive?”

“Steban,” Uli rolls his eyes and gives a petulant huff. “You are by all standards extremely handsome, you know this, we’ve had actual hours of discussion about the ethics of utilizing your looks as a means to facilitate the spread of awareness for the cause.”

Steban rolls his eyes in return, “right, but that doesn't necessarily mean you find me attractive, just that general society does, a society that mind you is built around creating an extremely narrow definition of beauty. I wouldn't assume that you of all people were affected so easily by the way society dictates beauty standards.”

Ulis' brows cinch together, a small frustrated frown curling over his lips. “I think we're still narrowing down on the fact that I am clearly the worst communist here, but yes, I find you extremely attractive.”

There's a moment of pause. Ulis expression softens, becomes reserved and private as he speaks “However, I don't think it's just a physical thing, I find you most attractive when you are saying something enlightening. I find your ‘philosophical essence’ beautiful.”

Steban gapes, cigarette ash falling as he lets it burn to the filter. “ I think there's another, other elephant.”

Uli turns tentatively to look towards Steban. “Go on,” he urges.

“I think I might be in love with you.”

Uli nods “I see. I feel like what I just expressed is probably something you could fairly argue as being a result of me also being in love with you, that would be the most sound explanation.”

“So.. do you think all of this subjugation and fetishization would be fine under the pretense that we were in love with one another?” Steban asks, gnawing at his lower lip.

“That's an excellent question, Comrade. I guess that comes down to how we quantify love as an antithesis of capital.”

“Capital is about the prioritization of ownership and hierarchy, something we're afraid of engaging with in the fear that by living under capital we are being influenced to perpetuate capital,” Steban elucidates.

“But love is definitionally about collectivism.” Uli agrees.

“When reciprocated.”

“Which it is?” Steban asks.

“Yes, it is.”

“Right, good,” Steban nods “so if we apply Gendarmes critique of tiptop-”

Uli continues the thought, “that tiptop itself isn't the issue because ultimately the sport is about collectivism and that without the influences of capital it would still stand to be a worthy pursuit.”

Steban takes the cigarette back to his lips “If it weren't for capital and the fascistic nature of hierarchy imposing meaning onto acts like choking, slapping, and being inserted upon they would be worthwhile pursuits.”

Uli watches as the cigarette gives way and burns into smoke “-in the context that we both found the acts pleasurable.”

“Yes.” Steban exhales out towards the ceiling.

“Circling back to my point earlier, regarding the idea of whether or not my desire to cause you pain is in alignment with your desire to feel pain. When I think about it in this specific wider framework I realize I only really want to cause you harm in an explicitly sexual context which would insinuate that the end goal is to cause pleasure and not just pain.” Uli explains.

Steban stares down at the fading gray wisps as they trail off into the atmosphere. “right.”

“So I believe you are correct, I concede, well argued once again.” Uli offers his hand in congratulations.

Steban looks down and awkwardly crosses over his hand to shake Uli’s, trading off his cigarette to his free one. “Wonderful.”

Uli gives a polite smile and squeezes down harder as he gives a firm jerk before pulling away.

Steban turns to pull the cigarette back to his lips, only to find that it had burned too close to the filter. With a sigh, he snuffs it out against the small saucer on the side table, its crumpled form joining its compatriots in the growing pile. “So you think we can actually fuck now?”

Uli scoffs “Oh? Don’t be ridiculous, do you think we're really ready to put this theory into practice?”

“Uli- I-”

“We haven't even worked out any logistics Steban, how were you intending to apply any of this without doing that first, you should know better.” Uli interjects.

“No, no you're right. Okay, so, you're better at logistics than me, so I think you should lead this section of discussion.” Steban raises his hands up in defeat.

Uli straightens up, adjusting the lay of his sweater vest with a firm tug. “Alright”

Steban swallows, runs a nervous hand down his chest “do you mind if I touch myself while we do this though?”

Uli looks toward Steban, eyes narrowing “…Yes. I do.”

Steban throws his head back against the couch, a lazy hand ushering Uli to continue “Fine, go on then. I know you're doing this on purpose though, so hurry it up.”

Uli presses steepled fingers over his lips, “kissing should be fine, do we want tongue involved?”

Steban looks up at the ceiling, contemplating the answer as well as the rest of his life and everything that has brought him to this point, “hmm, I don't think I have any particular preferences, we should be able to work that out as we go.”

“Fair enough, I want to slap you and choke you, we've established that's good and on the table.”

Steban swallows. “Yes”

Uli gives a curt bow of his head “I remember what the Gendarmes said and did so I should be able to replicate the slapping with little issue. Choking on the other hand, I can't be sure I'll be able to do safely, we might want to do that another time.”

“I concur.” Steban concurs.

“We should probably not fuck here in Cindys studio.” Uli gestures to the space.

“I agree comrade, that'd be kinda gross and rude, we can just do it in my apartment.” Steban points down to the general area where his apartment lies beneath them.

“The light is good in there and the neighbors are all mostly away or drunk.” Uli adds.

Steban shifts his finger out to where his neighbors would be. “This is true, we won't have to worry too much about noise level but we should still try to be considerate.”

“Maybe some kind of gag or device to muffle…” Uli offers, miming the general shape of said device.

Steban shakes his head, hair swishing against the cheap fabric of the couch, “I can just bite a pillow I think.”

“Right, another question, should we turn the Mazov statue away or cover up the poster or not?” Uli asks, squirming nervously in his seat.

Steban waves off Uli’s apprehension with a dismissive flick of his wrist. “We can see how we feel when we're actually in the space.”

Uli huffs, flicking his fingers at the air in front of him, “always one to play it by ear I guess, okay now unless there's something I don't know about your physiology, we need some kind of lubricant right?”

“I am male, yes,” Steban assures “I have lube in my apartment, another reason we should go there.”

“I feel like it’d be more responsible of us to make sure we have the proper protections in place, condoms?” Uli asks, adjusting the fit of his glasses up his nose.

“Hmm, we would need to head down to the Fritte for condoms.” Steban scratches the stubble at the base of his jaw, where his hairs meet the skin of his neck.

Uli shakes his head in solemn condemnation “I’m realizing another unfortunate reality of capitalism is that condoms aren’t freely available.”

Steban sticks a swift finger in the air, “noting that we should add that to the docket for discussion. “

“Noted,” Uli gives a curt nod and then a small grimace, “I hate to have to bring it up, but, sanitation?”

Steban gives a small chortle “I can get some towels for the bed, and I have actually experimented in the past with this kind of thing on my own time, so I generally know what to do.”

“Have you had other partners?” Uli’s expression darkens.

“No, I mean,” Steban waffles, “none that were men and not in that particular fashion. It’s also been awhile- I’ve been to the doctor and am clean if that's a concern.”

Uli nods, apprehensive “It wasn’t much of a concern and I’ve never partaken myself, so I am also healthy in that regard. By the way, I feel like using the term ‘clean’ might be problematic in that it insinuates that those who do have sexually transmitted diseases are somehow ‘dirty’ or ‘impure’, which I feel like is an extension of the way sex and sexuality is demonized by moralism and the patriarchy. “

Steban gives a small deprecative smile, gripping at the collar of his shirt “True, that's my bad, blood is not being used for the important parts right now I fear.”

“I didn’t mean to call you out on it, just a passing observation.” Uli dismisses.

Strained, Steban clenches harder onto his shirt, “Uli can I please touch myself?”

“No.” Uli rejects, swiftly moving on, “you mentioned having done this sort of thing on your own time before?”

Steban gives a rattled sigh of defeat. “Yes, I had a time where I was deconstructing the way that patriarchal masculinity robs men of exploring their ability to express themselves in certain ways- when i started growing my hair out, I also felt like I should become more comfortable with my body and heard that the male g spot was the prostate and, well-”

“Does that mean you have toys?” Uli interjects, shifting one leg over the other.

“HA! In this economy?” Steban guffaws, “Uli we hardly ever have enough money for the coffee, you know how expensive those things are?”

Uli raises a brow.

Steban deflates “No I- I felt like they were too much of a luxury at the time and your ribs had been showing under your shirt. I also couldn't have afforded a hair cut so it was honestly cheaper to just grow it out.” He trails his fingers through the ends of his locks.

Uli tracks the movement “We should thank Cindy again for always cutting our hair.”

Steban gives a look around the room. “ And letting us use her space for our talks.”

Uli turns his head to look out towards the entrance. “We should probably do as the Gendarme insinuated and be less selective with who we let into the reading group.”

Steban gives a frustrated huff. “But it is a reading group, and Cindy refuses to do the reading.”

Uli slumps “But she is a comrade. Biting my own tongue here I think Gendarme is right about the intellectual purity crippling the movement.”

“Perhaps.”

Uli shakes his head and reorients himself “but that's irrelevant to the current project.”

“What else do we need to figure out the logistics for? Location, material, intent, ethicality…” Steban counts out the list on his fingers.

“Do you have money for condoms?”

“…”

Steban stares out dumbfounded, the realization dawning slowly but surely as the facts of his material reality present themselves.

“This is honestly devastating,” Steban huffs in disbelief “I can’t believe we’re too broke to fuck Uli, this can’t be happening.”

Uli winces “We could collect tare like the Gendarme? Or we could ask Cindy?”

Steban points a stern finger to Uli “We are not asking Cindy for condom money.”

Uli gives out a rattled sigh, “maybe it's better we don't jump straight to penetrative sex right away then.”

“Yeah, maybe that was a bit overzealous of us. Also, did you insinuate earlier that you've never had sex before?”

“Hm? Oh, yes.”

“You're a virgin?”

Uli rolls his eyes “Virginity is a social construct, one that I also feel is an extension of the purity apparatus upheld by patriarchy and moralism. But in the definitional sense, no I've never had sex before.”

Steban swallows thickly, “not even, like, a blowjob?”

Uli grits his teeth in annoyance “I've never had another person with whom I've engaged in sexual activities before. Is that clear enough? I feel like you're creating some kind of idea of me in your head right now.” Uli narrows his eyes.

Steban waves off the accusation “No no, I just, it's nice to know that you trust me.” Places his hand against his heart.

“Sex isn't special, Steban, it's capitalism that gives any credence to it, don't forget virginity was originally about the selling and buying of women as material goods…” Uli crosses his arms over his chest and slumps back further into the couch, shoulders raising up to the dip of his skull.

Steban levels a placating hand next to where Uli sits “No, you're right, I just, it makes me feel special I guess. It's something I'll have to unpack within myself at a later time.”

Uli looks down at the hand and softens his posture “No I'm sorry, I fear I was just being reactionary there. Not that what I was saying was not valid critique, I just mean I was being overly defensive.”

Steban looks over the small scar across Uli’s cheek, tender, “That's okay Uli, it happens to the best of us.”

Uli raises himself back up “Thank you Comrade.”

Steban gives a small pat to the space where his hand has been resting “You’re welcome.”

Uli strokes an inquisitive run of his fingers over his chin “You mentioned blowjobs, that might be a good substitute in this situation. Also why do they call it a blow job? Aren’t you supposed to suck on it? Shouldn’t it be called a Suck job? Also, bit odd to call it a job, not that it couldn't be labor, sex work is work, an unfortunate form of work given the way capitalism forces us to commodify ourselves, but no more or less virtuous than any other kind of physical labor.”

“Blow was an old euphemism for an orgasm, not the act of blowing on something.”

“Oh, interesting.”

Steban runs his gaze over Uli’s form, “but honestly I'd be fine with sucking you off.”

“But would you sucking me off be equitable?”

“What?” Steban snaps his attention back to Uli’s face in confusion.

“Sucking someone off is a fairly one sided ordeal is it not?” Uli postures.

Steban’s brows crinkle “ I mean I could suck you off and then you could suck me off.”

Uli lingers in thought before giving his rebuttal “True but then it feels like the act is transactional.”

“I … suppose.” Steban looks at Uli, slack jawed and disbelieving, before throwing his hands up in frustration

“ I just want this to all be reciprocal if that makes sense.” Uli tuts.

“What, are we trying to make this efficient as well?” Steban scoffs, cocking his head back in indignation.

“…” Uli Stares off in deep, reverent contemplation

“Uli?” Steban warns.

Uli jerks back from his trance “N-no, no, sorry.”

“Were you actually considering efficiency just now?” Steban asks with barely contained aggravation In his voice.

“Only in a purely hypothetical sense.” Uli defends

“Dolores fucking Dei Uli.” Seban huffs in exasperation

“I’m sorry, the bean counting has clearly rotted my brain to the stem.”

“that or the lack of blood flow…” Steban grumbles, folding his arms over himself in a pout.

“Sorry, what was that Steban?” Uli asks, feigning ignorance.

“NOthing!” Steban deflects, “Nothing. Can I please touch myself?” then begs.

“I wouldn’t have expected you to be so impatient, comrade, however are we supposed to produce enough plasm at this rate?” Uli chides, poised and smug.

Steban freezes in place and turns a disbelieving head towards Ulis side profile “Plasm…. Uli, do not tell me that you have been dragging this along for-”

Steban jerks back his jacket sleeve to look at his watch.

“Eight hours Steban,” Uli interjects “That's how long the most devoted infra-materialists would engage in intercourse.”

Steban keels over, hands falling over the sides of his head in anguish.

“Uli,” Steban begs, voice cracking with desperation “Why? Why would this be relevant to our current scenario, there is no possible way in which anything we could engage with could last even remotely that long. We haven’t the time or physicality for it, and you haven’t even had sex before.”

“Right but I feel like physicality is less important than the mindset.”

“The.... mindset!?” Steban asks, at an utter loss.

“Yes, Plasm is an ideological pursuit not a physical one, similarly I theorize we could apply this to intercourse.” Uli speculates.

“Uli,” Steban runs his hands over his face in exasperation “We haven't even been able to get the matchboxes to work, the closest we’ve gotten was when the Gendarme was involved.”

Uli pauses, taps a finger to his chin “ …Hm, Do you think getting either the Gendarme or a third member involved would lead to better results?��

“N-! ….” Steban jumps before halting “Do you mean in the case of lasting longer or producing more plasm?”

Uli shrugs. “Hmm, both?”

“I- don’t know how I feel about having another member involved in this specific case.” Steban demures sheepishly.

“Not that I'm disagreeing here but I have to do my due diligence and ask, why not?” Uli tilts his head to the side, curious.

“I think I want this entire thing to be a one on one affair.” Steban mumbles.

“You mean you want us to be monogamous?”

Steban gives out a long sigh “yes…”

“Similarly, I feel like monogamy is another patriarchal capitalist framework meant to divide us as people. It’s another system that encourages putting ownership over another human being.”

Steban turns his head slowly to Uli, “No, Uli, our bodies aren’t resources, saying so would be commodifying and objectifying, this is a matter of autonomy.”

“Steban, the expectation of monogamy is a rejection of polyamory or the notion that affection or love is a finite resource that must be rationed accordingly.”

“Does that mean you’d like for us to be polyamorous?”

Uli gives a short huff of a laugh, “Oh, no, I very much would like to own you Steban. It’s something I have to wrestle with. A kind of internal ideological war between mind and body,” he adds, hand coming to fret over his brow.

“Oh, I can definitely sympathize with that comrade,” Steban grits, hands coming to grab fistfuls of pant fabric, white knuckled and tense at his knees.

Uli’s expression curls into a self satisfied smirk, “I didn’t know you were so *in need* comrade.. would you think it patronizing if i thought it was cute?”

“Yes. I would.”

“But wouldn’t you like to be patronized?” Uli crosses his legs and lounges back into the couch, hands politely folded over his knee.

“If it means I was going to be rewarded for being a good boy maybe?” Steban shrugs his shoulders, gripping tighter onto the fabric.

“A good boy?” Uli raises a perplexed brow.

“Yes” Steban hisses, knee beginning to quiver in impatience.

“Because of the dog thing?” Uli runs a hand over the back of his nape.

“Is that actually really such an issue for you Uli?” Steban runs his hands over his knee, flattening out the fabric, wiping his clammy palm of its sweat against his slacks.

“No, it just raises a few questions for me.” Uli releases his nape, calmly lowering his hand back to his lap.

“Questions?” Steban groans, free hand coming to run through the dew accumulating at his brow and into his greased locks.

“Yes… hmm.” Uli hums.

“What kind of questions?”

“Well, don't take this the wrong way but are you perhaps a-” Uli lowers his voice to a conspiratorial level “-furkin?”

Steban’s brows collapse into one another, forehead wrinkling into slopes and valleys of confused worry lines. “I’m sorry, I don't know what that is Uli. Is it some sort of welkin?”

“Oh!” Uli perks up. “No, It's a subculture of individuals who have a heraldic animal they identify with and will occasionally dress up as.”

“No, Uli, I am not a ‘furkin’ ” Steban quotes the word in the air, “This is completely unrelated to anything actually having to do with being a dog”

“Are you certain? You did say you wanted to wear a collar.” Uli points out.

“That's just because it would be demeaning-” Steban argues.

“And the ‘good boy’?”

“Uli, Im not a ‘furkin’ ” Steban strictly assures.

“So nothing to do with heraldic animal connections?” Uli queries, a subtle hint of disappointment simmering beneath the surface.

“Uli?” Steban questions hesitantly, picking up on the possible disappointment “are you a furkin?”

“Mm, no, I don't think so.” Uli states casually.

“What do you mean you don't think so?”

“I mean don’t be ridiculous, I've never really thought about it until now.”

“Of course not…” Steban bemoans, leg now bouncing in frustration.

“Besides, I swear if there were another elephant in this room, I fear we would be obligated to start a circus, Steban.”

“We’ve been over this, Uli, circuses are also bourgeois” Steban bites at his lips, hands clasped in a tight vice over his lap.

“Right, right, apologies comrade.” Uli gives a small pat to Stebans shoulder.

The only point of contact made all evening.

It’s too much, Steban jumps, startling to his feet, primed and vibrating in his skin.

He whips around and turns to loom over Uli, fists bunched at his sides. Unsure of what it is he is planning or going to do, pushed so far to the edge.

“Do you think it would be praxis to be a furkin?” Uli muses. Placid, he turns to look up to his compatriot.

There is an unfathomable and boundless, unfettered hunger in Stebans eyes.

“Is this truly what you’re asking me right now?” Steban simmers, voice mounting slowly in passion and volume as he speaks, “If me debasing myself? Embracing the anima, embodying the heraldic spirit of a sick and decrepit beast, getting on my hands and knees and barking for my scraps?! Would be PRAXIS?”

Steban reaches a crescendo voice shaking his frame “ Yes! YES! COMRADE, It WOULD be! If only I truly embraced being a dog?! Who knows maybe we’d even be producing enough plasm to resurrect Kraz Mazov himself, YOU ABsoLUTE COCK TEASE-” Steban lurches forward, fists coming to grasp with desperation at Uli’s lapels.

Faces intimately near one another, a breath’s width apart, the phantom heat of tepid air the only separation between the two.

It’s then there is a clattering shift of metal against concrete as the grate drags against the floor.

There, in the now open door frame, adorned in a long military coat, soaked in the scent of oil and sea with dark, striking, owl-like eyes, stands Cindy.

“Uhm, What?” she asks.

#student communists #Steban #echo maker #disco elysium #harry du bois #kim kitsuragi #harrier du bois #ulixies #fic

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emberfrostlovesloki · 10 months

Text

Studying with Aaron [requested]

All photo credits after the tag list.

Hello, loves! I hope you are all having a good day/week so far. This post is for my sweet anon who asked for some Aaron study inspiration. Thank you so much for your request. I had such fun coming up with the mood board, HC's, and a little drabble. I hope you enjoy it and good luck with all of your studying and exams! You've got this! Love Levi -❤️

If you'd like to submit a request of some kind, please see this post, Request Post (linked)

Aaron knows that it gets cold in the library, so he brings an extra sweater or blanket for you to wear while you both study.

Aaron gets you any candy or snacks that you want from the vending machines on the second floor. He also knows that apart from the basics, the machines don’t have everything you like, so he buys a few bags of your favorite chips and salty snacks and has some in his apartment and in his backpack in case you need a change from sugary snacks.

If you're on the quiet floors of the library and a person or group is being loud, he will go and tell them to move and is serious about this request. He will stand and glare at the individual(s) until they are gone.

Aaron will quiz you on formulas and concepts for your math and science exams and has written a detailed list of major dates, people, and events for your history courses. He takes all the time you need to remember the important things for each class. He suggests memory devices and tricks to help you retain the stores of information you need.

Even if he says he’s not a good writer, Aaron is a good editor. He will read over any papers or presentations you must turn in. He will make remarks on the whole paper and major points, but he’ll also correct you on your syntax and grammar. As a prelaw student, he is used to detailed work and he wants you to present your best work.

He doesn’t bother you when you are working. He has his own studies too, but every hour you will both debrief and say one major point that you have both learned in that time. You write them out on a whiteboard next to your table. You and Aaron also both have major goals or assignments listed on the board and when either of you finish one of them you cheer each other on! (This is on a non-quiet floor of the library of course).

The short Hotch drabble is below the cut. 1.2K words.

Pairing Hotch x gender-neutral reader

Category: Fluff/comfort

Word count: 1.2K

Content warnings: None

A/N: Two things. 1. This isn't well edited and 2. I use the slang Diffy Q which stands for differential equations. If you liked this story, likes, comments, and reblogs are appreciated!

_y/n_ = your name

You look at your phone again. It had been nearly half an hour since Aaron had run out to grab a drink. Unless he was getting plastered somewhere off campus then ‘Going to grab a drink’ shouldn’t have taken him more than a few minutes. Just as you were about to shoot him a text asking him where he was, the man in question came walking down the hall and toward your table. He was rather awkwardly holding two 711 Styrofoam cups. He took a sip of one of them to make sure he was giving his partner the right cup. He was right and set the other cup in front of you. You smile at him and in a teasing voice say, “Have you suddenly anthropomorphized into a car and needed some petrol to keep that brain of yours going?” Aaron scoffed and replied, “You know you stop making sense when you’re this tired _y/n_.” You jokingly pouted and said, “What are you talking about, I’m at my peak performance right now.” Just as you finished saying this, you couldn’t stifle a yawn from coming out of your mouth. You hide the betrayal of your body with your mouth. This really had Hotch laughing, and he said, “Well maybe your soda will help you a little bit.” You smiled up at him and grabbed the cup. You take the straw in your mouth. Once you had taken a sip, you smiled even more. Aaron watched you. The little gleam in your eyes at tasting the drink was worth the walk to the convenience store just across from campus. Once you had taken a sip, you said, “You didn’t have to get me root beer Aaron, that was very sweet of you.” Hotch pulled out his chair and sat back down, as he said, “Well you deserved a treat. After all, you finished that twenty-page sociology paper. And I needed to stretch my legs. My eyes were starting to glaze over with this reading.” You looked over to the large textbook in front of Hotch and asked, “Is this still Poli Sci?” Hotch nodded and said, “Mhm.” You reached over and pat his hand as you both slipped back into your respective studying.

A half hour later you ran a hand through your hair and made a sound of frustration. Hotch looked up and asked, “What bothering you _y/n_?” You set down your pencil and said, “This freaking calc review is impossible. I don’t know why my professor decided to include problem types that we’ve never seen before here? I’ve tried working problem seventeen three times and I’m still not getting the answer provided. I’ve checked my stuff and it’s not working.” Hotch nodded and asked, “What concept it is over?” You looked back down at the guide and said, “antiderivatives, which I’m normally good at. But this is something else, let me tell you.” Aaron steepled his fingers under his chin and said, “Why don’t you try writing it out on the board. Maybe seeing it bigger will help you see something differently?” You stand and say, “Well it can’t hurt my chances of figuring it out.” Aaron smiled and said, “That’s the attitude I’m looking for,” as he tossed a green marker at _y/n_. You grabbed the marker and wrote out in neat writing: f(x)=ex−3x2+sinx

You continued to work on this problem for another few minutes before hearing someone call you and Aaron’s names out. You turn and see Spencer and Penelope walking toward you. You beam and move away from the board; the annoying problem is momentarily forgotten. Garcia rushed forward and gave you a hug, while Aaron gave Reid a strong pat on the shoulder. When Penelope had released you, you and Hotch changed positions as you hugged Spencer and Aaron gave Pen an embrace. As everyone pulled apart, you asked, “What are y’all two here studying for?” Spencer spoke first saying, “Diffy Q and computational engineering.” The thought of Spencer’s highly advanced school load had your head spinning and you were grateful when Penelope said, “And I’m here to write an essay for Brit Lit and remind myself for the seventieth time who Plato was and why his cave is important.” At hearing this, Spencer rolled his eyes as his gaze moved to the whiteboard, he clocked the unfinished calculus problem. The boy genius asked, “You working on calc, _y/n_?” You sighed and said, “Yeah, unsuccessfully.” Reid smiled softly and said, “How about I solve this one for you and then give you another similar problem? I won’t tell you how I’m solving it, but I’ll leave my work and you can reference back to it?” Hearing this, you smile and nod saying, “That sounds great Spence, thanks.” Reid annoyingly quickly solved the problem and provided a new one. Once Reid was back next to Garcia, Hotch asked, “Would you like to join us?” Penelope nodded no and said, “We booked out a room upstairs for the next three hours. I need ultimate silence to write.” You nodded in understanding and asked another question: “We’re still set to meet tomorrow at Commons to work on the speech, right?” Garcia and Spencer nodded, and Pen replied, “We sure are my sweet. Darn was I lucky to be put in a group with all of you. My friend Stacy who’s also in the class said half of her partners hadn’t even started their parts of the presentation.” Aaron chimed in with a “Here, here to that.” The friends spoke for a few more minutes before Spence and Penelope moved up to their booked room. As you turned back to the board to study Spencer’s work, they reflected on how they had met their best friends at school. It was fate or the academic advisors who had thrown the four into the same Intro to Communications class. You had sat next to Penelope and across from Aaron on the first day of class. They had all hit off well. In the second week, Spencer had heard Pen complain about her history class and he joined their group. It was Garia who had told you that she thought Aaron had a thing for them. You hadn’t believed her, but later that week, Hotch had texted you asking if you wanted to grab dinner off campus sometime? And the rest, as they say, was history.

You spent another half hour trying at the problem, but you were getting tired and frustrated. You flopped into your chair and put your head in your hands saying, “I’m gonna fail this exam.” Aaron reached out and placed a hand on your shoulder saying, “Hey, no negative self-talk. This exam isn’t until Wednesday and it's only on Sunday. Reid will help you, and you can meet with your professor if you’re really, really concerned. You’re incredibly smart and capable _y/n_. Don’t let this one problem get you down.” You looked up slightly from your hands and saw how genuine Aaron was being, and how proud he was of you.” Softly you said, “What did I ever do to deserve you, Aaron?” Hotch smiled and said, “Nothing. And you never will, _y/n_. Now, it’s getting late. How about we call it here? I can drive you back to your place.” You agreed. You both packed up and as you walked toward the exit, you were very happy to be at the library at 12:30 a.m. As long as you had Aaron as a cheerleader, you knew you could make it through finals. You were pretty sure you could make it through anything with him by your side.

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theculturedmarxist · 1 year

Text

A former editor for the German main daily newspaper, Frankfurter Allgemeine Zeitung (FAZ), Dr. Udo Ulfkotte became nationally renowned in dissident circles for his 2014 book Journalists for Hire: How the CIA Buys the News, originally published in German, which went through multiple translations.

The book relays Ulfkotte’s experience with how the CIA and German Intelligence (BND) bribe journalists to write articles free of truth and facts, and with a decidedly pro-Western, pro-NATO bent or, in other words, propaganda.

One of Ulfkotte’s formative professional experiences was as a war correspondent during the Iran-Iraq War (1980-1988), where the Iraqis were considered to be “the good guys”—because they were serving Western interests in confronting Iran, whose Islamic regime had toppled a long-standing U.S. client, the Shah, in a 1979 revolution.

Iraqi war crimes under Saddam Hussein were covered up along with Washington’s interests in trying to weaken and divide two aspiring Middle Eastern powers so the U.S. could dominate the region and exploit its oil resources.

When he first arrived in Baghdad, Ulfkotte was a little scared. He did not have any experience as a war correspondent. The Iraqi Army quickly sent him off to the front line; the bus was full of loud, experienced war correspondents from prestigious media such as BBC, and Udo was just a miserable rookie.

The first thing that struck him as odd was that everybody was carrying canisters with them. He got upset that very moment and he thought to himself: “Ooops, if the bus gets stuck far from the petrol station, all of them chip in by filling in some petrol into the engine so Udo decided that in the future he would have to carry a canister as well.”

They were on a bus for hours on end riding through the desert. At 20 to 30 kilometers from the border, there was literally nothing there. There was no war whatsoever. There were armed vehicles and tanks long since burned to ash. The reporters got off the bus and sprayed the contents of the canisters all over the vehicles. The Iraqi soldiers were there with them with the machine guns: “Imagine that, tanks in the desert, burned to ash a long time ago, set on fire only now. The clouds of smoke all around. And the reporters positioning their cameras.”

What he witnessed was flame and clouds of smoke behind them, and the Iraqis running around in front of the cameras all the time with machine guns in their arms and scowling military looks in their eyes. Udo mustered up courage and asked one reporter: “I understand. The photos are brilliant, but why do they keep stooping and ducking down?”

The man replied: “Simple. In the audio played in the background one could hear machine guns, and it will sound very good back home.”

Udo kept thinking all the way home. “Young man, you did not see a war at all. You were by the campfire. What are you going to write about?”

Yes, that is a problem for a rookie working for a news agency. Performances are mainly adapted to suit the media needs. It is necessary that one “fits in” with the other seasoned professionals and concoct stories out of thin air that those in positions of authority want the people to hear—not ones that actually exist.

When Udo got back to Baghdad, there were no mobile phones; they were waiting in the Rashid Hotel for hours at times for the international line. He first phoned his mother, not his employer. He was desperate. He did not know what to do. At that point his mother started crying over the phone: “My boy! You are alive!” Udo thought to himself: “What do you mean? Is everything all right? My dear boy! We thought….What is happening, Mother? We saw on TV what happened around you.”

The TV channel had already sent back the fake stories and he tried to calm his mother down, trying to explain that it did not happen the way she believed it did. She thought Udo lost his mind. Udo said in his book that he would finish there, because he was not there to tell us a satire. He only wanted to say that this was his first experience with the truth in journalism and war correspondence. Basically, he was utterly shocked with the first contact he made. But, unfortunately, that was not an isolated case.[1]

In Udo’s naïve mind, war was a place where a reporter could report on horrifying events and help the public to empathize with the victims of war and expose the hidden political machinations behind it.

Instead, he found himself forced to write fake stories from far away from the front lines and to manufacture propaganda to induce consent among the public.

The ones manufacturing the stories were associated with the intelligence agencies whose job it is to deceive the public.

By serving as a correspondent in the Middle East, Ulfkotte was able to meet agents from the CIA, British M16, the Israeli MOSSAD and the German intelligence agency Bundesnachrichtungendienst (BND).

His editors used to readily cooperate in such operations of collating intelligence information, which the reporters would dutifully transcribe for the public back home.

The skill of unofficial reporting is when a reporter essentially works for the CIA and he or she is not employed in an official role, Ulfkotte explains.

Both sides hugely benefit from their partnership and at the same time both sides can deny their relationship. The CIA would have found young reporters and they would then be their mentors. All of a sudden many doors would open for them, they would be granted awards and before they knew it, their mentors (read: paymasters) would have owned their whole careers.[2]

This is basically the name of the game. This is how it all works. Ulfkotte admitted with regret that he published articles in his own name that were actually written by CIA agents and other intelligence services, particularly the German secret services.

Ulfkotte went on to say that he had close contact with the German intelligence service, BND. Two persons from BND were regularly coming to the newspaper office where he worked. On occasion, he says, he was not only given the report but that the BND wrote the articles, which were published in the newspapers under Udo’s name.

Udo was asked by an interviewer if he could document what he was saying and he responded yes, that he could.

“I can say that this and that article with my text in the papers was written by the intelligence services because I couldn’t have possibly known what was written in it. I couldn’t have possibly known what was there in a cave in Libya, what secret thing in one particular place, what is being built there. That is what BND wanted to publish (using my name),” writes Udo.[3]

It was not like this only in FAZ. This was in other media as well.

“If we had rule of law, there would be an investigative committee to investigate dubious claims. Political parties would be outraged and rise [against the injustice of the fake news], regardless of whether they were the political left, the political right or the center and they would say: ‘What is this guy Ulfkotte saying? And he claims that he can document everything? This needs to be investigated.’”[4]

Udo continued: “This is still a common thing. I know some colleagues of mine who still maintain a close contact with the intelligence services. I would feel very good if there was an investigative committee but this obviously is not going to happen, because it is in nobody’s interest to do so. Because in that case the general public would understand to what extent politics, media and secret services are closely connected in this country.”[5] And in this world!

When Ulfkotte had a close encounter with his own conscience—and if one reads Dostoyevsky, they know that there is no person in the world who does not wrestle with their own moral dilemmas—he decided to elaborate on his experiences. In doing so, he provided significant insight into contemporary media and of the society that we live in.

Almost everybody knows but only a few dare speak about what Udo said.

He wrote: “I was in close contact with some European media or big private media companies—you cannot write or say what you feel like and what your views are necessarily. I can tell you that what I am saying here is what I have experienced everywhere. There are clear directives and everybody knows that one cannot publish what they want in the newspapers owned by Springer such as Bild or Welt—for instance the articles critical of Israel. There is no way you can do that there! You have signed an agreement that you will not challenge the question of the existence of a country of Israel or the Israeli point of view. These directives exist in all big media companies.”[6]

Ulfkotte continued: “If you do not wish to remain stuck in the lower corporate levels but you would rather travel with the chancellor, ministers, president or with the politicians, in the airplanes which belong to the government, in that case you have to adhere to certain rules. I have learnt that rather quickly.

What we consider as free journalism is a rather orderly and orchestrated thing to its every detail. But for your superiors, it is vitally important that that is not viewed as censorship and limiting of free reporting or whichever (bland and vague) terms and phrases they tend to use.

I soon realized that when I was tasked to accompany Helmut Kohl, the then German Chancellor, in my capacity of a journalist, you are not invited to do this job because your name is Udo Ulfkotte but because you work for Frankfurter Allgemeine Zeitung.”[7]

Udo went on to write:

“In such a case, one is expected to deliver a certain kind of reporting. Which one? Forget about my news agency. This is to do with all of them in general. At the outset of the journey, a reporter is given a set of directions as to what to ask, how to communicate. Normally, you are not told what to say and ask, to write something in this way or that way but you are painfully aware that if you do not do that in such and such a way, you will not be invited next time. Your media company will be called to tell them that you are not wanted. And then you are out!

Those in charge of the cooperation with the media are the non-government ‘think tanks,’ those foundations and organizations which arguably are ‘independent’ in the same way that independent journalists supposedly are.

I am often asked where are those people who ‘pull all the strings,’ so that everything is told in a similar way? Look at those people who sit in the huge transoceanic think-tanks and foundations, for instance, look at the foundation Atlantic Bridge, and in all such organizations. And how is one supposed to influence others there?

I know from personal experience. Let us not speak only theoretically. The German Marshall Fund invited me as their colleague to visit the USA for six weeks earlier on. All expenses paid. This think-tank had close contact with the CIA, and I gained easy access to all the U.S. politicians, to all of them I was eager to be in contact with.

Above all, they literally showered me with gifts.”[8]

The journalists and the news agencies which are supposed to be, if one follows the logic of their role in a democratic society and its laws and constitutions, and then code of ethics and professional conduct, to take care of general interests, find themselves facing a challenging situation—take something for yourself or give something from within yourself for something distant and uncertain. A human being cannot resist small things that the powers that be are able to provide for them profusely.

“Media is just a word that has come to mean bad journalism.” – Graham Greene

All that is the name of the game. When The German Marshall Fund took Ulfkotte to the U.S., they told him that they knew he took a diving course in Oman. The CIA knew with utmost precision. They even gave him diving equipment through his contact in Oman.

During these six weeks he got an invitation from the governor of Oklahoma. He went there. There was a small ceremony and he received honorary U.S. citizenship. He became an honorable citizen of the USA. It was written in his certificate that from then on he would only write nice things in his reports.

The English version of the book by Udo Ulfkotte, The Bought Journalists, i.e., Journalists for Hire: How the CIA Buys the News, appeared on May 15, 2017, but by it having been published, the whole story surrounding it was not over.

According to the research by Off Guardian, Tayen Lane Publishing has since removed all references for this book from its website. Amazon UK indicates that the title is currently unavailable, with the possibility of the purchase from independent distributors, which offer used copies for an exorbitant amount of a thousand U.S. dollars per copy.

At least a 2019 version of the book, Presstitutes Embedded in the Pay of the CIA: A Confession from the Profession is available for a reasonable price on amazon and goodreads.com at least in the U.S. Though you won’t find the book on display in Barnes & Noble or other big book shops as the powerful people who rule the world don’t want its content being widely read.

Regrettably, Udo Ulfkotte died of a heart attack at the age of 57 (Tracy, 2018).

After reading his books and writings, one wonders: “Is there anybody in the mainstream media who has not worked for the CIA?”

“In America, the president reigns for four years, and journalism governs forever and ever.” – Oscar Wilde.

Edward Snowden and Julian Assange are both world famous, with the former having much more luck by moving to Russia. Udo Ulfkotte, however, is almost completely out of the public gaze, although he was a journalist and whistleblower in the media industry, possibly as important as both.

One might think that this comes across as paradoxical. Yet it only means that the public does not recognize profound relations in the media industry.

Ulfkotte was a renowned European journalist with a Ph.D. in the social sciences and an immigration reform activist, among other things. When he wrote Gekaufte Journalisten: Wie Politiker, Geheimdienste und Hochfinanz Deutschlands Massenmedien lenken (the translation of its original title is Bought Journalists [alternatively, a translation of the title more to the point is Journalists for Hire]: How Politicians, Secret Services and High Finance Steer German’s Mass Media), he became one of the most significant whistleblowers in recent history.

James Tracy pointed out in Off Guardian that Ulfkotte showed how the Western secret services took over the central place in the Western journalism.” According to Tracey, Ulfkotte was able to witness all that with credibility and his personal and professional integrity because he was working in top echelons of the mainstream media profession for years.

Tracy added that the presence of the secret (intelligence) services is neither a chance encounter nor is it random. Their recruitment techniques are always similar in every corner of the globe.

#udo ulfkotte #cia #bnd #imperialism #propaganda #MI6 #mossad #iran iraq war #journalism #media corporations #mainstream media

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