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unrestedjade · 3 years

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More baseless Ferengi headcanons no one asked for: LATINUM EDITION~~~

- Almost every home is a rental, as almost all usable land is corporate-owned. Might as well daydream about owning a moon, it's no less realistic than owning the house you grew up in. (No I'm not frustrated with my $1500 rent at all, no I'm not miserable watching 40-year-old trailer homes selling for $250k to a property management firm that's going to rent it out. Surely a place like Ferenginar wouldn't be equally ridiculous, hahahahahahahahHAHAHAHA. Ahem.) - Latinum as religious fetish. We see Quark offering slips of latinum while he prays to the Blessed Exchequer before bed. He even has a little shrine. What's unclear is whether you're meant to reuse the same slips each day or if you have to actually "give up" the latinum over the longer term for the offering to count. You can break a piggy bank, but it's probably bad to break an image of the Exchequer, unless he's very chillaxed compared to the majority of gods. - Assuming really giving up the latinum is better, is destroying it extra good? Or are you sinning by removing it from the Continuum? Are there Ferengi extremist sects that sink latinum into bogs or launch it into a star?

- What do they think and feel about latinum with regards to the Exchequer? What does a god need with it? Is it meant to be his lifeblood, figuratively? Or literally, via transubstantiation? (Catholic Ferengi. Cathipitolists.)

- How was latinum treated in the days before they knew to process it with gold so it could be handled safely? It's very pretty and ethereal-looking in its raw form, and also very, very toxic. Depending on the symptoms of latinum poisoning, I wonder if it had anything to do with it gaining religious significance? Ancient Ferengi priests seeing visions and going a little funny in the head from handling raw latinum for years and years?

- The way Quark and Brunt talk about taxes in S7 suggests there's not a lot of taxation in Ferengi society (officially, anyway. idk what else you'd call their ubiquitous bribes/tips than unofficial taxation). In any case, since one of the major purposes of taxation in modern economies is to control inflation by removing money (governments create/destroy money; they don't really keep a little checkbook register of surplus/deficit the way a household does) offering latinum to the Exchequer as an act of worship could be a good way to take money out of circulation for a while. - Latinum vs fiat money? Latinum is canonically used as coinage by multiple species. (It would seem like Ferengi are putting themselves at a bit of a disadvantage by also attaching a spiritual importance to it, but who knows, and this is a tangent on a tangent.) Is all their money backed by latinum? It can't be, right? Just conceptually, their stock markets and banks can't possibly be tying every value in every account to a real, physical measure of latinum, that's horribly inefficient. Can "latinum" also mean any legitimate liquid asset? Or does the Exchequer insist on the real thing? Much to ponder. - Brunt implies in Family Business that Ferenginar has houseless people and beggars. There's no point in begging if no one ever gives you anything, so some people must give charity to beggars. What's that look like, is it something kind-hearted Ferengi do in spite of the RoA explicitly stating that charity is only acceptable when you come out richer than you started? What's their rationalization in that case? Are they left feeling shameful about it? (Obviously the people stuck begging feel shitty, by design. Ironically, they might feel less shitty than we would, since the Exchequer doesn't appear to care how you get money, only that you get it.) - If you're moved to give money/material aid to a needy person, you'd probably do it quietly. Here in the good ol' US of A a common view is that "hand-outs" hurt the needy person in the long run because you're removing their impetus to stop being lazy sponges. And that's from people who follow a religion that commands them to care for the needy! So it's gotta be even harsher under a religion that's completely mask-off in its worship of individual prosperity. - (You just know Keldar was one of those people tossing a few slips of latinum for someone sleeping under a shop awning each morning. His business sense sucked but Ishka made him sound like a warm person. Folks gotta eat.) - Reincarnation... Alright, so if you were a dude and you die broke it's implied you can't reincarnate/are damned to the Vault of Eternal Destitution. Cool and fair, nothing to unpack there. What about women? They're half the population but seem to have been overlooked on this point in this here 10k-year-old religion. Which is telling in itself, of course, but you'd think someone would have addressed this? Who reincarnates female? Is the accepted understanding that females reincarnate female and are totally removed from the requirement to bid on their life? But that still doesn't solve the problem, because even if reincarnation were assigned-sex-segregated (god what a shitty idea, compels me tho) you're still losing X number of men to the Vault each generation. - I want to see what Ferengi religious debates look like. Pel is shown to be a serious scholar of the RoA as they've dug into not only the text itself but all the commentaries and refutations and deep-dives others have published about it. That's gotta fuel some spicy convo around the tongo table once everyone's a few drinks in. - Are there multiple sects? People arguing whether this or that rule is meant to be taken literally vs as metaphor? Everyone can't be in lockstep on this stuff. Quark seems to have been raised within the currently-hegemonic sect, but surely there's others.

- There don't appear to be any clergy or equivalent persons, so I wonder if there's different sects how they organize themselves? Do they host different subs on Ferengi Reddit? (Ferengi Reddit...shudder) - Ferengi atheists slacking at work or living as drifters because there's no point saving money for a next life that's not real. Life must drive them to drink. That's when you go out into space to live with the sane people and never call home.

- Is the rest of the population chill with atheists, or is that a no-go? I guess it would depend on how loud the person is and whether they follow the Rules or not.

- You know who they're definitely not chill with: socialists. Do they have Satanic Panics about this or that media turning the youth into commies? If you're an outspoken socialist, are you looking at exile? Arrest? An unexpected date with an Eliminator? - Conspicuous consumption seems to be a thing, and it's interesting in light of the whole "needing a good high score for a good reincarnation" idea. It still boils down to showing off how much you can afford to waste, but the stakes are undoubtedly higher for the faithful. - If something happens and you're at risk if losing everything, is it safer to just off yourself while you still have money? What if you're going to lose more than you'd ever be able to make back? (In economics this is called a perverse incentive lulz)

- The Great Monetary Collapse must have suuuuucked. It's the Great Depression x100, and also your god is mad at you, maybe??? And your next life is totally screwed now, too. Fuckin' dire, man. When Quark mentioned it in the show, it was with this flippant air like he was waiting to see how Miles and Julian reacted. He might have elaborated more if they hadn't reacted...the way he probably assumed they would. (Partially a self-fulfilling prophecy given the way he primed them to treat it as a joke, but I digress.) - Suicide rates are measurably higher in societies that elevate achievement and work ethic (see the Protestant vs Catholic divide on this, it's interesting and very depressing as a lapsed protestant in a protestant-dominated country). Just saying. - On this same bummer track: hedonic depression could be very commonplace among Ferengi. Every minute not spent working is spent on distraction because life is just such an exhausting grind, and a lot of factors determining whether you're a good/successful person are out of your control. Booze, porn, and gambling are all very distracting, and thus very popular. If a lot of this just sounds like regular degular capitalism: yes. It's actually proving difficult to push the fictional society further out because we're already living beyond satire. Maybe that's why I like these awful little guys so much. (´▽`ʃ♡ƪ)

#star trek #ferengi #meta #meta being a generous term for me making shit up because that's just how i party #i got halfway through the virtue of selfishness for the first time since i was 14 just for this #couldn't make myself power all the way through but i think the depth of my ardor should be proven anyway #suicide mention #because their society is an ancap hellscape

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suburbanbeatnik · 3 years

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The short and very miserable life of Napoleon II, aka the Eaglet, aka Franz, Duke of Reichstadt: PART ONE

Napoleon’s son with Marie Louise, his second wife, the daughter of the Holy Roman Emperor Habsburg Emperor Francis II, is known by a variety of names: Napoleon II, the Eaglet, l’Aiglon, King of Rome, or Franz, Duke of Reichstadt. It seems to me this kid barely gets mentioned as a footnote in most popular biographies of Napoleon. Of course Napoleon loved kids, and was over the moon that he finally had his own legitimate child, his own son and heir. He doted on this adorable and spirited blond moppet, being super affectionate with him, playing with him, spending lots of time with him, bringing him into his study to cuddle with him as he read dispatches, or tossing him up into the air when the toddler pulled on his coat-tails.

It’s very sweet and heart-warming to read all these adorable father-son moments, but honestly it’s depressing as hell to realize the best years of the Eaglet’s life was up to the age of four.

When he parted from his father after his defeat in Russia, it was all horribly and sickeningly downhill from there.

So I was reading Octave Aubry’s biography The King of Rome: Napoleon II. It’s not a new bio by any means— it’s from 1932. But it is thoroughly researched and very well written, with lots of cites from various Viennese archives, and Jesus Christ, it is depressing. The Eaglet was physically and emotionally abused by the Habsburg side of his family and by their minions for most of his very short life, and it makes for a harrowing read.

What did his mother do to stop it, you may ask? Unfortunately, the answer is absolutely nothing.

TW: CHILD ABUSE

So, the best that could be said about his mother, Marie Louise, was that she was a weak character. If I wanted to be more blunt, I’d say she was spineless enough to the point I wonder if she was even a vertebrate.

She was, of course, raised to hate Napoleon as a child. But then she met him and fell in love with him. She was very eager to be loved and do everything he asked her to do, even if (as Andrew Roberts points out in his own mammoth biography of Napoleon) she wasn’t the brightest bulb. But perhaps she was a perfectly cromulent empress when war wasn’t on her doorstep and she wasn’t asked to make decisions: but once the war WAS on her doorstep and decision-making was called of her, she fell apart like wet tissue. As Aubry explains:

That it would be a capital mistake for Marie Louise and her son to leave Paris was painfully evident to everyone, even to the Empress herself. But no initiative could have been expected of her. Willing, always of the best intentions, she was a passive creature both by temperament and education. She could never be more than an instrument in the hands of others. But Hortense, who had a resolute spirit behind that bleat of hers, showed both intelligence and heart in the circumstances. She was waiting for Marie Louise when the council was over, and said to her:

‘Sister dear, you must realize that in leaving Paris you will be neutralizing the defense and so lose your crown. I observe that you are making the sacrifice with great resignation.’

The Empress replied gently, almost humbly:

‘You are right. It is not my fault— the Council has decided that way.’

She was hoping vaguely for a letter from the Emperor, a counter-order that would permit her to remain. [Aubry pg 54]

At this point Louise, after fleeing Paris, wanted to be reunited with Napoleon, but she just cried and wrung her hands, as her lady-in-waiting Mme Lannes, in cahoots with Talleyrand, poured poison into her ear about how Napoleon never loved her. Then Talleyrand conspired to have all of Louise’s stuff stolen. The soon-to-be-ex-empress continued to cry and do nothing, only to go “to her room to collapse on her knees at her bedside.”

Anyway, her father swooped in and picked her up, and Metternich arranged to have Neipperg, a dashing, managing middle-aged man in uniform (Louise definitely had a type), seduce her. Within the space of weeks, she immediately changed her tune with regards to her husband, and wanted to have nothing more to do with him. As for the Eaglet, though he ended up in Vienna, he was in the care of his beloved governess, Mme de Montesquiou, aka “Maman ‘Quiou.” He was in good hands while Maman ‘Quiou was allowed to stay with him, but she was deathly afraid of being sent away, since she knew Louise was indifferent to her child and would never do the right thing, now that she was the puppet of her father and of Metternich.

With her son whom she had not seen for three months and who was enraptured at her return, she [Marie Louise] concerned herself less and less. In spite of the caresses and the gifts that were showered upon her, Mme. de Montesquiou saw things clearly and passed her judgment. Writing to her husband who was urging her to leave Vienna she said:

“My dear, do not call it my duty to return to France. As I have already advised you, you would be putting me in the greatest embarrassment, and my conscience would trouble me all my life long… If that child has a mother, very well, I could place him in her hands and be satisfied. But she is nothing less than that: she is more indifferent to his fate than the veriest stranger in his service.”

And to an intimate she confided in disgust at what she suspected and intuited:

“I have seen painful things, and I keep seeing them every day.” [Aubry pg 81]

Unfortunately, in 1815, Maman ‘Quiou was sent away. The Eaglet wept for two days straight, and was put into the care of a certain Countess Mitrovsky, “a creature of the Empress Maria-Ludovica and an intimate of Neipperg.” The loyal Meneval, who was also to be sent away, said good-bye to the little boy, and the change in the child’s demeanor was striking.

He was struck by the child’s earnest and melancholy air. He did not run to meet Meneval with his usual lively gestures and gay exclamations. He watched him, as he entered, with the utmost indifference. Countess Mitrovsky was with him. Every few seconds he would look at her as though in fear of a reprimand. After a few conventional phrases, Meneval took his hand and asked him if he had anything to say to his papa, for he was going soon to see him. The child looked at him sadly and went away, still silent, towards the embrasure of a distant window. Meneval bade good-bye to the Countess and Mme. Soufflot [one of the few remaining French waiting women], then, as he was leaving, stepped over to the little boy who stood watching him from the window. He bent low to bid him good-bye. And at that moment, he felt a tug at his coat and heard a trembling little voice say:

“Monsieur Meva, you will tell him that I still love him dearly.”

He was only four years old and for fourteen months he had not seen his father…

When he reached the antechamber, Meneval burst into tears. [Aubry, pgs 89-90]

Not long after this, the young King was delivered into the care of a tutor named Count Dietrichstein. The Eaglet, who was “dragged” by Countess Mitrovsky to meet Dietrichstein, refused to have anything to do with him, and Dietrichstein, while weeping, dramatically claimed to a friend “he cannot love me” as long as the last French women, even the aged nurse, were in Franz’s service. So Mme Soufflot, her daughter Fanny, and the others were banished, leaving Franz completely alone.

No more warmth about him, no more deep interest, no more deep interest, no soft hands to stroke his curls, no arms to clasp him too tight when he returned weary from a drive, no knees to spread him to let him rest, no more smiling reproofs for his shortcomings, no more love in short— real love, that is disinterested, unselfish love, love for himself and love for what he was. His mother was soon to leave him, to ascend to her throne in Parma. HIs grandfather Franz treated him kindly; but he had always sacrificed him for the interests of State and would sacrifice him again, if the Chancellor [Metternich] so ordered. As for his uncles, aunts, and cousins of Austria, however well they might treat him, however generous they might be, as certain of them were, they could not— and this was natural— help seeing in him, first of all, the son of Napoleon.

He was born with an affectionate disposition. He had loved his father infinitely. With his mother he had been tender and gentle. He had adored Mme de Montesquiou and Fanny Soufflot. Now he was compelled to close his heart. Brought up by men, raised only by men, but still too much of a child to become a man, he turned inward, escaped into the little universe he had made for himself with his memories of former days. For as young as he was, he had no hope, and he did not know there was a future. He was going to grow up that way, not unhappy if one only looks at the material content of life, but if one thinks of the needs of the heart, certainly not happy. [Aubry pgs 97-98]

Count Dietrichstein decided that he was going to stamp all the Frenchness out of the Eaglet’s mind, for he must become 100% a Habsburg. Nothing but German would be spoken to him, and when he clung to speaking French, crying that he didn’t want to be a German, that he wished to be a Frenchman, he was chastised, deprived of play and outings, and then, with the Emperor Franz’s approval, actually whipped. Yes— he was whipped. When he was only five years old, because he wouldn’t speak German.

But when even that wouldn’t work, Marie Louise sat him on her knee and told him solemnly that he must speak German to please his grandfather, which finally did the trick. Not long after this, she went to the little court in Parma. She requested for her son to go with her, but when Metternich refused, she acquiesced meekly.

Once so light-hearted and gay, the child became timid and mistrustful, and after the departure of his friends, the French women, and would lie to protect himself. In such cases he would be punished, not harshly, but not gently either. He shrank more and more into himself, accordingly, and since the world had grown hostile, he now began to offer it only a surface of indifference. [Aubry, pg 100]

He began to act out, destroying his copy books and mutilating his toys, but would also become sensitive to injustice or cruelty, like a dog being whipped or a bird eating a worm. He was told he would no longer be called Napoleon: he was to be called Franz. When he objected, he was “promptly silenced.” He became used to the name, and from here on out he was usually called Franz.

Franz still fought with Dietrichstein, who commented on his “laziness” and “ill will,” and his many quarrels with the prince, although he was happy to note in his letters to Marie Louise that it ended with “my victories.” Metternich had the boy closely followed, reports sent regularly and classified into a “ponderous file.” Meanwhile, his mother, off in Parma, when she wasn’t writing letters to her son exhorting him to pious obedience, made the feeblest attempt to defend the interests of the newly christened Franz— Franz was cut off from the succession of Parma after Metternich decided that this was in the best interests of the monarchy in Italy, Marie Louise was “readily brought into line by Neipperg, who owned her now body and soul.”

…She expressed herself as satisfied in a private letter of October, 1817:

“My son’s future has been determined. You know that I was never ambitious for thrones or States for him, but hoped he would be the richest and most charming gentleman in Austria.” [Aubry pg 110]

Meanwhile, Napoleon was kept on the island of St Helena, waiting for news from his son, but he heard not a word from his wife or a line from his son for six years. When he died, he was looking at Franz’s portrait, and left him many legacies, such as his books, engravings, papers, coffee service and the family house in Ajaccio, but Franz saw none of it. His mother, who was pregnant at the time with Neipperg’s son, didn’t even tell her son of his father’s death. She refused to accept Napoleon’s heart, which his will bequeathed her, because, as Aubry says, “she was more interested in the inheritance: she filed objection to the transfer of the six millions on deposit with Laffitte out of which the bequests of the Emperor were to be paid. She would not permit Marchand [Napoleon’s valet] to deliver to her at Parma Napoleon’s laces and the bracelet made of his hair.” Napoleon even begged her to take his last physician, Dr Antommarchi, into her service: she refused to even meet with him, palming the doctor off on Neipperg, who glad-handed Antommachi and pushed him out the door when he started asking too many questions about Franz.

Louise did moan about Napoleon’s suffering on St Helena while she was giving birth to Neipperg’s child, but she promptly forgot it. “She was a weak and frivolous soul. She would have grieved longer over her pet parrot, Marguerite. She even expressed astonishment that Madame Mere should have asked the British government for Napoleon’s body.” [Aubry pg 120]

One of the junior tutors named Foresti was given the task to tell the ten year old Franz that his father was dead.

The child began to weep and he wept a long time, doubtless calling up in his memory the pale face which had softened to such tenderness whenever it drew near his own. He sat down near the window, his cheeks, and his hands that covered them, wet with tears. Foresti himself was deeply moved and tried to comfort him. But the child did not hear him. [Aubry pg 122]

As Prokesch, his best friend of his short adult life, put it later:

“The prince wept for a whole day, almost without stopping. Then, suddenly, he mastered his emotions, dried his eyes, rose and paced the floor up and down. Not a word came from his lips. And several weeks passed before he alluded to his father’s death. He felt he must keep his grief to himself.”

Meanwhile, Franz was now thinking in German, but he still rebelled against his teachers, who, for years, beat him with the ferule (a type of paddle that resembled a long and large wooden spoon, the circular head often pierced with holes, and sometimes as large as a child’s head)— his grandfather the Emperor authorized “great severity” against him when he was being “stubborn”— but this stopped when it was clear beatings no longer had any affect. Except for brief months of pleasure during summer vacations at the castle of Persenbeug where Marie Louise deigned to leave Parma, Franz, who was completely without friends, was kept in solitude. He responded by withdrawing into himself and going into a fantasy world.

He dreamed, and gained freedom by dreaming. As a small boy he loved to play: now that he was growing up, it was still what he liked to do best. Never did child love to dream more than he: that escape from time, from responsibilities, from disappointments, that journey without end, where ideas, colors and forms mingled according to one’s fantasy! As soon as he could flee the watchful care of Foresti or of Collin, instead of working at his translations, his themes, or his arithmetic exercises, he would open the huge gilt-edged volumes given to him on his birthdays by his grandfather or the Archdukes and leaning his head on his hand, began to dream with his eyes upon the awkward, rather ridiculous illustrations of those days, in which one could see beplumed generals prancing besides their armies with spent cannonballs lying at their horses’ feet, while down in one corner an aide-de-camp would be reading an order and in the other an almoner kneeling besides a stretcher to confess a dying soldier.

Sometimes, bending low over an atlas, he would travel in spirit far out over the blue seas to the continents bordered in loud colors. One day, Matthias Collin came into the room and found him, with his cheek resting on a map. The little prince did not get up at his approach. His teacher thought he was asleep. But on going towards him, he saw the child’s eyes were wide open. The boy gave a start of surprise and blushed. He had been dreaming. Collin was more indulgent than Foresti. He did not punish him. [Aubry pg 132]

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More to come in part two!

#napoleon II #franz duke of reichstadt #l'aiglon #eaglet #reichstadt #marie louise #napoleon #napoleon bonaparte #octave aubry #king of rome #depressing shit #I'm sorry guys

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tripleaxeldiaz · 3 years

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maybe one day i’ll fly next to you

chapter 3/8

read on ao3

start from the beginning

The two weeks before Skate America breeze by, every hour filled with skating or conditioning or trying not to creep on message boards to see what people are predicting for the season. Buck feels good, the best he’s ever felt this early on. He tries to reign it in, that voice in his head reminding him that he could still lose it all at any moment, but it’s muffled and quiet and easy to ignore.

He’s also been seeing more of Eddie, now that he knows he’s not the douchebag he always assumed he was. They condition together, watch each other's jumping passes and offer tips, even take their lunch break together, talking about everything skating and some non skating things too. It’s easy and nice and the best parts of Buck’s days, if he’s honest. He maybe always thinks about talking to Eddie, picking his brain for his thoughts on various skaters’ programs, watching him laugh with his whole body at some snarky comment Buck makes about someone’s horrible choice in costume. Buck likes the way he laughs, likes the way he feels a little warmer when he makes him laugh.

He should have known this brief bubble of happiness would be popped sooner rather than later.

The day before they leave, he and Maddie get an email — an email — from their mother, inviting them to dinner while they’re in town for the competition. To say Buck’s surprised would be an understatement.

“How’d they even find out it’s in Reading this year? Did you tell them?”

Maddie rolls her eyes, stabbing her salad with a little more force than necessary. “I haven’t spoken to them in longer than you have, so no. They’ve probably seen ads or something.”

“We could lie, tell them Bobby’s really strict about non-skating things during competitions?”

“Sure, but then they might just call Bobby on their own and blow our whole cover.”

“We could tell them we’re sick? Food poisoning? Then miraculously get better?”

“If that didn’t work when you tried to get out of taking your SAT, I don’t think it’ll work this time, either.”

“I wasn’t even planning on going to college, why did I—” Buck huffs as Maddie shakes her head at him sympathetically.

There’s really no way for them to get out of this.

The thing is, their parents aren’t bad people — a doctor and a PR manager who are on every non-profit board in the county, volunteer at the local animal shelter, and donate plenty of money to plenty of charities. As parents, though, they somehow manage an interesting balance of using their children’s successes for their own bragging rights and making them feel like they’re always just shy of good enough. They supported them growing up, sure, paid their way through lessons and competitions before endorsements started coming in, but it always felt like it was serving their own clout more than helping Buck and Maddie follow their dreams. When they moved out to LA, it was easy to distance themselves, rescheduling calls indefinitely until their parents eventually just stopped trying.

The last time Buck talked to them was right after his leg surgery — they called under the guise of “checking in on him”, but spent most of the call figuring out the quickest way to get him back to practice, offering to pay for extra surgeries and PT to speed up the process. He’s sure they thought they were helping, but it felt more like they were eager for him to get back to winning medals so they could tell their friends about it.

As much as he loves to win, it’s not the same when someone else is pushing you more than you’re pushing yourself.

He sighs again, slumping down in his chair. He hadn’t been nervous at all about Skate America, but now the itch of self doubt has made a home right under his skin, and it wasn’t even for a skating reason. Maddie reaches across the table to grab his wrist, squeezing lightly.

“It’ll be two hours max, then we’ll make an excuse about early practice and leave. It won’t be that bad.”

Buck nods, turning back to his lunch, suddenly not hungry as his stomach continues to churn.

~~~~~~~~~~

He didn’t expect to get this nostalgic, but the familiar drive toward Reading and the Sovereign Center (Santander Arena now, because capitalism is a prison) fills him with jittery excitement and a weird sense of calm, just like it did when he was a kid competing in the regional circuit. The arena was a palace compared to their rink in Hershey, and it always made him want to skate well enough to be worthy of the ice there. It’s where he won his first medal ever, his first gold, his first trip to Nationals, and would hopefully now serve as a stepping stone once again, this time leading him towards Beijing.

Eddie’s lounging on his bed, shirtless and flipping channels, when Buck gets to their room. It wasn’t a surprise this time — they’d requested to room together anyway — but seeing Eddie like this, soft and relaxed and somehow at home in a hotel room, makes Buck’s heart flip a little bit.

Buck’s heart has been flipping a lot around Eddie, and making him think about stupid things like kissing him and how his abs would feel under his fingertips and how he’d prefer his eggs in the morning. It’s taking up a lot of real estate in his brain, and it’s going to get even worse now that they’re sleeping 10 feet away from each other, he’s sure.

That doesn’t stop him from sneaking glances at Eddie while he unpacks. Just to get it out of his system so he can focus.

It’s fine.

He can totally handle this.

~~~~~~~~~~

Skata America is a much bigger deal than ACI — more cameras, more interviews, more people watching in the stands and on TV. That should mean it’s all more intimidating, too, but Buck is thriving under the lights and camera lenses. This will be the first real chance to show people — not just skating people, but everyone — what he can do, and the anticipation of how it will be received buzzes through him constantly. That buzz practically dictates his every move through practices and his short, finally ceasing as he hits his final pose. It’s quickly replaced by elation — he knows he nailed everything, he knows the resounding applause is deserved.

He knows he’s in first place before they even announce his score.

When they do, he’s right, and he’s thrilled, but there’s also a pang of disappointment, because the margin is tight — only three points between him and Eddie in second. Bobby hands him his protocols in the green room, and his stomach clenches when he sees that his step sequence and his sit spin were downgraded to level threes. His brain starts spinning, mentally combing through every revolution and edge to figure out where the hell he fucked up, when he feels a warm, solid hand on his shoulder. He looks up and sees Eddie, but instead of pity like he expected (or gloating like he feared), he just sees understanding in his eyes, maybe even a hint of the same irritation he’s feeling.

“They screwed me over too, my camel should have had a plus three GOE at least.” Eddie says, squeezing Buck’s shoulder. Somehow, he’s already feeling better.

“I bet it was the French judge, he’s always been a conniving bastard.”

“We could take him out, we have time before tomorrow.”

“Don’t tempt me,” Buck says, as Eddie offers his hand and pulls him up to stand. He tries not to miss the warmth when he lets go.

“For what it’s worth,” Eddie says quietly as they make their way around skaters and coaches in the hallway toward the press room, “I think you should be at least 10 points ahead, if not more. You were something else out there.”

Buck can’t make his brain come up with a proper response by the time they take their seats on the makeshift stage in front of the reports, so all he can do is smile and hope it comes across as totally chill and not as dopey as it feels.

Eddie smiles back, and Buck thinks he’s beautiful.

The presser goes just as expected — a few questions lobbed at the Candian skater currently in third, more for Buck since he’s in first, but the most still go to Eddie. Being the favorite for Olympic gold doesn’t go away after half a competition, and the reporters are rabid as ever. Buck’s seen Eddie’s press routine — the humble charm and gracious smiles, cracking jokes like he’s talking to friends and not a bunch of strangers with tape recorders. He’d spent years mentally rolling his eyes at what he thought was the fakeness of it all, but after getting closer to Eddie, he knows that’s just how Eddie is. Kind and patient, actively listening to what people are saying, taking his time to form thoughtful answers.

But whatever’s happening now is not the Eddie he knows — his laughs are forced and almost too loud, his smile is tight and boarding on a grimace. He keeps fidgeting with his credentials and the sleeve of his Team USA zip-up, eyes darting around like he’s charting his path to get out of the room as fast as possible once they’re done.

He’s nervous. Buck doesn’t think he’s ever seen him nervous, at least not like this, and it’s honestly a little unsettling. So much so that all Buck wants to do is fix it, bring the light back to Eddie’s eyes, bleed the tension out of his shoulders.

There’s probably not an easy way to do that while answering questions about his performance.

He waits until he sees the “wrap it up” signal from the event worker off to the side, the next reporter giving one last question to the Canadian skater. He doesn’t think about it too hard, just stretches his leg a little to the right, slowly, until he and Eddie are ankle to ankle. It’s not much, but Eddie still looks over at him, first confused and then grateful, a small, real smile on his face, his shoulders falling away from his ears.

Eddie’s quiet on the ride back to the hotel, but he looks calmer, listening to everyone else talk about their events and what could happen tomorrow during free skates. He’s still jittery though, leg bouncing as he sits next to Buck on the bus. Whatever was bothering him during interviews is clearly still lingering, and Buck has to fight the urge to reach out and calm his shaking with a hand on his knee.

They make it back to their room, door barely clicking in place behind them, before Buck breaks.

“Are you okay?” he asks. Eddie freezes in front of him, half turned around like he was about to ask Buck something before he steamrolled over him. “You seemed stressed during the presser and on the ride back, and I just...wanted to make sure you’re good.”

Eddie looks stunned for a second before letting out a breath, hand rubbing over his face. “I knew this would happen, you know? The extra attention. It happened after Pyeongchang and the bronze medal, but it died down eventually. I thought I’d have more time to mentally prepare for it again, I guess.” He shakes his head, hand falling to his side as he shrugs his shoulders helplessly. “Today was just a lot.”

Buck nods, patting Eddie’s arm in understanding because he gets it. Most of the time he basks in any form of attention, but some days the lights are too hot and the voices are too loud and faking a smile through it is impossible. The one Buck sees now is real though, he knows it, and he’s happy to see Eddie relaxing now that they’re away from the vultures.

“Well, lucky for you, I’ll be out of your hair tonight, so you’ll have plenty of time to yourself,” Buck says, crossing the room to his bed, digging through his bag for his dinner clothes.

“Where are you going?” Eddie asks, and when Buck looks back at him as he heads to the bathroom to change, he swears he looks disappointed, briefly, before it shifts to confusion. “We don’t have any team stuff tonight, right?”

“Nah, Maddie and I got suckered into dinner with our parents.”

“Are Buckley family dinners always black tie affairs?” he asks when Buck comes back in slacks and a white button down, struggling to knot his tie.

“No, but they told us to dress nicely, so we’re probably going to some fancy restaurant downtown. Knowing them, we’ll also be dragged to some party one of their friends is having that’s conveniently close by.”

He groans in frustration when his tie comes out crooked again, and Eddie laughs, taking pity on him and coming to do it himself. Buck tries to keep cool, willing his cheeks not to turn red, but it’s hard when he can feel Eddie’s breath on his chin, feel his fingers run across his collarbones, and he’s so close, if he just leaned in—

“Sounds like it wouldn’t be the first time.”

Buck sighs through his nose. “I love my parents, they’re just...better from a distance.”

Eddie winces in what looks like sympathy, smoothing Buck’s tie and the front of his shirt as he finishes. Buck misses the motion as soon as it’s gone.

“Maybe they’ll prove you wrong this time,” Eddie says.

Buck rolls his eyes at that, but can’t help a small part of him desperately hoping that Eddie will be right.

~~~~~~~~~~

Eddie is so wrong.

Not only is there a party, it’s a party at their parent’s house, which is in full swing by the time Buck and Maddie pull up in their Lyft. Their mother opens the door, hair up, dress immaculate, lipstick-stained wine glass perched precariously in her hand.

“Evan! Maddie! Come in, so glad you could join us!” She kisses both their cheeks and hugs them quickly before taking their hands and dragging them deeper into the house. There are people everywhere, some faces Buck remembers and some new ones. There are waiters milling around too, passing bacon wrapped figs and mini bruschetta, and Buck feels his stomach rumble.

“So I guess we’re not doing dinner, huh Mom?” Buck asks, trying to keep the sarcasm to a minimum. Judging by the look Maddie gives him, he’s not doing a great job.

Their mother, of course, doesn’t bat an eye. “Sorry, sweetheart. We didn’t realize we were double booked, and we’d already moved this party once. There’s plenty of food in the kitchen though, you can eat after I’ve introduced you to some people. Everyone’s so excited to hear about how you’re doing. Philip, there you are!” Buck spots his father too, a head above the crowd, tie loose and cheeks flushed. He shakes Buck’s hand firmly, kisses Maddie on the top of her head, and is gone in an instant when someone beckons him towards the bar set up on the back wall of the living room.

“Nice to see you, too. We’re doing fine, thanks for asking!” Buck says under his breath before their mother is whisking them away again.

They spend the next hour flitting between couples — the Whiteheads, the Culls, the Carters, and a bunch of others he can’t differentiate — getting whiplash from their mother’s flipping between actual praise and backhanded compliments.

“Evan’s one of the top skaters in the country, though not as highly ranked as he was before his accident. We’re hoping he’ll be back up there by the time the Olympics roll around so he’ll make the team.”

“Maddie’s been with her partner for about three years now, right darling? They don’t have as many golds as she had with Doug, but they do skate well together.”

“Yes, that skater from Japan is very good Rebecca, you’re right! Evan, do you know him? Maybe he can give you some pointers about your edges going into your spins? I know you struggle with those.”

On and on and on, Buck and Maddie barely able to get a word in. They see their father only a few times, and each time he’s gone as quickly as he comes, pulled away by colleagues or board members or whoever it is they’re entertaining tonight. Buck is exhausted, and not just because it’s been a long day already, but from having to keep up the good natured laughs and graciousness when he doesn’t even feel like a person. He feels more like a trophy, being shuttled from room to room to be admired for a while before being shoved into a closet where no one can see you. Because that’s exactly what’s going to happen — their parents will tout them around for the night, send them back to the hotel, and not speak to them again until they need something.

Buck really forgot just how small this big house can make him feel.

Eventually, he breaks away, making an excuse about needing the restroom before quietly sneaking up the back staircase to the second floor. Maddie finds him 15 minutes later, sliding down to sit next to him in the guest room closet.

“Old habits die hard, I guess,” she says, and Buck smiles weakly. He hid in here a lot when he was a kid, sometimes with Maddie and sometimes alone. When it was all too much — the pressure from their parents or his coach or himself — this is where he came to quiet his brain. The darkness and the smell of the cedar chest full of their mother’s old sweaters was comforting, and it wrapped around him like a blanket until he could breathe again.

“None of their habits have died, that’s for sure,” he says. “Is it sad that I thought they would?”

“It’s not sad to hope for better. It’s just hard when all that hope is for nothing.”

Buck sighs, head thumping against the wall. Maddie threads her arm through his and rests her head on his shoulder. They sit like that for a while, quiet, both in their own heads, though he’s sure Maddie is thinking about and wishing for the same things he is.

He shifts eventually, head resting on top of hers. “Can we go yet? We could probably sneak out the back door. If they haven’t come looking for us yet, they definitely won’t notice.”

“Should we just go back to the hotel? It’s only 8:30.”

“What else are we gonna do?”

Maddie types furiously on her phone for a minute. “Chim, Hen, and May are down to hang out. And WhirlyDome is open until midnight.”

“That place is still around?”

“Apparently, and they have half price appetizers after 9.”

The thought of mozzarella sticks and onion rings makes his stomach growl loudly again. “Alright, let’s do it. But I’m inviting Eddie too.”

Maddie just smirks at him, getting up and out of the closet before he has a chance to ask what the look was for.

It would just be rude not to invite him.

And maybe part of Buck wishes he had stayed in with Eddie tonight from the start.

[to: Eddie] tonight sucked. we’re going to play whirlyball and eat fried food. u in?

[from: Eddie] ????? What the hell is whirlyball?

[to: Eddie] omg now u HAVE to come. meet us here in half an hour

He sends the address and does not smile like an idiot when Eddie says he’ll see him soon.

~~~~~~~~~~

“So it’s...bumper cars?”

“Bumper cars plus lacrosse plus basketball, kind of. It’s super fun and only a little dangerous.”

“Can I watch for a bit first?”

“Sorry Eds, first timers have to play. You’ll be fine, I promise.”

Eddie still looks skeptical as they get ready for the next game, carefully sitting in the car and picking up his scoop.

A bell rings and the cars come to life, rumbling around the room as everyone starts scrambling for the ball. It takes about 30 seconds for Eddie to get the hang of steering, and by the end of the first game, no one would ever guess he’d never played before. He leads their team to three victories in a row, laughing and cheering loudly along with everyone else, like he hadn’t been overwhelmed with anxiety just a few hours earlier. Something warms in Buck at the thought that he helped with that smile, and it’s a feeling he thinks he could get used to, a job he wouldn’t mind having if it meant Eddie was this happy more often than not.

Despite it all — despite good friends and good food and the feeling of Eddie’s shoulder pressed against his, Buck still feels the tendrils of doubt and panic floating around him. They’re bad enough during competitions normally, but pair them with what happened at his parents’ house — being reminded of how he’ll never live up to their lofty image of him, even if he does make it to Beijing — and everything just feels dark and cold, and he doesn’t think his lungs are working properly. He leaves the table, says he’s going to the bathroom, but ends up outside instead. WhirlyDome is in the older half of a shopping center in downtown Hershey, and the outside has been renovated since he was last here, now featuring an elaborate fountain surrounded by benches and newly paved pathways to the other stores. He sinks down on the nearest bench, the cool October air grounding him, making it easier to think, easier to try and smash down all these swirling emotions he’s trying not to feel.

Eddie finds him there, sits down next to him on the bench without saying anything. They stay in companionable silence, watching the fountain dance and the people bustle back and forth across the plaza, getting last minute shopping in before the stores close.

“I’m sorry dinner sucked,” Eddie says eventually, quiet and sincere.

Buck shrugs. “I knew it would. Just got my hopes up too high that things would be different.”

Eddie nods, eyes drifting back to the fountain. Now that they’re alone and the excitement from the games is gone, he can see the slightly weary lines of Eddie’s shoulders, see how he’s still curling in on himself, like he’s trying to escape into his own body.

“How are you?” Buck asks, knocking his knee against Eddie’s gently. “I know this isn’t exactly a quiet night in.”

“I’m alright. Better than I would be, thanks to you.”

“What did I do?”

Eddie’s staring at the ground, but his cheeks are flushing pink, and Buck wants to reach out and feel the heat of them under his fingertips.

“You were there,” he says. “I’m usually alone when I start feeling like that, and nothing makes it better. But I wasn’t alone this time.”

I don’t want you to be alone, Buck thinks, and these thoughts he’s been having — about Eddie, about being with Eddie — are getting louder and louder and harder to ignore. Especially now, when it’s just the two of them, and Eddie’s eyes are sparkling like gems under the street lights.

It’s almost hilarious that barely six weeks ago, and for 10 very long years, he could hardly stand the sight of him.

Eddie finally looks up from the ground, facing Buck, and they’re so much closer than he thought they were. He can count every eyelash, smell his cologne, watch his eyes trace over Buck’s face, from his eye to his lips and back again.

Buck doesn’t even realize he’s leaning in until his vision starts to blur, and he stops short. He tries to move back slowly, casually, but then firm hands are cupping his jaw, pulling him forward until soft lips meet his own. There’s no fireworks, no angels singing, just warm molasses in his veins, spreading to every part of him until he’s so warm he’s certain he must be glowing. His hands twist into Eddie’s jacket, pulling him as close as possible until he’s practically in his lap. They move to his shirt, feeling the abs he’s been thinking about for weeks now, and he almost melts right to the ground at the sound Eddie sighs into his mouth.

He’s not sure how long they kiss, but it doesn’t feel like long enough by the time they come up for air. He doesn’t go far, still close enough to feel Eddie’s breath fan across his lips, but he’s not sure what to do now. He wants to know what this means (if it means anything at all), he wants to know what Eddie’s thinking, he wants to memorize the way Eddie tastes and feel his abs for real.

His phone buzzes in his pocket, making them both jump. It’s a text from Maddie, telling him they’re car is here and asking where the hell they went. He looks back at Eddie, still so close, and swallows down the urge to kiss him again and tell his friends to leave them here.

“We should— we have to go,” he says, gesturing toward the parking lot. Eddie’s eyes are flitting over his face again, unreadable but still bright. He nods finally, standing up and offering his hand to Buck. He can’t fight the smile or the blush that he feels, so he doesn’t, taking Eddie’s hand to help him stand. They stay put for a minute, until Eddie squeezes his hand and drops it, smiling that soft smile again as he turns away.

Buck smiles himself, still full of warmth and lips still tingling, before following Eddie to the car.

~~~~~~~~~~

The ride back is quiet, everyone tired and settling back into the competition mindset they were able to let go of for a few hours. Buck feels it too, already running step sequences in his head again, but he keeps getting distracted. Eddie’s sitting next to him in the back seat of the Lyft, head tipped back and eyes closed, looking at peace for the first time all day. Buck tries to stop, tries to keep his focus, but his eyes keep drifting back to Eddie’s jaw, the cut of his cheekbones, the stubble shadowing his cheeks. It’s hard to remember what edges he’s supposed to hit tomorrow when he keeps thinking about how that stubble felt under his lips.

They silently make their way back to their room, and Buck knows they need to talk. He’s trying to figure out where the hell to start as he turns on the light in the small entryway, illuminating everything in a light that feels too harsh for whatever is currently simmering between them. Eddie’s right behind him when he turns around, looking just as unsure as Buck feels. It’s comforting, them being on the same page, but Buck hates that he’s responsible for making Eddie feel like this.

He can’t figure out where to start, mouth opening and closing like a fish as he tries to figure out what to say. Eddie takes pity on him eventually, reaching for his hand again.

“Let’s talk tomorrow?” he asks. “After free skates.”

It’s an out that Buck is more than willing to take. Not that he doesn’t want to talk, he just...can’t. Not right now. So he nods, squeezing Eddie’s hand in thanks. He goes to pull away, but Eddie’s grip stays firm.

“It wasn’t nothing to me,” he says, tilting his head until Buck meets his eye. “I don’t know if that’s a good thing or a bad thing or what it meant for you, but it was something for me.”

Buck’s doesn’t know what to do with that, either. He wants to kiss Eddie again and he wants to run far away from him and he wants to skate, but he can’t until the morning. So he just nods again, and it seems to be enough. Eddie nods back, finally dropping his hand as he heads into the bathroom and shuts the door.

Buck doesn’t bother waiting for his turn, just strips out of his dress clothes and crawls into bed. He falls asleep fast, dreams of brown eyes and triple axels — taking off, rising, and falling, falling, falling…

~~~~~~~~~~

He knows he’s falling before his ass hits the ice.

It was inevitably, really — he felt like he was fighting himself through the entire program, trying to keep it from completely unraveling. He knows that to anyone else, any casual fan and even some analysts, he looked good, strong, put together right until the end. But he knows that this isn’t his best. And this fall is definitely going to cost him.

He recovers quickly, finishing the rest of the program as close to perfectly as he can manage. He smiles and bows, waves to his friends in the stands, tries to pretend like he’s okay with knowing that he’s definitely not winning this gold.

It’s his own fault. He’d let his parents worm their way into his brain again, amplifying the self doubt that was already lingering, making him second guess every move, even the things he knows are good. Pair that with the fact that he can’t stop thinking about Eddie — not just the kiss, but his smile as he took the ice, his effortless jumps — and it was a miracle he only fell once.

He takes silver, four points behind Eddie’s gold. The fact that it was that fall that did him in stings worse than anything.

At the medal ceremony, he catches Eddie’s eye for the first time all day on the podium, and surprises himself with the genuine smile he gives him. It’s certainly not Eddie’s fault, what happened today — he didn’t ask to take up most of Buck’s thoughts, Buck let that happen. And if he keeps letting it happen, he doesn’t know if he’ll be able to skate clean again.

He knows they still need to talk, and he knows exactly what he needs to say, but he really doesn’t want to say it.

Luckily, he doesn’t have to say anything right away. Eddie disappears after the presser and doesn’t join him and May in the stands for the free dance. Buck tries to ignore the empty seat next to him, but it’s harder than usual.

They have a late flight back to LA, and Eddie’s already packed but the time Buck makes it back to the room. They stand across from each other in the entryway, just like last night, but the tension in the air feels wary under Buck’s skin instead of hopeful.

“You were amazing today,” Buck blurts out, not at all how he wanted to start this conversation. It’s worth it, though, for the smile and blush he gets from Eddie.

“Thanks,” he says, eyes on the floor. “So were you.”

Jesus, just tell him, Buck thinks, and he squares his shoulders like he’s preparing for a fight.

“It was something for me, too,” he says softly. “Yesterday, it— it definitely wasn’t nothing.”

Eddie looks at him, waiting, and Buck hesitates.

He really, really doesn’t want to say it.

“But?” Eddie prompts, because of course he knows there’s more.

“But,” Buck sighs. “But I can’t— We should wait. Until after the Olympics. I don’t think either of us want to be too distracted before then, and I don’t know if you know this, but you are very...very distracting.” Eddie snorts and rolls his eyes, and Buck lets his gaze rake over Eddie from top to bottom, distracting himself for just a little bit longer.

“You’re right,” Eddie says quietly. “Let’s wait. And I’ll try and be less distracting, so I can keep kicking your ass fair and square.”

“Oh really?” Buck laughs, and Eddie’s laughing too, and it feels good and normal and Buck doesn’t want it to stop. But it has to. Because as much as Buck wants to dive deeper into this...whatever this is with Eddie, he wants to win more. Not much more (which is a thought he never expected to have about anyone), but definitely more.

And if anyone in the world understands that feeling, it’s Eddie.

There’s a knock on the door, Bobby giving them a 15 minute warning before they’re supposed to head to the airport. Buck moves to head toward his things so he can pack, but Eddie grabs his arm before he can go too far. His eyes look soft and sad and hopeful and a million other things Buck is feeling too, and he just wants to drown in them, in this moment, before he has to go back out into the world, alone.

Eddie leans forward, softly kissing Buck’s cheek, lingering in his space before he heads out of the room, door quietly shutting behind him.

#buddie #evan buckley #eddie diaz #911 fox #buddie fic #911 fic #9-1-1 #fs au #ficcery #the self indulgence really popped out on this one because i lOVE whirlyball sm #also they continue to be idiots but that's not totally my fault #they're just Like That

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mysterioh · 4 years

Text

The Ignorant Beauty and The Beast of New York - Ch. 10

PAIRING: MOB!STEVE ROGERS X READER

Synopsis: Y/N is an exhausted bio major. Steve is danger with a capital DANGER. She thinks he’s a sarcastic prick with an impressive knowledge in art history. He thinks she’s cute even if she’s only running on one brain cell. All he wants is a single date, but she’s adamant upon denying.

Masterlist

My Shining Knight in a Tom Ford Three-Piece

"I'm doing good," he chuckled awkwardly.

"Is this your friend, Stevie?" Nat asked innocently. Like she doesn't know a thing about the world.

Stevie.

"We've met a few times," you told her, slightly affected by the nickname. "Here and there."

"Oh, cause he's never really told me about you," she said.

"Nat," Steve warned. She turned to him with a wicked grin. "How about we order?" He suggested through gritted teeth and opened the menu.

"Good idea," she followed.

The two gave you their orders and you scribbled them down on your little notepad while shooting a few glances in the blonde's direction.

He kept his nose in the menu as if he was hiding from you and when you take them back he quickly pulls out his phone.

You walk away with a smile and a very bad case of confusion. Steve waited until he saw you turn the corner to speak.

"Alright, what're you up to?" Steve questioned.

"Me?" Nat asked, confused. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Don't play stupid," Steve jabbed. "You can't fool me."

"How was I supposed to know your girlfriend worked here?"

"Don't call her that!" Steve whisper-shouted, looking around to make sure you weren't around.

"I thought you said you were over her?" Nat mused.

"I am," Steve sat straight, with a firm look. "Just don't say weird stuff like that. Someone might hear."

"Oh look there's your girlfriend right there," Nat pointed.

Steve huffed in defeat as he took a quick glance. You were walking down an aisle with an empty tray in hand and a high ponytail bouncing behind you with free strands shaping your face. You looked cute, very cute . Steve's quick glance turned into a lingering gaze and a small smile making Nat chuckle in amusement.

"Excuse me, Miss?" A young man called you with a pointed finger.

You turned back to him. "Yes?"

"I'd like to make an extra order."

"Sure," you pulled out your notebook. "For?"

"That ass" he grinned and his friends roared in vulgar laughter.

You rolled your eyes annoyed while turning on your heel to walk away, your hair whipping behind you.

"Hey baby," he drawled and caught your wrist. "I didn't say you could leave," he shook his head, smiling wide for you to see his tacky gold tooth.

"Let go of my hand," you hissed, trying to pry from his grasp.

"C'mon I ain't causing no trouble, right guys?"

"Yeah, baby, why don't you sit with us?" One of his friends asked. "We'll show you some fun."

Steve's jaw clenched at what he was witnessing. His eyes narrowed onto the man, onto the way his hand was wrapped around your gentle wrist. Burning rage hissed through his body like deathly poison, screeching a demanding release in the form of unwanted violence. He stood up abruptly, banging the table as he walked towards them.

Nat raised a brow at him. "Steve, where are you going?" She turned in her chair to see him stalk towards you. "Steve?"

"I said let go of me," you stated coldly, but it wasn't enough to mask the fear racking inside.

"No can do, princess," he shook his head, bringing you closer. His eyes avert from yours to see Steve steaming towards them.

You turn to see what he's looking at, but it's only for a split second. In a matter of seconds, the man's grip on your hand loosens as Steve yanks him up by the collar and slams his fist right into his jaw.

Heads turned and raised at the sound. Everyone stopped doing what they were doing to see what was happening.

"Who the fuck do you think you are touching her like that?" Steve hollered, pulling him back up by the collar.

You caught him by the arm. "Steve, it's fine." You were more afraid of what he'd do to the man. "Just calm down. Let him go," you asked slowly, tugging on his arm gently.

"No," he snarled. "Guys like him deserve to get beat. I oughta punch his teeth out for touching you like that," he growled.

"Yeah?" The guy chuckled in pain, blood trailing down the side of his lip. "Acting like a saint, are we, mob king? I heard what you did to the Gambinos." Steve's jaw ticked. "Don't act so righteous when you're not."

Steve pumped his fist back to punch him again until Nat interfered.

"Are you out of your damn mind?" She hissed.

"Do you hear what the hell he's saying?" He snapped at her.

"There are women and children here," she warned.

"That never stopped him before," the guy guffawed.

"Shut the fuck up you piece of shit," Steve punched him in the nose and he fell backward onto an empty table. Nat slapped her forehead.

"What the hell are you doing in my restaurant?" May shouted as she stormed down.

"Steve, you have to leave," you ordered.

"What?" He asked incredulously. He just saved you from a scumbag and you're telling him to leave?! Shouldn't he deserve something better? Like a kiss or a hug. Hell, he'd even take a smile.

"I said leave," you stated. "Now."

Steve opened his mouth to speak, but Nat beat him to it.

"C'mon, we're going," she pulled him by the arm.

"But-,"

"No buts. Now move it, Mister," she led him like a mother. Steve looked at you as he passed by, but you looked away.

He grumbled. Why must I ruin everything?

"I'll call you for the damages," May hollered at Nat.

Nat waved her hand at her as everyone looked on in confusion. What the hell just happened?

"All I wanted was a nice lunch date," Nat nagged. "But you just had to go and ruin everything."

"Sorry," he mumbled as she unlocked the car. He reaches to open the door but she stops him.

"No, you're staying here," Nat stated. "And you're going to talk to her."

"What?" Steve asked puzzled. "No, never. I'll die first."

"You're a damn coward."

"Why are you leaving me here?" Steve complained.

"Because you need to apologize," Nat replied, getting into the car.

"This is bullshit," he groaned.

"Watch your fuckin language," Nat warned. "And don't you dare go home without doing it."

"Why are you doing this to me?" Steve whined.

"Trust me when I say it's for your own good."

With that, Nat drives away, leaving a sullen Steve in the dust. Her phone dings and she checks what it is.

A message from a hired henchmen.

I'm taking extra for that punch.

"Y/N," Wanda cooed, face pressed against the large window of the now empty restaurant. Her hot breath steaming onto the window.

"Yeah?" You asked while sweeping the floor, thoughts elsewhere.

"He's still there," she said with a giggle watching Steve leaning against someone's car. His back facing them.

"And what am I supposed to do about that?" You countered coldly. "I didn't tell him to stay."

"Oh come on!" Wanda yelled. She turned around and placed her hands on her hips, eyeing you down dangerously. "You can't be this heartless!"

"I am not heartless," you retorted. "All he ever does is make a mess out of everything."

"He saved you!" Wanda exclaimed, ready to rip her hair out.

"I never asked him to," you shrugged with a grumble. "I can take care of myself."

Wanda groaned exasperatedly while sinking into a chair. "I just can't with you," she exhaled deeply. You rolled your eyes but kept on working as she should have been.

"Hey, Y/N," May called from the register.

"Yeah?" You turned to see her motioning you to come to her. You obeyed and reached over the counter with the broomstick still in your hand.

She gives you a warm motherly smile while leaning over the counter.

"Now, listen to me and listen to me well," she said with a smile. "A guy like that" she points towards the window, "is hard to find. Not every guy's gonna defend your honor, only the special ones do. So listen to your sweet old boss and don't mess this up? Go out there and say thank you."

You swallowed what she said with a bright blush.

"Cause I know you like him." You opened your mouth to retort and she chuckled. "You can come up with any kind of excuse you want, but you can't hide what's in here," she pointed to your heart with her pen. "Why don't you give your heart a break and just give in? I mean what's to lose right?"

You nodded mindlessly, heat rushing to your head.

"Well?" She asked with a chortle. "What are you doing here? Hurry up and get out there before he freezes to death!"

"But I still have to-"

"Don't worry about it, I'll take care of it," Wanda assured, shoving your things into your arms. "Now go, go, go," she urged, excitedly.

"Okay, okay," you hissed and they chuckled at the way you pouted in embarrassment. You put on your coat and slung your bag over your shoulder. You walked over to the door and were about to leave when Wanda called you back.

"Here," she threw a small bag of cookies into your face, "say it's on the house. Good luck!"

"Uh-thanks," you gave her a lopsided smile.

You walked out into the nightly winter air. You see him standing across the street, back to you, leaning against a midnight black car with a thin trail of smoke dancing in the air.

Your heart is soaring, livelier than it's ever been before, and it feels strange. Heavy but light, scared but wanting.

Alright, Y/N, there's nothing to worry about it's just Stupid Steve.

You turn back to find May and Wanda both pressed against the window to see the drama. Way to be subtle.

They gave you big thumbs up and smiles; you can't help but chuckle at them.

"Okay," you whispered to yourself. You rubbed your hands together and slapped your numb cheeks. "I got this," you affirmed.

You crossed the street and stepped onto the curb. Steve turned his head to see you and stood up straight. He drops the cigarette in his hand to the ground and crushes it under his shoe.

"H-hey," you stuttered. I thought you said you had this!

"H-hi!" He replied, quickly.

"Uh- um- I-uh," you lost the words. Then it came to you. "Here!" You threw- chucked the bag of cookies and he caught them. "Uh those are for you! They're not from me, so don't get any ideas," you stated flatly.

There's that irresistible charm.

He smiles wide, the smell of freshly baked cookies making the moment all the sweeter. "Thanks," he replied.

You crossed your arms with a pout and walked by him. You turned back from the waist up, using every bit of power in you to not to smile at him. "The bus stop is a block away and you're gonna come with me. You're my bodyguard for the next ten minutes cause you've got a good arm."

Steve chuckled. "That's fine by me," he grinned, catching up to you with wide footsteps. He pockets the bag of cookies in his coat as a snack for later and tucks his hands inside his suit pants.

The night whispered sweet nothings, luring the heat packed under layers of clothing out. It was a cold, moonless night. The sky was dark and low with a rolling blanket of ash grey.

The cold came like the spell of an enchantress. Earth to iron. Water to stone. Green grass to frosted white. There was no hint of warmth left, the autumn, or a kiss of the vanquished sun.

Every step becomes a prayer to home, streaking the chilly silence settled into the streets of Brooklyn. As the cold air nipped at your cheeks, your thoughts scattered in a frenzy of what to say and what not to say.

It didn't take a rocket scientist to figure out that you weren't good at these kinds of things. You failed at it. Failed so bad that the gods of love would cry on your behalf.

"So…" you spoke up. "That girl."

"Hmm?"

"The redhead," you elaborated. "She your girlfriend or something?"

"Nat?" Steve asked. "Oh no, she's just a friend. One of the guys, y'know?"

"Oh, I see," you replied, a strange sense of relief settling inside.

"Why? You jealous?" he smirks.

You snorted. "As if," you stick your nose in the air. He chuckles in reply, making you smile.

"I'd like to say thank you," you said, your breaths turning into puffy white clouds. "For what you did back there."

"Oh," he blushed slightly, rubbing the back of his neck. "It was nothing."

"No, really, no one's ever really stuck up for me like that," you said playing with your hands. "Well, maybe just Quentin."

"I mean he's your boyfriend," he said, sounding close to a snarl. He looked away with a disgruntled frown.

The stinging thorns of a white lie pricked into your skin.

"Quentin isn't my boyfriend," you confessed and he whipped his head towards you. You bite your lip in embarrassment and keep your eyes on the path. "He only said that so you'd leave me alone."

"But why?" Steve asked, completely lost.

"Are you kidding me right now?" You asked, stopping to look at him. "You're kinda clingy. Not even kinda, you are clingy."

Steve tried to retort, but it only came out like a garbled mess of words. “But lying is bad,” he stated with a triumphant smirk.

“Wouldn’t you lie if a guy you met once followed you around?” you countered. Steve’s jaw went slack and he didn’t have a reply.

“Okay, maybe you’re right,” he mumbled.

“I am right,” you said with a sigh.

“You are right,” he echoed sadly. “I’m sorry. I guess I came off a bit too hard?”

“Just a tad bit,” you said with an amused grin. “But it’s okay, I forgive you.”

He beams in the dark of the night. “Yeah? Does this mean you’ll go on a date with me?”

"No,” you deadpanned, resuming your trek.

“Right, sorry,” he replied, following behind. “How about a very platonic coffee break?”

You groaned in exasperation. “I just don’t get you,” you placed your hands on your hips. “Why do you like me so much?”

“That’s a really weird question to ask someone,” Steve laughed.

“Well, it’s my question,” you retorted. “I mean what do you find in me that you can’t find anyone else? I’m not special or beautiful. No one’s ever liked me before, so why do you?”

Steve stood still, the playful grin splayed on his face slowly fading. You searched his eyes for an answer. They say the eyes are a gateway to the soul, yet when you look into his they’re clouded with mystery.

“I don’t know,” he shrugged. “I just do. I just like being around you. You’re funny and smart. But I guess that’s not a good enough reason.”

Suddenly, you don’t feel very cold anymore with heated blood rushing through your veins. His chest rose and fell with even breaths, his slightly chapped lips curved into a half-smile. He takes a step closer and into your space, but this time you don’t mind.

“But sometimes you don’t need an answer. I certainly don’t need one.”

When he looked at you it’s as if every ounce of breath was taken from your lungs, floating into the air like midnight smoke. You bite your lip, your breathing becomes softer, the pensive look melting into a smile as soft as the morning light. You squirm just a little as your muscles relax. There’s something about his gaze as if at that moment your souls have made a bridge.

You chuckled lightly. “You are crazy.”

“That’s not the first time I’ve heard that,” he chuckled along.

Heads turned at the sound of the bus zipping down the street and you gaped at it.

“That’s my bus!” you yelled, running after it. Steve followed behind. You barely made it to the door and quickly got in, heaving deep breaths as you climbed up the steps. You turned around towards Steve. He waved goodbye with a soft smile. You took a step down and leaned out of the bus to give him a kiss on the cheek, setting a sweet fire in his soul.

“Don’t be a stranger, ya hear?” you flashed him a smile.

“You know I won’t,” he grinned wide.

You got in and the doors closed. He stood for what felt like an eternity, relishing in the sweet aftermath of a simple kiss, feeling hopeful for the future.

“Yes,” he pumped his fist towards him. “Yes! Yes! Yes!” he exclaimed while doing a victory dance.

You watched him from the window of the bus and giggled. He was such an idiot.

TAGLIST: @ashwarren32 @rootcrop @siriusement @savedbystark @little-dark-empress @great-goddess-of-sin @boxofteenageideas @imsonick @scuzmunkie @achishisha @calwitch @chuckennuggets1213 @captainchrisstan @voltage-my2dlove @thirstybunz

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somekpopthingsuknow · 4 years

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can you do a big bang reaction where they have a younger s/o and say they feel old 💕 love your work !!

Bigbang Reaction: Their s/o is younger than them and they feel old

I've had a hard time writing this but it's done! I'm really pleased by the final product. I made it quite angsty, hope you don't mind. Thanks for requesting and hope you like it!

G-Dragon | Kwon Jiyong:

Jiyong would like to date a younger person. Why? Because he loves the sensation to be the one who teach to the other. Being the older means he has more experiences, more things to teach.

But sometimes, seeing you laughing with some friend of your age makes his chest hurts. By nature, Jiyong is quite jealous and possessive, but he also knows that these feelings are the poison of love. He had worked a lot with himself to learn that even if you're close with someone else, that doesn't mean he counts less.

But this time, when he drops you at your uni, his inner practice doesn't work. Because he has the feeling to stand out. You're on your early twenties when he's in his early thirties. And a thought is now trapped in his mind: "They deserve someone better, someone younger."

He doesn't say it out loud, he isn't the type to do so. But simple gestures change and you now know that something is off. He is more reluctant to drive you at your uni, he kisses you less in public, he holds less your hand.

At first, you think it just because passion decreases with time and things like that. But one day, you see him cry. It isn't a burst of tears or him curls up in his sheets. No, simple tears rolling in his cheeks, silently.

"Baby?"

He raises his face, clearly startled to suddenly see you. Quickly, he removes the tears of his cheeks, trying to appear like he didn't cry.

"Yeah?" he asks, hesitantly.

"Why are you crying?" You sit next to him, putting one of your hand in his knee and the other on his face. "What happened?"

He shakes his head. "Nothing, sweetheart, nothing."

You stay a moment in silence, not knowing what to say. Jiyong was a fierce person and he never, never lets you see him cry unless it's something really important, a capital matter.

"Baby, please, be honest with me. You know you can tell me everything."

He tights his hold on your hand and breathes sharply. A fight takes place in his mind, between the side of him who wants to tell you everything and receiving conform and the part of him who wants to keep him all for him and not bother you. Finally, there is winner.

"I'm just so afraid, so stupidly afraid, [Y/N]. Please, don't think I don't have faith in you but it's just...what if you want someone younger? I feel so old next to you. You're still studying, surely wanting to discover the world and the only thing I can think about is that your finger will look good with a ring around it and what will be the name of our children."

You clearly don't except something like this, you thought it will be about his work but no.

But it makes sense. You don't know how long he keeps it for him but it explains some things: why he's less close with you in public and why he seems hesitant sometimes.

You do the first thing that comes in your mind: hugging him. You don't know how to answer to this yet, but you're sure of your feelings: you can't be more in love with him.

"Baby, Honey, Love..." you whisper, as new tears fall of Jiyong face, emotions storming in him. "Please, stop crying. I love you, I love you so much. You're not too old, you're really not. I'm an adult, able to make my own choice and I choose to be with you. It was and still is the best decision of my life."

You let a quiet silence settles between you, a peaceful rest during which Jiyong calm down a bit his tears, reassured that you're in love with him. But you're not over yet.

"And you know... I sometime also wonder how will look my finger with a ring."

It isn't particularly funny (you weren't trying to be) but it makes laugh your boyfriend, surely because he is relieved.

"And my mind goes more on the dog side than the child side but well... a lot of dog's name can be used as child's name, isn't?"

It's make Jiyong laughs a bit more and it makes you smile to know that your man is free from his worries now.

The next day, you're his fiancé.e.

T.O.P | Choi Seunghyun:

(I'm sorry, in this one I will assume that you have two parents and they are in a heterosexual relationship)

Like Jiyong, Seunghyun would like to date a younger person. It's more by habitude: he is the hyung in his group so he's used to take care of people and likes it. I also think he has a mild thing for the whole daddy/sugar daddy thing (I know these things are different, don't worry). He likes spoil someone younger than him and buy you expensive things, especially clothes that other people of your age can just dream of.

You're someone very special to him and he cherishes you more than anything. And he is also someone very special to you and you love him deeply. Because of that, you decide to present him to your parents. You already met his parent and the meeting was quite good so you want to do it in your side.

He accepts, because he wants to make things "more" official. If you make the choice of a meeting with your parent, they couldn't be that bad?

Well, it is until the very day of the meal. He dresses himself well and buys a bouquet of flowers for your mother and a bottle of wine for your father. It makes you laugh a bit how he wants to make everything perfect (and how he assumes your dad likes wine and your mother flowers...and he is not wrong actually).

After comfort him he will be perfect and your parents will love him and that even if they don't, you love him and it's the only matter, you both climb down of the car (an expensive jewel he buys you).

The meal...didn't go well. It could have been worse, but it wasn't your most pleasurable experience.

The way back is silent. Seunghyun is very pale, his jaw is contracted and you can see the joints of his hands becoming white with how much pressure he puts on the steering wheel. He is very tense and you don't know what to do about it.

In your head, you have think about all the potential problematic subjects: the fact that he's famous, that maybe some saseang will attack you, that he sometimes makes weird jokes (you loves them), that maybe he spoils you too much.

But his age? You never really think about it. You know that he is older than you and most couple in your friend have a smaller age gap, but it never bothers you.

Seunghyun, on the other way, have thought about it. Not that much, because it wasn't a subject which he is self-conscious, but the thought existed in his mind. But he didn't think this fact will be so important for your parents.

"I'm sorry," both of you tell at the same time.

"Sorry for what?" you ask, letting him no room for excusing himself. "It's my parents who fucked up, not you."

"But they are right somewhere," he answers. You turn your face towards him, intrigued. "I'm the older one, I'm the one in charge. If something bad happens to you, I will be in fault." You frown, not understanding what he is saying. It takes great care of you, what's the problem?

"But I can make sometimes assumptions and do things I think can be good for you but eventually hurt you. You're young, you may be not know yet if a relationship hurts you or not."

"Our relationship hurt you?" You are so mad towards your parent for causing this discussion.

"No, no, baby, I'm happy with you." His voice is calmer, but sadder too. "But it's my side, my vision of your relation. Maybe yours is different."

You hate the fact that Seunghyun is driving because you can't hug him. But you try the best you're able to appease his mind.

"Seunghyun, you know I'm happy. I was happy when we started to date, I was happy when you kissed me for the first time, I was happy when we first travel together. I'm happy when I'm with you, I'm happy when we cuddle and I'm happy when you buy some weird art things. I'm happy you're my boyfriend, more than anything. So you may be older, but I couldn't care less. I love you."

He doesn't say anything else, but you can see in his smile that you said the good things.

Taeyang | Dong Yongbae:

Yongbae is a very peaceful person and have a good self-esteem so he isn't the type to doubt your love.

Yongbae never minds about age. Obviously, he will not date a minor, but someone younger or older than him will not bother him. He is insterested in so much more things: your passion, the way you kiss him, how you smile when he wakes up, etc.

Your bond gets stronger as months pass by and one day, he makes the big step: he tells publically that he dates you (after a long discussion between you two obviously; he will never does this if it makes you umcomfortable).

As excepted, there are many reactions. Hopefully, most of them are good: they praise both of you, say you looks good together, that you're the happiest human walking on earth and things like that. There are some bad comments, but Youngbae makes his possible to make you avoid them.

It works during a while, during six strong months.

But one day, scrolling in his timeline, Youngbae see some hate comments, telling that he is a monster for dating a younger person. Because of his long career, he is used of negative comments towards him, so he ignores it at first.

But this comment keeps coming in his mind. Sometimes he looks at you and...well, they are right. You're more than five years younger than him, you shouldn't waste time with him. You should be with a boyfriend of your age who still likes going to party every weekends. You should be with a boyfriend of your age who isn't (yet) unable to be up until 3 a.m.

"[Y/N]? I would like to speak with you."

Youngbae is someone reserved with his feelings but he also knows that keeping all for himself isn't a good way to cope. He needs to tell you what he feels but he's afraid that it will be like a epiphany, that this talk will made you discover you want someone younger. But he loves you and want the better for you.

"Yeah?" you says, leaning on his shoulder, taking his hand in yours.

"A serious talk, [Y/N]. A very serious talk."

He looks really sad, defeated and now you're afraid. Why would he makes such a face? Unless he...he wants to break up? No, you tell yourself, it's your mind which makes movies. "Yeah, BaeBae?"

"Do you...do you sometimes think that...I'm too old for you?"

You frown. "Too old?" What does that mean? You think a lot of things about him whose are "too": he is sometimes "too" invested in his work, he sometimes worries "too" much and he tends to make "too" much food when he cooks. But not that he is "too" old. "What are you talking about?"

"[Y/N]...Don't you think the age gap is too much? That I'm like...a monster to date you?"

You don't know where this comes from, where this "monster" thing comes of but you're sure you will fight the one who make him thinks like that.

"BaeBae...I'm not a child, I'm a grown person. Okay, I'm younger than you, but we don't have like...twenty or thirty years apart. It's like... a common thing to have an older and a younger person in a relationship."

He nods slowly, not seems to be covinced.

"Honey, you're not a monster for dating me. I love you, you love me, I'm consenting to this relationship and I assume you're consenting too?"

He nods, more virogously. "Yeah, [Y/N], I love you, I'm so much in love with you..."

You smile, holding him as tight as possible and whispering sweet words into his ear.

"Let's go to sleep, okay? I think you need it. I love you Youngbae, I love you so much."

Kang Daesung:

Of them all, I feel Daesung is the more unlikely to date someone younger. To be honest, he doesn't care that much about age: like Youngbae, a lot of things matters more to him, like your passions, your beautiful eyes and your favorite meal (this man cooks for you, you can't change my mind). But if he has to make an absolute choice, he would choose someone older.

It's certainly one of the main reason he hesitates so much to ask you out. He is deeply in love with you, likes spending all his time with you, whether to help you with your work or watching a movie. To unknown people, you already look like a couple. Actually, even at your friends you look like if you're dating.

Both of you want to date. But unfortunately, neither has the guts to ask out the other. You're too shy and him too...insecure?

It is stupid, really stupid. His insecurity comes from one time where you make a comment. You two were chilling in his home, watching a drama. At some point, the main character was asked out by her romantic interested. Daesung and you liked telling what you thought when you watch something together so it had come to you naturally.

"I really don't understand this guy. She's younger than him. What kind of creep he is to be in love with her?"

Actually, it was harmless. If Daesung looks closer, the drama situation and yours were very different: in the drama, there is more than twenty-five years between the protagonists, the woman was somewhat empowered by this man and the man wanted just to have fun by manipulated her.

Between you, it is not the same thing at all. The age gape is just around seven-eight years and most important, he truly loves you and wants you in his live.

But despite the obvious fact that your situation isn't the same as the drama, your words are printed in his mind.

Since then, a tension built up between you. Daesung is more distant, less affective, less available for you. You're scared; have you done something to make him uncomfortable?

Like the last time, you two are in his home, in front of his television, a drama playing. But unlike this famous time, none of you are watching it. You're playing with you shirt while thinking of the tension between us and you're sure Daesung is doing the same but you don't want to look, afraid to make an eye-contact.

"[Y/N]"

You finally look up but Daseung is staring at his hands. It seems like he just whispered absently you name because he doesn't say anything less and keep playing with his fingers. You decides to remember him that he called you.

"Yeah, Daesung?"

He seems you startle him because he jumps a bit.

"Sorry, I was just...thinking."

"Daesung," you start, approaching him until your knee touch his thigh. "I know something is bothering you. Do you want to speak about it?"

He hesitates for a few seconds. "Do you...Do you really think that someone in love with someone younger is a creep?"

You frown, don't understanding why he asks that but answering nonetheless. "Well, like every situation, it depends on what are the factors. If a relation is toxic -because you're speaking about the drama we watched, no?- the fact that the man is way older than her makes things even more creepy. But no, a lot of couple, sane relationships, have an age gap. Just, twenty-five is a bit too much."

He nods, relaxing a bit. "Thanks."

"Why my comment was bothering you? You're in love with someone younger than you? Tell me who it is, I want to know them!" Since you're best friend, you tell everything and you have to be supportive. So, even if you have a huge crush on him, you want to know who is his s/o, even if it's not you."

Daesung smile wider. "Well...it's the kindest person I know. So smart, they always want to make their best. They also worry to much for their friends but they are so sweet. And they're really beautiful too."

You laugh a bit. "Don't make me wait! Do I know them?"

"I hope so because it's you."

You freeze, proceeding what he said.

"Me?"

"Yes, you." He puts his hand on you knee, smiling tenderly. "[Y/N], do you want to date me?"

After being the sweetest best friend, he's now the sweetest boyfriend.

Requests are open!

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pathfinder-pest-control · 3 years

Text

Im Scare Of Chemicals & Pesticides

So when our customer call us one of the many questions they have is do yall use chemical? Or are y’all chemical safe ? They also want to know the product name as well. So here some info about pest control chemical that the professional use

First of all let’s get away from using word chemical in our industry we use the word products instead of chemicals. They have several different products for almost any kind of situation so the word chemical doesn’t really describe The Product very well.

Also when u look at the word chemical it’s define as

chem·i·cal /ˈkemək(ə)l/

a compound or substance that has been purified or prepared, especially artificially. “never mix disinfectant with other chemicals”

So when you look at the work chemical almost everything that we use could be considered a chemical whether it’s natural or organic.

People fear what they dont understand but their alot of things we dont understand all you really care about is it gonna to work and is it hazardous to u and your family. If your looking for a pest control company in the tulsa ,ok area we recommend Pathfinder pest control LLC .

Weather is it products or whatever u want to call it is to safe well I put it like this a sky driving coach once told me is sky drive safe ? No! But it can be performed safety. So when it come to the product professional pest control operator use they applicated correct and and according to their training and manufacturers recommendation it can be safe for you and your family

So here are some things to think about , look at the herbicide, Pesticides, cleaning or sanitizing products in your home . Very product has a warning or caution label just like the product the professional use. never assure just because it come from a store, it’s safe ? Actually many of the store bought products are just as toxic or safe as the product we use as professional every day .

When u look closely at the Labels of these store bought products are not really that safe meaning if you ingest or the solution come in contact with your skin the effects will be the same if not worest than professional pesticides .

To help measure the risk of products in your home i will give you a chart that we go by this help you compare. So as professional pest control operator will break down the level of toxicity in our products by signal words . caution ,warning and danger . here is the epa signal words define .

Caution – CAUTION

Products with the signal word CAUTION are lower in toxicity.Protection Agency (EPA) requires a signal word on most pesticide product labels. They also require it to be printed on the front panel, in all capital letters, to make it easy for users to find. The only pesticide products that are not required to display a signal word are those that fall into the lowest toxicity category by all routes of exposure (oral, dermal, inhalation, and other effects like eye and skin irritation).

WARNING

Indicates the pesticide product is moderately toxic if eaten, absorbed through the skin, inhaled, or it causes moderate eye or skin irritation.

DANGER

Means that the pesticide product is highly toxic by at least one route of exposure. It may be corrosive, causing irreversible damage to the skin or eyes. Alternatively, it may be highly toxic if eaten, absorbed through the skin, or inhaled. If this is the case, then the word “POISON” must also be included in red letters on the front panel of the product label.

So with this info go to your store bought product in your home to see where their toxicity level falls . you might be surprise. So inconclusion we want shed light on the misconception that chemical and pesticide are bad or more danger than store bought products . when it come to any solution pesticide or chemcial alway stick to the manufacture recommend on safety and storing instruction as well as following the application direction.

Why use Pathfinder Pest Control For your Exterminator needs ?

We offer Discounts for property manager also our service area include Broken Arrow, Tulsa , Jenks , Bixby , Owasso, Sands Springs , Sapulpa ,Coweta.Great customer service and Satisfaction guarantee. Don’t throw your furniture away call us or visit our site today. 918-892-5254 pathfinderpestcontrol.com

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anathtsurugi · 4 years

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A Gentle Nudge - A Kalluzeb Ficlet

Hey all! Still alive up in here. Surgery recovery is going well, but yeah, that’s definitely why the delay in the latest chapter of TCTW. In the meantime, have some more ficlet.

I am a Jedi. My patience is without limits.

"Zzzzz."

I will not be moved to anger. Fear leads to anger, anger leads to hate, hate leads to suffering.

"Zzzzzzzz."

Though I'd say you're already suffering pretty hard, a second, snide voice in his head adds.

I am one with the Force, the Force is with me. I am one with the Force, the Force is with me. I am one with the kriffing Force, and the kriffing Force damn well better be with me!

"ZZZZZZZ."

Kanan Jarrus gave up on sleep with an enraged cry, sitting up in his bedroll. In all his travels throughout the galaxy, he had thought he'd come up against the worst snorers the stars could show him.

Then he had met Garazeb Orrelios.

This fool Lasat could snore louder than a sonic buzz saw and nothing could seem to wake him once he'd fallen asleep. Kanan had tried shoving him, poking him, shouting as loud as he dared, even tried some less than gentle Force prodding. Nothing. His companion was dead to the world. There was nothing for Kanan to do but spend the night on forced watch, because there was no way he could sleep with that racket in his ears, and he couldn't quite talk himself into smothering their new companion.

He would just have to suffer through it in grudging meditation...and vow never to go on a night run with Zeb ever again.

XxX

Just go to sleep. You've heard worse.

"Zzzzz."

Seriously, if you can sleep on the streets, you can sleep anywhere. This sleemo's not gonna get to you.

"Zzzzzzzz."

You're not gonna blow this by complaining to Hera the first kriffing night!

"ZZZZZZZ."

"I give up!" Ezra Bridger snarled miserably, curling into a ball and burying his head beneath his pillow.

In the alleys and slums of Capital City, he had heard all different kinds of snoring, from the tiny and petite to the loud and monstrous. But nothing, nothing he had ever heard in his young life came anywhere close to the sound of Zeb Orrelios snoring. Forget the scent, forget the grudging, growling anger and snide comments and threats of bodily harm. Nope. He could handle all of that.

It was the snoring that would drive him crazy.

He didn't doubt they'd put him, the new kid, in a bunk with Zeb for a reason. Well, if they were trying to smoke him out, they had another thing coming. He was sticking this out. But just because he had tried everything he could think of to get the snoring to stop short of outright shoving a pillow in his bunkmate's face didn't mean he couldn't make Zeb pay for his own lack of sleep come morning.

Where was it Sabine kept those spare paints again?

XxX

Just another tired soldier.

"Zzzzz."

He needs his sleep same as you.

"Zzzzzzzz."

Bear up, Captain. You got through Echo's and Wolffe's snoring. You're gonna get through this, too.

"ZZZZZZZ."

"Oh, for the love of kark, Zeb!" Rex snarled as he sat up beside the slumbering Lasat, delivering a blow to his massive shoulder that did nothing whatever to interrupt his sleep or his snoring. "Guess now I know the reason Kanan refused to do these overnighters with you."

The only response he got was a warbled binary chuckle from Chopper as the snarky astromech rolled through the little camp.

"No, you can't poison him," the old clone scolded...

...tempting as the offer was at this exact moment.

XxX

If the Spectres had learned anything about Kallus in the weeks since he'd properly joined up with the Alliance, it was that he was a supremely light sleeper. It wasn't possible to enter a room without waking the man if he happened to be catching a few moments' sleep. Ezra had once attempted to wake him and had gotten a hand at his throat for his troubles.

He hadn't made that mistake again.

None of them had asked questions when Kallus and Zeb had begun to spend more and more of their down time together...nor when they'd even begun to hear certain noises from behind Zeb's closed and sealed bunk doors.

No.

The question they all really wanted to ask was...what would happen to this burgeoning relationship of theirs when Kallus' light sleep came up against Zeb's infernal snoring?

And that answer came on a routine supply run.

Awaiting their contact planetside, the team had set up something of a camp beneath the Ghost. After fighting off a local gang to prevent the discovery of the drop off point, Zeb and Kallus were both plainly exhausted and had fallen asleep together near the heating unit Hera had going, facing each other with their arms loosely around one another. And of course, as they all knew he inevitably would, Zeb began to snore.

"Zzzzz."

"Oh, boy," Kanan muttered.

"Zzzzzzzz."

"Here we go," Ezra said nervously, eyes flitting to the napping pair.

"ZZZZZZZ."

As if set to a chrono, Kallus started awake, eyes darting about for danger, but he quickly realized it was only the sound of Zeb snoring. Smiling easily at the Lasat, he shook his head and pressed a kiss to Zeb's forehead. Then he began to push him and they all tensed, waiting for the inevitable struggle that would ensue.

But it never came.

With Kallus' gentle nudging, Zeb simply rolled onto his other side and fell silent. And for a moment, the Spectres all reveled in the sudden silence of the camp, all shocked beyond words. But before Kallus could fall back asleep, they were all on him.

"How did you do that?" Sabine demanded in a hiss.

"I- I'm sorry?" the ex-Imperial started, looking up at all of them.

"I didn't think that was physically possible," Kanan said.

"Did I miss something?" Kallus continued to ask in bewilderment.

"Alexsandr Kallus, you are a miracle worker," Hera declared with a smile and a small shake of her head.

"What?" he tried again, still unable to make heads or tails of their amazement in the blissfully silent atmosphere.

"No one in the galaxy has ever been able to get Zeb to stop snoring. And then you just waltz in here and give him a little nudge and that's the kriffing end of it?" Ezra demanded. "I call bantha poodoo! You come into my house-"

"Shush," Kallus pleaded with a small smile, understanding beginning to dawn. "You'll wake him."

"Mating krayt dragons couldn't wake Garazeb Orrelios," Rex put in. "Doubt even you're gonna change that."

"Well...we'll see," the ex-agent said tenderly, more for a different pair of ears than theirs. Kissing one of those ears, he smiled and tucked himself back in against Zeb, wrapping an arm around him and spooning him from behind. Zeb himself just gave an easy sigh, smiling peacefully in his sleep.

No one else commented on it again. They all simply sat back and relished the unexpected peace and quiet of the night.

So I feel like I should probably tell the story that had a hand in inspiring this little piece.

I have, historically, always been a very loud snorer. My wife's a very light sleeper herself and she quickly discovered that the best way to alleviate my snoring was to give me a little push so I would roll over and cut that shit out.

Some things I suppose I should point out here are that I am, A. a damn heavy sleeper, and B. one stubborn bitch. I've never considered myself a particularly accommodating person. When I dig my heels in on something, they will stay dug, come hell or high water. Neither of these things are true with my wife. Where a combined earthquake and hurricane could never wake me, she can wake me with a few gentle touches and a whisper. And when she wants me to roll over, all it's going to take is that little push.

Everyone else? Ehh...they're not so lucky.

When I was waking up from my recent gallbladder surgery, I learned from the nurses that they'd had to fight me every step of the way to keep me lying on my back. Apparently I had done nothing but try to curl up on my side. Probably could've saved themselves the heartache and just gotten my wife down to recovery. Heheh.

#Kalluzeb #SWR #I guess Zeb's technically in this #Even if he's asleep the whole time

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rametarin · 3 years

Text

tempting.

Reflecting on my health issues, since age 17. And my living situation.

So since around the age of 16, I’ve been plagued with unpredictable bowel problems and digestive ills. Like, everybody gets constipated every now and then, but I mean I’d get just, excruciatingly backed up and my family wouldn’t help me get seen or anything.

Basically from the time I was 18 onwards I was told my medical bills were mine. But oh by the way [Ram. Not my real name, but the name fam calls me], you gotta pay us every dollar that isn’t devoted to keeping yourself alive :^)

I’d be like, family, I cannot afford this, it’d be in your best interests to invest in my health so I can figure out what’s fucky about my bowels and stomach so this can stop happening, I can live a normal life, and we can all continue on our merry way.

Basically I was told, “tough shit, do it yourself, also pay your fair share to The Family” (aka, give mom all your money.)

It was never just fear of homelessness, but fear of homelessness while my GI tract was fucky and my teeth were rotting out of my head that made escape from here impossible. It’s why I didn’t just climb into a hole in the wall and escape this garbage fire of a mother and do that bootstrap shit. Because it sincerely made me wonder sometimes if I was being poisoned by my mother to keep me powerless and in need of help, but perpetually weakened to where the best I could do is move towards help but just be put on a treadmill for someone elses financial benefit.

Perhaps my bitterness makes just a touch more sense now, right? Because Maine is a long-drive state. You need a car. You absolutely need a car to get anywhere. Not having one means you walk everywhere, you ride a bike everywhere and are FUCKED during the winter, or you go nowhere because you don’t have anywhere you need to be and don’t drive.

Now that said, imagine having bowel and ass problems so bad just the idea of driving makes you question if it’s safe for you to even be on the road.

That has been my existence for twenty years now, because my family wants me just close enough to extract what mom things “she’s owed,” but absolutely will not help me with anything. There’s no security in staying here because the whole fucking POINT of putting up with a family’s infantilizing “everything has its place” mentality, is you’re able to wisely squirrel away your income without paying a landlord anything and your income going up in smoke

If your mother is just the worst sort of landlord, you’re basically just paying a narcissistic bitch of a mother to be a narcissistic bitch of a mother. There’s absolutely no upside.

So I’ve been stuck in this virtual tutorial of an existence because my own digestive system was torturing me and seriously deleting my ability to operate independently. And mom, whom has always wanted absolute control over my finances and my future, saw it as a holistic way of penning me up and making be desperate. Never a wasted opportunity with this fucking monster.

Well. I eliminated cottonseed oil and chicken proteins from my diet and, while not perfect, the amount of excruciating pain and pressure and weird cold-acidic burning in my back and bowels has subsided a lot. As well as my stomach issues receded considerably.

The truth is I was loathe to even try and escape without figuring out these problems, but I couldn’t figure them out because I never had the money. I tried to get a barium enema x-ray when I was 17 and suffering a massive, excruciating flareup. I missed prom (I didn’t have anyone to go with anyway) because of what felt like it could’ve been anything from gall stones to bowel cancer.

Had a big useless cleanse that was excruciating, then had the guys that give the barium enema tell me, “lube is expensive” when I screamed about how much it hurt to have the thing shoved up my ass. My already inflamed, tender ass.

Absolutely nothing was found in my bowels. Which did absolutely nothing to explain why they felt inflamed and miserable. But it did give me a $1,700 bill, which proved.. absolutely nothing except they couldn’t find tumors or any object lodged in my butt. Given how it took me two summers to acquire almost that much working a shit job for my shithead father’s girlfriend, maybe you can appreciate how heartbreaking that is. Spending all that money and you don’t even learn WHY you’re suffering, you just learn why you aren’t.

And today I still fume with rage over being told, “ass lube is expensive so we’re skimping on it” and then be charged almost two thousand god damned dollars.

Absolutely could not get my family to help me pursue any other avenue. They just kept insisting, “it’s all anxiety, it’s all in your head. You just need to get off the computer and do more manual labor/make us money and your problems will go away. :^)”

But then they would not help me do it. They wanted me to take on all the risk while they got the guaranteed income from my needing to be around them.

My need to grow step by step was their opportunity to mitigate my life, every step of the way, so non-compliance with their exploitation would result in homelessness and complete uprooting. If I wasn’t going to voluntarily follow draconian rules, then I’d be governed by those rules anyway in the absence of them being verbally stated. Just, using poverty and immobility as a way to impose it.

But I refused to comply. I wasn’t going to suffer every day unendingly AND get my income snatched away, BY MY OWN GOD DAMNED FAMILY. A family that didn’t even pay RENT to live in the house we were living in at the time, and a family that made 65-70K a year, with another house they owned in a less convenient location worth $350K. My mother had ABSOLUTELY NO BUSINESS other than fun and profit as an excuse as to why I needed to buy, “the family,” a car. Other than making it the “family” car giving her defacto control over it but my obligation to pay for it. Just another indirect way to give her absolute control over my options and alternatives.

So I didn’t work. I sat at home and dealt with her abusive bullshit, because it was the only card I had left in my deck. She didn’t want the stigma of throwing out a sick man without a license, a car or any savings. I didn’t want to voluntarily throw myself out and die in the street.

So I dealt with my health problems as best as I could. There were a good many times living in this house, that we’ve lived in and she’s owned since 2006, that I questioned whether I should phone an ambulance and just say fuck it, go into tens of thousands of dollars of debt just goosechasing this problem, thanks to the backdoor socialized medical system that exploits the profit motive but uses government assured payment fixed to taxes in order to afford it.

That’s probably what pisses me off the most about my situation. Our medical system has been turned into a farce by socialists deliberately making medicine as toxic as they fucking can in order to then bat their eyes and go, “Bet you just want single payer and to basically make medicine another ring of the government NOW, don’t youuuuuu? It’d make all those woes go awayyyyy!” while turning the screws to our bodies by denying us affordable medicine. All while blaming capitalism for shit that’s assured to work at any cost by the government.

Other people pine for a more socialized system to make the disgusting exploitation and abuse stop. But the truth is, that’s just like wanting to marry a pirate so they’ll stop lobbing cannonballs and demanding tolls at sea from you. Yes, the actual literal war on you and your community and your personal sovereignty will be over, but you’ll also be institutionalizing pirates in order to make them stop taking complete advantage of you on their terms instead of taking complete advantage of you on mostly-their terms but you get to act like you’re consenting to it.

I digressed. Anyway...

Well. I’m curious about pursuing a shit job just to see if I can KEEP some income, but I know, and have always known, my mother will not allow me to do anything with that money but barely keep myself alive. While she uses it to just buy enormous bulk loads of garbage and hoards them in the corners, or throws hundreds of dollars at friends-of-the-family/neighbors and extracts that money from me to do it.

I know going into it that the job would be otherwise worthless. She wants her ten pounds of flesh a year from me, and if I worked, there’d be no getting around it. She isn’t going to allow me to profit living with her, in any way. Everything has to revolve around her, or I get made homeless.

But trying to hold a job would mean possible (there’s that ‘potential vs. guarantee dichotomy again) feelers out to couches to surf on. Or credit building.

It’d still be a sexless existence dictated by someone so fucking petty that they can’t help you fix a broken tooth but do miraculously have the money to buy you a cell phone and a plan, “if you want it,” purely to always have you at their beck and call and/or have control over your phone plan. And it’d mean committing to something that runs a minimum of a year while being able to have a foot crushing my neck and destroying whatever I’m trying to do in an instant.

but it’d also mean being able to financially pursue what’s wrong with me and fixing it.

But I will hold this grudge against women and the actual, objective privilege they have from the legal system and our social system in the US for the rest of my life. Everybody around me saw what she was doing to me and my life, and they’ve done and said absolutely nothing. An abusive woman in this society is basically on par with the richest barons in a young adult novel, and all you have to do to get that kind of institutional power, rich or poor, is have a vagina and be a mom.

Then other women will sympathize with the mother, whom can never be totally wrong about anything, and at best you might get silence and indifference about the way you’re treated.

You can be cornered, debased and neglected until you’re a greasy shoggoth of a person, and if it’s a woman doing this to you, it’s your fault for not escaping. After having every escape route made as torturous and unsustainable an option as possible, you’ll be held accountable for yourself.

I’ll be relieved and pleased when this disgusting pig of a woman dies of natural causes. She’ll have gotten away with grabbing my life and thrashing around with it for 20 years while the world passed me by, just to keep control, just for fun, just for profit.

But in the meantime, maybe there’s a local niche I can fill. Just enough of something to find somewhere else to live. Without conditions making it more damning to pursue than nothing at all.

But I’m not hoping too hard.

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viskovie · 4 years

Text

Vitam Post Mortem

Warnings: language, Nux gets manhandled quite a bit

Disclaimer: none of these characters are mine

______________________________________________________________

heaven: (noun)

the expanse of space that seems to be over the earth like a dome —usually used in plural often capitalized: the dwelling place of a Deity and the blessed dead

______________________________________________________________

Fire. Grit. A flash of tangled red hair. An unfamiliar gesture. A glint of chrome. More fire. Thunder. Pain. And then… nothing.

Nothing.

~~~

Nux wakes up with a start, the last shreds of adrenaline coursing through him. He isn’t sure if he was dreaming or not. Perhaps he’s dreaming right now? Reality feels hazy and sluggish, sort of like when he takes those pills that Castellan makes – the ones that give you a good, long high but leave you feeling like you’ve been run over by the War Rig. He staggers to his feet as best he can, and rubs his eyes like a Pup just woken from a nap.

His vision is split into two blurry colours: orange below and stark, vibrant blue above. He blinks a few times and the colours sharpen into a horizon. Hot, golden sand stretches away for miles until it reaches up to touch the sky where it hangs. A soft stir in the air carries the thick smell of dust and dirt, but it’s not as stifling as it should be. It’s quiet enough that Nux can hear his own heart beating a steady rhythm in his chest, and the sound is comforting. It means that he’s still alive. He should, by all rights, be dead. Roadkill.

The details are slowly coming back. That’s how he knows the crash wasn’t a dream, and neither is this. In dreams, details slip away like precious drops of Aqua Cola spilled on the ground. He bites his lip, hard, and is rewarded by a stab of pain. It grounds him and helps to clear his head.

Nux brushes himself off and turns in a slow circle, taking in his surroundings. There’s nothing but dunes and endless blue sky, no matter where he looks. There’s not even a footprint in the sand around him, which is strange.

No footprints, no tire tracks, nothing.

Nux reaches for his knife, unable to shake the growing unease in the pit of his stomach. Maybe this is a nightmare? He stands motionless for a moment, but nothing jumps out at him. He sheaths the blade and sinks back down to the ground. He tries to remember exactly what happened in the chase and the resulting crash, but he can’t conjure up much. He knows that he finally got to drive the War Rig, although the experience was rather bittersweet. He was prepared to die. He’d known from the start that he wasn’t going to see the end of the story, and yet-

For the first time since the sandstorm that had dragged his lancer off the back of his – their – car, Nux allows himself to think of Slit. He’d seen him again in the pursuit, perched almost casually on the hood of Max’s old Interceptor, but it had felt like looking through the eyes of someone else. He hadn’t really registered that Slit was not only alive , but as wild and bloodthirsty as ever, until it was too late and his childhood friend was gone forever. Gone in a glorious, fiery explosion – just the way he’d always wanted to go.

Nux’s eyes prickle, and he scrubs at his face. War Boys don’t cry! They certainly don’t cry over the dead, no matter how much you loved them.

Initially, the two had been like brothers but, over the years, his feelings had morphed into something deeper, something far more painful. Losing a brother was gut-wrenching, but to love someone with your whole being and know that person didn’t love you back – that was infinitely worse.

It feels like a knife has been plunged into his chest, and Nux finally gives in. He cries.

~~~

He doesn’t know how much time has passed when he wakes up again. His head aches, and his eyes feel puffy and tender. He doesn’t need a mirror to know that they’re probably still bloodshot. The sun has long-since disappeared behind the distant horizon, and he’s lying curled up on the rapidly cooling sand. Somehow, he’s not sunburnt. He’s not hungry either, but his mouth is dry. He sits up, with difficulty, and yawns. He must have cried himself to sleep, and the thought sparks shame deep in his belly.

“You better not have been fuckin’ crying, traitor.”

Nux turns around so fast he thinks he’s given himself whiplash. Standing a few paces away, thick arms crossed over a heavily muscled chest, is Slit. He doesn’t look pleased. He adjusts his stance, settling his weight evenly on both feet, and skewers Nux with a poisonous look.

Nux can’t even bring himself to stand and face him. Instead, he looks away ashamedly, praying the darkness hides his eyes. There’s no point denying that he’d been in tears – no one could never lie to Slit. He somehow always knew. He tries to stifle the sob that threatens to spill out of his chest, but it escapes anyway. Behind him, Slit scoffs and makes a sound like he’s spitting on the sand. Nux doesn’t hear the crunch of footsteps, but suddenly Slit has him by the throat, from behind. He hisses, instinctively elbowing him in the ribs. Slit grunts, but his grip only tightens. Nux forces himself to go still. Slit has big hands, and he’s always been one of the strongest Boys; he’s more than capable of killing him right here. Slit will just keep crushing his airway until he suffocates – it won’t be the first time he’s had to kill someone that way.

“Givin’ up?” Slit taunts in his ear. Nux manages to suck in a deep breath, but doesn’t answer. “You’re lucky you’re already dead, y’know that? ‘Cuz if you weren’t, I’d send ya to Hell myself! ” Slit snarls, letting go of him and shoving him onto the ground.

It feels like Slit is revving up for a proper fight, so Nux rolls over to intercept the impending kick. But before he can get out of the way, Slit plants his boot on Nux’s chest. Nux doesn’t resist; he just lies there on the cold ground, the lancer’s words ringing in his ears. Lucky you’re already dead … Dead. He’s dead. He didn’t survive the crash, after all. That explains a lot. Then his brain kicks into gear, and he remembers something.

“You-” he coughs. “You died days ago!”

Slit’s face twitches. He’s seething. “Yes.” He bites out.

“I witnessed you. It was…” Heartbreaking. “Glorious.”

“I know.” Slit is clearly still furious, but he also sounds the tiniest bit smug now.

“Why- why aren’t you in Valhalla?” Nux asks tentatively. He’s going to cry again if he thinks about it too much. Slit growls, taking his foot off his chest and dragging him bodily to his feet.

“You tell me , you fuckin’ smeg.” He spits, and Nux flinches.

He doesn’t understand. He remembers that Slit didn’t Chrome himself, but he had witnesses and he had fire – surely that would have been enough to get him into Valhalla, into the Hall of Heroes? Slit must see his confusion in his face, because he grabs Nux’s chin and forces him to look to the right.

Huge, glittering gates stand where, a minute ago, there had been nothing. A sun, it seems, shines from behind them, lighting up the night and making it hard to look at them. Nux squints. The gates don’t appear to have a true form, as they shift and change every time he blinks. They’re chrome, and gold, and bronze, and more colours that he doesn’t have names for. The bars ripple like Aqua Cola, and appear solid as stone. Nux can’t see what lies beyond.

“Valhalla…” He murmurs, awestruck. Slit nods bitterly.

“I’ve been tryna get in for days now.” He says angrily, and Nux breaks his trance to look back into his face. “Can’t without ya, it seems.” Slit continues, looking like he wants to strangle Nux again. He lifts his hands, gingerly peeling his gloves off. Underneath, his palms are blistered and raw. A few of the blisters have popped, and his skin glistens in the light of the Gates. It looks painful.

“I tried to touch ‘em,” Slit rumbles, carefully putting his gloves back on. “Got burned every time.” He explains through gritted teeth. Nux’s stomach sinks. If Slit can’t get into Valhalla, then he’s got no chance. Slit is the War Boy ideal: he’s tough, he’s skilled, he’s ruthless, and – on top of everything else – he’s unfairly handsome. Nux shakes his head. No going down that road, not today. Or ever.

Slit is eyeing the Gates and drumming his fingers on his bicep. Suddenly, he grabs Nux’s hand and steps toward them. Nux hangs back reluctantly. If Slit’s hands got burnt, he’d probably go up in flames as soon as they got anywhere near.

If Slit notices his hesitation, he pays it no attention. He drags him forward, grimacing every now and then at the pain in his palm. They stop about two feet from the Gates, and Slit turns to look at him. The light emanating from Valhalla frames him like a halo. He looks like a god, and Nux feels his eyes well up again. He rubs at them until the tears are gone, pretending to have sand in his eye. Slit isn’t fooled. He glares menacingly, a muscle in his neck twitching.

“I can’t get into Valhalla by myself, dipshit, an’ if you fuck this up by cryin’ again…” He trails off, the unspoken threat hanging heavily in the air between them. Nux nods mutely, not trusting himself to speak. Slit takes him by the hand again and reaches for the Gates.

There’s a loud sizzle, like guzzoline splashing on searing hot sheet metal, and Slit recoils with a howl.

He drops Nux’s hand and rips his glove off again. It doesn’t come off cleanly. His skin has been burned again and the fabric has partially fused with it. Nux manages to keep from retching when he sees the mess that Slit’s palm has become, but it’s a nasty injury. Blood is running down his arm from where the mutilated skin has been torn away and, for the first time in his life, Slit is shaking. All the colour has drained from his face and he’s a little unsteady on his feet. Shock, Nux knows. Not fear, or even pain. Shock. Slit had been so sure this would work, that he’d finally achieve the eternity he’d given his life for.

He helps him sit down, and gently unties Slit’s scarf. He carefully wraps his mangled hand in it, even though he’s sure it’s not clean enough. But it’s not like they have anything better to use. When he’s finished, Slit lies back on the sand, staring up at the night sky. Nux glances at the Gates, but they’re gone. He lies down next to his lancer, unsure of what to do next.

There’s a few beats of silence. Nux has so much that he wants to say but he has no words to say any of it. He thinks about all the times they’d been together like this - the cool night air on their skin, the stars far above, flinging what he now knew to be “shows” across the universe. Neither of them were soft; they didn’t seek out moments like that, but had never shied away either.

He sighs, wishing away the tension between them. He’s disillusioned with the Immortan’s teachings, knows them to be false and self-serving, but here he is at the Gates of Valhalla. Was his betrayal the reason Slit couldn’t get in? If they could only enter together as Driver and Lancer, had he cost Slit hard-won eternal paradise? The thought worms into his mind and sticks there, taunting him cruelly.

Nux rolls over to face Slit, still unsure of how to voice his feelings. He decides to keep it simple. Slit always liked things to be simple.

“I’m sorry.” He murmurs. Slit doesn’t react. Nux frowns. Sure, the lancer has hearing problems but there isn’t even a breath of wind to carry the words away. He tries again, managing to be a little louder. Slit turns his head, his iron grey eyes drilling into him.

“I know. I heard you the first time.” He says. “I just wanted to hear you say it again.”

For the third time in less than a full day, Nux feels tears spill over his cheeks. He sits up, trying to hide, but Slit grabs his arm and roughly tugs him back down. He lands almost on top of his lancer, causing Slit to grunt with the impact. Before he can really do anything, Slit has his arms around him. However, it feels more like a restraint than an embrace.

“We gotta figure this out.” Slit mutters, shifting onto his side to hold Nux to his chest. “Not the Valhalla thing - that’s either gonna happen by itself or it’s not. We gotta sort out... this. Us.” He adds. Nux nods, working his hand free to rub at his eyes. He doesn’t want to ask exactly what Slit means by that, doesn’t want to hope. Slit’s jaw works for a moment before he says anything else.

“Why’d you run?” He asks plainly. “Why did you turn your back on everything we knew, and side with Furiosa when she betrayed the Immortan?” He doesn’t sound angry anymore, which is unusual for him. He just sounds tired, and it breaks Nux’s heart a little further. In the silence he can almost hear Slit’s heartbeat.

“I didn’t… not at first….” Nux murmurs, half to himself.

“Hey?”

“I didn’t switch sides immediately. I got into the Rig, and then… I don’t know exactly what happened. Something changed.” Nux says, voice trembling. “Here.” He adds, gesturing to his chest. Slit narrows his eyes. He seems to mull over his next question. Nux sniffles quietly. He’s trying to keep it together, really, but Slit’s making it horribly difficult. His arms have loosened around Nux, so now it’s less like a restraint and more like an embrace.

When Slit finally asks his question, it takes Nux completely by surprise.

“Did you fuck one of ‘em? One of the Wives?”

“Wh- no!” Nux stammers, thrown. Why would Slit be asking that? Why does he sound so strained?

“Did you fuck your Bloodbag?” Slit adds, his expression guarded and his tone even weirder. Nux draws back a tiny bit. Yeah, Max is decent-looking, but he’s not Nux’s type. Besides, they were stuck in the Rig with the five Wives and Furiosa - if he was gonna fuck anybody, it wasn’t going to be Max.

“No! I didn’t do anything like that...” He replies slowly, searching Slit’s face. That seems to satisfy Slit, and he drops the subject. They lie in silence again, but somehow it’s not as tense as it was before. He still has his arms around Nux.

~~~

At some point they must have dozed off, because Nux wakes to the cold, grey light of early dawn. He shivers and curls a little tighter around himself. He’s got his head on something solid and warm and gently moving. It turns out to be Slit’s chest.

Nux closes his eyes again, remembering all that happened last night. He shifts around, getting comfortable, and Slit begins to wake up. He yawns and stretches luxuriously, like a lizard basking in the sun. Nux debates whether or not he can get away with pretending to still be asleep. He decides to give it a shot.

It seems to work because Slit starts absently rubbing Nux’s shoulder. Nux snuggles a little closer. He can hear the gentle thud in Slit’s chest, which does seem a little out of place, all things considered.

He gives himself away when he pets Slit’s bicep without thinking. Slit rumbles and pushes Nux into the sand. He sits up groggily, rubbing sleep out of his eyes and turns to give Nux a beady look. Nux snickers, too lost in the soft familiarity of this moment to worry about Valhalla right now.

“Just how long have you been awake?” Slit grumbles, yawning again. Nux shrugs.

“Not long. Few minutes?”

Slit makes a noise of complaint, and begins cracking his knuckles one by one. Nux shivers as a cool wind begins to pick up. He shuffles closer to Slit and leans against the lancer’s broad, bare back. Briefly, he wonders about why Slit never seems to get too hot or too cold. Maybe his muscles insulate him against changes in temperature? Who knows.

Slit lets out a quiet hiss as he carefully pries the makeshift bandage off his hand. He inspects the wound, but it isn’t getting any better. If anything, it looks worse; the skin has blistered and softened overnight, and it makes Nux want to vomit. He can deal with blood and gore, but he never had the stomach for infection and pus. Slit clenches his jaw and rewraps his palm. Nux nuzzles his shoulder, unsure of what else to do. If they had water, he’d insist on cleaning the injury out but…

Slit tries to headbutt him, but the angle is wrong and it doesn’t really make contact. The staples in his cheek glint in the growing dawn.

“C’mon.” He rumbles, getting to his feet. Nux follows suit, and glances around. There’s nothing but sand, all the way to the horizon.

“May as well start walking.” Slit adds. “Not like we got anythin’ else to do.”

“What if Valhalla comes back?” Nux asks nervously. The Gates do seem a little… temperamental.

“It follows us.” Slit replies, brushing the sand off his pants. “Shows itself ‘bout once a day.” Nux nods, trying to get his head around that. Slit takes a step, then stops. Hesitantly, he offers his less-burned hand. Nux takes it with a small smile. Was Slit always this soft when there was no one else around?

The sun is just clearing the tops of the distant dunes, and has yet to provide any warmth, so they walk closer together than is probably necessary. Nux remembers Max’s worn jacket wistfully, rubbing his arms as they face into the wind.

~~~

They walk until the sky begins to darken again and the first stars appear in the east. Nux is glad to stop; his feet are aching and he’s thirstier than before. Surprisingly, he’s still not hungry yet. Slit doesn’t seem to be, either, but when he speaks again his voice is a little hoarse.

“Help me dig a hole, here.” He says, motioning to a spot on the ground. Nux raises an eyebrow.

“Why?” He asks suspiciously. “What are we looking for?”

“Nothing,” Slit answers brusquely. “You can sleep on top of the sand again, if you want, but I’d rather stay warm for longer.” That makes sense, Nux supposes. He kneels next to Slit, and they start scooping out a hole big enough for both of them. It takes a while, because the sand is too soft and dry to properly dig away.

Eventually, they’ve managed to carve out a ditch that’s... sort of the right size. It’ll be a squeeze, Nux thinks skeptically. He glances upwards. The bright moon is rising steadily, casting long shadows of its own. He shuffles into the hole, next to Slit, and has no choice but to press against him. The sand is still warm, and Nux can feel his eyelids already starting to grow heavy. He wiggles around until he’s more comfortable, tucking his arms in and resting his head against Slit’s throat. He gets an arm around his torso for his efforts.

Slit sits upright unexpectedly, accidentally giving Nux a crick in his neck. Nux follows his gaze to the Gates, which have reappeared as predicted. Before he can react, Slit is scrambling out of the hole, dragging him along by the wrist. The Gates are every bit as glorious as before, but their beauty is somewhat marred by the knowledge of what lay underneath his lancer’s gloves. Nux rubs the sand off of his cheek and stifles a yawn.

Slit walks with purpose to stand a pace away from the Gates, again. He lifts his hand hesitantly, but doesn’t reach for the bars. He’s preparing to be rejected again, Nux realises. It puts a hollow feeling in his stomach.

“Here,” he says, stepping forward. “Lemme try.” Nux smiles, trying to reassure Slit. However, the lancer doesn’t look convinced.

“Slit, you need your hands more’n me.” Nux urges, touching his arm.

“Can’t drive with fucked up palms.” Slit argues.

“Can’t lance, either.” Nux fires back. Slit opens his mouth, but doesn’t have a counter-argument. He frowns deeply, and bites his lip. Nux takes his hand - gently, as it surely still hurts - and reaches for the Gates. He closes his eyes and braces for the pain-

And nothing happens. His fingers connect with the Gates, and the metal is warmer than he expected but nowhere near hot enough to burn him. He opens his eyes slowly, and looks back at Slit. The lancer looks like he’s been punched. Nux grins, gripping his hand a little tighter in excitement. He shoves at the Gates, and they begin to swing open. As they do, the bright light gets harsher and harsher until he’s forced to close his eyes against it.

When he opens them again, the first thing he notices is the green. It’s everywhere, kind of like when he would wander through the Top Gardens back at the Citadel. There’s green stuff on the soft, black ground, and climbing on poles stuck haphazardly here and there, and even one or two huge, leafy stick-things. Trees, that’s what Capable had said they were. The next thing Nux notices is the water. It’s flowing through a shallow groove in the dirt that’s too straight and even to be natural.

He’s reminded of Slit’s presence when the lancer drops to his knees beside the water and splashes some onto his face. Nux laughs, and follows suit. The air is cool and smells sweeter than the arid, dusty air of the Wasteland. He feels better than he has in… he can’t even remember how long. He’s not so sick anymore, can’t feel the bite of the tumors on his neck.

Slit drinks his fill, and sits back on his haunches. There’s a few stray droplets running down his face and neck, having escaped through the gaps in his scars, and Nux is mesmerised. Slit seems to feel his gaze, and wipes the drops away with the back of his hand. He tugs his gloves off and flexes his fingers. His palms are healing, Nux sees. They’re not back to normal, but the pus is gone and the burns no longer look so raw. Slit looks up at him and grins. He launches himself at Nux, knocking him over and sending himself sprawling. He laughs freely, grabbing Nux and dragging him in for a tussle.

They roll around for a bit, wrestling and playing like they did when they were Pups, until they both lie panting in the shade of one of the trees. Eventually, Nux sits up and brushes the dirt off his pants. He gathers up all the little bits and pieces that fell out of his pockets before Slit can swipe anything, but the lancer just grins lazily up at him, still lying flat on his back.

“If I’d known all it would take to get here was your dumb ass, I would come back and killed ya days ago!” He teases, but there’s no malice in it. Nux scoffs.

“Like you coulda killed me .” He says, not bothering to keep the smile off his face.

“Could too!” Slit protests, raising himself up onto his elbows. Nux raises an eyebrow skeptically.

“Nah.” He drawls, making a show of examining his fingernails. “Didn’t I have ya totally pinned just a minute ago?”

“I let you pin me!”

“Oh yeah? Wanna see me do it again?”

“Ah, fuck off, pup.” Slit grumbles, looking away. Nux snickers, before taking mercy and laying down next to him. He traces the scars on Slit’s belly, making him shiver. Slit’s arm finds its way around him again, but it really is an embrace this time. They listen to the sound of everything growing around them, truly at peace for the first time in their lives. They didn’t have to fight for this, didn’t have to win it and don’t have to protect it from anyone; all they have to do is enjoy it.

Angharad was right about almost everything, Nux muses, as he settles in for a nap. Valhalla is real, and the world isn’t quite dead yet.

#mad max: fury road #mad max #nux #slit (mad max)#valhalla #war boys

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cecilspeaks · 4 years

Text

163 - “Bravo”

Our moral compass has been demagnetized. Welcome to Night Vale.

Night Vale, Carlos and I went to see a new play the other night. It’s been ages since we went to the theater. I think the last show we saw was “Hamilton”, which is a Tony and Pulitzer winning hip hop musical about figure skater Scott Hamilton, who died in a duel to fellow Olympian Katarina Witt. “Hamilton” was wonderful, but live theater is so expensive. It’s a rare treat for us to get out of the house, what with the cost of tickets plus dinner, parking, a babysitter, tuxedo rentals and all that time spent watching YouTube makeup tutorials for jamming facial recognition cameras.

But my friend Charles Raynor invited us as his special guests to watch the premiere of a new play at the Night Vale Asylum, where Charles is the warden. The play was called “The Disappearance and Cover-up of Flight 18713 as Performed by the Inmates of the Asylum of Night Vale under the Direction of Undercover Agents from the National Safety and Transportation Bureau.” Or, “18713/NTSB” for short. I’m used to seeing plays at the New Old Opera House or in the high school auditorium. There’s also the Black Box Theatre, which presents some of Night Vale’s most experimental drama from young performance artists. No one has seen any of these shows, or if they have, they’ve never emerged from that doorless black box, its walls perfectly smooth and faintly warm.

But this particular play was at the asylum itself. The Night Vale Asylum perches atop a craggy peak in the Sand Wastes. It’s brutalist concrete walls intermittently slashed with slivers of windows. I do not personally know anyone inside this intimidating institute, other than warden Raynor himself. And I’ll admit to being a bit nervous venturing out at night to a heavily guarded home for the criminally insane. But Carlos put me at ease by rolling his eyes. He said it was neurotypical ableism that makes us think this way. That movies and TV shows often play up harmful tropes about psychopaths and lunatics, planning daring escapes so they can return to a life of criminal misdeeds. Carlos explained that asylums are merely places where we hide away the people who most remind us of the inexplicable fragility of the human brain.

Driving out past the Scrublands under an indigo sky, the full moon low over the horizon backlighting the Night Vale Asylum atop its jagged rocky ridge, my nerves returned. I thought I heard coyotes howling in the distance, but it was the car stereo. Carlos had put on his favorite new Frank Ocean album called “Various Animals Screaming”. When we arrived, warden Raynor greeted us at the gates. Two guards wearing army style green dress uniforms flanked him. Their right breasts were laden with medals, chevrons and stripes. They each were armed with billy clubs, tasers and slingshots, and one of them was wearing an eye patch, but it was positioned in the middle of his forehead.

The warden escorted Carlos and me to our seats, which were simple wood chairs. There were only ten seats total, all in a single row along the rear wall. There was no standard stage to speak of, no curtain. The actors were all in costume in the center of the room, already in character. The other seats were already filled. Warden Raynor, Sheriff Sam, three of Sam’s secret police officers, two of Sam’s overt police officers, and an angel I had never met before, but who introduced themself to me as Erika. With a K, they added. “Nice to meet you, Erika,” I said. “You got ten bucks?” Erika asked. “Uh, sure,” I said. “What for?” “Not everyone gets to know everything,” they said. “You either got it or you don’t, man.” So I handed them ten bucks and minutes later my lower back pain, which has plagued me for the last six months, was gone. I looked back at Erika and I saw the wink at me, or I think they winked? They have ten eyes, so it could have just been an asynchronous blink. It’s hard to even tell what they’re ever looking at.

The play began with an introduction by warden Raynor, who welcomed us all to this unusual night. The first ever performance of an original play by inmates in his asylum. He introduced the writers/directors of the piece. There were three of them, each dressed in an electrical blue jumpsuit. One of them had a blister on his upper lip, another a swollen red lump along the cuticle of his right index finger. One of them had an unceasing nose bleed. I recognized them as the agents from the National Safety and Transportation Bureau in Washington, who had come to Night Vale two months ago to investigate the disappearance of Delta flight 18713. Sheriff Sam had placed these agents undercover in the asylum to try to meet with an inmate named Doug Biondi, who claimed to have pertinent information about the missing aircraft. Upon remembering this, I flipped quickly through my playbill to find the ensemble members’ names. And there on the title page was the name Doug Biondi, who was cast as airplane pilot. As the warden returned to his seat and before the house lights dimmed, I leaned over to Sheriff Sam and asked, “How is the undercover operation going, Sheriff?” Sam glared at me and said, “I’ve no idea what you mean.” “You know, with the NTSP officers here in the asylum trying to interview Doug Biondi?” I asked perhaps a little loudly for a theater. “The NTSP officers are criminally insane, Sessil,” the Sheriff said unironically and with more than a touch of scold in their tone. “That is why they are here. They are a danger to themselves and others.” I had many more questions, but before I could say anything, the lights faded to black, and I heard the first voice of the play.

“Find us,” called the voice in the dark. “Find us,” it echoed again. A faint glow coated like frost the wild-eyed faces of the inmates on stage. The frantic visages made all the more panic by deep eyeliner, rouge and lipstick. Most were dressed in common street clothes: slacks, jeans, buttoned-down shirts, mid-length pattern skirts. Two were dressed as flight attendants and one as the pilot. I could only presume a small budget, as the uniforms worn by the latter groups were largely suggested by navy blue hats and little plastic wings on their lapels. The pilot wore anachronistic aviation goggles and so it was difficult for me to see and remember the face of this actor, this inmate, Doug Biondi. But I could see his mouth, which was unusually white. The corners of his lips extending well past the width of his eyes. He had an unusual number of teeth in his harsh smile, a smile which never abated, even in his most somber of scenes.

“Weeee surviive,” said Biondi’s pilot character. “Weeeee livve. Weee cannot dieee. Noot here, noot in No..Where.” He said it not like the vague concept of “in no place”, but “No Where”, two words capitalized, like the name of a specific place. Each actor was seated in short tight rows of four, a narrow aisle in between, mimicking the floor plan of a common fuselage. At the front of the troup sat Doug Biondi, as airline pilot. “How did we get here, in No Where?” said one of the passengers. “And how shall we return?” said another. “Only,” they said in unison, “when you find ussss.” This last line they said with a quick twist of their necks towards the audience. Then the scene shifted, the chairs cleared and all of the actors stood in the profile of a Greek chorus. They explained the flight from Detroit, the view of lake Erie, they told stories of different passengers. One who had a job interview, one who was looking for an apartment, another who went to Palm Springs on vacation. They told the story of a bright light and a loud pop, and suddenly the engines were silent. The plane felt still, unmoving, and then the chorus all pantomimed the leaning, concerned gaze out airplane windows. Instead of tops of clouds or distant shapes of great lakes, though, they looked out and saw – children in a gymnasium. They heard the squeak of sneakers and the joyful cries of playful exercise. It felt like minutes, maybe a whole hour. They could not understand what they were seeing. They could not comprehend an elementary school gym six miles above southern Canada. But they were not six miles above southern Canada. They were only a few feet above the American Southwest, inside an airplane, inside an elementary school gymnasium, in a town called Night Vale. And as quickly as they had appeared there, they disappeared. Off the radar, gone from the skies, out of known existence. Throughout this chorus, the speakers filled our ears with the joyful shouts of children, the hollow metallic thumps of red rubber balls, and the collective panicked inhale of a 143 passengers and crew of a displaced plane, and then it was silent. And then it was dark.

A single green light appeared on the far wall, a dot, a blip. A radar blinking on, then off. And the voice of Doug Biondi said: “Weeeeeee are not passengers on a plane. Weeeee are actors. Weeee are inmates of the Asylum of Night Vale, but weeeee do not belong here. Weeee are people who know truths. People who know more than is allowed, and for that, weeeeeeeee are kept in cages. Weeeeeeee are fed poisoned pills and circular logic.” And at this point in the play, I felt movement in our small audience. The warden had stood up and was shouting: “This is not in the script, Doug!” But Doug spoke louder, faster. “Iiiii am not insane, I say! Only the insane would say such a thing they say. Then I am insane, I say. Yes you are, they say. I am trapped, I am framed, I spit out your poisoned pills! I reject your propagandist blather. I know what I know I say. Hold him down they say.” Warden Raynor had gone to the tech board and turned on all the lights. He shouted “code blue” into a radio receiver, and we saw half a dozen security officers in their green medal laden uniforms lurch from the corners of the room, penning the ensemble of inmates into a tight circle in the center. “Return them to their rooms,” the warden called.

But as the guards encroached, the three men from the NTSP stepped to the perimeter of the mass of inmates. They were holding little plastic wings just like those on the costumes of the actors playing flight attendants. One of the NTSP agents, the one with an unceasing nose bleed, opened the back of the wings, revealing a long sharp pin, and thrust it into the neck of a guard. Simultaneously, the other NTSP agents and several other actors did the same, and the guards fell to the ground. One of the NTSP agents, the one with a blister on his upper lip, grabbed the keys and weapons from an unconscious officer. “Dearest audience,” he said in verse. “We mean them no harm. ‘tis but a sleep, a little pharmaceutical rest for a uniformed guard who kept us confined, made life hard for us low level agents doing our jobs, trapped ‘neath the lies of a warden who robs our freedom and murders our spirit. At last we can go, approach the wall and clear it, but heed my warning: as we this coup fly, every man for himself, better run – or die.” And upon this last line, the alarm bells of the asylum rattled my ears and my nerves, shaking Carlos and me from our seats. The inmates scattered in every direction as Sheriff Sam and their officers gave chase. Carlos was nearly stepped on by one of the escapees, and as I bent to help him up, I was knocked over by two officers in full sprint.

When the commotion died down, I looked up and saw Erika still sitting calmly in their chair, and I asked: “Erika, what is happening?” Erika looked down at their playbill, and then back at me, and said: “I think it’s intermission.”

And now the weather.

[“One One Thousand” by Raina Rose rainarose.com]

After 15 minutes, Carlos and I returned to our seats hoping, but not truly believing it really was an intermission. We’ve seen immersive theater before, like “Sleep No More”, an interactive show in New York City where audience members are placed inside a huge warehouse of actors dancing out the plot to “Macbeth”, and at the end everyone is granted the ability to live out the rest of their lives without sleep. It’s expensive and not for everyone, but totally worth it if immersive theater is your thing. But this show was not that. No. “18713/NTSP” had gone wrong. Or, perhaps it had gone right. Under the strict critique of plot structure, character development, and production value, the play failed terribly. But as a piece of political or (agit prop) theater, it was a rousing success. The Sheriff’s Secret Police have placed roadblocks around the entire city, hoping to keep these supposedly dangerous inmates from leaving the area. It is bad optics, to say the least, for the entire population of the town’s asylum to escape custody.

But as Carlos and I left the theater space, we walked down the long corridors, cells and rooms open, no security detail in sight. In one of the cells, below a cot, was a journal. It was the journal of Doug Biondi. Page after page was filled with monologues, narratives and conversations from various people. People who were on a plane, people in transit between checkpoints of life, between relationships, between homes, between jobs, between vacation and work. These stories were written as verbatim dialogue, as if Doug Biandi had transcribed them himself. As if he could hear the voices of those very people. Like former air traffic controller Amelia Anna Alfaro. I wonder if Doug heard the same voices. The same passengers of the missing plane. I had my intern Seamus go down to the library and look up public records on Doug Biondi, hoping to find some connection between Doug and Amelia, but Seamus still has yet to return with that information . I even double checked my playbill looking for Amelia’s name in the cast or crew, but she was not listened here. She was likely never in the asylum.

One thing I did find, though, was a note in the back of Doug’s journal. This note seemed to be in Doug’s own voice. “They tell us we are kept here for our safety, but they keep us here for their safety. They fear what will happen when the people on that plane are found. But I think they have already been found. They should be afraid of what happens when the people on the plane find us.”

Night Vale is on lockdown, so stay home and stay safe, listeners. I do not believe any of us to be in danger from those who escaped the asylum, but I do believe us to be in danger of most everything else. Stay tuned next for a serious of audio clicks, which is definitely not federal agents tapping your radio. Don’t worry about it.

Good night, Night Vale, Good night.

#welcome to night vale #welcome to night vale transcripts #episode 163 #bravo

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hms-chill · 4 years

Text

RWRB Chapter 15

Hi y’all! I’m going through Casey McQuiston’s Red, White & Royal Blue and defining/explaining references! Feel free to follow along, or block the tag #rwrbStudyGuide if you’re not interested!

Kensington gardens* (386): The park behind Kensington palace.

Hampton Court Palace (386): A London palace that is made up of both domestic Tutor and foreign Baroque styles.

Hyde Park (386): A large park in London.

Harrods (387): A fancy department store in London.

Long Water (388): A recreational lake in Kensington gardens.

Cullen skink (388): A thick Scottish soup made of smoked haddock, potatoes, and onions.

Maiden voyage (389): A ship’s maiden voyage is its first time out of port; as a term a maiden voyage is the start of something big.

Wellington boots (391): Any type of rubber boots.

Poison oak (392): A weed that grows in the woods and can cause a rash.

Swan song (393): A last effort or performance given before retirement

Punt so hard (393): Punt is a football term, but in this case, it means to play it safe rather than taking a risk for a potentially much larger payoff.

Rebecca Traister (396): An American writer known for her feminist, political work.

Roxane Gay (396): An American writer and professor whose work deals with race, feminism, and sexuality.

Captain America-esque (396): A superhero who, even before becoming a superhero, picked street fights with “bullies” and pretty much anyone he sees taking advantage of someone else.

Hello! US (398): A celebrity/royal news magazine.

Linoleum floor (399): Linoleum is an inexpensive, hardy flooring option common in community centers, schools, and other high-traffic areas that are generally unconcerned with looking nice.

Blue (400): the color associated with the Democratic (liberal) party.

Zilker Park (400): The most popular park in Austin, the hub for many recreational activities and the start of popular hiking and biking trails.

VRA in ‘65 (401): The Voting Rights Act of 1965, which prohibits racial discrimination in voting.

Palmer Event Center (401): A large event center in central Austin.

Girl-next-door (401): A term for a girl who is idolized as sweet; one you grew up near and maybe had a crush on.

Dallas to Austin (402): While it takes ~30 minutes to fly from Dallas to Austin, it takes ~2 hours and 30 minutes to drive.

Protestant God (403): The Republican party is often associated with steadfast Christianity, despite actively doing things that the Bible condemns.

Super Bowl (404): The biggest football game of the year.

Obama v. McCain (404): The 2008 presidential race between Barack Obama and John McCain, when Democrat Barack Obama became the first African American president of the US.

Letterman jacket (405): A letterman jacket is awarded to a high school athlete who has made varsity or been on a team for a certain amount of time.

APUSH (405): Advanced placement US history, a US history course taken for college credit while in high school.

Anderson Cooper (406): Openly gay journalist and TV anchor for CNN.

CNN (406): The Cable News Network, a liberal leaning news station.

1976 Jimmy Carter (406): Jimmy Carter was the American president from 1977-1981. He pardoned Vietnam War draft dodgers on his second day in office, and he is the only US president to have lived in subsidized housing before taking office. His lower class farming background meant that many saw him as a man of the people.

Gerald Ford (406): Following Nixon’s Watergate scandal and resignation (to prevent impeachment), Gerald Ford was sworn in as president. He was president from 1974-1977 and is the only person to serve as both president and vice president without being voted in.

Yellow rose of Texas (407): “The Yellow Rose of Texas” is a song from 1850 singing the praises of a beautiful biracial woman. (listen here)

Wolf Biltzer (408): An American journalist who has been an anchor for CNN since 1990 and is their lead political reporter.

West Side Bastardos (408): Los Angeles Westside is (generally speaking) a younger, well-educated neighborhood (more stats here). “Bastardos” is Spanish for “bastards”.

Gloria Estefan (408): A Cuban-American singer/songwriter who has work in both Spanish and English. (listen here and here)

Whiskey-warm drawl (409): When you drink whiskey, it’s a warm sensation that starts in the back of your throat, then goes down to warm you up from the inside. Whiskey is also commonly associated with Texas/the Wild West.

Canvassed (410): Canvassing is when you go door-to-door encouraging people to vote for a certain candidate.

Hunger Games cannon (410): In The Hunger Games, a canon goes off and an announcement appears in the sky when an contestant has been killed.

Backyard shooting range (411): American gun law is... deeply broken, and Florida in particular is known for being a bit wild.

Mijo (411): A Spanish term of endearment that literally translates to “My son”.

Mafioso (413): A member of the mafia.

Brownstone (414): A type of townhouse common in New York City that can cost up to four million dollars.

Concession call (414): A call from a political candidate admitting that they’ve lost a race.

Oil paintings (415): Every American president has an official portrait of them, traditionally an oil painting.

Library of Congress (415): The research library that officially serves congress and is the de facto national library of the US.

Dried flowers from a homecoming corsage (416): When a girl is asked to her high school homecoming, the asker will typically buy her a corsage, a small bouquet worn around the wrist.

Cordless phone (416): Probably a home phone (did other people grow up with those? Pre-cell phones), which would be used by everyone in the house.

Rec center tutoring (416): Tutoring younger kids is a common volunteer project for high schoolers, and the fact that it’s at a community recreation center means that it is probably offered for free.

Barton Creek Greenbelt (416): A long, thin park that runs through southwest Austin.

Cold-brews (416): A type of iced coffee that has become especially popular in the past few years.

Lavaca (417): A street in central Austin that runs past the Texas State Capital Building.

“Nothing’s Gonna Stop Us Now” (417): A song about how a couple is going to make it through anything together and nothing is going to stop them from achieving their goals. (listen here)

Everything’s bigger, after all (417): A reference to the saying that everything’s bigger in texas.

Old West Austin (417): A very well-off, historic district in Austin, TX.

Westover (417): A road in Old West Austin, presumably the one Alex’s family used to live on.

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*Fun fact, J.M. Barrie wrote Peter Pan here! Another fun fact, Barrie was asexual!

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And that’s a wrap! We did it! If there’s anything I missed or that you’d like more on, please let me know! And if you’d like to/are able, please consider buying me a ko-fi? I know not everyone can, and that’s fine, but these things take a lot of time/work and I’d really appreciate it!

—–-

Chapter 1 // Chapter 14

#rwrb study guide #rwrb analysis #rwrb #red white and royal blue #red white and royal blue analysis #henry fox mountchristen windsor x alex claremont diaz #alex claremont diaz #henry fox mountchristen windsor #bea fox mountchristen windsor #nora holleran #june claremont diaz #pez okonjo #firstprince #super six #the white house trio

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goodguydotmp3 · 4 years

Note

wait so are you an anarchist? no judgement just are you. or like I mean a communist or sum just like do you think ultimately the government should be overthrown and what do you think should replace it/what lack of thing

Okay so I have totally been going back and forth on how to properly answer this all day, this is my best attempt at properly explaining.

So I do consider myself an anarco-communist. I live in the U.S So I can really only comment on the situation here, but the entire government here absolutely needs to be thrown out, and we need to have the workers own the means of production.

Why does this government need to go? Besides the fact that Ted Cruz would finally shut the fuck up, it’s simply impossible to have Justice and democracy on land that was stolen, and then built and maintained from genocide and slavery. First and foremost, I really think wee need to give jurisdiction of the land back to he natives. but beyond that the thing that’s gonna have to ultimately replace the government is community. Looking out for your fellow man. THE ABOLISHMENT OF CAPITAL!!! WHY DO WE HAVE THAT??? IT LITERALLY POISONS YOUR MIND!!

And people have asked me before like “oh so you think everything is free?” No! I just don’t think that your labor, time, energy, or body should be exploited, and I think you should have your most basic necessities. Like that should just be a basic right. All the things you need to survive should be a right! And on top of that, many of the problems with our current society stem from capitalism, or the pursuit of Capital.

I’m really trying not to make this into an entire essay but the reality is, anything I say is going to sound really simple on paper but be something that is going to take a village to put in practice, which I guess is my entire point! To borrow capitalist’s terms, other people are our biggest asset. We as a collective should figure out how to get everyone’s most basic needs met first and foremost. Best example I have is food and shelter. Why is food and shelter behind a paywall???? If you do not have those you will die! And it’s not like the food and shelter isn’t there, it’s just behind paywalls and government regulations. And those regulations just feed right back into the cycle of genocide and slavery. Why are we locking people up for making shelter where no one is living?? Why are we rounding up people like chickens the day before the family reunion and putting them into concrete cells with no plants!! and then forcing them to provide labour for next to nothing! Not to mention that prisoners are often forced to do potentially life threatening work, so that the government doesn’t actually have to allocate those funds for trained people? For example, prisoners in California usually fight the yearly wild fires (this year because of Covid they are too sick to do so, which, while I’m glad they don’t have to, it brings up the issue of hwy they’re there right now in the first place???? Like,,,, do you not think people being cooped in an overcrowded prison with no ppe during a deadly pandemic while their Overseer gets to go in and out freely is going to end well????), and The same state spends millions on “homeless sweeps”, gathering people out of homeless camps and on the street to, you guessed it! Prisons! Add to that the fact that in this country, black and latineh queer youth are the most likely into end up homeless, the fact that black and indigenous people tend to have inherited poverty because of the whole colonialism thing + the repeated efforts to exclude and disenfranchise BIPOC, making them more likely to not own homes, or be in a position to acquire a home, plus you also have to consider the stagnation of wages with the mounting cost of living, oh and don’t forget the fact that having an illness of any kind can send you into crippling debt, impoverishment and eventual homelessness. OH! Plus, if you have any mental illness, nuerodivergency, or addiction issues, they can make it harder for you to work a job, even worse they can put you in a position where the only kind of jobs you can work are a heavy strain on your mind and body, putting you right back into the category of having an expensive illness. Also those thing can get your agency taken away, making it harder for you to own a home, hold a job, hell even vote, but most of all home, and it your designated caretaker can’t afford to take care of you well then both of you are on the street. I almost forgot about the vets!!! They go get terrible ptsd and possibly a horrible injury that leaves them disabled so this country can acquire more! Oil!!! Only for this country to spit on their backs and leave them on the street. I feel like there’s more I’m missing, but I can’t think of em right now? This reply is too long already

Anyway!! You take all of that you you apply what I’ve already said, that homeless people in this country often wind up either dead or imprisoned for the crime of Checks notes not having a home, and it almost sounds like State sanctioned genocide. With a dash of Slavery just to spice things up.

Now the obvious solution here is give them a fucking home tf. Obviously I’ve mentioned some other things in there that of course needs addressing. For example people should have access to the mental health services they need, no one should be without a home because they can’t perform labor, queer kids shouldn’t be fucking thrown out but that last one is another entirely new rant, that, surprise! is made worse by American extremism!

But again! All of the solutions that I have offered are currently behind a paywall or a government regulation. there are some states where housing homeless people is illegal without a permit, and others where it’s illegal to feed them. State sanctioned genocide! Which really drives home my point I feel, about how the state (AND CAPITAL) should not be used to allocate resources, and we as a collective should figure out ways to meet the needs out our community.

For example, even if there were no empty homes, there are people who know how to build houses! There are scientists who work on eco friendly building methods! There are carpeters who build tables and chairs! There are Rug makers out there If you’re so inclined like!!! why is it behind a paywall???? why can scientists not just help us build eco friendly homes without the government being like “nah”? To the end of medical professionals and mental health services, not only are they behind steep paywalls, but they’re also locked behind bureaucratic nonsense. What’s more, you may have to go into debt if you want to acquire that sort of degree/specialization! Why is that so hard to acquire???? It’s ridiculous!!

Again!!! I’m literally only using a few basic needs as an example because as you can see, all this stuff is connected, and really I’m just trying to make sure I get my reasoning across, not actual step by step instructions, because there are tons of solutions to the issues I've presented, I’m one person with one opinion and by no means am I an authority! Not only that, But I’m not an expert in any field, and there are tons of problem the government and capital have created that could better be solved by shifting the responsibility from a small governmental body with tons of capital, the people with actual resources. The problem is, the best way you’re going to get solutions is by having people come together to find what works best, and in many cases, the solution won’t be something that works universally.

I hope this properly answered your question!

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