#ARRIVE trial

[pro-birth]

For this month’s blog post, I decided it was time to update my critique of the ARRIVE trial.28 This is the study that is single-handedly responsible for the notion that routine induction at 39 weeks is better for healthy women and birthing people having first babies than allowing the pregnancy to continue longer because induction reduced the odds of cesarean.

Among the more recent studies and commentaries, I discovered a bombshell: a secondary analysis of the ARRIVE trial’s data that provides incontrovertible proof that the 39-week induction group had fewer cesareans because of how the expectantly managed group was managed.48 With optimal care, expectant management would have been much the better option.

You can take that as my teaser because we need to cover some other ground first before we dive in.

[strawberriemarswrites]

CHAPTER 10-A : PIPE DREAM

Chapter Summary: You confront Bartolomeo about everything he's done. Pairing: Bartolomeo x F!Reader Rating: Explicit (18+ only, NSFW Chapter; PiV sex, biting, a more submissive Barto, slight breeding kink) TW: References to past violence, stalking Ao3 Link: Chapter 10-A (3,903 words)

Bartolomeo was silent for a long time, staring between you and the shirt in your hand. Of course. Of all the things to forget about in the heat of the moment. Now you had it, and everything he ever wanted was going to come crashing down around him.

Fuck.

“Barto,” you pressed, “how long have you had my shirt?”

He leaned against the doorframe, avoiding eye contact. After a long moment he swallowed the lump in his throat and answered, “Few months.”

You abruptly stood from the bed, getting directly in front of him and forcing yourself into his line of sight. “It was you. This whole time. And you had me thinking it wasn’t.” Your eyes began to water. “What the fuck, Barto?! What else have you stolen?!”

He would have flinched, were he not distracted by the fact that you looked hotter when you were angry. The thought was enough to make him flush as he confessed, “A few things.”

You groaned and buried your face in your hands, once more catching a whiff of strawberries and vanilla on your stolen shirt. “My fucking perfume. What the hell did you do — steal that and put it back every time?”

“No! Just. Just once...” His eyes flicked to his dresser, where the new bottle was hidden in the top drawer. “Then... I bought my own.”

“Oh, well that makes it so much better.”

“Sweetheart—”

“Don’t,” you huffed. “Just don’t. I need...”

You paused, biting your lip. What did you need? Time? To do what exactly — think about how the guy you’d been crushing on was stalking you like you feared? You should be calling someone about this, not hesitating!

Bartolomeo’s chest felt like it was about to burst. He’d been ignoring it, but on some level he’d known it was inevitable that if you got together, you would discover what he had done. He convinced himself he could make it okay, give you his perspective on it, but he never thought that the need to do that would come before you even had a chance to go through the honeymoon phase. Slowly, he reached out and put his hands on your shoulders, the slightest bit of relief easing the chest pain when you didn’t try to pull away.

“Sweetheart,” he said again, “I already told you... All that stuff about you bein’ good, and soft, how I’m none of that—”

“Barto,” you interrupted, running a frustrated hand through your hair, “you realize that nothing you could say about this is going to make it okay. You broke into my room. You stole my stuff. You followed me home!” You paused, then gasped, taking a step back. “Did you have something to do with Cavendish not showing?!”

He shrank back, letting go of you and once again avoiding eye contact. “I might’ve... busted his car a little. And his ribs.”

You took another step back, shaking your head before starting to pick your clothes up from the floor.

He began to panic. “Wait — what are you doing?”

“Putting on clothes,” you sighed. “I can’t keep having this conversation naked.”

You paced the floor of Bartolomeo’s living room, running a hand through your hair while he watched trepidatiously from the couch. He’d confessed extensively, further adding to his earlier list of admissions. Laying in your bed, watching you sleep, hunting down Cavendish — he even admitted that after the man from the bar roofied himself, he followed him out and stabbed his hand.

(You would never admit out loud that you were thrilled by the idea of Bartolomeo beating creeps to a bloody pulp like some unhinged vigilante.)

With a heavy sigh you stopped in front of him, your arms folded. “I’m not gonna tell anyone about what you did.”

Bartolomeo straightened up slightly. “Really?”

“But,” you continued, “you’re gonna give me my stuff back.”

He nodded, just relieved that you weren’t immediately ditching him. “You got it.”

“I don’t have the funds to move right now, so I’m still living across the hall for the foreseeable future.” You took a step closer. “If you ever break into my apartment again, I will call the cops.”

He nodded again, and you took it as a small victory. If you were being honest with yourself, you weren’t sure you could make good on that threat. A tiny part of you felt guilty at the thought of having him arrested, but you couldn’t afford to let him see through you.

You let out another heavy sigh, your posture relaxing slightly. “What were you thinking, Barto? Why didn’t you say something from the start?”

Bartolomeo ran a hand through his hair, his face flushed. “I-I dunno... it’s like I said. You’re so good, and normally people who go around lookin’ and actin’ like you don’t talk to people like me. I ain’t ever really... fell for anyone before, and I couldn’t help myself from doin’ stuff that was wrong. Then when you said we were friends, I got scared that maybe you’d never see me the way I saw you.” He kept his gaze downward, the flush spreading down his neck and shoulders. “I started clingin’ to what I could just to feel close to ya.”

Your heart lurched at the confession, and you smothered the urge to let out a soft “aww”. That should not have been cute — how the hell did he manage to twist what he did into something that sounded so innocent?

You cleared your throat, holding your ground. “I don’t know that I can just forgive you for this. You know that, right?”

Bartolomeo seemed to shrink into himself. Yes, he’d known that was a possibility. Did he ever want to admit that? Absolutely not.

“We’re back to just neighbors,” you finally said. “I don’t care if we say ‘hi’ or whatever, but I’m not talking to you until I’m ready to be friends again. If I’m ready.” You hated that you were giving him hope, but you were kidding yourself if you thought you’d be able to keep yourself from peeking over the walls you were building.

He nodded in a way that betrayed his restrained eagerness. “You got it. Just neighbors.”

With another long look and one final sigh, you texted Robin for your keys.

The days passed by painfully slow. Routine made them bleed into weeks, and before you knew it, two months had gone by.

You occasionally caught Bartolomeo peeking out of his door whenever you got off the elevator. You could tolerate that.

He would hold the building door open for you whenever he happened (“happened”) to be there. You decided you could tolerate that, too.

When the landlord came around with suspicions about Luffy’s existence again, he was there, looming across the hall. And when you could no longer deny that yes, you had a cat, Bartolomeo’s presence kept the landlord from charging backpay. The moment the coast was clear, he quickly retreated, blushing all the way up to his ears.

Try as you might to resist the urge, you ended up leaving a bag of cookies in front of his door as thanks.

Shortly after, packages you ordered ended up at your door instead of the front desk. Sometimes there were flowers that were clearly picked from some poor soul’s window box. You’d wake up or come home to find a few dollars had been slipped under your door, with notes reading “subway”, “cat food”, and “drinks”.

You probably shouldn’t have tolerated that.

Bartolomeo eventually gained enough courage to greet you one morning as you were leaving for work. You gave him a small nod, and he blushed, quickly stepping back into his apartment. He took it as a sign that he could at least do that much, letting out a sheepish “hey” or “morning” whenever he saw you. Soon it grew into asking how you were, to which you didn’t answer with more than a shrug or a “fine”, despite wanting to answer with more. You found you had missed talking to him, but you were doing your best to stand firm.

Your resolve was tested further when he started having one-sided conversations with you. He’d tell you about his day, about how he heard Luffy running around, how Gambia was doing, almost like whatever came to mind he had to get out of his head just so he could spend more time talking to you. You kept your responses short, if you responded at all, though you struggled to hide your smile and stifle laughter.

You’d given him the inch. It was all he needed to pry his way back in.

The signs Bartolomeo was breaking in again slowly but surely returned. Rumpled bedsheets, haphazardly closed drawers, debris by the window. It made your stomach turn, but your chest fluttered. You shouldn’t have been so tolerant. It was only a matter of time, after all, and you should have kept to your word and put your foot down.

But you missed him. You found yourself lying awake longer at night, watching your window as you fell asleep. You would sit on your bed and look over the slightly untidied sheets and wonder why Bartolomeo didn’t just pull the pillows off and sit with them on the floor. Luffy’s treat bag wouldn’t be closed all the way and you were tempted to scold him for leaving it open, or for giving Luffy treats in the first place, instead of getting furious that he was in the apartment to start with.

It took some time, but you finally caught him.

You’d been curled up under your bedsheets, watching the window, when you saw a familiar silhouette take up his post on the fire escape. He had his back to the room, leaning his head back against the pane. Quietly, you crawled out of bed and across the floor, and tapped on the window.

Bartolomeo jumped up, ready to flee down the stairs, before you pushed the window open and grabbed the edge of his fur-lined vest, staring up into his fiery eyes.

“Stay.”

It had been two months since you’d said something first.

Bartolomeo blinked, then let you pull him into the bedroom. You took him by the wrists, gently guiding him to the bed before pushing him down onto it, crawling on top of him and pinning his hands down to either side of his head. He gave in with surprising ease, a mixture of shock and anticipation on his face as you started running your hands up and down his forearms.

“What were you going to do out there?” you asked, your voice low.

He swallowed, his eyes flicking back and forth as he struggled to focus on yours. “I was... going to watch you sleep.”

You couldn’t help the soft “tch” that left your lips. “Course you were. Just watching, right?”

He nodded frantically, his face turning redder by the second. “Yeah, just watching. I swear.”

Your hands drifted lower, ghosting his vest’s fur lining. “You weren’t planning on breaking in like you have been? After I’ve already told you to stop?”

All the color that had crept into his face immediately drained. He shook his head, “I wasn’t — I just — ...I really tried —”

“Barto?”

He swallowed. “Yeah?”

You put your hands on either side of his face, lifting it to meet yours. “Shut up.”

His eyes went wide before he nodded.

You released his head, letting it drop back down on the pillow with a satisfying whumpf. You returned to letting your hands wander downward, eventually reaching the hem of his shirt. “I should be calling the cops on you and kicking your ass right now. You know that, right?”

You felt his chest heave. “Why aren’t you?”

You shrugged, rolling his shirt up. “I’m still debating.”

A dusting of green hair was exposed at his waist line. As you traced a finger over it, Bartolomeo said, “What do I gotta do to convince you not to?”

Your eyes snapped to his. “Shut up and let me fuck you.”

Color returned to his face with a vengeance. Your hands slid lower, ghosting your fingers along the waistband of his ratty jeans before undoing them. When you tugged at them, he lifted his hips, but you didn’t pull them off all the way, stopping when they were just below the curve of his ass. You then brushed your hand over the obvious bulge in his boxers.

It was at that moment, with how easily he was complying, that you realized how much power you really had over Bartolomeo. He might’ve been the one stalking you and violently hurting people to keep them away, but you could probably step on him and he’d thank you. You could pull his hair, punch him in the gut, probably even kick him where it’d really, really hurt, and he’d still come crawling after you. It might even encourage him.

Maybe he was just as masochistic as you were, for letting him get away with his antics.

You broke the silence with a harsh, “You’re a real freak, you know that?”

Bartolomeo only whimpered in response.

Power thrummed under your fingers as you started fondling him through his boxers. “You start pining after a girl, and your first instinct is to start stalking her.” You gave him a light squeeze, barely even a twitch of your muscles, and his breath hitched. “How much did it hurt not knowing if I returned your feelings?”

He only whimpered again, his body starting to shiver under your touch.

You squeezed a little harder. “Answer me, Barto.”

“Badly,” he choked out, as if he’d been holding his breath from the moment you started touching him.

You hummed, rubbing him a little harder. “How long do you think you could have kept it up?”

He swallowed, trying to look anywhere but your eyes. “I-I dunno.”

Your grip on him tightened and he grunted, his hips bucking. You continued, “You ever jerk off into my shirt? The one you stole?”

Bartolomeo frantically shook his head. “No, not — not really — I mean —”

It was then that he finally met your gaze, and he froze. Was this a trap? He didn’t want to answer, but something about the look in your eyes dissuaded him from keeping the truth to himself. 

“I smelled it while jackin’ off.”

You nodded, loosening your hold. “You ever think of me?”

He moaned, rolling his eyes back. “Couldn’t stop thinkin’ about you.”

“You ever think about stealing my panties?”

“Y-yeah.”

“Would you have jerked off with those?”

“...yeah.”

You abruptly let go of his cock. The high-pitched groan that came from Bartolomeo made you shudder as you said, “What if I tried to go on another date? What would you have done to them?”

His eyes widened. “Wha—”

“You heard me,” you cut him off. “Would you have tracked them down and hurt them, too?”

After a moment of struggling to find his words, he finally said, “Yes.”

You put your hand back over his groin, lightly tracing a finger along the concealed length. “That guy from the train. What would you have done if he’d managed to hurt me?”

He clenched his fists around the bedsheets. “Y-you don’t really wanna know that.”

“I do,” you said, now tugging his cock free from his boxers and ghosting your fingers over the head, leaking with precum. “I want you to confess to all the depraved shit you’ve been thinking since you met me. I want to know how far you would’ve gone before you couldn’t take it anymore.”

Bartolomeo stared up at you for a long moment, his heart pounding. This had to be a dream. There was no way you were indulging him like this for real. On top of him, making demands, tormenting him like this. He’d hit his head on one of the ladder rungs and this was an unconscious fantasy. That was the only explanation for the twisted web of paradise and damnation he was currently caught in.

Still, this fantasy version of you was glowering down at him, one hand teasing his cock and starting to pull away. He couldn’t stop himself from grabbing your wrist to keep you there, and you flinched, but otherwise kept your steely gaze on him.

The message was clear. He had to answer, or you’d stop.

And Bartolomeo really didn’t want this dream to end.

“That shitstain would’ve been dead,” he growled. “Nobody hurts what’s mine.”

You smirked and swatted his hand away, returning yours to the head of his cock. “Good answer.”

You resumed with languidly stroking him, watching as his eyes rolled back and he struggled to keep them open. For the most part you kept your pace even, occasionally spitting on him to keep him sufficiently lubricated. He let out a long, obscene groan, throwing an arm over his eyes, whimpering your name. “Please...”

A shiver shot through you. After everything he put you through, knowing the violence he was capable of — hearing him start to crumble beneath you was immensely satisfying. “Please what?”

“Stop teasin’,” he groaned, his cock twitching in your hand. “I need you... so bad...”

“You need me, huh?” You slowed down, making him whine. “Beg for me, then.”

Bartolomeo’s eyes snapped back to meet your gaze, his pupils dilating until his irises were thin amber rings. His mouth went dry as he found himself unable to do anything except stare at you looming over him. After an eternity had passed, and he was positive he heard you correctly, he propped himself up on his elbows. 

With flushed cheeks and a look that made you think he might cry, he said, “Please, sweetheart. I’ll do anything.”

You stopped, tilting your head. “Anything?”

He nodded, gaze flicking back and forth as he tried to focus on yours, his tongue darting out between his teeth.

You gently pushed him back into laying down, finally shimmying out of your shorts and underwear. You held yourself over his cock, keeping one hand on him to guide him inside, but not yet. 

“Beg.”

His voice strained, “Please, please, please— I need you. I need to be inside you—”

“Just inside me?”

“Around you, with you, part of you —” his hands started gripping your waist to try and pull you down onto him. “I’ll be your slave if you ask me, just please—”

You gave in, spearing yourself on his cock and relishing in the sudden guttural moan it elicited from him. You slowly sank down onto his length, unable to stop the whine once you felt like it wouldn’t go any further. You felt his nails dig into your skin — you wouldn’t be surprised if his grip left bruises to find in the morning.

“Ohh, fuck,” he groaned. “Thank you, thank you, thank you—”

“Shut up,” you snapped, “and start fucking me.”

Bartolomeo bit his lip and obeyed, lifting you by the waist to slide himself out, then pulling you back down onto his shaft. You whined again as he stopped just shy of pushing himself entirely inside you, savoring being pushed to your very limit. He repeated the motion, moving you with such ease it had you reeling for a moment. You steadied yourself by putting your hands on his chest, your fingers slipping into the fur lining of his vest. Another thrust and you weren’t able to stifle your moans, stuttering with each push inside you.

“My girl,” he growled, lifting his hips as he pulled you down. “Mine.”

A giggle escaped you in between moans. He could claim that all he wanted, but all things considered, it was you who had him wrapped around your finger. Current physical positions notwithstanding.

Heat began coiling in your core, and your hips started moving of their own accord, rolling in sync with every push and pull of his hands. Bartolomeo let go of one side to bring his hand up to your face, caressing your cheek. His eyes were blown so wide you couldn’t see the amber anymore, leaving behind a mixture of lust and adoration in their depths. He started moving you faster, the hand on your cheek moving into your hair and pulling you closer down to him. Your chest now within range, he started placing kisses on your shoulders and between the valley of your breasts. He circled his tongue around each nipple before latching onto one, rolling the sensitive bud between his sharp teeth. You let out a keening moan, your hands tightening into fists in the synthetic fur as you struggled to keep pace with him.

“Mine,” he growled again around your breast, his teeth threatening to pierce flesh as he frantically increased his pace.

You groaned, sitting up and pulling free of his bite, moving your hands to either side of his face. “That’s it, Barto. So good for me.”

Bartolomeo’s pace faltered for just a moment. “Y-yeah?”

You nodded, kissing his forehead. “Good boy.”

The responding guttural groan sent a shudder down your spine, and he pushed himself into an upright position, making you grind yourself along his length as he continued to thrust up into you.

You cussed harshly, allowing him to take over completely and fuck up into you like his own personal fleshlight. You latched onto his response, encouraging him further. “That’s it, Barto. Be a good boy and cum for me.”

He choked, eyes wide. “O-on you? Like this?”

You shook your head, running one thumb along his lip. “In me.”

“R-really—?”

“What?” you panted, sticking your thumb in his mouth and pulling at the corner, revealing more of his sharp fangs. “Don’t act like you’ve never thought of breeding me, fucking stalker.”

He moaned, his tongue chasing after your thumb as you removed it from his mouth. He hadn’t thought of it, not until the moment you said it. His desperation to please you however had him all too willing to accept the thought as his own, and he flipped both of you over, throwing your legs over his shoulders and folding you in half beneath him. 

You screamed at the now impossible speed he moved, your hands tangling in his hair as the knot building in your loins started unraveling. You cried out his name over and over, barely aware of him growling out yours in your ear until he slammed into you one final time, biting down on your shoulder to keep himself from crying out.

You both came crashing down from your ecstacy, tangled up in one another, panting and sweating and reeling from the whole ordeal. Eventually, and with no small amount of hesitation, Bartolomeo pulled himself out, pulling you as close to him as he possibly could as he lay himself beside you. As you slowly caught your breath, you curled into his embrace, allowing him to almost envelope you as the afterglow began to settle.

A moment passed in silence, before Bartolomeo muttered into your hair, “I love you. I don’t ever wanna let you go."

“...I love you, too,” you finally responded. Before adding, “Stop feeding Luffy treats.”

Bartolomeo thought his heart would burst from his chest, and he proceeded to cuddle you even closer. You let out a deep breath through your nose. You really shouldn’t have encouraged him, and you really shouldn’t have indulged yourself.

That didn’t stop you from smiling as you fell asleep in his arms.

[480pfootage]

why is it, I wonder, that Kate runs away from you after grabbing you?

disregarding game balancing I think it's because seeing the face of another human, one she's hurting nontheless, specifically the only person in her life she wishes to keep safe -- Lauren -- it snaps her out of the Slenderman's influence just for one bit enough for her to run away.. until she inevitably can't...

okay now dramatic kate pictures featuring.. him

[winterfieldfrontiers]

The Outlast Trials - New Cat and Mouse ship - Leagent

Leland Coyle X Male Reagent

"I will keep fucking you till you will be mine, with my baton inside my pant!"

[basingstokemercury]

I think on consideration that "Adam Cartwright would shoot Dracula" might be funny but isn't what he would do unless lives were in immediate danger (Ben might, Joe probably would if only out of panic).

No, Adam Cartwright would try and bring Dracula before a court of law.

Which is probably even funnier.

[causeimcrayzeebee]

KAI SPOTTED IN THE TRAILER NO ONE PANIC

[sleeping-at-sea]

Do I have to have read all of Trials of Apollo to read the new Percy Jackson book?

I’ve read The Hidden Oracle, but that’s it.. I mean I know the big spoilers in TOA but still, do I need to know things

[sollucets]

OUR DINING TABLE | EPISODE SEVEN

[aregebidan]

the aredhel and maeglin chapter is preoccupied with Movement and Containment to the point that it's stifling to read and it is so real for that

[wonder-worker]

Margaret of Anjou’s visit to Coventry [in 1456], which was part of her dower and that of her son, Edward of Lancaster, was much more elaborate. It essentially reasserted Lancastrian power. The presence of Henry and the infant Edward was recognised in the pageantry. The ceremonial route between the Bablake gate and the commercial centre was short, skirting the area controlled by the cathedral priory, but it made up for its brevity with no fewer than fourteen pageants. Since Coventry had an established cycle of mystery plays, there were presumably enough local resources and experience to mount an impressive display; but one John Wetherby was summoned from Leicester to compose verses and stage the scenes. As at Margaret’s coronation the iconography was elaborate, though it built upon earlier developments.

Starting at Bablake gate, next to the Trinity Guild church of St. Michael, Bablake, the party was welcomed with a Tree of Jesse, set up on the gate itself, with the prophets Isaiah and Jeremiah explaining the symbolism. Outside St. Michael’s church the party was greeted by Edward the Confessor and St. John the Evangelist; and proceeding to Smithford Street, they found on the conduit the four Cardinal Virtues—Righteousness (Justice?), Prudence, Temperance, and Fortitude. In Cross Cheaping wine flowed freely, as in London, and angels stood on the cross, censing Margaret as she passed. Beyond the cross was pitched a series of pageants, each displaying one of the Nine Worthies, who offered to serve Margaret. Finally, the queen was shown a pageant of her patron saint, Margaret, slaying the dragon [which 'turned out to be strictly an intercessor on the queen's behalf', as Helen Maurer points out].

The meanings here are complex and have been variously interpreted. An initial reading of the programme found a message of messianic kingship: the Jesse tree equating royal genealogy with that of Christ had been used at the welcome for Henry VI on his return from Paris in 1432. A more recent, feminist view is that the symbolism is essentially Marian, and to be associated with Margaret both as queen and mother of the heir rather than Henry himself. The theme is shared sovereignty, with Margaret equal to her husband and son. Ideal kingship was symbolised by the presence of Edward the Confessor, but Margaret was the person to whom the speeches were specifically addressed and she, not Henry, was seen as the saviour of the house of Lancaster. This reading tips the balance too far the other way: the tableau of Edward the Confessor and St. John was a direct reference to the legend of the Ring and the Pilgrim, one of Henry III’s favourite stories, which was illustrated in Westminster Abbey, several of his houses, and in manuscript. It symbolised royal largesse, and its message at Coventry would certainly have encompassed the reigning king. Again, the presence of allegorical figures, first used for Henry, seems to acknowledge his presence. Yet, while the message of the Coventry pageants was directed at contemporary events it emphasised Margaret’s motherhood and duties as queen; and it was expressed as a traditional spiritual journey from the Old Testament, via the incarnation represented by the cross, to the final triumph over evil, with the help of the Virgin, allegory, and the Worthies. The only true thematic innovation was the commentary by the prophets.

[...] The messages of the pageants firmly reminded the royal women of their place as mothers and mediators, honoured but subordinate. Yet, if passive, these young women were not without significance. It is clear from the pageantry of 1392 and 1426 in London and 1456 in Coventry that when a crisis needed to be resolved, the queen (or regent’s wife) was accorded extra recognition. Her duty as mediator—or the good aspect of a misdirected man—suddenly became more than a pious wish. At Coventry, Margaret of Anjou was even presented as the rock upon which the monarchy rested. [However,] a crisis had to be sensed in order to provoke such emphasis [...]."

-Nicola Coldstream, "Roles of Women in Late Medieval Civic Pageantry", Reassessing the Roles of Women as 'Makers' of Medieval Art and Culture

[verycharismaticdragon]

innermost layer ready, 2 more to go

[impossible-rat-babies]

thinking. rotating even. eyrie’s way of showing love and how it so quietly bloomed during their time in thavnair w estinien. how it slowly found its way there and so much of how it was both felt. they love each other—as friends and romantically. it’s all there, utterly unspoken, but it’s there.

[scatterpatter]

TFA the show: The Jettwins are taller than Jazz

Anyone who worked on a TFA comic: I Do Not See It 😑

[blakistan]

You know it's kind of a shame that Asher seemingly deleted himself from the Vexnet after we fully constructed Vexcalibur, because imagine seeing interactions between Vexnet Asher and Infinite Forest Vance

[trifoliate-undergrowth]

oh lordt i think for the first time ever I am going to be using up All available fandom tag spaces. (nominations for candy hearts excchange) I didnt even get in my final ot3 concept (Boyd/Toffler/Reich, which I'm imagining as Reich/Toffler in an established relationship where they bring him in as a third)

[medicinemane]

It's amazing how quickly you can make someone turn on your company by making a stupid and insulting move

Force me to go through the front door and scan my card when I have backdoor business that never needed a card before (what? ...I was going to somehow... sneak in and... purchase things with a borrowed card? ...which I totally can't do from the front door after scanning it?)

Or like... twitterify your layout right after your users give you a bunch of money just cause they like you, and then refuse to walk it back

...or all the other things companies do that just kinda piss people off and then they refuse to acknowledge maybe it sucks and is stupid cause "hey, the customers didn't leave"... yeah... yet